Now every postponed trip seemed less reasonable.
But Oliver was not responsible for his father’s regrets.
“Something could happen,” Daniel said gently. “I can’t promise otherwise.”
A tear slipped down Oliver’s cheek.
“Then why are we stopping?”
“Because hurting yourself won’t change that.”
Oliver wiped his face with his sleeve.
Daniel waited until he was looking at him again.
“Your grandmother loves you whether you arrive tomorrow, next month, or have to go home. She doesn’t need you to suffer to show her that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Oliver’s face crumpled.
“I just want to hug her.”
Daniel put an arm around his shoulders.
“I know, mate.”
For several minutes they sat beside the path while the afternoon traffic passed in the distance.
Oliver leaned against his father and cried quietly.
Daniel did not tell him to be brave.
He had begun to dislike the way adults used that word around children, often when they wanted them to stop expressing perfectly reasonable fear.
Instead, he held his son and looked at the road ahead.
They took a rest day.
Then another.
Claire examined photographs of Oliver’s feet over a video call and gave practical advice, though she spent much of the conversation reminding Daniel of the warnings she had made before departure.
“I told you to check his shoes.”
“I did.”
“You checked that he owned them.”
“Claire.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Oliver sat on the bed beside his father, trying not to laugh.
His mother noticed.
“And you,” she said, pointing toward the camera. “Next time something hurts, tell your father.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“I don’t care if you’re crossing a mountain or standing in a supermarket. Pain is information. You’re supposed to use it.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Claire looked at both of them.
“Honestly, the pair of you.”
When the call ended, Daniel sighed.
Oliver grinned.
“She’s scary.”
“Terrifying.”
They ordered dinner and spent the evening indoors.
Oliver slept for nearly ten hours.
By the time they continued, the worst of the blisters had begun to heal, and Daniel had revised their plans to reduce the risk of recurrence.
The notebook showed very little progress for that week.
Oliver no longer cared quite as much.
They entered Switzerland beneath a sky that had been clear all morning.
The mountains appeared gradually, first as faint shapes beyond the lower hills, then as a succession of pale ridges rising above the valleys.
Oliver had seen the Alps in photographs. He had watched documentaries showing snowy peaks, mountain lakes, and cyclists climbing impossibly steep roads.
The landscape before him was more complicated.
There were villages, railway lines, industrial buildings, carefully maintained fields, and houses with flower boxes beneath their windows. The mountains were beautiful, but they were also physical obstacles that determined where roads could go and how difficult those roads would be.
Daniel had chosen their route with caution, including lower passages and transport alternatives where necessary. Even so, the climbing was demanding.
On the first substantial ascent, Oliver found himself breathing heavily after only a few minutes.
He changed into a lower gear.
The bicycle continued moving at a pace scarcely faster than walking.
Daniel rode behind him.
“Don’t rush.”
“I’m not.”
“Keep your breathing steady.”
“I am.”
A few minutes later, Oliver stopped.
He leaned over the handlebars, sweat running down his face.
“This is awful.”
Daniel dismounted.
“Yes, it’s rather steep.”
“Why do people cycle up mountains?”
“Some people enjoy it.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
His father laughed.
They rested beside a low stone wall. Far below, a train travelled through the valley, its carriages appearing almost miniature against the surrounding fields.
Oliver watched it with open envy.
“That train looks nice.”
“It does.”
“Probably has seats.”
“Most trains do.”
“And toilets.”
“Often.”
“And nobody has to pedal it.”
Daniel nodded.
“An excellent invention.”
Oliver took a long drink of water.
For the next hour, they alternated between riding and walking their bicycles along suitable, quieter sections. They took frequent breaks and consulted the route carefully.
By late afternoon, clouds had gathered over the higher ground.
A cold wind moved through the valley, bringing the smell of rain.
Daniel checked the forecast.
“We’re stopping early.”
Oliver looked toward the road.
“How far are we from the next town?”
“Far enough that I don’t want to be out here if the weather turns.”
“But we’ve hardly gone anywhere.”
“We’ve climbed quite a lot.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It certainly counts to my legs.”
Oliver considered arguing, then saw the darkening sky.
They reached their accommodation shortly before heavy rain began.
Inside, the heating was on. Their host directed them to a place where they could leave the bicycles and showed them where to dry their clothing.
Oliver stood by the window watching rain strike the pavement.
“We could’ve been out there.”
“Yes,” Daniel said.
“That would’ve been bad.”
“Very.”
Oliver looked at him.
“Good decision.”
Daniel made a solemn bow.
“Your approval means a great deal.”
That evening they ate soup and bread at a small table.
Outside, the temperature dropped.
