Slow Train to Switzerland

by Diccon Bewes

  It sits in a lonely spot among the peaks, where it is swept by the trailing fringes of the cloud-rack, and is rained on, snowed on, and pelted and persecuted by the storms, nearly every day of its life.

  It would be the perfect setting for a Gothic horror story and a shiver skitters down my spine.

  The Schwarenbach inn also once served as a customs house, as it’s the closest building to the border between Cantons Bern and Valais. For many centuries the Swiss cantons were in effect independent states tied together in a loose confederation; they had their own money, taxes and tolls, and there was no national internal market to speak of, so customs houses were needed at the borders. This one was there to impose taxes on goods like salt and wine, as well as to search for mineral water being smuggled out of Leukerbad. For a while this cantonal boundary was also the Swiss national border: after Napoleon conquered Switzerland in 1798, Valais was briefly a separate republic and was then annexed by France as the département of Simplon. The canton of Valais finally re-entered the Swiss Confederation in 1815, and the internal customs borders disappeared with the single market under the new federal constitution of 1848.

  The Schwarenbach inn on the Gemmi Pass was once a customs post between Switzerland and France

  The second part of the walk is decidedly less bleak, with a softer edge to the landscape. Dark pines and lumpy meadows replace the relentless acres of scree slopes and bare rock, but it’s still no picnic ground. Death can come in an instant. What appears to be a large gravestone beside the path is actually a memorial to six people killed by a glacial avalanche, though the 158 cows that also died don’t get a mention. On 11 September 1895, 4.5 million cubic metres of ice calved away from the Altels glacier and came crashing down, covering two square kilometres of land with ice up to 7m thick. The spookiest thing is that Miss Jemima had commented on that very glacier three decades earlier:

  “[it] accumulates into a prodigious mass that once in a century loses its balance to come thundering over to the base. It is now sixty-seven years since the last crash.”

  The ice collapsed almost exactly 33 years later, and less than 24 hours after a large Thomas Cook group had passed beneath it. Luckily, there’s no danger of a new crash now that the ice has retreated so much; one of the few advantages of climate change in the Alps.

  Aside from the pylons and cable cars (and disappearing ice), this part of Switzerland has changed little since Miss Jemima walked this way, and probably for quite a while before that. The Gemmi was an important route between the south and north of the country, but only while there were no alternatives; as soon as the train arrived, its well-trodden path was off the beaten track. Its relative inaccessibility and challenging scenery (which isn’t pretty enough for tourists who want chocolate-box Switzerland) have meant that it has remained undeveloped, although a road from Kandersteg to Leukerbad was briefly planned in 1948. It is a place to escape the crowds and trappings of modern tourism, which is probably why it’s a popular hike with the Swiss themselves. Nevertheless, it is now back on the tourist trail, although a very specific one created by Via Storia, an organisation that researches and protects historical traffic routes in Switzerland. It offers guided walking tours along those routes and one is along what they call the Via Cook, in stages from Geneva to Kandersteg. With the hotels, luggage and transport (in between the walks) all organised, it’s a natural successor to Cook’s pioneering conducted tour. The guides even quote Miss Jemima along the way. When she wrote her daily travel journal back in 1863, she could never have guessed that it would become a historical source for twenty-first-century hiking tours. Would she be proud or embarrassed? Maybe a bit of both.

  After three and half hours (and a second cable car, at the end of the path) I’m down in Kandersteg station, where we deboarded our train two months before. This village resort (more village than resort; it is not Chamonix) sits astride the tumbling Kander river and in the shadow of the majestic Blüemlisalp, one of the many Swiss peaks first conquered by an Englishman, in this case Sir Leslie Stephen, a Victorian man of words and deeds. In August 1860 he arrived in Kandersteg with his favourite Swiss guide, Melchior Anderegg, and asked if there was any local man willing to guide them to the top. There was only one volunteer, Fritz Ogi-Brügger.

