Ouchy, Lausanne's waterfront, out of season.
A grey November day, brightened.
Graffiti on chipboard? Everything seems picturesque.
Lausanne's old town - the stuff of fairy tales and hidden stories.
Rude colour blooms in glitzy Montreux.
Nabakov passed happy years at the Montreux Palace, holed up in a suite.
Retracing footsteps, along the shores of Léman.
Terms of endearment, in Lausanne centre.
In my last days as a student in Lausanne, I remember going to see my tutor just before I was due to return to England. She asked me why I seemed so reluctant to leave. Had I fallen in love? she said. Oh, yes, I replied. For I had, and I was sure that Lausanne loved me back. Returning now, twelve years on, I'm still flushed with passion for the place. I passed one of the happiest years of my life on that lakeside, and over the mountains on the opposite shore I spent two snow-filled winters, just a few years ago. It's a corner of the world that will forever be linked for me with an unerring sense of possibility. Of new beginnings. And of tales worth telling.