The next stage

Hello to all

At last blog, we indicated we were in a town called Saint-Emillion. We got up the next morning (despite the attempts by the Pommies to keep us awake all night with their highly intelligent mutterings) and jumped on the shuttle into Saint-Emillion town.

First impressions gained were that we had stepped straight onto the set of a King Arthur movie - cobblestone streets, gothic archways and quaint little buildings of sandstone and granite.

Our plan was to attend the Office de Tourisme and book ourselves onto the tour which we did with very little fuss - first English speaking tour of the day commenced at 11.15am so we did what all good French people do - headed to a cafe for coffee and croissants and take up a seating position near the windows so we can look down on the tourists and glance at them with a superior posture and demeanour. Amazingly, after having seen this done by just about every French person we have encountered, Jane and I have just about perfected the art of snobbery and do a more than passable impression of French locals wherever we now find ourselves. We look forward to continued practice of this fine art upon our return to Australia with you all as our assistants!!

The tour cost about 13 Euro for both of us and turned out to be worth every cent and more. Unfortunately, most of the historical aspects of Saint-Emillion are now privately owned and whilst the owners have no difficulty with tours being conducted of these locations, they ban photography to ensure the protection of the artifacts etc (all these places are below ground and are currently lit by special lighting which is not damaging to the paintings on the walls and the like, hence the banning of photography/flash photos and videos - or at least that's their story).

The town of Saint Emillion is high upon a hill and overlooks vast valleys of vineyards in all directions within the Bordeaux Region. Around the year 750AD, a man named Emillion began providing food to people in the Region who could not afford to feed themselves, despite an edict by the then King that this not occur. One day, Emillion was detected by the Kings soldiers with a loaf (perhaps a baguette) of bread in his hands feeding people. When asked to show what was in his hands, Emillion held up the baguette only to find that it had been turned into a length of timber! Walking around with a piece of timber in your hands was not, at the time, an offence so Emillion was allowed to go free. In his own mind, and in the mind of many, the turning of bread into timber was deemed a miracle (still not a patch on turning water into wine if you ask me!) and convinced Emillion that he must become a monk and tend to the needs of people on behalf of the Lord.

As such, he took up residence in a cave and slowly gathered about him a group of followers who tended to the sick and poor. As more and more people came to the area, a township was formed which would go on to become the town of Saint Emillion. The cave in which Emillion began his work was the first point of our tour and it is, apart from the stairs built to access it and the special lighting installed within, exactly as it was when Emillion resided within it. Inside the cave is a small well which, it is recorded, was used by Emillion to cure a woman of blindness by splashing water from the well onto her face. There is also a seat inside the cave that is believed to be the seat from which Emillion prayed and often sat on to contemplate the worries of the world. Nowadays, the seat is believed to be a seat of fertility and women are encouraged to sit on the seat, which is no more than a carved niche within the rock wall, to increase their fertility.

Whilst many of the husbands on the tour were grabbing their wives and pulling them away from the seat, I gave Jane a slight shove in the back and before you knew it, Jane was doing an Emillion in the chair - well, if I am going to pay for these tours I want to get my monies worth and perhaps Emillion's chair might be the trick!

The cave is very cold, dank and dark as you would imagine however, having heard the story of Emillion and his work, it was very easy to imagine the monk seated in the cave praying and we found the history of the place, at its narrative, very austre.

By the way, Emillion died of old age and was deemed a saint - hence the town name however, Emillion was never cannonised by the church and is in fact an unrecognised (officially that is) saint yet referred to as a saint by the church and all others.

From Emillion's cave, we moved on to a magnificent, but small, chapel which had all been carved by hand out of granite. Historically, the chapel had been taken over by a blacksmith during the times of revolution when all things associated with the church were burned or destroyed. It is said that the work of the blacksmith within the chapel caused a significant build up of soot to line the walls and this soot was ultimately responsible for the preservation of the paintings on the walls which are evident today. The painted walls represent the Lord during the crucifixtion, a number of disciples, Mother Mary holding a Fleur de Lys representing purity and at the same time nursing an adult Jesus in a baby size body. It also shows representations of the Archbishop as a jackal (apparently he wasn't well thought of) and various other pictures of religious significance.

We then went to the catacombs which were all carved out from a single huge piece of rock and these were reserved for those with either high position within society or of royal lineage. The places bodies had been lain were clearly visible and there are still human bones and some skulls to be seen within the burial areas.