  For most Swiss people the mountains were the backdrop to their lives; they weren’t there to be climbed, they were simply there. The English had a different idea: plant a Union Jack on top, just as that same flag had been planted on every continent of the globe. They had even founded the world’s first Alpine Club (in London in 1857); Stephen would later become president of the club and carried on bagging Swiss summits, including Schreckhorn, the conical mountain that is the most northerly Alpine peak over 4000m. Not content with that, he used his pen as well as his pickaxe, writing the bestselling book The Playground of Europe and editing the first Dictionary of National Biography. Oh, and he found time to become a father of four, including a certain Virginia Woolf.

  Melchior Anderegg went on to guide another Brit, Lucy Walker, when she became the first woman to climb the Matterhorn in 1871. By then the Swiss had long caught the climbing-for-fun bug, and in April 1863 had founded their own Alpine Club, the third oldest in the world after the Austrians, one of the few times in history that Switzerland lost out to Austria. Theirs is a rivalry resembling that of English and French, stretching all the way back to the creation of Switzerland in 1291 and the legend of William Tell. From then on, almost every battle has the Swiss on one side, the Austrians on the other (and usually losing). These days the contests are played out on the ski slopes every winter, and especially every Winter Olympics, where there’s nothing more humiliating for a Swiss skier than being beaten by an Austrian.

  As for the brave Fritz, without whom Sir Leslie might never have triumphed, his name lives on inside the village church, and in Kandersteg’s most famous son, Adolf Ogi, former Swiss president and currently the wise old man of Swiss politics. Ex-presidents are ten a penny in Switzerland as the holder of the position changes every year; at any one time there are probably 13 or 14 ex-presidents floating around. Herr Ogi is one of the few who is still asked his opinion, and he’s fondly remembered by most Swiss for his infamous television appearance in which he taught the nation how to boil an egg economically. Who said Swiss politics was dull?

  Egg-boiling politicians aside, Kandersteg doesn’t often make the national news. It’s a gentle place with few cars (the road doesn’t go much further) and a smattering of handsome wooden buildings. In tourist-brochure-speak it’s probably “a sleepy village nestled between the mountains that boast a wealth of outdoor activities for all ages”. But Kandersteg simply doesn’t feel like the kind of place that would brag about anything. One main street, a pretty church, a great cheese shop, mountains all around and a river running through it; I can see why the Scouts come here. The International Scout Centre is near the village, offering plenty of opportunities to earn badges in camping or climbing, though I’m not sure it’s quite right for crime prevention or traffic safety (both real badges for American Boy Scouts).

  The Murray Handbook barely mentions the village, most likely because in those days there wasn’t a lot there, but it does give us a picture of rural life in those parts where the villagers and farmers were self-sufficient:

  An Englishman accustomed to buy everything, can hardly realise the domestic economy of a Swiss peasant. He has patches of wheat, of potatoes, of barley, of hemp, of flax, and, if possible, of vines; his own cows, his own goats, his own sheep. On the produce of his own land and flocks he feeds; his clothes are of homespun, from the wool of his sheep; his linen and the dresses of the women of his family are made from his own flax or hemp, frequently woven by the women of his own family. The timber he requires for his house or for firing is supplied from the land of commune or parish, either for nothing or a very small sum. What little money he requires is derived from the sale of cheese. The interior economy of a Swiss village is very interesting: it is onl
y by ingenious contrivances for saving labour and by amazing industry that it is possible for the inhabitants to maintain themselves in such a climate.

  Miss Jemima doesn’t reflect much on such subjects; she seems happy simply to find food and shelter after another long day’s walk. The group had been on the go since getting up at 5am to peer into the baths at Leukerbad; no wonder they decided “to spend the night rather than walk to Frutigen, a few miles farther”. That’s a slight understatement, as it’s actually 17 hilly kilometres between Kandersteg and Frutigen, or about five hours of walking.

