ly named Glacier Express after changing
trains at Chur, with the cleverly designed
compartments with glass ceilings offering
a stunning vista of the Swiss Alps as the
train eventually passes the Cresta Run and
homes in St Moritz.
Despite having spent most of my life be-
ing a catastrophically bad skier, there's still
nothing quite like snow-clad mountains to
make my heart sing and, even without the
extra encouragement from a rather nice
Swiss Pinot Noir, it's hard to recall having
arrived anywhere, after what was a fairly
long journey, in a better frame of mind.
By now, I had fully convinced myself that
Dawn and I were slightly unglamorous ex-
tras on an incredibly glamorous set for an
Agatha Christie movie. Being fairly practical
women who spend lots of time outdoors,
we felt we were appropriately dressed for
the occasion in our ski gear. Unfortunate-
ly, the wardrobe department seemed to
