One year ago today, we arrived in Zurich with a carload of Branston Pickle. One year ago tomorrow, I started work. In an unintentional recreation of this momentous journey, I recently drove back to England for a few days. On the return ferry crossing, I did something unusual, and coughed up the extra £15 to travel first class from Dover to Dunkirk. I don’t know what impulse made me check that box on the form, but I’m glad I did. Paying a bit more gives you the use of a private lounge with free coffee, juice and biscuits. Naturally, you aim to consume at least fifteen quids worth of Custard Creams to ensure the investment isn’t wasted, before sinking into … …
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The raiding party has been and gone, carrying off my wife like a trophy. So once again, the apartment is empty and silent — and seems even more so in this bright sunshine. Chatting to my mother-in-law last week, shortly before the great departure, she opined that the flat is beautiful and the view over the lake lovely. “But”, she added helpfully, “I would be lonely living here on my own”. Am I lonely here? I suppose I could be. But if it doesn’t feel bad, how would I know? M was here with me for six months, before the last granules of her six-month sabbatical dribbled away. She returned to Blighty four months ago, and despite her occasional trips … …
My arse collapsed, finally, as I creaked past Feldbach station. “No more”, it implored. “No more, you bastard.” And so the plan to cycle the 69 circumferential kilometres of Lake Zurich fizzled out, like a fag end tossed into a puddle, precisely two thirds of the way through. Forty-six of these clicking, biting blighters had drilled their way into my lower legs and wriggled upwards, filling my underpants. But I couldn’t squeeze kilometre 47 in anywhere. Until 15 minutes before setting off, I had no idea I’d be spending last Sunday afternoon chasing this doomed errand. It was while wading through the furthest recesses of a neglected wardrobe that I came across a carrier bag containing my bicycle pump and … …
There are, naturally, thousands of ‘wanderweg’ trails in this country, all carefully waymarked and classified. These include seven national trails, criss-crossing the nation, four dozen regional routes and 140+ local ones. But that’s only part of it. All of these are broken down into smaller paths or creatively joined up with lesser local trails to form an intricate network of new routes. The entire nation — countryside, and city — is dotted with the distinctive yellow wanderweg signs, pointing you to a selection of destinations, each with an estimated walking time, rather than a distance. Where to start? Crossing off a few local routes first, before venturing into the more serious stuff, seems like a good idea. And so, on … …
Is hiking the new running? Walking is a major pastime here, whatever the flavour. From casual family meandering, through Nordic walking, to backpacking weekends in the mountains, it’s what folk do — particularly on Sundays, when the shops are shut, and noisy DIY is verboten. In this religious nation, Sunday is a day for wholesome activity. In winter this means messing about in the snow — downhill or cross-country skiing; strapping tennis racquets to feet and tramping across fields; skating on frozen lakes. When the snow melts, it’s time to cycle and hike, with swimming coming a bit later in the season. And running? Running is everywhere, flooding the cracks between the seasons. Everywhere but here. Best to accept … …
Good Friday: Another hour in the Ferrari magnet yesterday evening, panting like a demon, followed by a mountainous salad, bath, and early night between fresh sheets. Sleep arrives within seconds. I must have been glowing like a radioactive cadaver. Today, up at 7, already at my desk, seated before my transcendental panorama, bowl of Birchermüesli in hand, squinting through the early morning sun shooting off the lake. Still buzzing from last night, and feeling appropriately holy. It should be called Bloody Good Friday. I have a number of writing projects to think about, and work on. They’ve been at my feet for a long time, like a cuddly dog with a single, suspicious eye, always open, following me wherever I … …
Joining a new gym is like starting a new job. You wear clean socks, and are treated extra nicely. In return, you feel the need to make a good impression, which usually means pretending to be someone else entirely. You can’t find things, and don’t like to ask, particularly if your questions have to be in German. This sense of pampered disorientation leaves you unsure whether you’re having fun or not. One day perhaps, I will feel at home here. People will wink and give me the thumbs-up and grin and shout “Yo!”, just like they did to Antonietta, the willowy lady who showed me round this evening. But the odds are stacked against me. Unlike her, I would have … …
It’s a good time to take stock: on the day when two marathons close to my heart (and in the case of Zurich, close to my home) take place, and a week after so many good friends of this website admirably complete marathons in Brighton and Rotterdam. My last run ended so miserably that I couldn’t immediately bring myself to talk about it here. It happened six weeks ago, just days after the last, generally optimistic, post in which I was up and out at sunrise, and looking forward to easing my way into training for a late-May half marathon. In that message, I casually referred to a distant twinge in my left calf — the one that has treated … …
Up at 6:30 a.m. today after a sleepless night. I first did what I always first do – step out onto the balcony at the front of the apartment and take a look at the Horgen Morgen. The Swiss like regular blasts of cold air in their lives. It’s a habit I’ve learnt to appreciate. At least twice a day, someone will throw open one of the huge windows in our office. Up on that sub-zero hillside, it seems like irrational behaviour, but most of us grin appreciatively, precisely because it seems like irrational behaviour. We even gather round the open window in our shirt sleeves, gulping the icy air, stretching, and whimpering with pleasure. It’s a bit … …
The lack of activity in here might suggest zero activity out there. Almost, but not quite true; and less true this week than at any time since we arrived in Switzerland, four months ago. My Garmin strap remains split, so my phone, and Runkeeper, have been called in to keep tabs on anything approaching athletic bustle. They tell me that before this week, I managed just 41 kilometres of disidleness — if I may offer the world a new word. This 4-month marathon was composed of very short joggy-walky jog-walks, and a couple of leisurely flora-centric Sunday afternoon strolls in the dense woodland bordering the end of our road. You’d struggle to detect more than a sprinkle of sweat … …