European Escapades Without the Wings

We had an exceedingly agreeable sojourn through Europe this past summer—our own Grand Tour, minus the powdered wigs and rampant consumption. The journey commenced with Swiss Airways to Milan and concluded in Berlin , with Swiss again doing the honours. These were, you’ll be relieved to know, the only airborne episodes of the entire affair. The rest was accomplished via train and cruise ship—far more civilised modes of travel, if you ask me. After all, there’s a limit to how many plastic trays and mystery meats one can endure at 30,000 feet.

Pisa

Upon arriving in Milan, we promptly boarded a Trenitalia service to Florence . Florence, or Firenze if you’re feeling flamboyant, is a splendid city—a veritable banquet of Renaissance beauty. We walked until the blisters on my feet began to resemble modern art. The Accademia Gallery was a particular highlight. Michelangelo’s David stands there in all his marble glory, looking pensive and improbably heroic. We also made the requisite pilgrimage to Pisa for a glimpse of that famously off-kilter belfry. Yes, it leans. No, it hasn’t fallen yet.

Our next rail-bound chapter took us north to Tirano, a charming town nestled near the Swiss border and, more importantly, the launching point of the illustrious Bernina Express. This is not merely a train journey—it’s an alpine ballet performed in steel and glass. The scenery was staggeringly picturesque, all snow-kissed peaks and glacial lakes straight out of a Swiss chocolate box. We overnighted in Tiefencastel, which sounds like something out of a Grimm fairytale and is, in reality, just as enchanting.

The following day we boarded yet another legendary locomotive—the Glacier Express. The name may suggest something speedy and perilous, but in fact it ambles along at a stately pace, allowing one to sip wine and gawk at mountains without the indignity of motion blur. We disembarked in Brig, a town that is as pretty as it is punctual. Malaika and I had visited during a wintry escapade in 2010, so it was a delight to see it bathed in summer sunshine instead of snowdrifts.

Zermatt Bound

Gornergrat

From Brig, we journeyed to Zermatt, and from there ascended Mt Gornergrat via the Gornergratbahn—a cogwheel railway that climbs as though it’s defying both gravity and common sense. We spent the night at the Kulmhotel 3100, whose name rather helpfully informs you of its altitude. The views were, as the poets might say, ineffable. Or possibly just vertiginous.

Montreux

Our next stop was Montreux, which nestles gracefully on the eastern shore of Lake Geneva, exuding a kind of serene elegance that one might expect from a Swiss lakeside city with a jazz festival pedigree. One glorious day, we caught a ferry across the lake to France for crêpes. There’s something deliciously decadent about crossing international borders purely in pursuit of lunch. Délicieuse indeed.

From Montreux, the journey continued by train to Zurich and onwards to Sargans—a place so picturesque it could moonlight as a postcard. From there, we boarded a bus to Liechtenstein. Our plan was to enjoy a genteel afternoon tea, but we were thwarted by an apparent national shortage of cafés. We made do with ice cream back in Sargans, which was probably a nutritional downgrade but a psychological victory.

Back in Zurich, we caught the overnight sleeper to Hamburg . There’s something ineffably soothing about falling asleep in one country and waking up in another, rocked gently by the rhythm of the rails.

Hamburg

In Hamburg, we returned to a familiar haunt—the same hotel we stayed in back in 2012, possibly even the same room. I’ll admit, the déjà vu was oddly comforting. Its proximity to the Hauptbahnhof was a logistical blessing, given our next embarkation point: the MSC Splendida, our floating home for the next fortnight, bound for the Arctic.

The cruise, it must be said, was a delight. The Splendida lived up to its name, and the itinerary read like a Scandinavian fever dream: Bergen, Tromsø, Longyearbyen, Honningsvåg and the North Cape, Geiranger, and Flåm.

In Bergen, we indulged in fresh raspberries and cream, which felt both indulgent and vaguely medicinal. Tromsø was next—a town we’d last visited in the frigid heart of

Bergen, Norway

winter, when daylight was a rumour and our extremities were perpetually frozen. Summer brought 12 degrees and drizzle, which, for the Arctic, qualifies as a heatwave.

Longyearbyen

Longyearbyen, the largest settlement in Svalbard, was another nostalgic stop. In 2010, Malaika and I braved its polar darkness in search of the Aurora Borealis. This time, we enjoyed sunshine, a rather exhilarating husky safari, and some of the finest burgers I’ve ever eaten—at a pub called the SvalBar, no less. North of the Arctic Circle, the culinary bar is often subterranean, so this was a particularly delicious surprise.

The remaining ports of call in Norway were uniformly stunning. In Honningsvåg, we visited the North Cape,

Norkapp

standing atop rugged cliffs with the cold wind slicing through our coats like a Viking’s axe. There’s something deeply reflective about watching the sun dip low over the Arctic Ocean, refusing to properly set, as if even it doesn’t want to go to bed during Nordic summer.

Myrdal

In Flåm, we took the scenic train up to Myrdal and then embarked on a 20-kilometre cycle descent. It was one of those experiences that feels like a tourism brochure come to life—mountains, waterfalls, goats, the works. Words fail, though the photos may do better justice to the grandeur of it all.

After disembarking in Hamburg, we rounded out the trip with a few final days in Berlin. We walked until our pedometers gave up in despair. There’s something ineffably magnetic about Berlin. It doesn’t flaunt its charms—it just exists, coolly, confidently, full of history and contradictions. I’m not sure I’ll ever tire of it.

Berlin

All in all, the trip was a wonderful reminder that there’s still much joy to be found in slow travel—on rails, on ships, and occasionally on bicycles careening down Norwegian hillsides. And perhaps best of all, not a single airport security queue in sight (apart from the beginning and end, of course—but one must pay some price for paradise).