Even Lake Geneva has an off-day sometimes. And admittedly, most places in the world aspire to be Lake Geneva on an off-day. Regardless, I’ve been here enough to know better. In place of a shimmering luminescence, the lake’s surface was dull and desultory. The wall of mountains launching skyward across the way proved oddly inscrutable, little more than a two-dimensional backdrop on the day’s stage set. The sun was tucked away somewhere behind a persistent, hazy gray, leaving everything washed out.
The scene, then, was a Switzerland of the present, but also a remembered Switzerland, a Frankensteined agglomeration of all those past visits that cling together for preservation. However vivid those moments seem in the mind’s eye, a little luster inevitably dims as the years pass. This phenomenon made sense in the age of print photographs, when cheap film and servicing ensured that the images would fade over time; and yet, even digital pictures, which should have stemmed the tide, look similarly diminished–less by the passing of years and more by the advancement of technology. Nothing can ever look the same as it was, as we might like it to be.
On this late summer Sunday, Saturday, though, the diluted backdrop couldn’t have proved a better companion, as the train journey from Geneva Airport carried me back through however many summers spent on the Via Francigena, journeys started alone and with students, alternatively in Lausanne, Vevey, and Montreux. As the train pushed forth from Lausanne, I was immediately launched back into the spectacular landscapes of those first kilometers, ascending into the terraced vineyards climbing steeply above the lake. As pricey as this real estate might be, agriculture persists in chunks and strips all along the journey–those vineyards, of course, but also apple orchards, sunflowers, mystery rows of anonymous greens, and even the occasional cornfield.
The train chugged through Vevey, a small town overshadowed by its more prominent neighbors, but no less comfortable, and even more accommodating over the years. There was a time the church made a small room with two beds available to walkers; at one point, they provided a larger space where my group could spend our first night sleeping on the floor. No shower, unfortunately, but a dip in Lake Geneva did the trick for most of our group. And even if they locked us in overnight, resulting in a delicate escape from a back window in the morning, you still couldn’t beat the price.
It was odd not touching down in Montreux, at least for a moment, to say hello to Freddy Mercury and take in the ambience of this quintessential Geneva stop. But every minute was precious on this sprint to the mountains, and my memory had its own itinerary. Not long after leaving the city, the train slipped through the narrow gap between the encroaching cliffside and Chateau Chillon, the most perfectly situated castle in Switzerland, protruding ever so gently into the lake and holding what must be a 100-million-dollar view–and that’s probably lowballing it. With nary a mention, the train then slipped past the youth hostel that has hosted most of my groups, and so many other pilgrims in this section. I even spotted a few Via Francigena waymarks through here–the green and blue square imposed upon the standard yellow signs so commonplace throughout the region.
While the pilgrim road makes one last loop along the lake through Villeneuve before cutting away, the train splits even sooner, going direct to Aigle. If that town’s remarkable castle, positioned in an enviable spot of its own overlooking vineyards, is visible from the train then I just missed it. And indeed, I missed it on my first couple walks through here as well, as we always sought to reclaim a few kilometers in this next section to make the long leg to Saint-Maurice a little less exhausting. The train, however, couldn’t be bothered with Saint-Maurice, cutting first through a tunnel and then behind the old abbey, where we were hosted on so many occasions, before reminding me that the Via Francigena passes directly under the station. My mind had already turned, though, and my eyes were locked onto the wooded cliffs to my right, waiting–waiting–waiting–to catch a glimpse of the Pissing Cow. And there it was! A little less hydrated in August than when I typically catch it in late June, but no less willing.
I disembarked in Martigny, with just enough time to pop into the station’s grocery store for dinner supplies, before hopping on the next train. While I wouldn’t be able to visit the town’s Saint Bernard population, the train did lead me past the old Roman amphitheater, just a stone’s throw from the Protestant parish church where we slept on the floor a few times. As memory fades, it’s easy to lose sight of the physical imposition of those early stages in Switzerland–multiple nights on the floor, a long and inevitably hot walk on all too much pavement alongside the Rhone River, and then the exhausting two-day ascent over the Alps. That’s how memory works, though–the useful suffering is quickly transformed into accomplishment, while the annoying suffering just fades away to nothingness in the blissful afterglow.
The train to Sembrancher squeezes into a narrow canyon, with barely enough space for it to fit alongside the highway and the river. Pilgrims have long bemoaned this part of the walk, some labeling it too dangerous to walk. When I asked students for their thoughts about it afterward, they would always do a double-take, confused to learn that the trail they had just skipped along was viewed as a hazard. But then again, they’re raised in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, and a sharp descent on young knees bears little mention.
Another quick, two-minute transfer took place in Sembrancher, hopping onto a shorter train for the last climb to Orsieres, looping through the marvelous old, wooden houses in the town center and then ascending with unshakeable determination to this gateway to the Alps. The parish accommodation here–with pilgrims also sleeping on the floor, but with mats provided!–was always appreciated, even if the only bathroom available was the municipal one, requiring a pilgrim to descend steps in the middle of the night, walk outside, down the road, and around the corner. A good night to be dehydrated.
I hustled off the train and over to the bus stop, hopping directly onto the 210 bound for Bourg-Saint-Pierre, my final destination after what ended up being 24 straight hours of travel time. The bus wound up into the hills, as a steady line of cars whipped past, returning home after a Saturday spent in the Alps. Rain started lashing the windshield, a surprising twist, but not an entirely unwelcome one, if it could clear out the stuffiness in the air. I was the lone traveler, so the bus flew through Liddes, where we once spent a night and some students experienced horse meat, before finally pulling into Bourg-Saint-Pierre. There’s not much to the town–just a couple blocks of accommodations (catering primarily to winter skiers)–but I had a bed in the pilgrim housing waiting for me. I anticipated that I would be disrupting a quiet evening for a handful of pilgrims, but instead the whole place–four bedrooms, a small bathroom complex, and a kitchen–was mine.
The travel plans for today were ambitious; I suspect many would have preemptively ruled out such a tight timeline. But Swiss precision goes a long way; every train and bus I took was exactly on time, and each of those connections was deliberately engineered. With the present, then, under absolute control, my mind instead had the opportunity to revel in the past. And with all of that now wrapped up, the future can unfold however it will, as the new walk begins tomorrow.
