Swiss Pass

Exiting Slovenia was a bit like the draw for the World Cup finals, putting your hand in an overly elaborate tombola and pulling out a random country that you can get to by train or plane. Thus the potential upset of Liechtenstein was flown over on the way to Zurich, Switzerland. Zurich was great for pretzels and quick connections onward by the very amazing Swiss rail network. An hour to Bern, an hour to Interlaken, half an hour up a valley to Lauterbrunnen, then another half hour by a cable car / mountain train combo to Murren, all with the smoothest of short connections.

Murren, some 1600 metres up and squarely facing the peaks of Jungfrau, Eiger and Monch was as Swiss as a knife wielding cuckoo clock. A ski town in winter, summer presents a quiet and charming base from which to wander meadows, smell cows, and eat cheese. So, with my early start and wonderful train connections, I had an afternoon to do just that, taking a little cog railway up a further 200 metres to the wonderfully Germanic-sounding Allmendhubel, and embracing a sweeping ramble back through valleys and hamlets down to Murren. Jungfrau – over 4,000 metres high – creating its own break in clouds, and shining clear throughout the afternoon and into dusk.

  

Clouds eventually spread onto Jungfrau as the sun faded and they struggled to lift at all the next day. It was therefore a day best suited to heading down the hills and into the Lauterbrunnen Valley. The scale of the mountains here are intense, plummeting down into the valley in a series of immense walls, from which waters often descend hundreds of metres. Some, such as the popular and nicely designed for visitors Trummelbach, cut their way through the mountain in a series of caves and crevices.  The sound of impressive force is matched by the impressive lift and viewing trail to several of the chutes. And there is an impressive array of cakes to choose from in the cafe at the bottom, let me tell you.

 Later that day I went for another venture, heading out from Murren with the intention of cutting an undulating line north – hopefully with nice views of the Eiger and its dodgy north face – and then jumping on a little train back. But by time I completed the worst part of the walk – an ascent through forest – the weather was looking the wrong side of dubious and by time I headed back down again, Murren had almost vanished into cloud...

...so opening the curtains on my final morning was like waking up on Christmas morning as a seven year old. Onward travel was therefore immediately suspended and instead it was on to a cable car upward. That overnight cloud had also given the gift of fresh snow, settling only a couple of hundred metres above Murren and on the very same path I took on my first walk two days earlier.

Destination was still a further thousand metres up, at Schilthorn, a rotunda perched on a piece of rock and allegedly famous for being in a James Bond movie. I believe On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I think James Bond, played by that guy who no-one can remember...Lazyberry or something...was canoodling a hot chick in the snow and then some baddie came and did something like really bad and so he jumped on some skis and flew down the hill at great peril, pursued by more baddies, but it all ended up okay because the Queen was safe and James managed to comb his hair and pinch the arse of some other shiela before heading back to Queanbeyan for a root.

Anyway, despite this, the views from Schilthorn provide much more realistic drama, invigorating with clear blue skies and a fresh layer of powder, and fulfilling after the expectation that this was not possible.

 

From such heights one has to descend, but what an agreeable descent it was all the way to Lucerne. From Murren it’s back along the ridge by train, down to the valley by cable car and a trundle alongside a rapid glacial river to Interlaken. From here it is necessary to take the Central Line, but not like any Central Line I have been on before. Lake after lake, a couple of mountain passes, cows and green fields, and blue rivers and little churches surrounded by wooden chalets. It is a chocolate box.

Not that things get any less sweet in Lucerne, which is so picture perfect in many ways that one instantly wonders how, but also surely questioning that dodgy things must be happening somewhere dodgy right? The British pub, which also doubled as a hotel in which I stayed a night, is surely the place to start. But no, apart from very expectedly overpriced pub food and equally clichéd Swiss-German pop band tinklings, even the hotel room was clean, modern, soundproof...

Lucerne has a great medieval core, and its iconic symbol is the Kapellbrucke, a covered wooden pedestrian bridge with slightly phallic tower (especially when baked and sold in Madeleine format). There was also a town wall with enough turrets and spires to keep you happy for a while, which I randomly found as the day came to a close, keeping me, as I say, happy until my overpriced pub burger at least.

