The first days after returning are always hard (I got back a few days ago after spending an abysmal time in the plane); perhaps it’s what many people jokingly mean when they talk about having a holiday to recover from their holiday.It’s more than physical tiredness; it’s a narrative of my own life that I’ve always needed to revise each time. I’ve noticed some sort of cognitive shift that always happens each time I return after some time away; there’s always a sense of overwhelming tiredness and jet-lag (that could be combated using Melatonin). More than time difference, there’s also a cultural re-think and reshaping that the mind’s got to wrap itself around that is almost akin to adjusting to culture shock in the country that you live in.

It’s not always pleasant, questioning things you already know and things that you don’t, but it’s a cycle that unfailingly repeats itself. As pertinent as these questions are, they do more than make me twitch. Poke a little further, and I risk tumbling down into darker brooding in the supposed merry days before Christmas and the New Year. Pushing the answered doubts away and life sort of rights itself, and returns to a more-or-less even keel, and sails once again off from the rocky reef that lies a few feet away. Whose bluff am I calling sometimes? Just the day after I collapsed in bed, I started looking out for possible routes and flight prices for the next trip which is yet unplanned while lingering over the precious photos of Iceland that are now stored on my hard drive.

Putting yourself out into the unknown and going off uncharted treks (and that is perhaps how tourists and travellers differ most fundamentally) is harder work than I thought – and this hasn’t changed since I started doing this 10 or so years ago. But it’s stalwart and honest, and keeps my questioning going on. I don’t think I could – or want to – be any different, minus the damned plane journey.

When Schilthorn remained closed for yet another day, I was rather foolish to hope that the continuous snowfall would when we stepped out of the Berner Oberland into Vaud and Fribourg. Our route was fairly complicated, long but very scenic (I spent lots of time convincing myself during lull periods that it really was the journey and not the destination that mattered) and with the number of train/bus combination and changes to make any programmer blush, it finally looked like this: Murren cable car – Stechelberg via Gimmelwald, Stechelberg – Lauterbrunnen – Interlaken Ost – Zweisimmen – Gstaad – Montreux – Lausanne.

I’m fairly embarrassed to say that I hardly remember very much of Lausanne itself, having arrived when dusk (and rather heavy rain) was falling except for the steep gradients of the town centre and our incredibly lovely restored 19th century-styled accommodation. Run by seasoned travellers themselves, I thoroughly enjoyed the location and the sheer old-world beauty of the place. The only time we had around Lausanne was a hurried turn around the cobbled and hilly streets when looking for a late dinner and emergency baggage. We had been fairly unhinged by the numerous and lengthy train trips as we moved like nomads for the length of 18 days every 1-2 days, where legitimate ponderings about the nature of travel led to some illegitimate questions about life itself – metaphorical hidden spots in the mind that I’d rather shove aside for now.

What was more indelibly stamped into my memory was the tailor-made sunny weather of the next day on the determined gastronomic excursion into the higher regions of the Fribourg canton into Gruyères town for the cheese making session and then onto the Cailler chocolate factory in Broc village. The route is less complicated than it really is, particularly when there is a major train office with a sour-looking Swiss-French, English-speaking attendant.

Lausanne – Palezieux – Gruyères/ (with the option of going to Broc via Bulle) Broc Fabrique – Bulle – Palezieux/Lausanne

Gently nudged by the gasp-worthy landscape and the gorgeous weather, it was easy to see TC’s grudging but growing affinity with the Swiss countryside that had done nothing but let him down for the past few days.

We walked the distance between La Maison du Gruyère and Broc-Fabrique in the valley sprinkled with a strange mixture of autumn and spring colours – from the more earthy tradition of cheese-making into the theatrical dramatics of the Cailler chocolate making tradition, trudging thankfully downhill from the medieval town encircled by the magnificent mountains onto the river bank, turning back ever so often to take pictures whenever we could. That, was enough to sustain our flagging legs, at least for that hour or so walk.

Mürren, our final destination, was quite mercifully, the pretty and silent ghost town before it throws open its doors to the skiers and the ski season starting this saturday – our crippling disadvantage however, lies in the sheer lack of options in eating and outdoor activities. On our last evening, we stayed close and dined downstairs, and left ourselves to the mercy of a Swiss-German waiter who spoke half in English.

A Spanish couple came in not too much later and ordered only Rosti, which was only listed as a side on the menu.

“I want only rosti,” the man announced loudly to the waiter.

