THE SEYMOUR MONKEY CHRONICLES:

The plan had been to save a night’s accommodation and take the overnight train from Paris to Zurich. Tight arse planning that had not really been thought through. Sleeping on trains sitting up is not much fun as you deal with the bumps and grinds of rail travel, flashes of light through gaps in the blinds and the comings and goings of fellow travellers. Fortunately with a Eurail pass you get a first class berth and we basically had a whole compartment to ourselves except for a couple of Canadian backpackers chasing cheaper lodgings out of Paris.

We swapped travel stories with our Commonwealth cousins and enjoyed the conversation. Unfortunately they were only going half an hour down the line so the icy silence soon returned. We had a bench seat each and so could stretch out and try and get some kip at least until the un-anticipated 2am change of trains at Basel just over the Swiss border ruined our slumber. French may be the most romantic of languages but the words and tone used by the fat conductor was hardly a sweet wake up call from Julie Delpy.

Peak hour Switzerland. Spacious overnight carriage transformed to cramped morning commuter train. Suits and briefcases mixing with sweaty backpackers. Small town – Country – Small town – Country. Very clear demarcations. Every open area of ground including the rail sidings containing a crop of some kind presumably due to lack of arable land elsewhere. Flat ground at a premium apparently. Which begged the question - Where are the bloody mountains?

The North West approaches to Zurich are surprisingly flat. The Alps don’t really begin until the southern side of Lake Zurich that according to the tourist guide was gouged out by the Linth glacier during the last ice age. As we booked into the Hotel Bristol I wondered whether our frigid arrival would prompt it to further meanderings.

Zurich is smaller than I expected. Apparently there are a million or so people scattered around the lake but the CBD is reminiscent of a medium rural city in Australia like Ballarat. The streets are full of the watch makers and jewellers you expect from the Swiss cliche interspersed with the familiar franchise shops that abound in any western city. The sidewalks were full of fibreglass cows painted in bright patterns and colours. The bovine fetish extending to all kinds of dairy wares for sale from chocolate to cheese that you could savour to the chime of cow bells in the wind. In true Spinal Tap fashion we made the sign of the cow and went moo!

Switzerland is one of the few countries on earth with greater per capita gun ownership than the Yanks. Basically every bloke between the age of 18 and fifty seems to be in the army reserve and reckons they’re a crack shot. The tour guide nonchalantly boasted of his proud upholding of the William Tell legacy as he rambled off a right wing manifesto about maintaining Swiss national purity that raised numerous eyebrows on the bus. Fortunately we soon began to enter the foothills of the Alps and his fascist diatribe was replaced by more sedate commentary about peaks in the distance and other points of interest. We soon arrived at our day trip destination of Lake Lucerne and the guide departed with the bus presumably to address the local Hitler Youth Rally or blow away a few hippies with his Glock.

Lake Lucerne is spectacular and our tour included ferry tickets across the waters of the fourth largest lake in the neutral state. These provided access to several tourist spots the main of which is The Burgenstock a peak that’s access begins via a funicular railway that travels a few hundred metres up a steep incline. From there a forested track skirted the sides of the mountain base to an elevator accessed through a cave that ran to the summit. Apparently the view from the top is breathtaking however we chose this precise time to have our biggest fight of the trip and so aborted our vertical ascent for a running argument as I pursued her Doc Martin shod footsteps back to the funicular station.

The most surprising thing about being in the foothills of the Alps was the sound of the cow bells. They echo across the lake and through the valleys like tin cans trailing a bridal car. I appreciated the irony of the metaphor as I took in the view and watched a cable car far in the distance work its way up to a mountain chalet worthy of a Bond film super villain. When I turned my attention back to my girlfriend it seemed that she had once again channelled the dark arts and vanished into thin air. I caught the funicular down to the ferry port in time to see the boat sail away back to Lucerne. The cows kept playing their tunes oblivious.

In the hour I waited until the next ferry I considered my options. Originally I had arranged for us to have separate Eurail passes. However in order to save less than 100 bucks each we had made the travel agent cancel the dual passes and issue a joint one that we could not use individually. We were effectively handcuffed to each other for the duration as neither could afford alternate travel arrangements. Two Chinese guys from Singapore who were on our tour and to whom we had chatted to briefly on the ferry arrived back from the summit and asked where my “wife” was.

“Did she fly off the mountain?” They asked innocently with a grin oblivious to events.

“I wish.” I answered. The joke was wearing thin.

Lucerne is a pretty town. Spires abound from churches and public buildings each tapering sharply to a fine needle point sure to skewer any unsuspecting parachutists who might pay a visit. The foreshore is dominated by a long wooden bridge called the Kapellbrucke, or “Chapel Bridge”, that has a sequence of religious murals in the architraves that date back to medieval times. Apparently many were lost in a fire some time in the past and others needed touching up to pass muster after the flames were put out. Fortunately for the historic bridge the incendiary fireworks that I had been planning as I sat on the dock back at the Burgenstock had fizzled into resignation by the time I eventually returned across the lake. We needed to either cash in our chips and head straight for London and hope we could change our flights or make the best of it. As we approached I could see L sitting on the dockside watching the ferry approach. It seemed that she had come to the same conclusion.

The train to Vienna took us through the most spectacular scenery thus far. As it was the height of summer only the peaks of the mountains held snow however the clear visibility and blue skies meant that the mountains seemed to stretch on forever and tower uninterrupted into the heavens. We traversed deep ravines on bridges that emerged from one long tunnel into another sometimes stretching only tens of metres whilst at other times hundreds. This was the Switzerland I had imagined with peaks and troughs like a seismic chart. Where people go their whole lives without seeing the horizon and the graveyards are full of bicycle couriers.