I love food programmes, and I love travel programmes. I even love it when competitive cooking programmes jet off to some far flung places to taste some lovely food.
Nothing can prepare you for a beauty you have always felt. A field as flat as a wicket; an enclosure of monastic solitude; a building burned in to cultural memory.
We boarded in a slowly moving queue, with a chattering four year old entertaining the crowds. It was simply a question of being told where we should be going, and then ending up there.
The clogs act like a time machine, unifying the strands of the holidays. Everyone ends up in them or on them at some point: it’s ubiquitous.
I looked out of the window of Swamp Castle and told her that, one day, all of this would be hers. No reply.
It’s often a battle getting my child to eat, so what she needs are distractions. Yeah.
Montreux itself is nothing like the Switzerland you’d expect: there are no chocolate box chalets here, no rolling verdant landscapes, no snow-capped mountains.