“Rosti, for me also,” said his companion.

“Rosti, mains, ja?”

“No, just rosti!”

“Rosti, saussage, ja?”

“No, only rosti!”

“Nein? Rosti? Hier, ja?” The poor confused waiter pointed to the mains in the menu.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

“No?”

“Just rosti!” It later led him to apologise after the comedy of errors.

“I’m sorry…Felix…your name?” the Spanish man said earnestly, touching the poor man on the arm, “I just want Rosti, because I am Spanish, and I like Rosti very much. It’s my fault, my English is not good.”

“I…aber Englisch auch..”, bumbled the poor man as he walked to the kitchens, later confusing himself further by talking to us peppered with Spanish terms.

Coming this late into the shoulder season does have its advantageous though; streets are empty and the delayed snowfall that had sent many hoteliers and ski operators into a panic, finally came down in abundance on the day we arrived. It was most unfortunate that our hotel was right at the end of town, 15 minutes from the BLM – the definition of hell with luggage that is not a backpack.

The natural route from Mürren is a 20 min cable car ride up to Schilthorn but the mountain had been closed for 2 days because of strong winds. The next course of action was to head for Jungfraujoch (touted proudly by all the tourist offices around the villages as the top of Europe) but it was quite a long journey up via Wengen, Kleine Scheidegg in slow trains and several changes along the way. It was literally a snow-out: little visibility, 75km/h winds that hurled snow in the face and tons of people who piled themselves into the train.

I was cautiously optimistic (but secretly apprehensive that Central Switzerland wouldn’t live up to years of expectation) and now, have surprisingly little to say about Berner Oberland, even though mountain towns have been nothing but quaint. Interlaken and Lauterbrunnen have been incredibly touristy and it was hard to get over the shock of the loud-mouthed tourist hordes that you’d think only afflict high season travel periods.

Finally visiting Switzerland after decades of near-libidinous desire of wanting to is turning out to be a long-realised dream – and a nightmare where the budgeting suddenly became the last straw that broke the strings of our purses.

I was introduced to the incredible prices when we took a short stop in Basel to get our Swiss half-card, but ended up spending nearly 40 minutes at the SBB Travel Centre with an enthusiastic salesperson (who was possibly showing exemplary behaviour as Teamcoach) who issued us all of our tickets that we were ever going to need in for the rest of our time in Switzerland. If transport – mostly train – prices were staggering, the cost of lunch in a small Confisserie opposite the central station would have been the primary cause of a clogged artery rather than the sheer amount of cheese and pastry in it. It was also one of those days that was sufficient to send TC into a dizzying tumble of pseudo-philosophical thoughts that mostly deal with earning power, the standard-of-living, and the individual’s capacity for really knowing oneself.

The snowy peaks surrounding Luzern slowly meandered into view as the train wound its way inwards, and its environment is sort of close enough to conjure the infantile Heidi’s milkcow stereotypes that everyone thinks about at least once in their life but is quite afraid to say aloud. having intended to eschew the extra walking with considerably heavier packs and the stress of packing for another “long-distance” trip, we modified the itinerary just 2 days ago to spend more time in Luzern but in different places for each night. As it would typically turn out, the irony lay in the amount we had to walk from the first place of accommodation to the second hotel: one treats the distance between new and the old town with greater respect when lugging heavy bags on the way.

Navigating our way with the English language is quite effortless, although I’ll always use the chance to dredge up any remnants of foreign words I can remember. Swiss German however, with its rolls of the tongue and sing-song intonation sounds simply like the process of yodelling on a tenor-alto range even though the Swiss think it’s probably has a most wonderfully musical tone.

There wasn’t much to do after checking in at nearly 4pm on a Saturday afternoon – when stores were about to close but to visit the Museum Sammlung Rosengart Luzern before emerging like foolish open-mouthed peasants onto the magnificent waterfront and the Kapellbridge at twilight. The high street shops in the old town of Luzern were already closed for the weekend and one of my first tasks to do was to obtain some excellent chocolate truffles from the Bachmann Confiserie before foolishly deciding to go for dinner at the Old Swiss House (a rushed check on Tripadvisor convinced us) before really checking the prices out. While the food and service and dining atmosphere were excellent, the entire dinner probably cost us our carefully apportioned dough for half our stay here.

An impulsive decision on a quiet sunday morning the next day at the tourist office meant that either Titlis or Mt Rigi were our options since Mt Pilatus was closed because of bad weather conditions.