Finally, we went to the monolithic chapel which defies description. It is difficult, even whilst within this chamber, to accept that you are underground and that above you on street level stands a large church and even larger steeple. The underground chapel has four major colums supporting the 4,500 ton chappel above it and incredibly, after all this time the below ground chapel and the altars built within in are both intact and still in use for specific religious occasions.

There remains on the ceilings and walls evidence of early paintings and religious artifacts and what struck me as particularly notable was that people had etched their names into the rock work whilst visiting, much like our graffiti artists of today, however the significant difference being the dates they did so - some being in 1729 and 1736. I guess the need to be remembered has been a constant through time but it was an incredible feeling for both of us to be standing in a functioning chapel, many metres underground, some 1,500 years after it had been originally built. The whole group of visitors were visibly in awe of the chapel, and all the other things we had seen thus far, and it was a very reverential assortment of tourists who emerged into the sunlight some 45 minutes later to take in the rest of the town.

During the tour, Jane and I met a couple from Christchurch, New Zealand named Brent and Raewyn who had purchased a motor home in England and were touring Europe for 7 months before returning to NZ, with the motor home, at the end of that time. These two people were an absolute pleasure to be with and after bumping into them a couple of times during the day, agreed to meet up later that evening at our camping ground.

Jane and I continued touring the town and climbed everything available to climb including the (above ground) chapel, the town square and a fortress on the outskirts of the town itself. Little legs seems to be getting the knack of all this climbing and before long she resembled a possum going up a tree - such was her enthusiasm to beat me to the top of the stairs each time. Unfortunately, these little spurts of energy took their toll and by the end of the day, the now famous "leg wobble" was starting to put in an appearance.

After a full day's sightseeing, we decided to walk the 3 km hike back to our camping ground and during the walk, had the opportunity to wander through vineyards, bask in the Bordeaux sunshine and once again discuss how fortunate we were to be able to do all this and experience the things we were seeing and doing.

Back at the camping ground, Brent and Raewyn joined us and it was an evening of drinks, of more drinks and by the time we called it a night, we realised we had not eaten anything and had just passed the time chatting - such was the company of Brent and Rae that we just seemed to form a very easy friendship and swapped stories about camping grounds we had both respectively been to. As Rae and Brent were going south, and we were going North, it was a good chance to off load some of our collected brochures from places we had already stayed at and vice versa.

During the evening's chat, Brent mentioned a town nearby called Arcachon which boasts Europe's largest sand dune. As Brent and Rae were heading there the next day, we politely asked if we could tag along and finished up following them to Arcachon (Brent has a GPS system in his motor home so Jane got the chance to have a break from navigating). Unfortunately, GPS systems tend to take you somewhere via the most direct route, irrespective of whether there is a road there or not, so we got to see quite a bit of the back streets, lanes, parking lots and undiscovered areas of Bordeaux town on our way to Arcachon. Motor homes are reasonably large units which were not ideally designed for some of the French streets which are sometimes encountered, as evidenced by the black stripe which found its way on the rear of Brent's motor home (and the perfrectly matching white stripe on the black car parked in the back street of Bordeaux).

We arrived at Arcachon and came upon the sand dune known as the Dune de Pilat. This sand dune is a continually shifting dune which is fed by the sea and the coastal winds in the area. At the time of our visit, it was approximately 104 metres high and approx. 2.5 klm wide. There is rumoured to be a motel under it which was taken over by the sand hill and whilst I can't say I saw evidence of it, I don't doubt it due to the proximity of houses and other structures nearby. We were informed that the sand hill had recently lost approx. 10 metres of its height however, because it is continually "fed" by the sea and wind, it is impossible to know it exact dimensions with any certainty.

Off course, I told Brent and Rae that in Australia, our kid's build sand castles this high when we have a day on the beach and that they needed to come to Oz to see fair dinkum' sand hills!!

Nonetheless, Jane and I opted for the stairs installed (in the sand mind you) to get to the top and those mad Kiwi's decided to walk up the hill via the sand. Full marks to them, they met us at the top and neither one looked like they would blow a candle out - such was their fitness and determination to make the "Aussies" look bad. After the usual look around at the top, we all climbed back down via the sand (which in itself is an adventure) and decided we would all have another night together so we headed into Arcachon township and to a camping ground that Brent had details of. After setting up and a quick bite to eat, we wandered the 1 klm into town and spent a lovely Sunday afternoon peering in shop windows, walking by the beach and finished it with 3 pints of Guinness each (accompanied by chilli olives and savoury biscuits) in an English/Irish/French bar.

