Gemmi pass

Kandersteg was paused anxiously, awaiting the snow for which it is geared up and the accompanying influx of skiers on which the prosperity of the village depends. During my stay, it remained resolutely clear and sunny. The temperature fluctuated between -3C at night and up to 7C during the day. Wind was almost absent so the frosty air was pleasantly bracing for walking and during uphill stretches I would shed layers. On the first day, I followed the path of a cable car then walked a couple of miles to Oeschinensee, a lake with a sculpture path around it. There is skating and ice fishing when it freezes but in its liquid state it was disappointingly ordinary. Nevertheless, it was a good walk and I retired for a nap before dinner.

A walk to Blausee, the blue lake, some 300m lower in the valley, was marred by fractious children and I abandoned the pleasant terrace before my cappuccino arrived, to the consternation of the waitress. By the fourth day, I felt ready to tackle the longest winter walk accessible from the hotel. This entailed a gondola ride to Sunnbüel, an hour and a half walk to the remote Schwarenbach hotel where I stopped for coffee then a further hour and a half uphill to the Gemmi pass is at 2,400m. The route is well signposted, except for the point at which the path approaches Daubensee, a frozen lake which had been carved into cross country ski tracks. A direction pole had been stripped of its signs, only metal clips showing where they had once been attached and I continued ahead oblivious to a possible change of direction. After a while, I became aware of other walkers rounding the lake at a wider berth, retraced my steps and followed. Another change of mind led me back to my original path, only to have to scamper across knee deep snow later to regain the correct, upper track. The additional exertion combined with the steady climb and biting wind meant that I was cold and tired when I reached Gemmi pass and in no mood to appreciate the fine view. I took the gondola down to Leukabad, another 23 francs with the usual mystification exhibited when I timidly showed the guest pass the hotel had assured me would assure me reductions. Leukabad is a normal Swiss town with the usual non-descript apartment buildings and something of a shock after the two storey wooden chalets of chi-chi Kandersteg. I followed the standard yellow pedestrian signs to the bus station diverting via the adjacent tourist information office to check the route. The walk description referred blithely to catching a bus and train back from Leukerbad. In reality, this turned out to be a bus and two trains, with a journey time of two and a half hours. Given the additional time of the cable car and the walk through the town, it would have been almost as fast to walk back. At the ticket office there was another surprise in store. The journey would cost 43 francs, meaning that in total the day set me back some 90 Swiss francs or about £70 at the prevailing exchange rate. It seemed a lot for half a day’s walking.

My acquaintances at the hotel were able to cap my story: for supplying hot water to top up their tea, a café had charged them an additional six francs.

Kandersteg

It is a peculiarity of London City airport that planes have to trundle up the runway, at a crawl which would prove an embarrassment to a competent cyclist, before executing a neat pirouette in the turning circle provided for the purpose, then stand by while an incoming flight lands. This is the consequence of operating an airport in a sliver of land projecting into the river with no latitude for taxiways. On this occasion, the pause in the holding loop lasted longer than usual. The airport lighting had failed, the pilot announced, and despite blinding sunshine streaming through the cabin windows, we would need to return to the stand until the problem was fixed. The nearest Robert Dyas was at Canary Wharf, I remembered, wondering if they stocked airport lights. In the event, the red runway lights came on after a few minutes. We lined up at the head of the runway, the throttle opened until the airframe shook with rage then charged down the runway, darting swiftly into the sky as though repulsed by the ground. I recalled departing from LCY with an Australian colleague visiting London for the first time who remarked dryly, ‘this guy doesn't take any prisoners’, as the engines reached screaming pitch before the brakes were released.

Swissair pays lip service, if you'll pardon the pun, to feeding its passengers. A croissant, two if you are near the front and get those refused by more health conscious travelers, plus the obligatory chocolate squares. In contrast, British Airways recently announced that from 2017 short haul flights would be selling M&S food on board rather than supplying free refreshments. In preparation for the change and so that passengers feel they've not missed much, in flight refreshments on some BA flights now comprise no more than a bag of crisps or a biscuit. Such cheese-paring (oops, sorry!) seems both unnecessary and counter-productive. When pre-flight dining was introduced at JFK, I assumed it generated a worthwhile saving on in flight meal costs and service. Not so, a colleague who was an aviation specialist corrected, the expense of catering a flight is derisory compared to aircraft leasing and fuel costs and for safety reasons they can't reduce cabin crew numbers even if they're not occupied serving food.