Comprising a combination of boat rides and a funicular up the mountain, Mt Rigi and the beautiful surroundings with Lucerne spread before us would have sent me straight into Heidi heaven – but because I’ve already marvelled too much at the wildness of the Icelandic landscape, visiting Switzerland’s pretty environs felt entirely too prepackaged. There wasn’t much light at times; fog descended on the peaks from time to time, and clear just as we got on the boat heading back. I groan, and grab my camera to get the best of the fading light.

The bloody fickle internet connection is perhaps the only failing of Chez Leslie – a quiet pension on a residential street off Colmar’s train station – since we’ve arrived 4 days ago. I’ve been relegated to sitting by the door in a lonesome chair like a errant child being punished just to get 1 small bar of connection. There’s even Fluffy, the house cat for occasional entertainment. Beyond that, Colmar has thus far, defied all expectations.

Visiting Alsace is like getting an insider’s tip to travelling in France; there are many Europeans here (most are German it seems, and even more from the other parts of France) and I’ve hardly seen anyone with a face resembling mine. Perhaps the unfair complaint that I have is the lack of the sun-dappled fields which have so ensnared me in the brochure in last year’s wine fair, which is in any case, unfounded because I’m here in winter where vines are brown, twiggy and skies are perpetually grey and foggy. But coming into this narrow strip of Northeastern France is nevertheless, like a step back into autumn’s red hues after Iceland’s brutal winter.

We plonked ourselves in Colmar for the next 3 days, a village with a brilliantly medieval core built within a canal system that gives it the name “Petite Venise” – just as many tight-knit villages along La Route des Vins typically are – minus the canals.

After a brief embarrasing incident along Champs du Mars involving TC’s failed attempt on a bike on our first day, we abandoned the thought of visiting Eguisheim and settled for a tamer stroll around the old city centre. Little did we realise that every meal turns into the stuff feasts are made of not just due to the constant presence of the wines (the signature Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Muscat and Pinot Gris/Blanc varieties that made TC run mad) but also the portions of the Alsatian specialties that are roll-out-of-the-country-worthy.

We made quick visits to the cute town of Ribeauvillé on line 106 and hiked 5km along bicycle trails through the wines and forests to pretty Riquewihr after a Munster Tarte Flambée and some Onion soup. Passing several aged people slowly making their way down the meandering slope en route like they’ve been doing it all their lives, I wondered how just much these people had just seen or experienced since Alsace had been a highly volatile space in the World Wars.

Kaysersberg was next on the list on Line 145 and like most medieval clusters in this entire stretch of the Haut-Rhin, is just as picturesque and surrounded by miles of hilly vineyards as far as the eye can see. It was, all things considered, incredibly interesting to see how often the tiny towns in Alsace had changed hands over the millenium and this is reflected in the hybrid language (and parts still read like Middle German), the hybrid cuisine and quite possibly the hybrid behaviour of its inhabitants.

Christmas markets abound and they are the draw for most tourists from around the region, but seeing any more of those just now might perhaps be a case of familiarity breeding contempt. But as those storekeepers hawk their wares on the heavily -lit streets, for some strange reason, my mind constantly drifts back to the lit-stillness of Reykjavik; I see on that gentle uphill road the path to the foreboding tip of Reykjavik Hallsgrimkirkja, the empty streets and the constant companion that’s snow and ice.

It seems everyone is captivated by Paris, but I’d fancy a more romantic notion of Strasbourg as a miniature model of France, even though the actual Petite France occupies merely a corner of the old city.

Sitting at the German border and several miles west of the Rhine, metropolitan Strasbourg hums with activity always, combining the whimsical nature of the French and the precision timing of Germany – even the trams glide smoothly on every couple of minutes! Accommodation is near impossible to get when the European Parliament is in session, but even all the more so when an influx of European tourists (many predictably hail from the right side of the border) descend on the alarming clusters of Christmas stands.

We started the day as late as we could – a hard-won luxury so we rationalised after the gruelling week – and wandered into the Old Town after breakfast with no fixed itinerary but to seize the only day that we had in this place. Strong afternoon sunlight burned through the early morning fog, and it made me happy for no other reason than the pictures would turn out nicer.

