It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so. (Mark Twain)

On this long hike, it has often dawned on me how little I really know, and how little I thought I knew is accurate.

Perhaps this has something to do with age. Only at advanced ages you realize that you in fact know little or nothing at all. I find the idea somehow comforting ... and irritating at the same time.

But that's just the beauty on such trips: you finally have time to think about things for which there is otherwise no time. Also about the fact that you (finally) recognize your own limitations.

But what the heck, I keep going, towards Geneva, and now I can indeed spot the end of the lake, where Geneva lies in the early morning fog. Tomorrow I will be there.

But the final destination is still far, today a demanding, rather long hike awaits me. Of course, the travel guide speaks of things that no longer concern me, because also today I take a different route.

From the busy, built-up shore zone, the hiking trail swings into the flat hinterland between Lake Geneva and the Jura with its dreamy villages, old castles, secluded streams, sparse oak forests and cultivated fields.

 

From Gland to Commugny

 

Noisy forest

I leave at the lake and in a few minutes I'm already back in the middle of the forest, and that's not going to change anytime soon. Sometimes it seems to me as if it were the same paths and trees and bushes as yesterday or the day before. Which they aren't, of course, but they certainly look absolutely the same. Even the puddles and deep ditches remind me of yesterday.

The road to Prangins zigzags for a few kilometers through a dense forest and past a golf course where, despite the bad weather, a few undaunted individuals indulge in their beloved sport.

Today, for once, I am not alone in the forest; a group of young people, accompanied by their teacher, are noisily making their way along the paths. Apparently, an excursion into nature is on today's agenda. Sometimes I'm ahead of them, then they catch up, overtake me, until I take the lead again.

 

Eternal similar paths through dense forest Are they the same paths as yesterday?

 

Wild Water

The lake greets me with furious roaring and raging, as if outraged that it will soon be left alone. The waves crash against the shore, wet ice-cold gusts fall over the tables and chairs of the closed garden restaurant, there is no one there, only me. It gives me the opportunity to take a break, eat a roll and watch the wild commotion of the lake.

My solitary contemplation soon comes to an end when the group of young people arrives. We know each other in the meantime, we greet, nod to each other in a friendly manner, but the young people are reserved. Although I get the one or other curious glance, no one addresses me. What a polite youth.

 

Bad weather at the lake

 

Abyss

Prangins and Nyon have grown together, I walk through the noisy streets without much enthusiasm, not knowing if I am still in Prangins or already in Nyon.

At the train station in Nyon I finally have the opportunity to replenish my supplies, I don't need much more until tomorrow evening. I sit down on a bench, drink, eat, watched by an elderly, lost-looking woman with hungy eyes. Even here, paradise has its limits, but one is mostly blind to the abysses that open up not far away.

Shortly after Nyon the path branches off again, it follows initially the railroad, then again the forest, over narrow bridges, boggy ground, until finally again along meadows, the way I like it. In any case you definitely won't get bored.

 

Along the train tracks

...over bridges...

...and very dirty paths...

... but then again along the forest on beautiful paths

 

Van Gogh Country

Now I'm standing here, wondering. Have I mistakenly strayed into a painting by Vincent Van Gogh? Or am I no longer near Lake Geneva but somewhere in Provence?

At a cute little house with a tower, the path branches off into a wonderland of yellow wheat fields. Not surprisingly, from the very first moment I feel as if I have landed in a painting by Van Gogh. The only thing missing are the cypresses, or - in another famous painting - the flocks of ravens in the sky.

 

Is it a small castle or just a house with a small tower?

Dark sky above a wheat field

Van Gogh Wheatfield

It's Van Gogh country - sky and yellow fields

The rest of the stage is quickly told. Eventually, the trail is absorbed by villages and hamlets, it passes through densely populated areas, along rather tedious asphalt roads, until finally Commugny appears, and there is my hotel, and it looks just as closed as the one in Etoy.

After all, after a short time a young lady shows up at the window, she is, so to speak, the keeper of the light on this day and opens the door for me. All is well, the room is first class and for the last time I stretch my tired limbs.

But my feet, which have been holding up brilliantly so far, definitely seem to have lost the appetite for more kilometers. Especially the toes on my right foot look somehow strange. They are swollen and aching, especially in the morning and after breaks. Sometimes I get approached as I hobble by like an very old man. But dear feet, it is not far anymore.

 

Matching Song:   Mule and Man - 10k Types of Tortures

And here the tour is coming to an end ... to Geneva

 

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