Travel pieces tend to be written by daredevils, the type who, when asked if they fancy a trip on a raft up the Limpopo, cry, “Not half!” and grab a pre-packed rucksack. I’m not that type. I’m more the type who thinks the Limpopo might be infested with crocodiles or hippos, and who needs at least a week to make a list of essential toiletries before wondering which size suitcase to take. I don’t like cliffs or sheer drops, or skiing, or cable cars, or heights, so I’m still not sure how I ended up, in the rapidly fading light of an autumn afternoon in Innsbruck, slowly inching my way down a mountain path in inappropriate footwear, and wishing I were dead.
I’d come here with my friend Lavinia on a European adventure by rail, because of all things travel-related, what I love most is a train. Both my grandfathers were train drivers, so perhaps it’s in my blood. And being a non-driver, I am grateful for any form of transport that requires nothing more of me than gawping out the window. We’d planned an itinerary that would whisk us in two days from the centre of London to the heart of the Alps, beginning with a Eurostar to Paris, followed by a Swiss TGV Lyria train to Zurich. There we stopped overnight in the charming Lady’s First hotel, opened in 2001 exclusively for women, though now admitting men, and occupying a 19th-century town house in a quiet, leafy neighbourhood by the lake.
The next day, we boarded a Railjet train bound for Budapest, though we’d be hopping off in Innsbruck. This section of the journey was ridiculously scenic, first offering nonstop views of Lake Zurich, and then the even more breathtaking Walensee, a long, shimmering expanse of clear, blue water backed by silvery limestone mountains. Hours went by as we were assailed by one photo opportunity after another. The meadows, the chalets, even the cows were pretty, seemingly painted in that soft, putty-grey colour of an architect’s front door. The train climbed up and up through the Arlberg Pass and on the other side descended to run alongside the turquoise river Inn, not clear like the Aegean but slightly milky, like a glass of water in which a child has rinsed a bright blue paintbrush.
Arriving at Innsbruck, we checked into our hotel and decided to explore the centre. Dressing, quite sensibly, in comfortable clothes for that kind of outing, we made our way to the Old Town. The main attraction – the medieval Golden Roof, decorated in 1500 with 2,738 fire-gilded tiles by Emperor Maximilian I – glowed in the sun, though not as much as you might imagine. It’s one of those tourist attractions you find yourself standing mutely in front of thinking, “Well, if you say so.” But it was impossible not to be struck by the drama of the location: mountains reared up at the end of every narrow street, hinting at possibilities while also casting deep shadows. Quaint but faintly creepy, like a film set for a Disney production of Rumpelstiltskin, the place felt both unreal and lost in a timewarp. All the shops, apart from a few selling lederhosen and Heidi costumes, were shut for Saturday early closing, so there was nothing to break the spell.
The high point of the town in every sense is the surrounding mountain range, which can be accessed in spectacular fashion via the new funicular with futuristic stations designed by architect Zaha Hadid. This connects with the cable car taking you all the way to the top, though Lavinia and I had agreed that for us, due to a combination of vertigo and claustrophobia, the funicular went quite high enough. Even this first part of the journey takes you up to uninterrupted views of the town laid out below, and in the cafe at the Hungerburg stop we ordered hot chocolate and apple strudels, and felt suitably Alpine and adventurous. In fact, we were so relaxed by the end of our pitstop that when we saw a path signposted to the Alpenzoo funicular stop below, we decided we would walk that bit, then take the train the rest of the way back. That’s where we went wrong.
What began as a paved road on a slight incline soon became a narrow and near-vertical path through woods, with hairpin bends every 50 yards and a drop to the side that I studiously ignored. By the time we registered all this, we had gone too far to turn back. A couple of people passed us on their way up in hiking boots and carrying rucksacks. They looked at us warily, or perhaps pityingly, because I was wearing red summer sandals and carrying a large Anya Hindmarch handbag: the perfect outfit for a meeting with a publisher at Soho House. For a trek down the Nordkette? Not so much. This twisty path through the Austrian forest took on a fairytale quality – where did it lead, and what was around the next bend? – but it was a Grimm, silent, 30-minute hike that finally returned us to the funicular station, knees shaking and chastened.
Back at the Grand Hotel Europa, blandly modern in vaguely 1970s style, we’d had enough excitement for one day, so took the coward’s decision of eating in the hotel restaurant. Cosy and Tyrolean, all chunky wooden benches and piles of thick cushions, it was just what we needed, and two enormous wiener schnitzels and grüner veltliners later, we headed gratefully up to bed.
What I’d seen of the place so far didn’t lead me to imagine that Innsbruck would have much of a club scene, but if there was one, it seemed to be located quite near my bedroom. Tutting and sighing, I called down to reception to ask if I might move room. The receptionist said he would see what he could do, then appeared five minutes later on the fire escape outside my bedroom window shouting at the noise. So now there was the disco noise plus the man shouting at the disco noise.
Earplugs in, I took to my bed, glancing at Twitter before settling down. And what I found there was a tweet from my husband, Ben, informing the world that our daughter Alfie, who was home alone for the evening, had just found a scorpion in her bedroom. The story was picked up online in the following days, and had a happy ending involving London Zoo and no one being stung to death and, haha, I can laugh about it now, haha. But at that particular moment, far from home and frazzled by the day’s events, it was the last thing I needed. Anxious phone calls, then a fitful night’s sleep ensued. And that was Innsbruck.
Next morning came the bad news that the final part of our trip, the night train from Munich to Paris, had been cancelled; disappointing, because I had hoped to mount a general defence of sleeper trains, which are quietly being phased out across Europe. Still, our booking company, Loco2, sprang into action and rearranged the route at a moment’s notice, so instead of heading on to Germany, which was in the grip of a train drivers’ strike, we retraced our steps to Zurich and from there to Paris and home. Disrupted but not defeated, I ended the journey even more of a train fan than when I started.
We had been through the Channel tunnel and the Arlberg Pass, on a double-decker Metro and a super-modern funicular. I had said, “Yes!” to everything that had been wheeled round on a trolley, firm in my belief that on journeys every hot or cold snack and inappropriate glass of wine is calorie-neutral, much as I hope the journey itself is, more or less, carbon-neutral.
I had been reminded how natural it feels to travel by train, how the pace and rhythm chimes with the body’s own clock and sense of distance. Trains calm and soothe, they rock and lull, and lead you from the heart of one place to the heart of another, bypassing the identikit airport, reminding you of the differences between your departure and arrival points, and of the interconnectedness of a continent.
As we waited on the platform at Innsbruck for our train back to Zurich, the train before ours pulled in on its way to Venice. Oh, how tempting it was to jump on, buy a ticket on board and head off through different mountains to another country, the information on that departure board singing to me that everywhere is so close, so reachable, just at the end of the line.
Factbox
The trip was provided by Loco2.com, a new website offering pan-European rail booking. Tickets start from £62 between London and Zurich, £72 from Zurich to Munich (via Innsbruck) and £59 from Munich to London. The Grand Hotel Europa, Innsbruck, has double rooms from £85 a night B&B. Further breakdown of train prices: London-Paris by Eurostar, from £39 one-way; Paris-Zurich by TGV, from £23 return; Zurich-Innsbruck by RailJet, £56.50 one-way; Innsbruck-Munich, from £15; Munich-Paris by CNL, £50 in a six-berth couchette (this sleeper service has since been disbanded).