In the end, we trawled through routes and tram stations multiple times, walked along the river to Petite France (a popular corner of  river is divided into a number of canals, and rushes through a small area of half-timbered houses), ate unhealthy food, marvelled at the grand Notre Dame de Strasbourg, took lots of pictures in the wrong places, and embarrassed ourselves mightily at high-end stores. It’s probably what we’ll be doing for the rest of the trip in French-speaking regions and we did did until the sun went down and  the partying began.

Strasbourg’s streets serve up quite the potent mix of the old and new, but only after sunset did the illumination of the Christmas lights and decorations bathe the paths from Place Broglie to Place Kléber in hues of blues, reds and golds. But even TC’s deflating words (“it’s just cheap lighting!”) weren’t quite enough to spoil the fun.

We joined busloads of tourists for the 45-minute shuttle from Reykjavik, driving to snow-covered lava moss with the distinct advantage of staying over at the clinic for a night – which simply meant we got free entrance into the Lagoon and more time to dally. Situated 5-10 minutes walk down a winding path from the actual building through flammable (!) moss-covered lava fields, it was quite the adventure trudging through the snow when it turned dark.

Set up so that the changing rooms lead out directly into the lagoon, it proved quite a shock to see women of all ages, sizes and various states of hairiness starkers, as nonchalantly as the day they were born, sauntering, squatting, towelling and gossiping simultaneously. TC and I exchanged our experiences and found that pretty much the same happened in the men’s dressing area.

I couldn’t help my personal hedonistic streak from surfacing when bathing in Iceland’s sub-Arctic location; its unusual contrast of glaciers and constant volcanic activity meant that we were dipping into geothermally heated seawater tinted a milky Curaçao blue because of the silica mud – the very same mud that you can dredge up with your foot from the uneven ground and apply onto the face! As the perpetual misty swirls arose from the lagoon, it was like descending a few steps into a cheery, mild-climate version of Valhalla – only littered with chattering tourists holding up glasses of beer while they waddled slowly around. If that was hell,it had never felt or tasted so good. In that steamy, atmospheric pool, I held up TC’s more portable camera instead, and wandered with a hand out of the water the entire time clutching that damn trophy.

That very good thing came to an abrupt end when we needed to depart Iceland in an early morning flight but I had truly underestimated just how tiring the entire day would turn out. TC was suitably impressed by the beauty of the city but I found my own command of French entirely too new and too shaky to make a proper impression (or even getting the locals to understand). It was pure torture navigating our way in the deepening dusk to Les Artistes – our accommodation in the quiet residential area of Elsau in Strasbourg. Dinner at Hippopotamus was an equally stilted affair but hilarious to see snooty french waiters living up to their reputation.

This time, it was with Iceland Horizons and done, to my surprised delight, by David himself who happens to be the owner of the business. We found him articulate, wry, interesting and an absolute brilliant guide who answered all of our questions more thoughtfully than his own prime minister could have done. Iceland’s economic miracle, according to him, was in part, due to the fishing industry and technology, both commodities which transformed the country into one of the most prosperous in the world. It all collapsed after the 2008 crisis but David’s optimistic about the potential and yet untapped geothermal resource that all countries are starting to hanker after.

Hauled out of bed and onto the street at 8.30am, we were bundled up into a small van and driven to the Nesjavellir power plant, a geothermal area situated in  Lake Þingvallavatn – staffed only by 7-8 members but powers the whole of Reykjavik. It was bloody cold; temperatures hovered between -1 and -7 degrees throughout the day.

Iceland’s increasing self-reliance is evident in the number of greenhouses in the Hveragerði greenhouse village – quite the enterprising lot of people they are, after the millennium of long boats and troll stories. In between petting horses that are essentially cute, tiny Icelandic pure breeds that behaved like dogs vying for attention and getting licked in an alarming manner (TC got slobbered in the armpit by an insistent one), visiting an old crater, we finally hit the lunch hour at Gullfoss.

Gulfoss was our first major stop, which, in winter, is not merely a massive waterfall, but an exercise in braving the elements and getting the hang of not slipping in treacherous ice. I’m hugely impressed but more with my own ability to have fallen on my arse only once.

Just 10km down the road were the spouting hot springs Geysir and Strokkur – heated water, sulphur and fabled spa properties aside, the most infantile pleasure I got was to laugh at several fools who posed in a stupid fashion expecting the geysir to erupt, only to get tired and stop – and with a smack of cosmic timing, would the spring then go off.