The next day, prior to cross-border rail travel, I had plenty of time to take to Lake Lucerne, hopping aboard one of its steamboats for a round trip to a town of random choosing – Vitznau. With sunshine and Swissness, these were very pleasant times. At Vitznau, the temptation of more mountains looms, but I just climbed a little hill for views of the lake, before heading back down to the watery goodness for a self made picnic of giant raclette pretzel, spicy sausage and, just for the hell of it, additional gruyere cheese.

I was tempted to revisit Pretzel King at Lucerne station, but resisted and went for cake instead to take on my train to Italy. With Italy now on the agenda, things suddenly seemed a little more chaotic...a hot train, quite busy and noisy, spending money you don’t have, that kind of thing. But the scenery was still Swiss, carving through the narrowest of valleys and emerging in Lugano, where Switzerland became Italianate beside the lake. It looked stunningly beautiful; further down the line Como seemed chaotically beautiful, and then Milano was just stunningly chaotic. But I made it, all the way to little Vignate and friendship with meatballs. Ciao.

S-love

Did you know that Slovenia is made up of 70% forest, 13% rocky mountain stuff and 17% other? Did you know Ljubljana had a big fence around it during the Second World War and was effectively a giant prison? Did you know Ljubljana was the capital of Slovenia? Did you know there was a country called Slovenia? If not, don’t worry, you won’t be alone. Tucked quietly away between Italy, Austria, and the Balkans, it’s a composite of Alpine drama, baroque extravagance, socialist enterprise and cabbage themed food. It’s really quite lovely.

My first few days in Slovenia were focused on mountains and the waters that run off them, basing myself in the Julian Alps at Lakes Bled and Bohinj and driving and walking my way around from there. Bled is such a show off, with an enduring appeal conjured by its beautiful mountainside waters and oh-so-perfect church adorned island and precipitous medieval castle. It’s popular on the coach party circult, but quieter spots, where the church bell echoes through the forested banks and the fish jump regularly, are entirely magical. This was a day that started in Finchley and ended in a fairy tale.

The next morning I had breakfast in Bled (yes, I’ve been dying to use that one!), and with murkiness now around there was a different charm and serenity to the lakeside. I walked the entire perimeter, stopping for a very encouraging quality of coffee half way – another plus point in the books for Slovenia.

 

A change of scenery came in the middle of the day, as murk and drizzle continued and I decided to head for a place nearby called Vintgar Gorge. This was another gem, perfect in this autumnal air, with incredible clear glacial waters carving their way downstream. Almost as incredible was the wooden walkway, parts of which date back hundreds of years and leave you wondering whether any rot has set in as you dangle off a cliff edge over furious white water.

 The watery theme expanded into the rest of the day as torrential rain hammered its way down from mid afternoon onwards and cabin fever set in, but at least I got some rest and caught up with some tedious blog writing...

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The next day was back to blue, after a mandatory misty start, and set fair for a day of driving. Short in kilometres but long in time, a circular tour of the Julian Alps, whose peaks were now dusted in a fresh layer of snow. The first stop, via narrow, precipitous road number one was to Kropa, an agreeable little place in a wooded valley in which iron was once forged but now just stands in gates and windowpanes everywhere.

From here it was a longer than expected trek across to the Soca Valley, possessing surely the bluest of bluest waters, carving there way deep into the high mountains of Triglav. Across one set of hills lay Italy, and you could sense its influence in the towns and harebrained overtaking manoeuvres of drivers around here. Kobarid felt and looked mostly Italian, and had some of its warmth as I sat on a terrace for lunch.

Heading north now towards Austria came the highlight of the driving day: the Vrsic pass. Lurching upwards and passing signs with numbers 50, 49, 48 etc, it was only until about number 35 that I realised these signified the number of hairpin bends to contend with. They also noted the altitude, which topped out at 1611 metres, and led to a land of high mountain vistas.

Thus followed the descent and chance to knock off the rest of those hairpins to the town of Kranjska Gora. Nearby, a nature reserve offered the chance to look at more fish in the incredible water, before joining merciful motorway back to Bled.

Bled was not the final destination however, as a further 20 kilometres took me to the Lake Bohinj region and home for the next couple of nights in the peaceful, rustic town of Stara Fuzina.

