Zurich and The Alps

My journey to Zurich may have been the most frightening of my life. Gale force winds, driving rain. The tiny red jeep is blown across the autobahn and aquaplanes constantly. I am a shaking state upon arrival. Luckily, I have a reconnaissance with GW, who is at the start of his own European journey.

We set up a tent in the rain, at the most expensive campsite (although very beautifully situated) in the world. At the edge of

the lake, we eat local fish and drink wine, before the storm pours down further.

Zurich in the sun is, of course, much more beautiful. No gig here, so a day of tourism, not touring, instead, wandering through alleys of artisanal shops and galleries, before eating huge cakes at the oldest conditorei in the city and later, wurst at a tiny Metzgeri, where a jolly man asks if “yes, I really want a whole sausage?” Of course I do (that’s what she said).  

I also have fun drinking, ‘without hesitation’ at some of the city’s 500 water-fountains, because that is what the free guide book in a bar said I should do. 

As the rain starts once more, huddled over a beer in a place that used to be the oldest railway station in Zurich, I decide I can’t face a two hundred mile journey that night. Instead, GW and I hatch an ingenious plan…

Back at the campsite, we blithely tell the man in charge that we are leaving and drive out, round the corner and then back on ourselves to the public car park across the road. Stealthily, I park the tiny jeep in a space behind a bush. From there, we swap coats and I put on my glasses and a hat: a brilliant disguise, I’m sure you’ll agree. We lurk in the shadows for a while, before strolling, as nonchalantly as possible, through the gates to the end of the campsite, where we pitch the tent in the dark.  At six am we decamp and scramble up the bank, over the wall, back to the car park. I do my best to justify ‘stealing camping’ to myself by the fact that we were there for seven hours and didn’t use any electricity or hot water. Yep, no shower before a five hundred mile drive. Lovely. GW wanders to Salzburg and I and the jeep trundle off to Umbria.

Driving through the Alps, I am heartbroken by the beauty and can’t quite take it all in. By the time I am halfway into the mountains, the weather has changed – I have broken the stormfront – hurrah!

At ten am I do as mamma Maurer advised me to in Wallhalben. Just over the Italian border, I stop at the first Italian services and have a perfect espresso: 1euro, my heart leaps. The sign overhead tells me it is 30degrees. As I get to the first toll, the sultry young man in the booth leans towards me and says, “beautiful car”. I am in Italy.