I set off for my run yesterday in heavy rain. I had no choice – I’m training for the 10K in Lausanne (30th October), but running in the rain is something I enjoy – maybe because I’m Scottish.
It was one of the first things I noticed when I came to Switzerland – the different attitude to rain. In Scotland, rain is a fact of life; you get on with your life regardless. In Switzerland, rain was an inconvenience; something to complain about; something that spoiled your plans for the weekend; something that you avoided going out in. Just try getting a taxi in Geneva when it’s raining.
I have 9 kms to run and set off in the direction of Villeneuve. I get such a kick out of running from one town to another – it was something I couldn’t do in Glasgow or Geneva. Lots of leaves and chestnuts underfoot and an undeniable smell of autumn in the air. The lake is heaving like the Atlantic, waves crashing over the walls and leaving large puddles in their wake. There’s not a soul in sight.
I run past Veytaux station up the path leading to the Chateau de Chillon. There’s the spot where the Labrador was killed by the train. A moment’s inattention on the part of his owner and he’d run on to the tracks. For months, the owner left flowers in his memory.
Chillon is strangely deserted. Only a few people are around instead of the usual hundreds. A tourist is backing towards me in an attempt to get the whole castle in her viewfinder and I slip on the cobbles as I skirt her. No damage done though, luckily. The last thing I want at this late stage is a sprained ankle. Now the long boring part until the Mariners flats. I see they have a sign up, “New – only 1 apartment remaining!” and I laugh up my sleeve, knowing that the flat has been unsold for two years – at least. I glance at the ground-floor to see if the man is playing his grand piano, but the blinds are down and I feel a sense of disappointment.
Villeneuve lakeside is deserted, although the Oasis restaurant is as busy as ever. I carry on, concentrating on the job in hand (or rather, foot). I cross a man sheltering under a golf umbrella and he gives me a huge grin that says “We must be mad, out in this!” As I run round the perimeter of the campsite, I’m rushed by a dog, but it veers past playfully. It’s a Weimaraner, that pale mushroom-coloured hound with the pale blue eyes.
I watch the boat Ville-de-Genève struggle to tie up. Not many people will be sailing today and sure enough, only one passenger disembarks – a woman bent under a red umbrella. Even the ducks prefer dry land – they’re waddling all over the path, scattering clumsily at my approach. I wonder why they’re not out there, surfing the waves. I assume they know their limits.
I’m running into the wind now, so it’s not as easy as on the way out, but my 65 kilos can handle it. The clouds are hanging very low and another sweep of rain looks to be moving in from Lausanne. The Ville-de-Genève is heading westwards and its lights brighten up the greyness of the day.
Suddenly I notice smoke billowing on the water. Serious smoke. There has to be a fire somewhere – in the centre of Montreux from the looks of it. My thoughts turn to “Smoke On The Water”, which is probably Montreux’s unofficial anthem. In 1971, the Casino complex burned down during a Frank Zappa concert, thanks (or no thanks) to a fan firing a flare gun. The rattan-covered ceiling was ablaze in seconds. Deep Purple, recording in Montreux at the time, witnessed the fire and immortalised the night’s events in the classic “Smoke on the Water”.
Run over, a few stretches, then I walk into town to investigate the fire. Forty years on, it’s another Casino fire – only a mock-up this time. The local firemen are giving their annual demonstration.