A peek over the garden fence: hiking through the Sihlwald.

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 that my running days are over — if indeed they ever truly started. The target was always those broad, sunlit uplands but I never quite got there, did I? For 17 months now, I’ve been stumbling around this painful no man’s land of denial. That’s how long ago it is since the Hyde Park 10K, when the left calf seized up. Loyal readers will know that I’ve barely managed a yelp-free outing since then. And there have been plenty of undocumented, unsuccessful plods too. Despite the obvious hopelessness, it’s not easy to publicly rubber stamp the retirement application. No point, anyway. There’s little to be gained by declaring I’ll never take part in another running race, or go for a jog, or whatever the definition of a runner might be. If it happens, it happens, and I’ll write about it if and when it does. But until then, it’s time to stop hankering after it and look for something else to enthuse over.

The gym visits have continued, albeit fitfully. A week in Hong Kong, plus the recuperation period that required, have reduced my gym attendance to an average of once a week since I last wrote about it. Must do better. But anyway, no one wants to consider the gym as a central hobby, surely? It’s a handy filler, but not the brick.

Which is where walking comes in. It’s an obvious way to go, particularly in Switzerland, where it’s a sacrament. I’ve dabbled ever since moving here, though rarely for more than an hour at a time. Over the last few days, that’s changed. Last Thursday was a national holiday (one of three in June), and I didn’t want to waste it. I’d been for a couple of short walks recently, and earmarked Thursday to try something slightly more adventurous, with a follow-up over the weekend.

We’re lucky to live just 250 metres from a long thin patch of forest. It extends for only a couple of miles, but is full of paths and has its own gurgling brook. I’ve wandered round it several times, but never strayed beyond the furthest boundary, which is formed by a major road. Admittedly, Swiss motorways aren’t as big and hostile as their British equivalents, but still, I’ve not felt minded to wander too near to any noise when trying to engage with the spirits of the forest.  I wasn’t even sure that I could easily get across it. But recently, a local map showed me the several paths under and over the road, as well as hinting at the array of delights available once one had bypassed this ferocious concrete barrier. Time to take a peek over the garden fence.

The target was 6 miles for Thursday and 10 yesterday, but I managed 7 and 12.3 respectively, so am feeling stupidly smug. The 7 miler dragged me across that motorway. Like most instinctive, unexplored antipathies, the reality wasn’t so bad. The prize for bypassing the demon was another swathe of contemplative woodland, leading to a lake whose existence I’d heard rumoured, but never found. Here was a good place to rest and snaffle some malt loaf, washed down with another recent enthusiasm: ice tea. This stuff is big business here, with a long stretch of supermarket aisle devoted to the different brands, each divided and sub-divided into multiple flavours, sizes, and formats. I’m a Lipton’s lemon man myself, 150cl, ready-made and low calorie. Your mileage may vary, as indeed mine did yesterday, when I coaxed another 12.3 miles into these fattened calves. But wait, I’m not there yet.

After the magnificent banquet of malt loaf and ice tea, I circumnavigated the lake with renewed vigour, before plunging back into the forest and heading home via another route. Emerging from the underpass at the very top of Horgen, I was confronted by a fresh panorama of the town and Lake Zurich, with the eponymous city away to the north. It seemed like a good reward for the afternoon’s effort.

Yesterday took me further afield, despite the stuttering start. Just minutes after setting off, at around midday, a massive grey cloud spilt its venom along the south-west shore of the lake. I sheltered from the deluge in the entrance to a closed restaurant, annoyed with myself for not having set off earlier in the day. After 10 minutes, with a slight drop in the velocity of the rain, I called the cloud’s bluff, and set off again.

This time, I cut to the chase, sidestepping last Thursday’s arboraceous preamble, and heading up through the town, back along the previous return path, until I hit the small lake once more. This time I skirted round it and continued west. My plan was to wind up at Adliswil, more than halfway to Zurich. There are two or three established paths that would get me there. One forms a part of a regional hiking trail, while the other well known one takes the walker along the River Sihl, through the Sihlwald (Sihl forest). I opted for the latter.

Before reaching the river, I had a long stretch – perhaps 3 miles – of classic open, rolling Swiss countryside: luminous green hills dotted with clanging cows and Heidi houses. (Coincidentally, the author of Heidi, Johanna Spyri, lived and wrote in the hamlet of Hirzel,  just two miles south of this part of the trail.) This is the old mule track, once used to convey goods inland from Horgen harbour. The route was first noted in 1230, and was well used for at least 600 years. As you cross the countryside, it’s impossible not to daydream about your predecessors on the road. What were their concerns? What did they look like? Probably not much like this Englishman, rapidly reddening like a tomato on a sunny balcony.

Now and again I’d pass some other walkers, alone, or in pairs, or in small family groups. A flurry of Grüezis, and onward.

It was hot, and I could feel the flesh on the back of my neck start to bubble under the early afternoon sun. So it was a relief to leave the open hillside and take a sharp left, down through the cooler, natural canopy of the wald, and towards Sihlbrugg Station, where I could pick up the path along the river.  This was a long stretch, mostly spent beneath the roof of the forest that runs alongside the Sihl. It’s a nature reserve, with the signs boasting wolves, otters, and other gentle exotica. Signs warned me to watch out for the frogs, but I saw none that I felt any need to fear. In fact, I saw none. My community was other walkers, many with dogs — or cyclists, often in family groups, with the very young ones being ferried along in rickety, makeshift trailers.

For a while I thought I might walk all the way to Zurich, but on reaching Adliswil (about 5 miles short of the city), I’d decided 12 miles was enough. I sat on the deserted station platform for 15 minutes or so, until my train appeared, and took me home.

[Photos coming soon]