A stroll through South Tyrol's turbulent past

At first glance, the Dolomites looked much like any other mountains I’d ever seen. Sat back on a grassy bank, in the bright June sunshine, I’d been gazing dreamily at a horizon full of gnarled, jagged teeth for about five minutes before my guide, Isidoro, pointed out that one of the peaks had its top missing. 'It used to be sharp – like all the others,' he said, while cutting himself another slice of speck from the backpack, 'until a group of Italian soldiers blew the top off it in 1916. That’s why it’s flat.' Incredible as it seems, the Col di Lana was not the only northern Italian mountain to lose its peak during the First World War. While historians always focus their attention on the flat fields of Flanders as the epicentre of fighting during the Great War, right here in South Tyrol, the Austrians and Italians spent two years slugging it out in a battle that yielded a measly 18 miles of territory. Thousands of young men perished – many of them in avalanches – before the Italians were finally beaten back. When the war ended, both sides simply dropped their weapons and walked away, leaving most of their equipment behind. Much of it is still lying around today – including empty shell casings, barbed wire, trenches and even furniture; and as Isidoro had been showing me all morning, you don’t need a treasure map to find it. Having started our hike outside the Tre Sassi fort near Cortina, where Isidoro had given me a crash course in the history of the ‘White War’ as it’s known locally, we’d grabbed our backpacks and headed straight onto a trail that led from the rear of the museum. Within minutes we were entering an Austrian trench. 'The soldiers spent years in here without going home,' he said, as we shuffled our way between the narrow stone cuttings. “More of them died from frostbite than bullets.' These days it’s all very peaceful, birds flitting about in nearby bushes and a group of brightly coloured paragliders circling overhead. Nevertheless, I was tempted to duck for fear of being spotted by the enemy. Our plan was to hike from Tre Sassi fort to the nearby town of Colfosco, about four hours away, following a route that traced the former front line. It’s one of hundreds of trails that thread their way through the South Tyrol backcountry, and unlike the Alps – which get invaded by walkers every summer – it’s doubtful you’ll see another soul all day. At least we didn’t. What we did see, however, were bullets (empty ones), lying in the undergrowth beside the path. 'Austrian,' said Isidoro, knowingly, turning it over in his hand. As I examined the tell-tale German words etched into the base – and the dimple made by the firing pin – it was hard not to wonder who the intended target had been. This must be how Tony Robinson feels on Time Team. Continuing along the path, I found it difficult to know where to look next: up at the omniscient peaks – pockmarked with caves from where snipers had once taken potshots – or down at the ground, lest we stumble across more military memorabilia? In truth the only other things I found were a piece of shrapnel from a cannon, and some strands of barbed wire – but who knows what remnants I missed as we strolled on towards lunch? As we walked, Isidoro filled me in on more history. In a nutshell, this whole area used to be part of Austria. However, the Italians were given the land after WWI (despite having lost the battle here) by virtue of having fought for the victorious Allies. Hence the reason why the first language here is German. Another legacy of South Tyrol’s curious Austro-Italian culture is the food; on the menu at the Ristorante Mesoles I found a mixture of stodgy Alpine knudels (potato dumplings with meat and spinach), delicious homemade pasta, and fabulous espressos. The latter was just what I needed for the challenge that Isidoro had in store that afternoon. Having ditched the hiking sticks, the plan was to tackle a nearby via ferrata – a climbing route where you clip yourself into a steel cable that’s bolted straight into the rock face. This is yet another leftover from the war, invented by the Italians as a way of moving soldiers and equipment around the mountains; for newbies like me, though, it was a great way to experience the thrill of climbing – minus the years of training that are normally necessary. In fact all I needed was a harness and helmet, and after a quick safety briefing I found myself following in Isidoro’s footholds like the proverbial mountain goat I’m normally a bit reticent when it comes to heights, but the great thing about the via ferrata routes is that they’re graded by difficulty – so you can pick the one that matches your scaredy cat level. Isidoro had chosen a route called ‘Cir’, overlooking the spectacular Val Gardena, which is easy enough for children to try. Hikers are pictured climbing a mountain using a via ferrata - a climbing route where you clip yourself into a steel cable that¿s bolted straight into the rock face Peak performance: Hikers can climb the mountains using a via ferrata - a climbing route where you clip yourself into a steel cable that's bolted straight into the rock face It started with a scramble over the rocks, as we made our way up between two ridges, before things got a bit steep – at least by my standards. As with everything, though, the trick is to trust your equipment; once Isidoro had persuaded me to lean back into my harness and let go of the rock-face ('are you insane?!'), I suddenly realised how securely I was clipped onto the cable. The rest of the route up was easy. It took us just an hour or so to reach the top, Isidoro greeting me with a celebratory handshake. If only I’d had a flag on me to mark the occasion. Our reward for all the huffing and puffing was a 360-degree view of the surrounding peaks – several of them still streaked with snow, even in mid-June. Up here at nearly 2,600 metres, with cars crawling through the valley below us like ants, I finally had a chance to properly study the scenery. All the mountaintops were still intact – at least at first glance.