Interlaken, Switzerland

With my arsebone fully repaired from the day before yesterday’s forty mile cycle ride I set out to get another thirty under my belt, aiming for the backpacker-friendly location of Interlaken, the gateway to the Swiss alps and the apparently jaw-dropping Jungfrau region of craggy, snowy mountains. Once again I left early, passing a delightfully macabre fountain depicting an ogre eating children and out past the far less delightful bear pits, where a couple of lethargic bears were wandering around a rocky prison. Poor buggers.

The road climbed up high over Bern giving a  fabulous view of the old town, and I paused for a while to take in the vista whilst churches all over the city were pealing for Sunday with that distinctive deep Germanic sound - a perfect moment. Whilst Bern was not high on the list of the most vibrant of European capitals, it had a compelling timelessness that I had really taken to.

My journey to Interlaken took me out through Swiss countryside, peppered with  cuckoo-clock houses. The fields were surprisingly green in Winter, and soon the  mountains of the Jungfrau region bore nearer.

The pedalling was going well as I hit the  Thunsee, a vast lake lined by mountains which evoked memories of New Zealand, albeit not as beautiful as that little lamb-chopped land on the opposite side of the planet.

After more than two weeks of cycling I really felt I was making some progress. I was growing muscles on my muscles, and as a result the going felt a whole lot easier as I zipped through tunnels hewn through the rock of the surrounding mountains and popped out on the far side of the lake to the outskirts of Interlaken.

The place was well blessed with hostels. Of the three I had earmarked, two of them were apparently popular with US and Australian travellers respectively. Whilst both nationalities are great to meet as individuals, the thought of a whole hostel of them had me hankering for the apparently quieter third option, and so I made a beeline for that.

The German (not Swiss, I noted) lady at reception seemed quite taken aback when I started speaking in English-accented German, and within seconds she was firmly correcting me on my incorrect use of noun genders in the way that only Germans can do. Pfff! But the hostel was great, with lots of free stuff, and it was the first place in a while that had really felt like home.

Whilst cycling around town I’d noticed quite a lot of Korean script - it’s the stuff that looks like Japanese or Chinese characters, but unlike those has circles in it - and so was not surprised to find my room full of Korean chaps; apparently Interlaken is a popular stop on a European tour for Koreans. Like the Japanese guy yesterday, they were a bit reticent about using English, but rather than ignore me, one of them smilingly approached me to offer me a satsuma instead. Bless! A little bit later, an older chap from America ambled in, who was taking a whirlwind Round the World trip through New Zealand, Nepal and Europe - with his son, no less.

So far Switzerland had proven to be pricey when it came to my favourite hobby: eating. Self catering seemed to be the way, but pasta’n’sauce tends to grate, so that evening I did a reccie of the restaurants. There were a few Korean places which looked good, but in the end I plumped for cheap place down a back alley that advertised itself as an Indian restaurant.

Peering through the window, it appeared to be someone’s house, and initially I hesitated and considered relocating for some Korean fare before a violent gurgle in my stomach forced me through the door. The inhabitants, a husband and wife team, sat me down in their living room and handed me a laminated Word Art menu, and once more I considered leaving on principle. But the options looked good, and soon I was sorted out with a fantastic plate of two spicy Tamil-style curries with chappati and daal and a Swiss beer to complement. I ate alongside the owners, who were transfixed to a fabulous low budget Tamil film which had everything: bad acting, bad music and bad mass fight scenes which sadly I only saw in fast motion as the chap seemed intent on fast-forwarding them. I wondered perhaps whether he was somehow related to the  girl I had met in the Salisbury hostel who had so enjoyed constantly flicking channels for three hours.

The time I had spent walking through England from my front door to Salisbury seemed so distant now. I felt I had come so far in a month; the biking was working out perfectly, and after many quiet nights the travellers were finally starting to come out of the woodwork. And yet, being only halfway through Switzerland, there was so much more to come.

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