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After another huge breakfast involving bread, meat, cheese, yogurt and fruit, today was a walking day. Partly to offset the bread, meat, cheese etc, and partly to give the car a rest. From Stara Fuzina, the mists soon cleared as I ventured into Mostnica Gorge and towards its falls. Here, again, vivid waters thread their way through a typically Alpine valley with flower fields and happy cows.

From the falls (not pictured left, by the way), the only way was back. Or up. Up along a hunters track through a dense forest, traversing tangled tree roots and requiring a breather every third tree. I knew that because I was on it, hoping that it would finally end and bring me to the meadows of Uskovnica. The sound of a dog breaking away from its home in a pursuit to suss out who I was provided alarming confirmation that I had made the top after an hour. More dwellings, and a more open landscape, before descent into the forest again. It was a nice walk, but just that little bit on the wrong side of annoying.

Life was happier in the valleys, which were now warm and sunny and verging on the idyllic. The walk back to SF was a pleasingly flat dream, taking in the pretty villages of Srednja Vas and Studor. And at SF, my bargain loft space a setting for quiet snoozing, in keeping with the atmosphere.

Not that I was passive for long, as I had determined that, given right weather conditions, I should climb up to Osojnica viewpoint, back in Bled. This is the spot for picture postcard scenes and worth the 5 euro parking and many steps. Such effort was amply rewarded later for dinner, in the pub opposite my place, with a rustic bean and sausage stew, cottage cheese dumplings, and a beer.

The next morning it was time to bid the mountains farewell and enter a slightly quirkier phase of the visit. I wasn’t in any great rush to leave however, and soaked up a few final moments around and about Lake Bohinj and the town of Ribcez Lav.

 

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And thus to the metropolis that is Ljubljana, where I spent a couple of days with an old friend who I met in Australia, Caroline. It was a chance to relive past trips to odd places and we did our best to mix it up a little, not to mention eat cake and ice cream several times for the sake of tradition. Ljubljana was rather charming in its mix of old town, communist tower block, nouveau riche style, and we were blessed with a cosy apartment in a lovely neighbourhood just south of the centre.

Given its population is smaller than Canberra there doesn’t seem to be a great deal to do in Ljubljana apart from obvious sights and eating opportunities. Therefore we went on a Sunday trip back out into the country, taking in diverse sights and towns, the thrill of a hypermarket and picnic lunch, a revisit (again!) to Lake Bled and culminating in the enthralling town of Radovljica. Scene of a great ice cream in the late afternoon sun overlooking the green hills, the sound of cowbells distant, a pastel perfect town square and probably the greatest beekeeping museum in the northern hemisphere!

It was hard for the final day to live up to the excitement of the beekeeping museum, and a somewhat dreary day weather-wise put a dampener on Ljubljana a little. An excessively informative boat cruise yielded much information but with an intensity that made it rude to doze off as one would have liked. And then a little funicular to the castle presented a strange warren of medieval fortress come convention centre. But by now I had by dober dans and hvalas down to a pat, and used them to good effect in cake eating opportunities that came my way.

The final eating in Slovenia was forced upon us by the weather. After a pleasant evening meal in our local neighbourhood, what better than to walk along the river, to take in the buildings and people milling about the squares and bridges? Cue massive thunderstorm and torrential rain, sending us ducking for cover and two chocolate milkshakes to pass time as the rain continued to hammer down.

Still, I couldn’t complain and don’t recall doing so, this being only the second time rain had stopped play during my time in Slovenia after all. Instead, a chance to pump up the heating and try to dry my washing before packing again and moving on early next morning. Glad that I had gone off the beaten path a little and seen a small corner of this lovely country that some may have never even heard of.  Leaving with warmth and a cold.

Happy and Glorious

In a rare feat of moderation I was going to tack this blog post onto the last (see below). A footnote to a few weeks in Great Britain, encompassing a small enclave of what is broadly known as ‘The North’ and peppered with some time spent in the capital, London. Or London2012 as it is fondly known these days. However, they warranted a post in their own right, not appendices to Westcountry scrumptiousness but full bodied warm ales of golden appreciation and deep-filled pies of friendship.

I really should spend more time in the North of England. I have never been to York. Or Manchester. Or all those places like Piddlyton-on-Wellyboot in the Vale of Rambunctiousness. I don’t know where it starts, but it is undeniably distinctive and full of clichés such as gritty humour and down-to-earth friendliness. In this it is as charming as a toasted teacake.