Þingvellir National Park is well-known as a location where the Icelandic parliament Alþingi was founded in 930 AD (which makes it the oldest known functioning parliament in the world), but perhaps, more geographically famous as where the American and the European plates sort of meet. In the landfall area – I’m quite tickled by how they didn’t know they held their meetings in the rift valley – there must have been good ol’ Viking fun – ax throwing games, slave trading, clan meetings and in all probably, a great deal of mead and wenching.

We’ve been dealing with sub-zero temperatures pretty much the entire time we’ve been here and it’s quite a challenge to deal with less-than-benign weather conditions in a jet-lagged,sleep-deprived state. Sunrise was after 10am (!) but the dim light bathed the city in an ethereal quietness that I’ve missed so much when we walked out for breakfast. A free day spent wandering the cute streets of Reykjavik degenerated into a wrestle with several Danish washing machines in a Laundromat cafe which seemed determined to make me burst a vessel.

Reykjavik is home to the majority of the 320,000-large population, and surrounded by imposing peaks from the harbour, is at times breathtaking, and at worst, communist-drab. Sometimes, the stark difference is seen on parallel streets. Under the veneer of civilisation lies however, expanses of geography best described in fantasy novels, the desolate beauty of mountain ranges and endless swathes of arctic deserts where no one has quite yet trodden. The locals are curt and direct (perhaps a translation of their language makes it so?) but helpful and gregarious – and we still haven’t had a bad meal thus far. We’ve done too many walks down the harbour for my liking and not all of it is voluntary but geographical embarrassment aside, TC’s insistence on trying Fish and Chips the Icelandic way did pay off rather pleasantly.

It is this glimpse of Iceland that I had on the Northern Lights tour, all of which were done unfortunately with huge loads of tour buses. “Hershey” the guide told us trivia with an uncertain sense of Icelandic humour best appreciated by those belonging to the 4th dimension en route. Questions were good, he said, but sex is “beyond the scope of tonight’s activities”. I still don’t know how far we went, except for the fact that we drove on and on, chasing every expanse of clear sky, finally stopping near the south shore to look at the sky for a long long time. The lights faded in gradually and winked out without much fanfare I’m sort of disappointed, but gratified. It’s after all, one of the original driving factors for coming here.

Its notoriously changeable weather was in full force out of Keflavik airport, snowing small flakes as we queued like squashed illegal migrants on a tug-boat tussling for a space on the city shuttle. Coming in winter means spending one’s days in near-darkness with slivers of daylight, cloudy skies, hail and snow, but the prettily-lit streets and white surfaces makes it a classy Santa-land.

Apartment K is cosy at first glance, until it started to resemble a prison cell with kitchenette and a tube-like shower spitting out sulphuric-tasting water. TC’s first approving glance quickly turned vitriolic – a quick call to the fairly sheepish reception counter merely elicited the response that geothermal spring water that supplies Iceland in abundance tended to taste like that but was “very good for body”. Situated next to a bar that belted out endless techno music into the wee hours and spitted out rowdy and drugged-out teenagers, sleep deprivation was a given.

We wandered blind into the Fish Company for dinner the night we landed based on the amazing reviews on the Icelandair inflight magazine only to realise that we walked into a fine dining restaurant. Throwing our momentary monetary woes to the gusty wind outside, we walked in and took a culinary trip around the country that involved Icelandic resident ingredients and meats – fish, lamb and dairy. Caught in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic around Iceland, fish and seafood (along with technology of course) were the commodities that hauled the country out of its prolonged poverty into economic prosperity – until 2008′s financial downturn.

I don’t usually blog much about food, but I think the 4-course meal was lavish and superb, combining an eclectic amount of ingredients that actually had me purring with each bite.

It looked like this:

LANGOUSTINE & HADDOCK - slow cooked & spruce smoked HADDOCK & fried LANGOUSTINE, soft fennel, rye bread potatoe, grilled cucumber, buttercream & foaming fennel

SALMON - malt & appelsin cured SALMON in mustard glaze & dill crust, seared celery purée, roasted bread ice cream & herb blend

LAMB - fried LEG OF LAMB & juicy LAMBSHANK, fried brussel sprouts, potatoe terrine, caramelized turnip paste & thyme lamb glimmer sauce

SKYR - creamy SKYR MOUSSE & white chocolate party with blueberry ling froth, oatmeal lava & blueberry skyr ice cream

I’m normally squeamish about fish but this blew all preconceptions about lamb and fish out of the window. TC told me in sombre, no uncertain terms that I’m on my merry way of being a food snob.