For those who think cycle tourism is a modern trend. For those who believe cycling over the Spluga is only for athletes. For those who think circumnavigating the Pre-Alpine lakes is dangerous. For those who claim that nothing illustrates better than photographs. For those who swear that slow tourism is a 2000s theory. And for those still convinced that ecological, experiential, literary, and artistic tourism are only discussed today.

Pietro Berra has curated a curious and precious little book by selecting texts that Elizabeth Robins had written and Joseph Pennell had drawn about the "Grand Bicycle Tour between Lake Como and the Alps" (New press editions, 76 pages, 8.30 euros, translated by Claudia Cantaluppi). Robins and Pennell, Americans from Philadelphia who had moved to London, had explored Italy by pedal power. It was 1898. They had been warned to be extremely cautious, that they would be victims of commercial scams, martyrs of mechanical troubles, slaves to inhuman efforts. It's true that the two had chosen heavy tricycles further weighed down by luggage with non-technical but very elegant clothing. But by adopting usual precautions, like getting off the bike and pushing when the road steepened, the cycling couple enjoyed days of happiness. Lake Como, Lake Lugano, Lake Maggiore, Lake Orta, the Spluga, the final chapter dedicated to the behind-the-scenes of the journey on Lake Como.

Robins was a literary traveler (while touring Lake Como, "the fragments of sentimentalism, as Howells sadly said", "flutter from every rock, every olive tree, every orange tree"), a concrete observer (the lakes "Swiss always have a cheerful air of industriousness and thrift, the Italian ones suggest indolence and extravagance"), a naturalist reporter ("The thousand-petaled roses climbing the cypresses in Cadenabbia; the laburnum hanging their clusters of yellow flowers from the cracks of Sasso Rancio; the arches formed by oleanders in Varenna; the limestone cliffs of San Martino; the magical, serene, Leonardo-like, perfect perspectives of the distant Adda barriers"). She was also a traveler attentive to expenses: "In Argegno, there was an old-fashioned hotel, with a stone floor in my bedroom, to reach which one had to cross the family living room", "I consumed my dinner at a small table near the main door, in the company of some children doing somersaults in the drainage canal, and a wandering mule that passed so close it could graze the tablecloth", "and a couple of passing pipers who stopped to play for us all".

Those lakeside days of the late century were not only happy but also surprising. "The most absurd thing was that at every border station, the customs officers were so absorbed in empty formalities that they never noticed we were carrying luggage on our bicycles. Our bags were never opened. We could have smuggled all the brandy and cigars and matches and watches we wanted, and no one would have ever noticed".