  They stopped at the “first habitation gained”, the Hôtel de l’Ours (or Bear Hotel), even though it was still being repaired from having had the roof blown off the previous winter. Dinner was as ad hoc as the sleeping quarters:

  “We ordered dinner and awaited its arrival until a dish of fish had been caught in the stream for our consumption. The good landlady did her best to make a stylish table d’hôte, and to multiply courses first served slices cut from the joint and followed that by clean plates and the joint itself!”

  She adds a sad footnote at the end of the entry.

  “Alas! for the Hôtel de l’Ours – since our sojourn friends have passed its charred ruins and tell us of its complete destruction.”

  The Hotel de l’Ours, Kandersteg burnt down soon after Miss Jemima stayed here

  There’s no sign of any ursine hotels in Kandersteg today, so instead we are being very British and staying in a B&B. Yes, they do exist in Switzerland. Some of them, it has to be said, are actually hotels that don’t serve evening meals, so they technically offer a bed and breakfast but not in the traditional sense. This one, however, is the real deal, a proper B&B with a suitably English name, The Hayloft, which happens to be in a sixteenth-century Swiss chalet. It’s the perfect British-Swiss combination, much like the couple who run it: Kerry is from Barking, Peter from the Gasteretal, a deep glacial valley near Kandersteg. With its giant A-frame roof, flowery window boxes, green shutters and dark wooden walls, the rustic house really is a picture-postcard place – and so Swiss that I expect Heidi to come running out the door. It’s the closest I’ll get to the sort of rural accommodation Cook’s early guests would have stayed in, though luckily with modern plumbing and heating. And supper is served table d’hôte style, with a set menu (minus a still-gasping fish) and everyone sitting at one table; it could quite easily pass for one of the many evenings recounted in the journal.

  While Kerry and my mother trade stories of B&B guests (my parents turned the family home into a B&B once all their children had left), Peter waxes lyrical about growing up in the Gasteretal. It was that, and wanting to be part of a community again, that brought him back – and I can understand why.

  The community has a central role in Swiss life. As a political unit, it is the bedrock of the Swiss system of democracy; each is a self-governing entity with its own council, tax rates, schools, roads and rubbish bags. Today many communities are merging as they cannot cope with the financial burden of independence, so there are currently 2,495 communities in Switzerland, or about 500 fewer than 20 years ago. Some are tiny villages (Corippo in Ticino has a population of 12), others huge cities, such as Zurich with 375,000 people. The smallest is little bigger than a farm (Rivaz in Vaud is 31 hectares in area), but the largest (Glarus Süd at 430km2) outranks six of the cantons. No matter what their size, these smallest units of the Swiss political system are all controlled by the people who live in them – direct democracy in its most basic form.

  Swiss communities are proud of their heritage, which in most cases stretches back for centuries. This isn’t a political attachment, it’s an emotional one, as every Swiss person derives his or her nationality (and even identity) from the community. In German this is known as the Heimatort, or place of origin, and isn’t necessarily where you were born; it’s the place your family comes from, perhaps generations ago, and that’s what is listed in your passport rather than your place of birth. You might never have even seen it as it could be a little mountain village that your great-grandparents left behind long ago, but it is home, in the Swiss sense. Until 2012 that community was responsible for your welfare, even if you had never lived there, so it had to support you in times of need; that duty has now passed to the community of residence rather than the place of origin. Immigrants who apply to become Swiss must first be accepted by the community in which they live, whether that’s by a public vote (a secret ballot is no longer allowed) or by an immigration committee. Their name usually then appears in the local newspaper, so people can object if they wish, and only once all that is done can they become citizens of the canton and the country.

  It is no surprise that many communities (particularly those in tourist areas) have a small museum to display their history with pride. These local museums are never that grand or filled with the latest interactive displays, but they are nearly always fascinating places full of lives long gone. The one in Kandersteg is no exception. In two rooms it manages to give a great overview of the village through the ages, from forest traders through to Boy Scouts, and it even has a newer section on Miss Jemima. As in most village museums, there is a knowledgeable, helpful docent sitting in the corner waiting for a chance to tell a passing stranger all about the place.

