The slow way to Switzerland

As we made our way across France and Switzerland, we soon settled into a pattern: boarding a train to our next destination, where we’d set off to explore on foot. Sometimes we’d stroll around towns, sometimes we’d hike in the hills above.

As we walked, places revealed themselves to us street by street, tree by tree – writing themselves into our memories through how they looked and how they sounded, how they felt and how they smelt. Cowbells calling in the valley. A freshly mown meadow giving up its scent. Crimson-and-white flags spreading in the breeze. A sculpture worn smooth by a million good-luck touches.

Every now and then we’d pause to let the enormity of a view – or stories from the past – sink in. In Strasbourg, we lingered at the crest of a sloping footbridge over the Rhine, the border between France and Germany bisecting the spot where we stood. In Lucerne, we sat on a park bench and watched a storm roll across the lake until we had to rush for cover. And high above Zweisimmen we stood at the Rinderberg cable car station wondering what life must have been like when the only way across the mountains was on foot.

Without the compulsive busyness of everyday life, our 12 days away felt like a much longer break. Dozens of strolls and stories filled the time that work and chores and worrying usually consume. I hope to share a few of those stories here – if I can make time to write them now that our slow summer is over and the world is once again demanding that I hurry.