Oliver told his father that the mountains reminded him of the photographs in his school geography book, except that the photographs had failed to mention how much effort was required to cross them.
Daniel laughed.
“Geography is considerably more interesting when your legs are involved.”
Oliver dipped his bread into the soup.
“Did Nonna ever come here?”
“To Switzerland? Yes. Once.”
“With you?”
“With my father, before I was born.”
Oliver raised his head.
“Grandad?”
Daniel nodded.
Oliver had never met his grandfather, Antonio Bellini. He knew him from photographs: a broad-faced man with dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a habit of standing with one hand in his trouser pocket.
Antonio had died several years before Oliver was born.
“What did they do?”
Daniel thought for a moment.
“They travelled by train. My father had saved for months. They stayed in a boarding house near a lake and spent most of the holiday arguing about how much everything cost.”
Oliver smiled.
“Did Nonna like it?”
“She loved it.”
“Even though they argued?”
“Your grandparents could argue about the correct way to boil an egg and still spend the rest of the afternoon holding hands.”
Oliver pictured them walking beside a lake.
“What was Grandad like?”
Daniel set down his spoon.
“He was practical. Quiet around strangers. Very good with tools.”
“Like you?”
“Better than me.”
“What else?”
“He didn’t always say what he was thinking.”
Oliver waited.
Daniel glanced toward the window.
“When I was seventeen, I told him I wanted to study in England. He said it was a waste of money and that there were perfectly good universities in Italy.”
“Was he angry?”
“Very.”
“Did you go anyway?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We barely spoke for a month.”
Oliver frowned.
“That’s a long time.”
“It was.”
“Did he apologise?”
Daniel smiled without much amusement.
“No. He helped me repair a suitcase.”
Oliver looked confused.
“The handle had broken. I was leaving in two days. He spent an entire evening finding the right screws, strengthening the frame, and making sure it would survive the journey.”
“That’s not saying sorry.”
“No.”
“Maybe he should’ve said it.”
“He should have.”
Daniel looked at his son.
“But at the time, I understood what he was trying to tell me.”
Oliver considered this carefully.
“Nonna would’ve made him say sorry.”
“Your grandmother tried.”
“Did it work?”
“Eventually. He admitted he was frightened I wouldn’t come home.”
Oliver put down his bread.
“Were you going to?”
“I didn’t know.”
“And then?”
“I visited when I could. Less often than they wanted.”
Daniel folded his napkin.
“He wasn’t wrong to worry.”
The rain continued against the window.
Oliver thought about Antonio repairing the suitcase for a journey he did not want his son to make.
Then he looked at the two helmets drying beside the radiator.
“Do you think Nonna will be angry that it took us so long?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No. She’ll probably complain that we’re too thin.”
“Even if we’re not?”
“Especially if we’re not.”
Oliver laughed.
They finished their soup and went upstairs.
The next morning, the mountains were visible again, their upper slopes washed clean by rain.
Oliver stood outside with his bicycle and looked up.
“Ready?” Daniel asked.
He nodded.
They continued south.
Italy was not the end of the journey, though Oliver briefly behaved as if it were.
After crossing the border, he insisted that they take a photograph beside an Italian road sign.
Daniel obliged.
Oliver sent it to Claire with the message:
WE MADE IT TO ITALY!!!
His mother replied almost immediately.
Wonderful. Remember Sicily is still a very long way away.
Oliver showed his father the reply.
“She ruins everything.”
“She’s very talented.”
The northern Italian towns felt different from the places they had crossed in France and Switzerland. The streets were louder. Traffic sometimes required more care. The air grew warmer as they travelled south.
Their route took them through varied landscapes and communities, and Daniel continued to adapt the journey according to local conditions. Sometimes they cycled. Sometimes they walked. On a few occasions, after a setback or a change in circumstances, they used permitted transport connections rather than force themselves through unsuitable sections.
Oliver disliked those compromises at first.
He thought they diminished the achievement.
Daniel told him that getting from one place to another safely was more important than satisfying an imaginary rulebook.
“People will say we didn’t do the whole journey ourselves,” Oliver argued.
“Some people might.”
“Then it won’t count.”
“Count for what?”
Oliver could not answer.
His father leaned his bicycle against a wall.
“Your grandmother isn’t going to ask for a signed certificate proving every kilometre.”
“I know.”
“Then stop worrying about what strangers might think.”
Oliver looked away.
He had begun receiving messages from friends who followed the journey through photographs Claire shared with family and acquaintances. Most were encouraging, but a few boys from school had made jokes about the time he was taking.
One had asked whether he was walking backwards.
Another suggested that he would be old enough to drive by the time he reached Sicily.