Back to our campers for drinks (this time accompanied by dinner) saw us spend a great night sitting in front of our motor homes and describing to each other what we had seen in our travels and outlining future plans.

Next morning, we bid farewell to our new Kiwi mates with mutual promises of looking each other up should either of us find ourselves in the other's back yard some time in the future.

Brent and Raewyn - if you guys are reading this make sure you give us a call as soon as you plan to visit Australia. We expect you to stay with us and we would both really love to catch up with you again - I'll even show you some really BIG sandhills!! Thanks for the great couple of days together, we both enjoyed the humour and the company no end.

Armed with bucket loads of brochures and useful information given to us by Brent and Raewyn, Jane and I headed north to a place called Pointe de Graves where we got on board a ferry which took us across the channel to a place called Royan. From there, it was a long day's push and we drove via Niort, Saumur, the outskirts of Angers and on to Le Mans. From there, we continued north westerly to a town named Poix de Picarde where we bedded down for the night after a local meal of Casserol d'escargot (snail casserole) and L'omelette Jambon (cured meat) washed down with one of the worst beers I have ever drunk named Leffe Ruby. The beer is pink-red in colour and tastes like a bad beer that has had red cordial added to it making it an even worse beer.

Next day, on the road bright and early, this time heading via Amiens to Lille. During the drive, we were to see some of the prettiest French country side a tourist will ever see and the lush green fields and quaint cottages and villages seem to capture a time lost. Everything I had ever seen on television or in movies depicting rural France comes very much to life when you actually drive through France and see it first hand. It may be 2009, yet in many of these villages it could just as easily have been 1940 or earlier, such was the visual impression given by the houses and people within them.

From Lille we went on to Villers-Brittenaux - the site of the Australian War Memorial Cemetary and, for Jane and I, the start of the most poignant, sad and emotion provoking part of our trip to date.

From the outset, I will say that it is difficult to do justice to the memorial and the solemness one feels when pulling up in front of same. The memorial cemetary is high upon a beautiful green hill overlooking Villers-Brittenaux and is unobstructed in its attraction of the days sunlight. Like a true canvas of colour and brillance, the marble white headstones, symbollically and arithmetically aligned in row after row after row against superbly tended and manicured green lawns creates a mosaic of beauty and awe. Never before has the term "bitter sweet" held such relevance as at the first moment of sighting this immensely respectful, yet deeply sad, monument to our fallen hero's.

Walking amongst the gravestones, Jane and I went our separate ways to pay due respect in an individual manner. For me, the sense of patriotism and Aussie pride has never been more paramount nor more important, and I could not help but think of those misguided fools at Cronulla some years ago during the "Cronulla Riots", engaging in anything but true Australian behaviour and justifying their conduct and attitudes with the mantra of being "Australian". Here before us were the true Australians, those whose behaviour and conduct typified what being Australian was all about. Boys of 19, men of 36, husbands, fathers, sons, uncles, all united in the cause of freedom and paying the ultimate price for same.

Three headstone inscriptions were particularly poignant :

Green sod above, Lie Light, Lie Light, Goodnight dear husband, Goodnight, Goodnight. (a 26 year old soldier's headstone)

Another life lost - for what? (a 21 year old soldier's headstone)

Tread softly, for here lies our hero son. (a 19 year old soldier's headstone)

I have attached a photo of the Memorial at Villers-Brittenaux - one of the most emotional and moving places I have ever been.

From there, we drove to the town of Albert and visited multiple Australian War Memorial sites & cemetary's which have been erected relative to particular army units such as the 1st Battalion, the 2nd Battalion, the AIF generally, the Tank Division etc etc. All have been erected with obvious respect by the French Government and are tendered to, and maintained, impecably.

The same can be said of the cemetary at Fromelles. In recent months a further mass burial site has been located nearby and there are current excavation activities in place to repatriate the remains of Australian soldiers located in this newly discovered site. We drove past the excavation area and paid our respects at the cemetary. No matter how many headstones you see, we could not lose sight of the fact that each and every one represented an individual soldier, and it really was very emotional to read the statistics concerning the number of casualties resulting from the Great Way. In one particular battle, the name of which escapes me at the moment however occurred within the Somme, in one 24 hour period over 50,000 soldiers were killed with a territorial gain by the Imperial Forces of less than a kilometre. Such a high cost for such a (measurably at least) little gain!