  Today it’s the incomparable Frau Agostino, who becomes very animated when I ask a few questions about life before the trains arrived. She shows me old photos, including one of the ill-fated Hôtel de l’Ours before it turned to ashes, and tells me about the earliest visitors, such as Albrecht von Haller who wrote a famous poem about the Alps. I half expect her to encourage me to try the sedan chair sitting in the middle of the room. Luckily for me that is expressly forbidden, which is just as well as it looks exceedingly uncomfortable. This is no posh box with a satin lining, like the ones you see in films; it’s a basic wooden chair with a lattice of ropes serving as the seat. It was carried by two, three or four men, depending on the passenger’s weight. Going up, the short carriers went at the front, tall at the back, to keep the chair level; going down, the men swapped over. Three hours of sitting on that while being lugged up and down the hills would be enough to induce bot rot.

  Best of all, Frau Agostino is a fountain of knowledge about the coming of the railway and what it meant for the village – jobs and development. The first decade or so of the twentieth century was boom time for the Gemmi Pass, as it was for most of the tourist industry in Switzerland. At the peak, in 1913, over 13,000 tourists made their way along the path between Leukerbad and Kandersteg. Bearing in mind that nearly all of them would have travelled in summer, it must have been like the M25 up there some days. Not everyone walked or was carried in chairs; instead, many rode in a Gemmi-cart, a two-wheeled contraption that cleverly kept the passenger level no matter what the gradient, although it still can’t have been too comfy on the rocky route. As with so much development in the mountains, it was the train that was responsible for this explosion in tourist numbers; ironically, it would be the train that later reduced the Gemmi route to a sideshow.

  In 1901 the railway arrived in Frutigen, a small village in the lower Kander valley near Lake Thun, which meant that tourists were within an easy carriage ride of the mountains. What had been a relatively remote valley (the first post-coach service to Kandersteg had been introduced only 13 years before) was now easily accessible from the rest of Switzerland. Every summer 100 or so carriages, many of them polished and lacquered, plied the route up river from the new train station to the growing resort of Kandersteg. But the Frutigen carriages and the Gemmi-carts disappeared overnight when the railway was extended up the valley and under the hills. In 1913 the last carriage trotted between Frutigen and Kandersteg flying a black flag to mourn the passing of a once lucrative trade. I wonder what happened to all the horses.

  The new line, which was electrified from the beginning, included a 14km tunnel under the Lötschberg Pass and linked Bern with Italy via the existing tunnel under the Simplon. It was c
hristened the Bern–Lötschberg–Simplon line (or BLS) and was largely financed by the French rather than the Swiss government; funnily enough, it was France that had built the first ever railway station in Switzerland, in Basel. After losing the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, the French had ceded Alsace-Lorraine to the new German state. In doing so they lost access to their station in Basel and beyond. Both the British and the French were reluctant to travel through Germany to reach Switzerland, so a new route to the Alps was planned, not least to further French strategic and business interests. First came a new French line to the Swiss border at Delle and then, with the help of Canton Bern (which had its own economic gains in mind), this was extended to the town of Porrentruy in northwestern Switzerland; Gustav Eiffel (of Tower fame) built some of the bridges. The opening of the Gotthard Tunnel in central Switzerland in 1882 made it imperative to find an alternative route through the Alps to Italy, and so the BLS was born.

  Venture up to Porrentruy (or Pruntrut in German) today and you’ll find a station far too grand for the pretty little country town it serves; a handsome relic of a busy international route. This was once the fourth-largest freight station in Switzerland, with a huge customs depot, and was one of the busiest for passenger traffic. At its height in the summer of 1914, Porrentruy saw 11 daily express trains passing through, as this was one of the main routes for British tourists to reach the Bernese Oberland and Italy; not forgetting the original Engadin Express, a direct train from Calais to Chur with first-class-only sleeping cars. Imagine such a service today.