Here's how water shapes the Swiss rhythm of life in summer

Rising from Lac Léman like a surrealist Excalibur is a 26ft fork. It sits proudly in the shallows near the small town of Vevey — tines partially submerged in pearlescent waters, curved handle pointing skywards towards scudding clouds. Behind the oversized piece of cutlery are similarly gargantuan views. On the opposite shore, I can see St Gingolph on the Franco-Swiss border; beyond are craggy sub-Alpine mountains topped with snow. A panel informs me that the nearby Alimentarium, the world’s first food museum, commissioned La Fourchette de Vevey. Right next door is tribute restaurant Ze Fork, which serves Swiss-style tapas on a terrace overlooking the water.

It’s one of many unexpected discoveries I make on the shores of Lac Léman, Switzerland’s biggest lake and my first stop on a tour of the country’s diverse waterways. Travelling here from Lausanne aboard one of a fleet of belle époque paddleboats, I started to get a sense of just how enormous this lake is. Though more commonly known as Lake Geneva, this name entirely fails to capture its scale — the city of Geneva is 40 miles away from the region I’ll be exploring, at its northeastern tip. And only about 60% of the lake belongs to Switzerland; the rest is in France.

The vessel that brought me to Vevey, La Suisse, was built in 1910 and had wood and gold-leaf figureheads at its bow and stern. From its top deck, I spotted people engaged in the altogether more futuristic-looking watersport of e-foiling. A bit like surfing, but with an electric motor that ‘flies’ above a hydrofoil wing, it gives riders the appearance of hovering magically above the rippling surface. The scenery on land was equally enchanting: white houses with colourful shutters and red tiled roofs dotted among terraced vineyards, creating a painterly illusion disrupted only when a bright red train passed through. Along the water’s edge, bijou piers signalled the presence of small towns.

Among the more sizeable settlements on Lac Léman’s shores is the well-heeled resort town of Montreux, heart of the so-called ‘Montreux Riviera’, reached by a six-minute train from Vevey. Its four-mile promenade is lined with grand villas and Accidentally Wes Anderson-style hotels — all canopied balconies and cursive, all-caps fonts. They stretch all the way to fairytale Château de Chillon, the inspiration for a poem by Lord Byron, who visited in 1816. Cumulatively, it seems like the kind of place a character in a 19th-century novel might go to convalesce — so its more recent rock ’n’ roll history comes as a surprise. Deep Purple wrote their 1972 hit Smoke on the Water about the town and Freddie Mercury lived here in the 1980s, telling a friend: “If you want peace of mind, come to Montreux.”

Freddie wasn’t wrong. The town combines Switzerland’s signature spotlessness with an unexpectedly Mediterranean atmosphere, with subtropical trees like palm and fig thriving in its mountain-sheltered microclimate. There’s even a bit of a beach vibe at spots like the Plage du Pierrier in Clarens, backed by sandy volleyball and pétanque courts and a kiosk selling ice creams. I dive in and find the water positively balmy — in summer, it reaches 25C — and it’s so clean, I’m unconcerned when I inadvertently swallow a mouthful. Thanks to its comprehensive if unglamorous network of sewage plants, Switzerland has some of the most pristine swimming waters in Europe.

The following day, in search of a stronger drink, I head out to Lavaux, a UNESCO-listed wine region a 20-minute drive west of Montreux, where the vines run down to the water in neat lines. In the pretty village of Epesses, I tell winemaker Blaise Duboux about my hydrating dip and he laughs heartily — pointing over the lake to the spa town of Évian, where France’s famous mineral water is bottled. “You could say we’re a ‘luxury’ vineyard,” he jokes, eyes sparkling as he adjusts his jaunty cravat. “We have the same rain!” Of Lavaux’s 158 winemakers, he’s one of only 14 operating organically. “We have to think about Mother Earth and work with conscience,” says Blaise. “I want to express what my soil is able to express and to work with nature, not against; to be like a surfer catching a wave.” This admirable approach doesn’t make for an easy life, Blaise tells me. “As well as making the wine, we also bottle and label it here. It’s very hard work, but I love it.”

As we stroll a small section of his 135 acres, he waves to a group of seasonal labourers from North Macedonia. They’re here to help with the crucial job of removing extra leaves from the vines, allowing air to circulate to prevent mildew destroying the plant; being so close to a huge lake, conditions are misty and humid. The sloped terraces allow extra sun to reach the vines but, because they’re so steep, everything must be done by hand. “We work in much the same way the previous 17 generations of my family did,” says Blaise.

