Tuesday, 12th August 2015 – Zurich → Basel → Strasbourg
I woke up aching today, the arch of my right foot screaming at me with every step. Fine, I thought — I’ll just use the left one instead. We left our rickety old digs in Zurich early and headed for breakfast. By now, we’d settled into a routine: croissant, yoghurt, banana, and fruit juice from the Coop supermarket. We carried it down to the lakeside and spent an hour eating among ducks, gulls, and a couple of aggressive swans.
I’ve got history with angry Swiss swans — a few years back one nearly had me while I was swimming in Lake Geneva — so I kept a wary eye on these two as they hissed their way across the water. Charlie, unfazed, happily munched through his breakfast.
Afterwards, Charlie took over navigation duties, guiding us up the river (five bridges in total) to the station. By 9:30 am the heat was already oppressive. My lack of exercise over the past three weeks was catching up with me; I was flagging badly, muttering curses with each step.
At the station, we jumped on the first train we saw — bound for Basel. Tickets? None. And, remarkably, nobody checked. In a way it felt like poetic justice, a tiny victory against a country where £1.50 just to have a piss is considered normal. No wonder half the shop doorways smell like urinals. And while I’m on the subject of Swiss annoyances — their bloody different plug sockets! At least my super battery pack saved us more than once, otherwise we’d have been stranded with dead phones in a land of eye-watering prices.
From Basel, we quickly decided that Switzerland had drained enough of our wallets and aimed for Strasbourg, France. The French, however, have their own ways of punishing travellers — buying a train ticket onboard costs a premium. So I did the sensible thing and booked online while standing on the platform: £57 for two tickets. Win some, lose more.
By the time we reached Strasbourg, the sun was in full force — 33°C and climbing. Charlie, naturally, asked for another McDonald’s lunch. Nothing says cultural immersion like two Big Macs in two days, but I caved.
Determined to at least walk off some of the shame, I insisted we trek the two miles to our hotel, Hotel Esplanade, in the university quarter. Our route followed the River Ill (yes, that really is its name), crossing over the Rhine before we reached the hotel. By 2 pm we were checked in — I managed it entirely in French, which felt like a small triumph, or an arc de triomphe, if you like.
The room wasn’t much cooler than the outside, but at least it offered a break from the direct sun. We did the classic traveller’s trick of washing our clothes in the shower and hanging them on the windowsill to dry. After a short rest, we braved the heat again and set off into the city for the evening. Strasbourg didn’t disappoint — stunning architecture, buzzing streets, and a warm summer atmosphere that pulled us along.
By the time we stumbled back, our step counter read 17,000 steps for the second day in a row. My right foot wasn’t impressed. Neither was the left, by then.
Wednesday, 13th August 2015 – Strasbourg → Metz → Luxembourg
One thing’s for sure: with all this walking in relentless heat, getting to sleep is never a problem. France is in the grip of a mega heatwave right now, and by the time my head hits the pillow each night, I’m gone. But today I was awake at 6, roused by the buzz of the city outside our Strasbourg hotel. With a couple of quiet hours to kill, I sat plotting our route home for the weekend.
Hindsight is a cruel teacher. Really, I should have booked a return flight from wherever we ended up, then just worked our way there. Instead, this “make it up as we go along” approach has cost a fair few quid. The UK train alone was almost £100 return, and the flight home? A painful £200 from Brussels for the two of us. Handing that much money to Ryanair for a one-hour flight makes my teeth itch — but then again, it was only £15 each to fly out here to Memmingen. Swings and roundabouts, as they say. Or in this case: sixes and seven hundreds.
We checked out of our hotel with a cheerful “au revoir”, then strolled through the bright morning sun to Parc de l’Étoile, where we grabbed a café noir and croissant. The waitress was the spitting image of the French temptress from Fawlty Towers who fancied Basil. A surreal déjà vu moment over breakfast.
From there, we caught a Flixbus to Metz, rattling along in the midday heat. When we arrived, it was 34°C and sweating. Our onward bus was due at 3:30 pm — except, of course, it wasn’t. A delay pushed it to 5:10, giving us a couple of unexpected hours to wander Metz. Turned out to be a gift: the city is gorgeous, with its jaw-dropping cathedral towering over everything. I even risked stepping inside, and to my surprise I wasn’t struck down immediately.
Lunch was from Aldi (cheap, cheerful, effective), washed down with a couple of beers before heading back to the coach park. That’s when the real trouble started. Our bus never came. After an hour of waiting, some Russian kids broke the bad news: there’d been a glitch in the Flixbus app, and the bus had actually left at 4:43. Brilliant. The next one wasn’t until 8:10 pm — from a different stop 10 km north of the city.
Tickets for the bus: £5. The Uber to actually reach the new stop: £25. You can bet Flixbus will be hearing from me when I get home.
By the time we rolled into Luxembourg, night had fallen. I ended up booking another taxi — £32 this time — to get us to our hotel in Livange, a small town south of the city. We’d saved money by booking an Ibis Budget, but by the time I’d added up the taxi fares, I might as well have stayed in central Luxembourg.
Still, for all its stripped-down, bare-bones vibe, our room did at least come with air conditioning. In this heatwave, that felt like five-star luxury.
