England may deserve its reputation for dreary weather, but it makes up for dismal winters with its slow-dawning, always charming, long-lasting spring.
The first blooms emerged this year in January (January!): dainty drooping snowdrops, too shy to raise their heads. Vibrant crocus followed, in pools of purples and pinks.
Then daffodils took the city by storm.
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“From glaciers to palm trees,” read the flyers, and I did see at least one of each. The Bernina Express, a scenic rail trip famed for its panoramic windows and expansive views, climbs to the snowy peaks before descending on the little town of Tirano.
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When I happen on a fabulous establishment accepting reservations for one, I treat myself to a set menu.
If the chef himself has selected your courses, the experience combines all the charm of surprise with the certainty of excellence.
In Vaduz, the finest hotel invites guests to the restaurant Marée, where the waiters greeted me with the warmth of long-time friends. Neither did the menu disappoint.
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Today commenced a new venture into continental Europe, the next phase in my ambitions to soak in the Alps. Farewelling friends in Rome, I braced myself for an overnight bus ride spanning three separate legs and twenty hours of travel time. If I wanted to save on my voyage to one of Europe’s most diminutive nations, I would undergo the punishment at the outset of the trip, then rest myself in the mountains.
Once Friday morning dawned, the winding bus ride graced us with spectacular views of the peaks, most white-capped and gleaming with the chill indigo unique to alpine atmospherics.
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