The words "Lest We Forget" really mean something when you can conceptualise, in a visual way, the cost of war. There is something strangely beautiful, yet so very sad, about hundreds of perfect white headstones standing almost proudly in testament to the efforts of those who lay below them - "bitter sweet" in every sense!

We then moved on to Bray Dunes which is on the coast just north of Dunkirk. This is a lovely little coastal town with a 17 kilometre sand beach extending from Dunkirk in the south to the Belgium border in the north. We weren't taken by the only camping ground in the town so we set up camp in the car park in the middle of the town alongside about 20 other motor homes who appeared to be equally disappointed in the offerings of the local caravan ground. This is apparently perfectly legal provided stays do not extend beyond a 24 hour period.

Once again, the motor home community formed and the melting pot of nationalities in the car park made for interesting listening and discussion. We dined indoors on our usual "stay at home" dinner of baguettes and assorted meats and cheeses. A quiet night of uninterrupted slumber followed and next morning, Jane and I were up at 6am for a walk along the beach front and a quick appreciation of the town before the crowds came out. We found a small bakery and breakfasted on fresh croissants with piping hot coffee.

We packed up the motor home (which in the car park meant simply to push the step to the side door in and close the roof vents) and off we went, this time headed for Calais. We headed south via the coastal road and were amazed by the vastness of the beaches which occur due to the great distances between the high and low tide marks of the ocean along the coast of France in this area. Three wheeled sail vehicles are popular on the beaches here and are easily hired for a hair raising speed ride across the open sand "racetracks".

We arrived in Calais whilst driving around the town saw about 30 motor homes parked in a car park area, right on the beach and very close to the arrival point of large ships conveying freight, and vehicles, from Dover in England. We took up an available position and once again found ourselves accommodated in a prime location with magnificent, uninterrupted ocean views surrounded by like minded persons of all nationalities. Our immediate neighbours came from Great Britain, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and France. All spoke some form of "Motor Home" English (which I think should be an internationally recognised language, such is it's useage!) and we spent the afternoon sitting out in the sun, in the middle of this"overnight community" exchanging tales of travel, wandering around admiring each others homes and just taking in the wonder of the experience.

Dinner was a home made meal of pasta (cooked magnificently by little legs who is now starting to show her Italian culinary talents) and a very peaceful night followed during which we were continually treated to the sight of massive ships slipping silently into, and out of, the port and superimposed on a moon lit ocean with not a puff of wind to be felt. A night strtaight out of a story book!

Next day, we were up early and after attending to the pre-requisities of motor home living (no, not what you think - I meant topping up the fresh water tank for drinking and washing up and throwing out the garbage etc) we headed north west to the Belgium border.

Our destination today was the Australian War Cemetary in Ypres (the French name for the town of Iepers in Belgium) - the site of significant battles during the 1st World War and the now final resting place of Janes great uncle.

We crossed the Belgium border with only the remnants of the border check station as the actual confirmation of now being in another country. Since the unification of most of Europe within the European Union, the now abandoned border check points are the only real indicators evident of entry into different countries.

On arrival in Iepers, we drove through the famous Menin Gate and within a couple of turns came upon the Menin Gate South War Memorial Cemetary, situated well and truly within the confines of the town boundary and alongside residences and businesses.

Once again, we were confronted by an immaculately kept testament to the heroes of the Great War and in Section 3, Plot K 34, located the final resting place of:

Gunner Albert David Beard, 28455, 1st Brigade, Australian Field Artillery. Died of wounds 3 November, 1917. Aged 26. Son of Albert and Isabella Beard of Corowa, NSW. Native of Phillips Island, Victoria, Australia.

I left Jane standing at the foot of the plot so she could pay her respects in private. I know this was an emotional moment for Jane and whilst wandering through the cemetary, I was again struck by the ages, and numbers, of soldiers who had been killed on a single day during one battle.

How does one truly measure the success of war? When so many are lost, so young and no doubt under horrific circumstances - when the emotion and grief of those remaining is considered and when the fear, and bravery, of those facing the enemy is imagined, it is difficult to rationalise the concept of "winning". Yes, the Imperial Forces were the victors but the number of men and women who gave up their lives to "win" is something that all generations of Australians should be continually reminded of.

