Last updated on 21/10/2024
Chapter 9. Return to Switzerland.
Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.
On 30th July, the thirteenth day of their holiday, the boys were woken by a frantic banging on the door of their room. Michael went to the door and opened it a little. Outside was Nick. ‘Hurry up you lot – the coach leaves in ten minutes.’ Happily for them, the boys had packed the night before. They dressed in a hurry and went to the dining hall where they foraged for what breakfast and coffee were left.
Most of the holidaymakers had said their goodbyes to the staff of the Britannia, thanking them profusely for looking after them so well. Gratuities were dispensed, even though they needed to save some of their Lira for the journey back. There would be stops along the way. The girls bade farewell to the local boys they had met; for some, it was a time of tears and for others an opportunity for long, passionate kisses. Many of the youngsters exchanged addresses and promised to write to each other after they got back. The bags had been stowed into the hold of the coach and the party was ready for the long journey home.
Just as the driver was turning on his engine, the boys scrambled into the coach. They sat on seats at the front. No sooner had they settled into them, when a great bellowing emerged at the back; the overweight Betty came lumbering down the aisle, followed by her sheep-eyed husband. ‘You boys are sitting in our seats,’ she bellowed. ‘I’ve got our booking sheets here,’ she said, as she waved a piece of paper at them, ‘and it clearly says we should be sitting in these seats.’ Laughter broke out amongst the other passengers. Chico was sitting nearby and asked to see the booking form. After much discussion, the boys retreated to the back of the coach. Fortunately for them, their seats were behind two of the girls. Richard was pleased to have some friends to talk to but Michael disliked the back of the bus, which bumped and bounced all the way back to Basel. In his somewhat fragile condition, this constant motion was uncomfortable for him.
The Hotel Britannia disappeared from view. It was not long before they were speeding along the main trunk road towards the north. The boys caught one last glimpse of the sea, a bright blue stretch of sparkling water, and, as it disappeared, their eyes filled with tears. As they journeyed north, the Adriatic sunshine was replaced with an overcast gloom. Michael took his mind off his emotions by scribbling notes in his little book and Richard was talking to the girls in front about all the things they had done during the two weeks.
They stopped in Milan, for lunch, in the Via Pattari, not far from the Cathedral; Chico escorted the party into a restaurant. There they had the routine meal of soup, chicken and potatoes and a peach. (Michael abbreviated this as ‘SCP.’) The packaged tour holiday-makers had been seated in the basement but those who were travelling on more expensive tours were upstairs in a much grander room on the ground floor. When the party in the basement had finished their meal, Chico announced that they must all be back at the coach by a certain time. ‘We have a tight schedule,’ he said, ‘and we must leave on time.’
Many in the group, in particular the men, went to a café to watch the football being broadcast from London. The boys took off to the nearby Cathedral. Michael was deeply impressed by the huge Gothic pile; he thought it looked awe-inspiring, a scene of great splendour, and, to him, much more dignified and ancient-looking than the vulgarity of St. Peters in Rome. To him, it represented a temple of spirituality. The boys went in, realising that they had only half an hour to see it and get back to the coach. They rushed around the nave and Michael noted the sumptuousness of the scarlet hangings that adorned the pulpits, the red carpets in front of the alter and behind it a great white cloth hanging behind the ornate tabernacle. Michael would have stopped to inspect all these wonderful things but Richard moved him on.
As they raced round the great church, they came to the lift that took visitors up to its roof. The boys dipped into the dregs of their money and paid the 250 lira to use the lift. Once they had got there, breathtaking vistas of the city greeted them. Richard peered over the edge and could see, far below, the square crawling with ant-like people. The boys ran across to the spire. At its very top, they could see the golden statue of the Madonna, her head surrounded by a halo of stars. They ran up the narrow spiral stairway inside the spire. Arriving at the observation platform, they took a brief look at the amazing view before sprinting back down, making themselves giddy as they spiralled down the steps, trying to dodge the tourists who were making their way up. They found the lift but were dismayed that there was a queue to use it. They were worried about getting back to the coach on time but they could not see any other way of getting down from the roof. As they waited, Michael looked round and noticed there were stalls selling cold drinks and ice cream and an open-air café, where tourists were sitting at tables enjoying refreshments. A very enterprising church, Michael thought. At last, the lift arrived and the boys found themselves descending, packed in with the other tourists. They just managed to get back to the coach with seconds to spare.
As they left Milan, Michael wrote as many notes as he could about the magnificent cathedral. Fortunately, he had purchased four postcards to remind him of it. The party arrived at the resort on the side of Lake Lucerne where they stopped for a meal. Michael and Carol walked along the lakeside, mulling over their experiences in the resort. They agreed that, when they got home, they would send letters to each other and keep in touch. They might even visit each other (they lived fairly close to each other in the Midlands.) As they walked along the promenade, they began to draw together the threads of their two weeks, discussing the relationships that had blossomed, the friendships that had been made, and the many funny things that people had done. Michael talked about Assisi and the profound impact it had on him and his pilgrimage on the road to Ancona. Their conversation reflected the clash between the culture of the Mediterranean with that of the English. They discussed the easy, freedom of the Italian way of life, comparing it to the regimented ways of the English. The coach set off for the next leg of its journey back to Switzerland.