Still, I would never choose to holiday in Blackpool and cannot quite understand why, or how or what on earth would possess you. More refined and it knows it is Lytham, where I can regularly reacquaint myself with air mattresses of old, rely on fajita night, and have serious Words with Friends. There are wee nippers to contend with, and the start of a long run of 6am wake ups, but these are happy shared family moments.  

The North provided a mixed bag of weather, starting with tropical heatwave like conditions (for The North) and offering a gorgeous day to stroll along the prom, have a burger and pint at a decent pub, and head back again. It even lasted just long enough for BBQ number 4 on a Sunday afternoon.

But quite quickly summer ended, the wind emerged to blast all the harshness of the Irish Sea onto the land, and a trip out to St Annes-On-Sea provided me with a taste of the summer that so many had experienced on their British holidays this year. As I battled the forty five degree rain that little ‘oh we do like to be beside the seaside’ ditty lodged into my head, amplified by the tuppeny bit games and jingle jangle machines on the pier.

Still, I must make more time to see other parts of The North.

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Possibly the best thing about Preston train station is it only take two hours and a quarter to get to London. From a Lancashire drizzle it seemed that London was still beaming and was it me or did Euston and the Northern Line seem incredibly smooth, clean and efficient? I made it to Finchley which is like memory lane big time. The odd change of shop and pub, but still Victoria Park and Tesco and the number 82 bus. And more entrenched bonds, added with more sprogs and, ahem, 6am starts.

Most of my time here remained in The North (of London) but I did manage a half day jaunt into the city and even south across the river. It was wonderful and I can only imagine how such meanderings would have been full of joy during the Olympics. I started at London Bridge and crossed the bridge for the first time ever, noting a giant shard like building beside the water – ah, the Shard! On the other side, through wanky banks and city schlicks, appeared a big monument or something – ah, Monument! 311 steps it takes to reach the top of this obelisk, and I got a certificate to prove it.

From here I stayed north of the river and ventured onto St Pauls, which was more gorgeous than I remember. For me, this is London’s Sydney Opera House. I’m thinking the grounds and greenery around this iconic landmark were rather spruced and fancy, but, in a great and British way, still open for anyone to meander, laze, catch a bus from, have a larf, eat a packaged sandwich beside, have a knees up in jellied eels at, or bum a fag.

Back to that river, which, escaping the Olympic magentification, remained steadfastly brown. Even on sunny, colourful days like this, London is at heart a black and white kind of city.

South Bank was all hip and happening and I detect a greater celebration and use of the riverside as an asset, with fine dining, casual cafes, pubs and food carts providing distraction aplenty. Gentrification with attitude, as obviously they keep the graffiti walled skate grunge concrete-park and encourage random entertainment featuring moonwalking, giant bubbles and steel drums.

By now we had reached the latter part of Friday afternoon, the sun was out, and Britain’s economy was losing 1% of GDP as people knock off early for a pint at Snail and Cabbage pubs everywhere. And why not, for the money only goes to fund more Mercedes Tractors for bankers to drive around Hampstead, probably. So, for me, off to the Slug & Lettuce in Clapham to have a beer and chat to some treasured former work friends. Friday night memories.

More memories were awoken over the next few days, including a ride on the number 82 bus to enjoy a sumptuous sunny Saturday at Golders Hill Park. What a lovely spot, with animals, play areas, ice creams and an unsurprisingly overpriced pub nearby for golden lunchtime burgers served on wooden boards instead of more practical plates. Another striking memory was the meringue and cream cake from Sainsburys, reincarnated now as an individual pavlova, but still packed with fresh cream. And then there was a trip to Tesco, where little had changed apart from the presence of freshly cooked barbecue ribs and salted giant pretzels. Food, my ever constant companion.

And so, despite a dubious belly forming and a run of eleven consecutive days with child waking regularity, it was a happy and glorious time. My last endeavour in the UK was to survive Essex, which I managed despite being visually assaulted by fake tan and blonde peroxide. Lifting off from British shores at Stansted, saying goodbye to the Thames estuary, it was over the hills and far away to Europe, and the start of a holiday within a holiday.