Jane left a personal note for her great uncle together with a small wooden cross with a poppy flower attached - one of very many now adorning the graves of Australians throughout France and Belgium. I remember reading of the "Killing Fields" during the reign of the Khmer Rouge but I will never forget the emotions and feelings generated by physically standing in "No Man's Land" in the Somme - the small patch of hell which lay between the German front lines and those of the Allies - that "neutral" area where the actions of Australians such as Sergeant Simpson of the Australian Infantry Forces became legend as he returned to retrieve dying Australians time after time, whilst under enemy fire, over a three day period.

During one of his rescue missions, a voice called out "Don't forget me, cobber". Simpson accordingly continued to bring back his mates and, fittingly, a bronze statue titled "Cobber" now stands at the site depicting the brave Simpson carrying an injured mate out of No Mans Land and across Allied lines. I have attached a photo of "Cobber" so that you can see how the efforts of Simpson have been recognised. It is difficult for me to articulate the emotions and levels of respect generated by the sight of this statue - other than to say the actions and sacrifices of these men truly define the word "Australian".

We strolled through the shops of Ieper and were told tales by local historians of the efforts of the Allies during the Great War, including one story of a 14 year old English boy who had signed up as a sniper and had tallied 7 "kills" in action before his age became known and he was subsequently sent home. Even in the telling, the respect held for the Australians, the British and the Candians by the Belgian people is evident. Australian flags are flown proudly in shops, in public places and in local government offices - the sight of which made Jane and I very proud and so thankful that we made the effort to visit the grave sites of so many.

We spent the next 3 hours driving east through the country side of Belgium and ended the day at a camping ground in a small town called Grimburgen. We dined in a small outdoor cafe next door to our site and had one of the most sumptuous meals of our trip thus far. I started with a huge serve of cigarette paper thin carpacio (raw meat) drizzled with pure virgin olive oil, lemon juice and sliced parmesan cheese. Jane and I both then had chicken breasts with vegetables and chips and I finished the meal with a desert of ice cream with frangelico liquor and cream. A couple of ice cold Belgian beers and a wonderfully chilled bottle of Belgian White wine later, we took the small walk back to our camper and had a fitful nights sleep.

Next morning, we were up and on the road reasonably early with no real destination in mind other than to continue heading east across Belgium with an eventual aim of finishing up back in Germany. On route, we found information relating to a camping ground in a place called Winneger so I duly rang the number and was answered by a female speaking German. As has become my habit, I answered in rudimentary German and then asked whether the lady spoke English. Her reply was "a little bit" so I enquired, in my slowest, clearest English whether there was accomodation available for our "camping car" for the night. I was greeted by "you must be a bloody Aussie" and as it turned out our host was a lady named Joanne from Nelson in New Zealand who arrived in Belgium 20 years earlier on a bicycle, found her way to the camping ground and finished up marrying the owners son. She now runs the place with her husband and after staying on the phone to give us detailed directions on how to get there, greeted us at the gate and refused to accept any payment for the nights accomodation.

Normally, when we have arrived at places they are quite specific about where you are permitted to set up however, in this case, we were told by Joanne to simply "pitch up somewhere, relax and come back later to let me know where you are". We found a great, grassed and shaded area between the boat marina on one side and the flowing Rhine Mosel river on the other. We ended up having a quiet night surrounded by some where in the vicinity of 100+ other motor homes, tents and caravans and yet, the quiet location and the general mood of relaxation was obviously infectious as we had a blissful night of sleep with not a disturbance of any sort.

Next day, we took our time packing up as we only had to travel for a couple of hours to get back into Germany and near the motor home drop off point in Frankfurt. We had booked a motel which, by our internet search, seemed to be fairly close to the motor home rental firm in a suburb of Frankfurt called Offenbach. On arrival at the motel later that day, we realised we were directly across the road from where the motor home had to be dropped off so we cleaned the camper out and for the first night in the past 25 nights, we once again slept in a motel bed.

Both Jane and I appreciated the linen, the facilities and the comfort of the hotel room however, were both sad to say goodbye the next day to our little "home on wheels". After the usual checks and paperwork, I said goodbye to the owners of the business and Jane and I got a cab into Frankfurt City and booked into another hotel. We had decided to stay in Frankfurt for another day and night so we could take a guided tour of the city and actually see the sites that Frankfurt had to offer.

