Val Bavona | Switzerland
The Homes in the Val Bavona
For years, I dreamt of this run. Early morning, before traffic, before tourists—not that many tourists even know this place exists. I had no idea how I first learned about it, but somehow, Val Bavona a region in the Ticino canton of Switzerland, had lodged itself in my brain, waiting for its moment.
The plan was simple: park my car in Bignasco, the valley’s gateway, and run the winding Via Bavona road. Just me, the mountains, and the kind of silence that makes you question whether you’ve accidentally time-traveled. I’d pass through forgotten villages, their stone houses clinging to the valley like relics of another age, running all the way to San Carlo and back. Some easy 12 miles of running.
As I ran, Val Bavona would unfold before me like a scene from The Lord of the Rings. Ancient stone villages clung to the valley as if time had forgotten them. Sonlerto, in particular, captivated me. Its cobbled streets and granite houses—some built around massive boulders left by ancient landslides—whispered stories of resilience. The silence was almost eerie but profoundly peaceful, the solitude a rare gift—and the absence of crowds the icing on the cake.
Sonlerto
The history of Val Bavona is as rugged as its terrain. Built between the 14th and 19th centuries, the villages were once seasonal homes for herders practicing transhumance. In a striking display of Swiss communal decision-making, the residents voted in the mid-20th century against installing electricity to preserve the valley’s authenticity. Because of this, Val Bavona remains a place of unspoiled beauty, relying only on solar panels and generators for minimal power.
As I ran through the valley, I would have been delighted by its treasures—Roseto, Foroglio, Ritorto, Sabbione—each village with its own quiet charm, untouched and frozen in time.
Foroglio
But the dream run never happened.
When I reached Bignasco, where my run was supposed to begin, I was met with a sign: Road Closed. I was devastated. My long-awaited plan unraveled before me. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed a car emerging from the closed road. If they drove in, I should be able to as well, I thought. So, I drove in. Slowly, cautiously, past landslides that had battered the valley that spring. And somehow, the road—allegedly “closed”—was passable. I pressed on, determined to at least see what I had come for. And I did. Every village, every stone, all the way to the crown jewel: Sonlerto.
The run remains a dream. The drive would have to suffice for now. But I will be back to run this valley one day.
Roseto
