The first day of our trip started badly and ended well. The last day started just fine, continued well with an interesting (free) visit to the Landesmuseum, better still with a reunion lunch with my dear old friend Thierry, and continued pleasantly with a short wait in the open air terrace at Zurich airport. The flight left on time, but I soon started to feel rather breathless (this after congratulating myself on Sunday for feeling no ill effects at 2500+ metres). Yep, the plane had failed to pressurise, so we were soon in the holding loop for Zürich again. (So far, then, I’m unimpressed by the Bombardier C Series.) We’d then to queue for half an hour for our re-booked boarding cards - mine in row 5 and Martyn’s in row 38, respectively the first and last rows of the economy cabin (and his A seat lacked a window). As I write, we have half an hour to wait to board a flight to poxy bloody Heathrow, and are working out how to get home, and at what extra cost. Swiss kindly provided us with vouchers for a snack, limited to little more than bread and water, so I bought myself a proper sandwich. And a glass of wine, oddly enough.
The flight was further delayed because of problem loading all the baggage, so,we lost our already delayed take-off slot. Odd that, given that a third of the baggage had been lying around for four hours, and they must surely know how to load the luggage of a full A321. When we pushed back, the captain obligingly told us that this was only because the gate was needed by an incoming flight, and we were being towed to another parking position. Not a bad plan, in fact, because the parking position was at the end of runway 32, so we could take up our slot promptly. In-flight catering amounted to a small roll with a scrape of cheese and some chopped cucumber, on detecting which I rejected it in favour of a night’s sleep. Oh, and glasses of water and, mercifully, white wine.
Fortunately, I had good company on the flight, if not the company I wanted. A young cardiologist, now working with a pharmaceutical company. The flight did what it was supposed to, circled only a couple of times over Leatherhead and deposited us fairly promptly at Terminal 2. Heathrow is, at the best of times, worthy of a lengthy tirade of spleen, even if one volunteers to use it. That we had not, that we arrived there some five hours after we’d been scheduled to arrive at the airport we had chosen and that we then faced a long and complicated journey home did not improve my outlook on the world. A long trek to the passport check ensued. As usual half of the automatic gates weren’t working, and Martyn had to queue to be seen by an agent, waiting behind someone who evidently didn’t know when and where he was born. A further very long trek to the railway station, and an extra £44 to get to Paddington.
Fortunately from that point onwards the process was smooth. OK, another route march from the Heathrow Express to the Bakerloo line, but the train arrived promptly, connecting quickly with the Jubilee at Baker Street. That connected with a train at London Bridge, and there was a taxi waiting at Disgustedville Central. From the firm that failed to turn up the day we left, ironically enough.
Though I ought really to have slept till noon, I was anxious to get some watering done before the day warms up too much, and I’ve made a start on the laundry while Martyn snoozes on. The garden is not too bad, in fact, and I see that we have the beginnings of a modest crop of dwarf French beans. And, much as we enjoyed the wonderful scenery of Switzerland and the great company of friends, it is good to be home from the noisy surroundings of the past week. I can’t honestly recommend the Ibis in Chur. Though it’s very handy for the bus to the station and has shops nearby for those of us who dislike hotel dining rooms, it lacks air conditioning, and we were constantly disturbed by traffic noise: the busy road outside, cars queuing beneath the balcony for the McDrive downstairs and the crashing and banging from the Migros loading bay next door. Oh, and sprogs on mopeds. Chur is an excellent centre for touring E Switzerland by public transport, however, so if you wanted to use the Ibis, I dare say a room on the third floor at the back might be more satisfactory.
I’ll put up a collection of photos once my eyes are properly open.
The flight was further delayed because of problem loading all the baggage, so,we lost our already delayed take-off slot. Odd that, given that a third of the baggage had been lying around for four hours, and they must surely know how to load the luggage of a full A321. When we pushed back, the captain obligingly told us that this was only because the gate was needed by an incoming flight, and we were being towed to another parking position. Not a bad plan, in fact, because the parking position was at the end of runway 32, so we could take up our slot promptly. In-flight catering amounted to a small roll with a scrape of cheese and some chopped cucumber, on detecting which I rejected it in favour of a night’s sleep. Oh, and glasses of water and, mercifully, white wine.
Fortunately, I had good company on the flight, if not the company I wanted. A young cardiologist, now working with a pharmaceutical company. The flight did what it was supposed to, circled only a couple of times over Leatherhead and deposited us fairly promptly at Terminal 2. Heathrow is, at the best of times, worthy of a lengthy tirade of spleen, even if one volunteers to use it. That we had not, that we arrived there some five hours after we’d been scheduled to arrive at the airport we had chosen and that we then faced a long and complicated journey home did not improve my outlook on the world. A long trek to the passport check ensued. As usual half of the automatic gates weren’t working, and Martyn had to queue to be seen by an agent, waiting behind someone who evidently didn’t know when and where he was born. A further very long trek to the railway station, and an extra £44 to get to Paddington.
Fortunately from that point onwards the process was smooth. OK, another route march from the Heathrow Express to the Bakerloo line, but the train arrived promptly, connecting quickly with the Jubilee at Baker Street. That connected with a train at London Bridge, and there was a taxi waiting at Disgustedville Central. From the firm that failed to turn up the day we left, ironically enough.
Though I ought really to have slept till noon, I was anxious to get some watering done before the day warms up too much, and I’ve made a start on the laundry while Martyn snoozes on. The garden is not too bad, in fact, and I see that we have the beginnings of a modest crop of dwarf French beans. And, much as we enjoyed the wonderful scenery of Switzerland and the great company of friends, it is good to be home from the noisy surroundings of the past week. I can’t honestly recommend the Ibis in Chur. Though it’s very handy for the bus to the station and has shops nearby for those of us who dislike hotel dining rooms, it lacks air conditioning, and we were constantly disturbed by traffic noise: the busy road outside, cars queuing beneath the balcony for the McDrive downstairs and the crashing and banging from the Migros loading bay next door. Oh, and sprogs on mopeds. Chur is an excellent centre for touring E Switzerland by public transport, however, so if you wanted to use the Ibis, I dare say a room on the third floor at the back might be more satisfactory.
I’ll put up a collection of photos once my eyes are properly open.
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