29/09/25 Living The High Life.

Roger stared resolutely at the mountain, his back to the widening view as the gondola travelled higher into the mountains above Lucerne.  "Warn me if you're going to move," he said. "I don't like wobbles."

We were on our way to the top of Mt Titlus, at 3000+ m only a little lower than Jungfrau, and all accessible by gondola. No fiddling around with tunnels here! For those averse to heights this was not ideal.

A teaser of things to come.

The day started with breakfast provided by the Hotel Alpha after a night when even double glazed windows couldn't mute the raucous racket of Lucerne's Saturday night. An hour's train ride took us to Engelbert and the foot of Mt Titlus. The sun shone and Switzerland presented itself with theme-park perfection. As we walked to the gondola brightly coloured hang gliders drifted in lazy circles above our heads.

Up we went, over meadows with a cowbell accompaniment. 

Up we went, past tall pine forests and suspended alpine lakes. "Stop moving!" said Roger, as I took a deep breath. I'm not sure looking at the mountain is a good strategy for those averse to height: it allows full contemplation of the steepness of the rise ahead and the relative fragility of the cables and pylons to which your life is entrusted.

There was a brief stop to change gondolas, from a little bubble into a bigger one for a near vertical rise. This one rotated, allowing me to plaster myself against the perspex for the best possible view while Roger retreated to the centre, his view comfortably blocked by other tourists.

The top of Mt Titlus was under construction, with all manner of tourist wonders promised. For now it pretty much followed the playbook of Jungfrau with regard to high altitude shopping and fine dining. There was another glacier walk, a little less slick in presentation, a little more slippery underfoot. Tourists clogged the selfie spots, slithering over the ice formations in a quest for the best shot. I took my time through the tunnel, waiting for moments between the tourist clumps when the tunnel was silent, the ice blue and speckled with dirt and rocks caught in long ago snowfall.

Photo bomber.

The ice tunnel fed us to stairs up the mountain with breathtaking views down, down, down to green valleys, past a walk of snow clinging tenuously to the rock in bright sunlight and icicles moving themselves toward the valley creeks one drip at a time.

I'm told that 80% of Switzerland is visible from Mt Titlus.  From my observation, Switzerland is quite pointy.

We came inevitably to the sky walk, a suspension bridge across the void, clogged with tourists lined up patiently while influencers pranced about in high heels and floaty dresses, taking and retaking footage. Never mind that it was 0C and they had ugly puffer jackets to don once the cameras were off: it was all about the illusion. Look at me, getting all grumpy grandma about the shallowness of social media.

Grumpy Grandma or not, I spent ages on the sky walk, bouncing up and down as tourists came and went, and no doubt inadvertently photo bombing a thousand selfies. I took a million photos none of which could convey the wild expanse of knife-sharp peaks, the titanium whiteness of new snow, or the aching void of cold air between the bridge deck and the valley far below.

Shadow play.

Look ma, no hands!

Roger met me at the other side, having taken the long way around on solid ground. We took a slippery walk along the ice Promenade while below us alpine hikers slogged upward one labourious step at a time. Tourists crawled under safety banners to build snowmen, throw snowballs, and pose for photos while artfully tossing handfuls of snow in the air. I tried that with almond blossoms once and ended up with ants in my hair, but I guess there's not much risk of ants in the snow.

This was slippery.

Snow layers.

Above the mayhem stood the construction cranes whose operators undoubtedly had the best office views in the world.

We took the open ski lift down a level and then back up, Roger facing his fears with only a metal safety bar between him and the void.

He took sideways glances at the suspension bridge. "Maybe I try it," he muttered. "But what happens if I freeze up half way?" I assured him that the current of tourists would push him along, frozen or not, although in hindsight this may not have been the most reassuring thing to say.

"Take a photo," he said. "I want proof that I did this. And don't expect me to stop or pose or look at the view. Once I'm on there I'm only focussing on getting to the other end." And he did, and I took a photo for proof, and here it is.

"I did it once and I'm not doing it again!"

What more is there to say? We took a quick spin through the shops and caught the gondolas back down, Roger facing outwards, riding the crest of adrenaline that comes with vanquished fears. Back in Engelberg the hang gliders still floated in the skies above us. The sun still shone but the mountains were turning coy, gathering cloud veils around their shoulders.

We had a picnic dinner down by the water front. Evening sunlight shone on old buildings across the water, and swans paddled past boats on the lake. The swans then got all pushy, fighting with ducks for scraps of bread and totally ruining their serene image but no matter, it was a lovely evening to end a fantastic day.

Houses in our street.