The Jungfraujoch

May 25^th

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I woke early and drew back the bedroom curtain. I’d never had such a spectacular view from a hotel room before. In the distance the early morning sun glinted off the peaks of the Swiss Alps; the middle ground was an expanse of flower-strewn meadows and below me the small Alpine village stretched along both sides of a sparkling river. Overhead the sky was a clear aquamarine and thankfully there were no clouds in sight.

Exactly what I had been hoping for on today of all days. The day I would finally have the opportunity of visiting the Jungfraujoch.

I had read about it so many times during my adolescence and watched documentaries about Switzerland in the hope of just one fleeting glimpse of it. I have never understood why it holds such a fascination for me. I hate heights and the idea of climbing a mountain is something I would never contemplate. I’m not even what people would call an outdoorsy person: admittedly I love landscape photography, but that’s as far as it goes.

Going back in time slightly, I remember the day last autumn when the holiday brochure arrived. I glanced at the envelope when it plopped through the letterbox in the morning and decided to leaf through it after dinner. By the time I returned from work I had forgotten all about it and only found it when I sat on the sofa, ready to switch on the television. I flicked through the sections on holidays to Asia and America and then found the European tours. Pages and pages of Italian holidays followed by some for Spain and finally a few for Austria and Switzerland. That was the moment I spotted the familiar image of the three mountains standing in a line: the Eiger, the Mönch and the Jungfrau. It seized my attention immediately and I began reading the details of the holiday. The flight, the hotel and most of the other excursions were vaguely interesting, but I focused on the day trip on the railway that leads almost to the summit of the mountain. It was an optional extra and the price was eye-watering, but I calculated that if I made economies over the ensuing months, I could just afford it.

Now, eight months later, I’m feeling a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Can this trip really only be a few hours away? I looked at the sky again and wondered if the weather will hold for long enough. It can change with notorious rapidity in the mountains and if it turns cloudy, there will be nothing to see.

Breakfast passed in a blur. Yes, I was with the forty or so other people who make up our tour group, but I felt oddly detached from them. May be if I’d come with a friend, I would be more included, but as I’m travelling on my own, I will always be on the outside. I’ve even been allocated a seat on my own in the coach, so as we made the journey from the hotel to Grindelwald to catch the train, I was able to gaze out of the window and watch the countryside changing. We wound our way through various valleys, on towards the picture -postcard village, where a normal train was waiting to take us on the short trip to Kleine Scheidegg.

When the coach stopped outside the station, we waited patiently for the courier to collect the tickets and then hand them out as we filtered onto the platform. Swiss efficiency is proverbial, but for good reason, as the train arrived and departed exactly on time. I managed to find a window seat, albeit facing in the wrong direction and sat with my camera at the ready.

As we climbed higher, the villages were spaced further apart and the farmland was gradually replaced by mountain pasture, before the treeline disappeared below us and patches of snow lingered on the ground. Finally, the train arrived at Kleine Scheidegg and everyone piled out, to transfer onto the rack and pinion service. The change in the air was noticeable immediately. It was cooler and thinner. The holiday brochure had warned that this outing was unsuitable for anyone was heart or breathing problems and now I could understand why.

There was no time to linger and admire the scenery though, as we had allocated spaces and had to find the correct carriage and seats before the train departed. We had barely sat down before the conductor signalled that everyone was onboard, the doors then shut and we began to move.  A few minutes later and the snow cover was complete. Then near darkness, as the train entered the tunnel that climbs up into the mountain. A short stop at the mid-station, where we all disembarked to peer through the windows at the valley below and the peaks above and in front of us. It was weird to see climbers walking past us and waving!

Back to the train and the final section of track to the top. That’s where the altitude hit me. The platform slopes upwards and climbing it is a shock to the system when you realise you have travelled from 2,061m to 3,454m in just over two hours. I was breathing as hard as I could and it still felt painful. Pins and needles shot through my fingers, hands and toes, as my body adjusted to the scant oxygen. Slowly the tingling subsided, I ceased gasping and I began to feel almost normal again.

I wanted to see the view first, just in case the weather closed in, so I followed the signposts and headed outside. After the dimness of the railway tunnel, the sunlight and gleaming snow were almost blinding. I threaded my way though the other tourists and found a spot near the barriers where I could stand and gaze. As far as the eye could see were snow capped mountains and a deep blue sky. Choughs glided by on thermals or sat eyeing up the visitors to see if they had food. In the days before the station was built, the only sound here would have been the breeze, but now there was chatter and the inevitable clicking of camera shutters. I admit that included me, as I photographed the scenery from every possible angle.

It was only after I had taken the last shot, that my acrophobia kicked in. I was gazing down the valley and suddenly realised how far below me it was. For a brief second, it felt as though I was being pulled downwards. I took a deep breath and kept repeating in my head, “It’s OK. I’m on solid ground. I’m not standing by the edge.” Slowly the feeling of panic subsided and I was able to turn around and walk back into the main building. I stepped inside and leaned against the wall for a minute or so.

I had not taken a pack lunch with me, so I found the restaurant and ordered a sandwich and a coffee. None of the tables by the windows were free, but I found a spot where I could still admire the view, without it frightening me.

Then the obligatory visit to the gift shop for the usual tourist souvenirs and a couple of postcards, which I wrote and posted at the highest pillar box in Switzerland. A bit naff, maybe, but I found it amusing at the time.

I briefly toured the display explaining how the railway had been built, finding the technical details too dry and uninteresting.

Finally, there was the ice palace, gouged out of the glacier and used as an exhibition space for carving. Even at -3 degrees, it is still melting and strangely, it doesn’t feel that cold when you enter it. The floor is smooth ice and I found it easier to slide my feet across the floor, than to try and walk normally on it. Everything is semi-transparent and a slightly bluish colour. I could have stood entranced for hours, but a glance at my watch told me it was nearly time to return to the train. After a quick dash – or rather a slow stroll due to the altitude – to the toilets, I headed back to the platform. Having the same seat for the return journey meant that I was now facing the right way. Obviously, there was little to see during the section to Kleine Scheidegg as we were passing through the tunnel. After we switched and were once again on a normal train, I unpacked my camcorder to film the scenery.

Thankfully Swiss carriages have huge panoramic windows, the top half of which can be opened to let in the air and I was able to stand and avoid any reflections from glass.

At first, we wound our way through the snowfields, which dazzled in the afternoon sun. These gradually became patchy, with grey rock jutting upwards. Then the first tufts of grass appeared, followed by drifts of pale lilac coloured wild crocus. There must have been thousands of small blooms, as in places they completed obliterated the grass. As we descended towards the valley, the flora changed again and buttercups splashed blobs of the brightest yellow wherever the eye could see.

Slowly fields began the stretch across the valley, with the ubiquitous Alpine cows grazing the lush meadows, to the accompaniment of their clanging bells. An occasional farmhouse stood next to a small stream and then the first hamlet stretched alongside the railway track. A couple of small children waved as we passed and some of the passengers in my carriage returned the gesture.

What I will always remember though, was the scent of lilac that wafted in from the gardens surrounding the chalets. It was warm and heady and lingered for a few minutes on the warm air.

Further on we saw the small town of Lauterbrunnen approaching. Although the train only halted there for a few moments before heading onwards, it marked the end of our journey.

We disembarked from the carriage and filed along the platform towards the exit. Our coach was waiting in the car park to take us back to our hotel.

Our day on the Jungfraujoch was over, but for me at least, the memories will last forever.