As it turned out, we took a walk around the city to take in the sites armed with a tourist map of the place and a couple of bottles of cold water. Whilst it is a relatively large city, there isn't a lot within the place that really stands out as being special or unique. It was a steaming hot day and after spending the day wandering in and out of malls and plaza's of ancient churches and buildings, we had a meal at a bar/restaurant called "The Aussie Bar". This was a bar done out in Australiana to the extreme with Aussie flags flying proudly, pictures of kangaroos, Crocodile Dundee and just about every bit of "corny" Aussie things you could imagine. The place was absolutely packed out however, after about 10 mins Jane and I realised we were the only "Aussies" in the joint. Nonetheless, the food was great and we ate very well on a truly Aussie meal of Antipasto, olives, mixed cheeses and cold German Beer. Yep, the Aussie bar really is the place to go if you are an Australian tourist in Frankfurt and looking for a little bit of home!!

Another good nights sleep between sheets on a real bed and we were ready for our train trip to Zurich the next morning. Up bright and early, we arrived at the Railway Station and ate a quick breakfast, then onto the train and 3 hours later we arrived in Zurich, Switzerland. Once again, no border checks or anything resembling customs so we hitched the big back packs on and made our way to the hotel we had booked into which turned out being right in the middle of the restaurant/bar/cafe district of Zurich town. As we were walking to the place, which was about 500 metres from the Railway Station, the weather turned from being bright and sunny to extremely windy with dust and dirt flying everywhere. It got so bad at one stage that Jane had to put her sunglasses on just so she could see where we were going. We arrived at the Hotel called the Hotel Alexander and we had no sooner signed the register and handed over our passports when a massive hail storm hit the place. Were we to have been a minute later, we would have been caught in it and drenched throughout.

We went to our room which was clean, tidy and with a window overlooking the courtyard. We unpacked, had a quick shower and set out to explore Zurich town. We actually managed to get about 15 metres from the Hotel and found ourselves in an Irish Pub which sold Guinness (which made Jane happy) and we got chatting with the barman who was a young bloke about 22 years old, spoke five languages (including English thank heavens) and who travelled to America regularly to see his girlfriend. We spent most of the night there talking to him and he recommended a restaurant about 20 metres away as being his favourite.

Ready for a good dinner after our long day (in the Irish Pub) we took his advice and had a fantastic meal consisting of veal schnitzel with chips (which was Jane's choice) and I had thinly sliced chicken breast served in a cream and pepper sauce accompanied by a local delicacy called "Spietzel" which is a small dumpling which is lightly fried and prepared by hand when ordered. Save to say it was fantastic and I ended up having to eat Schnitzel and chips because once Jane tried mine, she decided she really wanted it instead.

We were seated at a table with another couple (the place was packed) and they turned out to be quite interesting company. He was a retired GP (we seem to have a knack of finding retired doctors) and his wife was an interpretor. They were from Germany however, often spent time in Zurich and were good company for the time we spent with them. I had another opportunity to brush up on my Italian and Jane had someone else to converse with so it was another night of good food and pleasant company.

On the advice of the night clerk within our Hotel, we signed up for a tour the next day to the "Top of Europe" which took us by coach from Zurich on a 2 hour trip to the Jungfrau Region of Switzerland, including Interlaken which lies between Lakes Thun and Brienz. Interlaken is the economic and cultural centre of the Region and we were dropped off at the Interlaken Railway Station to catch the Funicular which took about ten minutes to climb to the 1323 metre altitude of Harder Klum. Here we were provided with incredible views of Interlaken, the two lakes and the whole Jungfrau Region.

We then jumped on another train and travelled further up the mountain to Lauterbrunnen, Winteregg and Murren. We found ourselves amongst snow covered hills above the Valley of the Waterfalls surrounded by fragrant pine forests and meadows of Alpine flowers. From here, we continued the railway climb through Wilderswil and Schynige Platte to the 1967 metre mark. From this point, we saw the majesty of the Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau mountains open before us, draped in low cloud with occasional bursts of bright sunshine streaming through.

Needless to say, both Jane and I were pleased that we had not sent all our warm clothes home as we had been advised to dress warmly for this particular trip. How appropriate that advice turned out to be. Despite the sunshine, the temperature was dropping noticeably the higher we went and the increasing presence of snow convinced us there was more cold air to come.

