It has become a ritual: every autumn, the mountains of Savoy and the Piemontese Alps call me. Well, some places don’t just call to you—they claim you. For me, that’s the borderlands of Savoy and Italy’s Piedmont. Here, between Annecy’s mirrored lakes and Briançon’s sun-bleached fortresses, autumn doesn’t just paint the slopes gold; it strips them bare, leaving only wind, stone, and the occasional echo of history.

Mont Blanc’s Silent Nod

At the center of it all, Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, depending on whose map you trust). Over the years, this mountain has become more than a landmark—it’s a silent ally, a celestial patron who watches over my journeys. It appears unexpectedly: a flash of white between parting clouds, a reflection in a farmhouse window, a looming presence as I round a bend. Last autumn, as I pedaled past Susa or climbed the legendary Strada dell’Assietta (for the fifth blissful time), it felt as if the mountain nodded its approval. By the trip’s end, I knew: it was time to move to the Alps. Ah, the Strada dell’Assietta... that graveled ribbon between heaven and history... Well, it never gets easier. But every autumn, I return to let its switchbacks break me open—just a little—until all that’s left is joy, the kind that comes only when a place has claimed you for its own.

Autumn’s Quiet Magic

End october/begin november here is a secret gift. The summer crowds have vanished, the winter skiers haven’t yet arrived, and the trails belong only to the wind and the occasional chamois darting through larch trees. Even the light seems more penetrating, gilding the abandoned military forts that dot the Franco-Italian border like forgotten sentinels. These ruins—lunar outposts on high passes—whisper of the region’s turbulent past, when Savoy was a chess piece between empires. Today, their only battles are against time.