At Zurich, the train transfer ticket supplied by the travel agency was accompanied by instructions not to insert the return date or the whole voucher would be invalidated. I couldn't fathom the logic but stuck to the rules, dutifully entering the outward travel date, while crouched on the airport floor awaiting delivery of my baggage. When the train conductor arrived, the family in the next compartment, all of whom were preoccupied with their individual iPads, embarked on an extensive discussion which, as far as I could gather concerned the validity or otherwise of the children's tickets. Credit cards were produced and excess fares taken. I waited with trepidation for the inspection of my scribbled ticket which despite being paper, seemed less substantial than the electronic boarding pass issued for the flight or the electronic ticket on my phone I used for the Arlanda Express in Stockholm. Nevertheless after thorough scrutiny it was accepted and duly date stamped.

Many Swiss trains are double deckers, taller therefore than English counterparts but utilizing the space between the wheels more efficiently so the whole structure has a lower centre of gravity. Looming by the platforms, with shaded table lamps at the windows of the restaurant cars, they have the stately grandeur of ocean liners. The route from Zurich airport to the city station is largely underground and as we passed out of the station it opened to an abundance of tracks, sidings, goods yards and depots. At one point, there were three dozen parallel tracks. At stations we passed, new tracks were being constructed with cranes, concrete sleepers and fresh rails in evidence. A significant proportion of Switzerland’s modest land mass must, it seemed, be covered in railway paraphernalia.

A lowering fog robbed the scenery of colour and focus so the first part of train journey, from Zurich to Bern, serenaded by the coughing and spluttering of the passenger in the adjoining seat and the baleful companionship of a young man opposite whose luggage unabashedly occupied most of our joint floor space, was unremarkable.

Once past Bern, the landscape changed. Gone were the freight yards and loading bays, the unedifying posteriors which commerce presents to fleeting trains. A gradual but insistent ascent commenced; one minute we were racing cars along a main road, a few minutes later looking down on them from a bridge or a narrow pass cleaving to the side of a craggy mountain. Scads of snow appeared, decorative and festive albeit too paltry to gladden the heart of an anxious skier. After each long tunnel we emerged higher, palpably closer to the tops of the brown and white peaks which had grown up around us. The only remaining occupant of my carriage, an elderly man, with thin, paper-white skin, darted from window to window to get the best view, an inane grin on his face as he watched the world dropping away beneath us. The track flattened as we slowed to Kandersteg and clusters of alpine chalets were limpeted on to the green slopes below the crags. The broad, shallow roofs extended two meters beyond their walls, sheltering first floor balconies and neat wood piles. Some are substantial buildings, three or four stories high with timber frontages polished as dark as a mahogany chest of drawers. As I walked among them towards my hotel, the beetling roofs projected a brooding air reminiscent of the menacing cottages populating fairy stories.

The hotel lounge was large and comfortable and a grand piano stood in the corner, ice buckets unceremoniously stored on the polished wood. I lifted the lid to check the maker. I didn't recognize the name but the instrument hailed from Bern. A lone American sat at the bar, studying the drinks card. ‘I can recommend the merlot,’ I sallied. ‘No, thanks.’ He replied, swivelling his stool away from me. Later he was joined by an English couple. Half a dozen more straggled in and we were ushered into the adjoining dining room, a cavernous affair with crystal chandeliers and seating for a hundred and seated at tables which were as far apart as possible. It could have been the setting for a Terence Rattigan play. Fortunately I'd equipped myself with a book. After dinner, I set out for an evening walk along the main street. The temperature drops rapidly in the evening and I added an extra layer and thick gloves, thinking that on the next day I'd wear thermals. I headed towards the station for lack of any other plan and a group of six or seven figures towing suitcases accosted me. ‘Can you direct us to the Hotel Victoria?’ one enquired. Feeling as though I'd just been awarded the freedom of the city, like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, I waved in the direction from which I'd come, adding that they'd better hurry or they'd miss dinner. ‘We're with Inntravel and our plane from Manchester was delayed,’ they explained. Ha! more walkers, I thought, things are looking up!

Lying in bed with the balcony door ajar, the comforting sound of distant trains lulled me to sleep.