It sounded like a stalling jet engine—constantly lagging, revving, and failing over and over again. Like a dentist’s drill boring into my tooth. It was incessant and enduring: the worst sound I have ever heard. And I said as much to my travel companion, Penny, when I enlightened her about her snoring that had kept me awake throughout the night—much to her shame.
In the “City of Peace”, as Penny and I sat sipping on a charcoal latte that cost about £11.00, negotiations were taking place in a nearby building between the United Nations and Iran. A diplomatic process of serious strategic proposals for Tehran’s nuclear programme was, at that point apparently, progressing fluidly and promising against a backdrop of the crystal lake and boats. After around twenty minutes of sleep the night before, and the eye‑watering price of coffee, my own diplomacy skills were sorely lacking. In an attempt to conciliate and restore some sanity—we walked.
A very expensive charcoal latte, claimed to bind to toxins in the gut, helping with bloating and gas, digestion and potentially hangovers. No cure for snoring though.
The cars moved like hovercraft, floating in perfect synchronicity. Despite the volume of traffic, there was little noise—no honking of horns or frustration associated with city congestion. Pedestrians moved slowly and with purpose. We hustled into the throng of commuters. A lady bleated in French into her headphones, and a fresh, fruity scent came from her swishing, sleek hair. Electric bikes threaded seamlessly between us, and a Pomeranian the size of my boot walked subordinately beside its owner. Louis Vuitton, an artisan chocolate shop, and the Museum of Patek Philippe lined the street from a country‑style garden filled with overfed sparrows and a floral clock face made entirely of red and yellow foliage. We left the city behind and arrived at the start of the Toblerone Path (Sentier des Toblerones) courtesy of our tourist transport pass by rail and public bus.
Sentier des Toblerones
We walked for several kilometres along an established dirt track running beside the fast‑flowing waters of a translucent river. Mature pine trees stood unfaltering in the gentle breeze, and as we walked the only sounds were the whoosh of the water and the crunch of the leaves. We passed a rustic chateau surrounded by birch trees and well‑manicured shrubs. The garden contained a coop of chickens, a gate leading into a weir that created a cascade of water, and an inviting cold infinity pool reflecting in the warm sun. Rows of dormant vineyards lined the slopes of the trail and snow capped mountains could be seen on the horizon . Each breath felt uniquely restorative in this bucolic, remote area. After hiking for several hours, we passed just one other person—donning a light blouse, a handbag, and accompanied by a quirky, bouncing Bichon Frise. We gestured to the dog, and she smiled, showing us his name tag. “Lucky,” she said. Lucky indeed he was.
We reached the path of the Toblerone: rows of triangular peaks installed during World War II, now colonised by the forest. Preparing for a possible invasion, Switzerland had erected this long line of tank trappings, known as dragon’s teeth. The triangular cement wedges still remain, covered in moss, running from the mountains to Lake Geneva. Thankfully, the country were never required to test the effectiveness of this defence.
Out there, Penny and I also made peace—our diplomacy restored, contrary to the nearby peace talks, which had by then concluded in the city. Diplomacy, it seems, had failed at that hurdle and our foreign counterparts would start blowing things up. But my dear friend Penny agreed to source a separate room to contain her thunderous night-time tortures and we found some cheap (ish) rioja and drank. Cheers to the city of peace…