On we went on what is Europe's highest railway and continued to Kleine Scheidegg, the foot of the Eigernordwand (the Eiger Mountain North Wall which featured in the movies The Eiger Sanction with Clint Eastwood and also Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise). By now, the snow was really think and the temperature was hovering around the +2 degress mark.

And yet on we went, with a quick stop mid way up the Eiger North Face which provided a viewing area and finally to Jungfraujoch, "The Top of Europe" at 3,454 metres above sea level. We disembarked from the train and walked out of the tunnel to an outside observation area. Here the temperature was fluctuating between -6 and -10 degrees and we stood in knee deep snow.

We then walked to an even higher viewing area, known as the Sphinx (3,571 metres) and had a perfect 360 degreee view of France, Germany and Italy. We also saw the Aletsch Glacier - the longest glacier in Europe and had a truly magnificent view of the Monch Mountain - standing proudly before us at a height of 4,107 metres.

Despite the freezing cold, I couldn't help thinking about the majesty and beauty of the surroundings. For the slightest moment, I understood how truly magnificent it must be to climb Mt Everest and look out over the world. The outside temperature finally got the better of us and after a couple of photographs, we headed back indoors to the comfort of a cafe for lunch. Whilst eating, we met another couple from Australia and it turned out that Colin was a Senior Police Chaplain with the Queensland Police Force and Jenny (his wife) was a producer with a Theatre Company in Brisbane. We spent the rest of the day with them and they were great company.

The four of us had loads of fun walking through a very long cave called "The Ice Palace" which had been carved out of sheer ice in the mountain. Everything had a pale blue colour about it and the whole experience was surreal.

After a fantastic afternoon of taking in the view and swapping travel stories with Colin and Jenny, it was time to start the long trip back down the mountain and finally back to Zurich. The trip down was as beautiful as the trip up and provided many photo opportunities of the Swiss Alps in all their (snow covered) beauty.

We arrived back in Zurich about 8pm that night and after showering and freshening up at our motel, headed back to the same restaurant we had eaten at the night before as Jane had a craving for more "Spietzel". After dinner, we had a stroll around the cafe's and shops and then put ourselves to bed, tired and contented after a beautiful day in the mountains.

Next day, we packed our bags in preparation for our train trip to Rome that night and after leaving our bags with the Hotel staff, headed off on a guided bus tour of Zurich. We saw lots of churches, historic buildings, magnificent lakes and beautiful country side surrounding the city which now houses some of the worlds largest insurance company headquarters. Zurich is a particularly expensive city to live in (and to visit) and only 6% of its population actually own their own homes. The others either rent or live in distant suburbs and are forced to commute into Zurich town.

After the tour was over, we made our way back into the cafe district near our hotel and wandered back to the Irish Pub for a Guinness or two before taking the night train to Rome. After a couple of hours in the pub, we collected our bags, made the trek back to the railway station and at precisely 9.23pm, our train left Zurich station bound for Rome.

Jane and I had booked ourselves a couchette with sleeping allocations for the top bunks. We thought this would be a great spot to sleep, high above the others in the six bunk cabin. As it turned out, it was a 12 hour trip on a particularly hot night and as per the laws of physics, hot air rises therefore the hottest part of the cabin was surrounding the top bunks. As such, we were confronted with stiffling temperatures, an overly excited 18 month old Indian girl who's indian parents spent the entire night trying to quieten, two cabins (which are made to hold 6 people) containing 15 American kids on a holiday who all participated in a competition to see who could stay up the longest and a lecherous Indian guy in his 50's who spent the entire night prowling up and down the corridor looking into any cabin that contained women.

Needless to say, the sight of Rome station the next morning made Jane very happy and we were determined to enjoy this leg of our trip, particularly knowing that Grahame and Lone Langford - our good friends from Cronulla - were joining us later in the day.

Well, I have probably rattled on enough now. I will end this particular blog here with an apology for not having posted a blog sooner however, once again the technical gremlins have been at play and, coupled with sporadic internet coverage, circumstances have prevented an earlier publication.

Our best wishes to all - the next blog will contain tales of our time in Rome, on the Amalfi Coast and the Isle of Capri, and of our experiences with my family in a small town on the East Coast of Italy called Fermo.

Keep the feedback and comments coming.

Little legs and me.