At a shady terrace outside his house, he offers a clue to his sanguinity, removing his jacket to reveal a purple T-shirt printed with the slogan: ‘Keep Calm and Drink Chasselas’. “The soil pumps minerals into the fruit — this grape is a soil revelator,” he says, pouring me a glass of Sursum Corda, a white wine named for his family motto, Latin for ‘high hearts’. Taking a sip, I see what he means — it’s citrussy, almost salty and exquisitely drinkable. Another wine, a Haut de Pierre Dézaley Grand Cru made exclusively from old vine Chasselas, is richer and more mellow. I ask Blaise why Swiss wine doesn’t have a celebrated reputation abroad and he tells me it’s because, nationally, only 1% is exported — the Swiss prefer to drink it themselves.

Mountain high

Lavaux wines are served aboard the GoldenPass Express, the train that takes me from Montreux to the Swiss Alps, on the hunt for some high-altitude H20. Soon after departure, its large windows start to frame the sort of scenery I last saw in the pages of a Heidi picture book: golf-course-green valleys where wooden chalets are tucked into folds in the land; cows with clanking bells in their summer pastures. When we pull up at Zweisimmen, in the Bernese Oberland, a brass band in the village square just beyond the platform is playing The Bear Necessities. Just over an hour later, we arrive in the town of Interlaken: the gateway for excursions in the region of Jungfrau.

Another train and a cable-car bring me to the top of First, a mountain 2,168m above sea level, where a wraparound footbridge offers knockout views over the valley and its busy resort town of Grindelwald. I’ll be one of a handful of people staying up here in the mountains, overnighting at a simple lodge. Once the day-trippers have departed, I’m hoping I’ll have the nearby Lake Bachalp, the so-called ‘jewel of the Alps’ an hour’s hike away, all to myself.

The path ascends steeply through banks of unmelted snow — I grab handfuls to cool my face — but soon levels out, allowing me to admire the moorlands. The area was avoided by humans until the Middle Ages, as it was thought to be inhabited by witches and spirits. Criminals were thrown into glacier-formed pools and there were even human sacrifices made to appease the angry spirits. Today, I encounter nothing ghoulish — only scampering marmots and the soothing sound of the Bachläger Waterfall.

The sun is setting by the time I reach its source: Lake Bachalp. Not one lake, it turns out, but two. At the rear, it’s surrounded by snow-striped hills, creating a zebra-like reflection on its surface. Crouching to touch this mirage, I find the shallows teeming with real animal life: water striders bouncing on the viscous surface and, just below them, huge clumps of frogspawn. It’s only when I turn that I see its scene-stealing sister lake, with the peaks of the Wetterhorn, Schreckhorn and Finsteraarhorn mirrored in its surface. Sat between them, like a saddle on a camel, is the Grindelwald Glacier — a vast expanse of white, in this light indistinguishable from the surrounding snow.

The Aletsch Glacier, a few miles south, is much more impressive — it’s the largest glacier in the Alps. I reach it via gondola from Grindelwald and then mountain railway to Jungfraujoch, Europe’s highest train station. Disembarking a mighty 3,454m above sea level, my lungs are working hard even during the short walk to the glacier’s viewing platform. Emerging from an icy tunnel, I’m presented with the sight of an endless ridge of even-loftier peaks. In the distance, two ant-like hikers slowly make their way over what looks like a vast, frozen river — deviating from their path across the glacier could plunge them into a crevasse from which there would be no return. The scene stretched out before me is so dazzlingly white, I start to fear snowblindness might set in and look away.

It’s a discomforting metaphor for glacier tourism itself — increasing in popularity as these vast bodies of dense, blue-tinged ice slowly melt away. Currently, the Aletsch Glacier shrinks about 165ft a year. It’s reassuring, then, to discover the trains that bring visitors here are run using renewable energy from a hydroelectric power plant in nearby Lütschental, and that the site also serves an important role in documenting climate change. With its silvery-domed observatory perched precipitously on a clifftop, Jungfraujoch Research Station looks a bit like a Bond villain’s lair. In fact, it houses a team of undeniable ‘goodies’: scientists collecting meteorological and pollution data, sometimes used to prosecute factory owners who breach agreed emissions.