Before leaving Italy, the coach took them to Lake Viverone. Here they stopped for a short break and the passengers disappeared into the cafés to use the facilities. It was Saturday afternoon and the large expanse of blue-grey water lay motionless, like the pond of a mill, stretching away towards rising horizons. In the distance, snow-covered peaks of the mountains completed the picturesque scene. Small white-sailed yachts drifted lazily across the lake’s tranquil wavelets and a high-powered motor launch towed a skier, leaving behind a long plume of white foam. Michael and Richard walked along the promenade beside the lake, watching the launches and yachts and people swimming near the shore. The lakeside had as many hotels and restaurants as the sea-front at Cattolica, Michael thought. The boys noticed the expensive cars parked by the side of the promenade and Richard spotted several red E-type Jaguars and white Sunbeam Alpines parked by the side of the path. In the distance, they could clearly hear music coming from a band that was playing in one of the lakeside bars. Every now and then they heard a roar breaking the quiet stillness of the afternoon; it was the cheering of football fans watching televisions in the local bars and cafés which were packed with people watching the football on the televisions that had been set up for the World Cup season. England was playing Germany in the final game and many of the locals had sided with the English. The streets around the waterside were empty and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Almost all of the locals were inside, leaving only visitors and tourists on the promenade.
The coach continued towards Aosta. Richard and Michael had resumed their seats right at the back and were waving at the other coaches. By then it had become clear that England had won the World Cup. Many of the coaches, carrying English people, had union jacks in their windows. As they passed through villages, people saw it was an English coach and waved and cheered at them. The party was chuffed and thought the sporting victory was a marvellous conclusion to their holiday. Michael however was more interested in medieval churches and paid no attention to football. He was not even aware that the World Cup was taking place until he saw many of the coaches on the motorway decked with Union flags in their back windows.
‘Why have all those coaches got Union Jacks in the windows? And why is everyone cheering at us?’, he asked Richard.
Richard replied, ‘Michael, have you no idea what has been happening today? We have won the world cup, you idiot. Don’t you know anything?’
‘World cup – what cup it that?’, Michael asked.
‘Oh Michael!’, Richard said rolling his eyes upwards and sighing. ‘England have won the World Cup!’ Adding it was about football.
‘Is that good then?’, Michael asked. Richard just sighed again and turned to the girls in front to comment to them about Michael’s complete ignorance of anything that was interesting or significant.
The party stayed the night in Aosta (their last night on the continent.) As they stood in the foyer of their hotel, the courier was busy allocating people to the rooms that had been booked in advance for them. The hotel was rather shoddy and was full of French tourists. They boys were once again billeted into a room to share with Dave and Nick. Michael was furious and a blazing row broke out between him and Chico; Michael threatened to book into another hotel. Because too few rooms had been booked by the tour operator, several married couples were sent off to another hotel. The next morning they reported back to the other passengers. ‘We had a wonderful time last night at the Hotel Splendour. We were dancing until two in the morning. The tour company gave us free bottles of wine for the inconvenience. We did enjoy ourselves.’
Michael and Richard listened to their comments in dismay. The hotel in which they had been made to stay was not of a high standard and the food had been terrible. There was no free wine either, which, in their view, only added insult to injury. In their room, the boys had to wash in the sink (there was no shower.) When Nick pulled the plug from its hole at the bottom of the sink, the water ran down and poured out from a hole in the pipework and flooded the floor. A maid was called to clear up the mess. It was quite some time before the lads got to bed.
Earlier in the evening, the boys managed to take a walk around the town. Michael was excited by the ruins of the circus and forum and the remains of the town walls dating back to the time of the Roman occupation. They had been tastefully floodlit with white lighting; much better than the gaudy colours that had lit the equivalent sites in Rome, Michael thought. They visited the Cathedral with its Romanesque clock-towers. Michael admired the fine paintings over the doors. They saw the soldiers of the alpine guard dressed in their feathered hats. Michael was taken with Aosta; he liked it much more than Rome, which, to him, was too overwhelming and impersonal; he much preferred the quiet, ancient atmosphere that he found around him.
Day fourteen. After breakfast Michael found some time to catch up with his thoughts; he took out his little book and read through some of the things he had scribbled in it. Michael’s notebooks contained many comments about the impact of mass tourism on the lives of the people who lived in the places he visited. For example:
Tourism is shallow. It’s all about presenting local places as though they were amusement parks. Wonderful ancient buildings have been floodlit with coloured lights, as though they were a fairground. Cafés have been placed on the top of great Gothic cathedrals. The local people’s culture has been invaded by alien values. Men posing as tour guides are feeding tourists with historical dribble; everyone believed them because they have recited lines they have learnt by heart from some script. They are making a packet from tips and fees but in reality, they have never really studied ancient history and just feed us with a load of crap that sounds good.
The coach left Aosta and took them to the St. Bernard tunnel, rather than winding its way back over the St. Gotthard pass, which had been blocked by another heavy fall of snow. Just before they entered the tunnel, Michael got a glimpse of the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc which he photographed through the window of the bus. They made a brief stop at Murten, where Michael picked up a postcard showing Le Château and the Rue l’Hôtel de Ville. The majestic alpine scenery was breath-taking. Leaving the tunnel they passed through the Swiss district of Martigny and then to Lake Leman, passing by St. Maurice and Montreaux and Lake Geneva. The boys felt sad, knowing that their great adventure was coming to an end.