Tirano was surprisingly nice: a wide variety of eateries, pretty ‘casco antiguo’, fantastic setting (all the mountains) and (probably) some interesting history.  We would like to do this route in the winter and would be perfectly willing to stay here first and go in the opposite direction.

Well I would, at any rate.

The slow train to Milano wasn’t running from Tirano (something about a land slip?  Or ‘works’ on the line?) and hasn’t been for months. We headed to the bus station for the replacement service.

I had donned lightweight crops for the journey and worn them for all of 45 minutes when Roger helpfully asked me when I had sat in something. After a confused (and slightly tetchy exchange) we managed to establish that my trousers had a noticeable mark on my nether regions. As I had no intention of whipping off my trousers in public to check them, Roger took a picture of my backside.

Raised eyebrows and general astonishment were a physical presence as the rest of the queue wetched silently.

We were on our way east to Milan: fashion capital, chic, sophisticated.  I looked like I had wet myself.  Great.

Once in the outskirts of Tirano, rows of grapes started to appear in people’s back (or side) gardens – truly ‘House’ wine. The density of planting quickly increased, with more frequent strips of maize and ranks of vines marching up the slopes of the mountain, but it still looked individual, not large scale.

Out of Tirano, the fields became larger and more organised, with haphazard patches of cereal crops replaced by orderly rows of dark green leaved small trees laden with heavy clusters of either red or yellow fruits. Red and Golden Delicious? Behind them, more vines – again, ranging up the mountain. This looked more commercial.

We stopped in Tresenda Aprica at a bus stop outside the train station. As the door whooshed open, six people stepped forward only to be informed that the coach was full (it was), and there was no room for them.  There should have been another coach following ours ( but it wasn’t); the would-be passengers didn’t look convinced, and there was some agitated backwards and forwards (with hand waving).  Rightly so these trains only run every two hours on Sunday!

The fields were getting larger but mountains still dominated the view.

Sondria.  After some aimless wandering around the station and lugging cases up and down a selection of stairs in search of the platform, we boarded the train to Milano. Packed.  We were lucky to find seats.  Local trains have no cap on tickets and it seemed like everyone and their luggage was travelling. In the distance, I could see someone standing.  It’s an hour and 40 minutes to Milan: I didn’t envy them.

Thirty minutes after we left Sondrio we lost the vines and were approaching Morbegno – still mountainous. In the distance,  peeking through the gap, there were glimpses of rocky peaks, high enough to have  a blob of snow on one side.

You can see the snow – honest!

I hadn’t appreciated just how mountainous this area is.  I ‘knew’ it, but it has been brought home by these lengthy days travelling through it.  One advantage of surface travel over air travel!

The train skirted Lake Como, inconveniently popping into a tunnel, behind a building or through dense shrubbery just as the photo opportunities improved.  It’s enormous, built up, but lovely.  Again… mountains.

And south into urban jumble and Milano. The station was vast, with huge numbers of people crowding off the platforms.

For one euro I was allowed to use the ‘public’ toilets:  two stalls and three sinks don’t work and there was a queue.  Muttering and a bit of scuffling swirled around me (as well as some rather loud ‘tuts’) but I felt curiously at home queuing for sub-par services.

Milano Centrale is cavernous, starkly designed and with slightly odd platform numbering. We could see up to 24 platforms on the larger departure board but they must have been hiding 1-4 and 21-24 somewhere round the back. Thankfully, our train left from 14!

The train journey to Verona took us east from Milan and was mostly unremarkable. It was flat, there were a lot of motorways, industrial complexes, factories, and goods yards amd the train track was frequently confined within high fencing.

But the train was fast, travelling at nearly 200 kph at one point, and eventually we got more of a view – a flat plain covered with vines. In the distance, dimly, a row of misty mountains outlined the sky.

An hour and 15 minutes after leaving Milano, we walked out of the rather uninspiring station in Verona.