“We learn a lot from the researchers,” says curly haired and bespectacled Daniela Bissig, who — along with partner Erich Furrer — acts as the facility’s custodian, living and working there for 14 days before switching with another couple. Their tasks include clearing any snowfall that’s built up overnight and maintaining the premises for visiting teams, who sometimes stay for weeks. “We say to them: ‘tell us what your aim is in the way you would to one of your grandchildren’, and I think they enjoy doing so.” Erich and Daniela are giving me a behind-the-scenes tour of their quarters and we’ve paused in her favourite spot, the library. It’s a cosy room with original 1930s wood-panelling and glass-fronted cabinets containing decades worth of data. A telescope is trained on a window currently framing mountains, ice and snow. The landscape is an eternal source of drama. “The glacier never stops being beautiful,” says Daniela. “And when the tourists leave and we have it all to ourselves? Well, that’s the best part of the day.”

The meltwater from Aletsch and other glaciers in Jungfrau feeds Trümmelbach, one of 72 waterfalls in Lauterbrunnen, five miles north west, which I reach aboard yet another scenic and extremely punctual cogwheel train. The valley’s name is variously translated either as ‘many springs’ or ‘loud springs’, and Trümmelbach is by far the noisiest, carrying up to 20,000 litres of water per second. It largely falls inside a cavern concealed within a vertical rockface, but a series of tunnels, paths and platforms allows visitors to ascend its height. The experience is a sensory onslaught. Though the mountain itself seems to shudder with the effort of containment, and the cliffs and crevices the waterfall forces its way past have been worn smooth by centuries of pummelling, Trümmelbach’s mist on my face feels as gentle as a kiss.

A river runs through it

After exploring the mountains of Jungfrau, I move on to my final stop: the city of Bern. From Interlaken, my train skirts the shores of Lake Thun, then makes its way north west, loosely following the course of the River Aare, which continually commands passengers’ attention through the carriage windows. I get tantalising glimpses of its strong current and extraordinary milky turquoise colour, caused by ‘rock flour’ — the fine particles of pulverised rock found in glacier meltwater, which absorb and scatter light. It’s a warm, sunny day and, every now and then, I spot someone leaping in. By the time I reach the Swiss capital an hour later, I’m longing to do exactly that.

I wander the cobbled, flag-strewn streets of Bern’s medieval centre, but every sight seems to direct me back towards the river. In Münsterplatz, opposite the city’s cathedral, a gold face on a 16th-century fountain spurts jets of water. At another church, Nydeggkirche, the roof tiles are an exact colour match for the Aare’s inviting blue-green. When Bern’s clocktower strikes noon, I’m unable to resist the river’s call any longer and descend the backstreets to its shores — only to find that most of the city’s inhabitants are already here.

“In summer, we live our whole lives on the Aare,” says student Uma Bintti, who I encounter as she’s about to jump off Schönausteg, a footbridge that doubles as a diving platform during the city’s hotter months. Around us, people are joyfully leaping into the water. “Some locals use the river to get to work,” Uma’s equally cheerful friend Djami Stram chips in. “They put all their stuff in a dry bag and float all the way to their office.” As I don’t have an Aarebäg, as they’re known locally, the pair suggest I stash my stuff at the Marzili Lido downstream, where there are lockers. “But we just drape a towel over our bags. That’s Marzili security!” jokes Uma. “Bern is a really safe city.”

Walking the tree-shaded footpath parallel with the river, it’s clear the Aare is Bern’s lifeblood. I pass a beach volleyball court in full session; appealing waterside cafes like Altes Tramdepot, where people are enjoying al fresco lunches or iced coffee; plus picnickers, lolling on its grassy banks. “In summer, we live slow — like the river,” says Nelson Barroso, who’s sitting on the shore while his friend Esther Himbaza wades in the shallows. “I enjoy the Aare’s calming energy,” she adds.

Finally, it’s my turn to experience its rejuvenating powers first-hand. Returning to the Schönausteg footbridge after leaving my clothes, I fling myself into the water without a moment’s hesitation. While briefly submerged, I hear stones shifting on the riverbed, then pop to the surface to join the other human pooh sticks, our heads bobbing like expressive buoys. Though travelling at what feels like an exhilarating speed, I’m nevertheless overtaken by a man on a paddleboard and a dog wearing a life jacket. Though the experience isn’t unlike riding a waterpark’s ‘lazy river’, the refreshing temperature reminds me this is no simulacrum, but the real thing — miss the Marzili Lido’s ‘last exit’ sign and, eventually, I’d end up at the river’s mouth on the Rhine.

Emerging from the water by the Swiss Parliament building feels symbolic — even in the middle of its capital city, this is a country where nature always takes centre stage.