The Drive to Basel

With first light, I turned the key, eager to begin my solo adventure. It was a foggy September morning, the world still draped in a soft mist that blurred the edges of my hometown as I got underway. I’d booked the 7.50am Eurotunnel train from Folkestone, but with a clear run, managed to catch an earlier slot, driving aboard as the sun broke the horizon, its orange rays painting the platform in a warm glow. As the train pulled away from the station, it launched me into the adventure I’d longed for as I left the hustle and bustle of England behind.

I emerged into France with the fog now cleared, the sun shining, and the morning air filled with promise. My planned route was less direct than the crows, but was chosen to capitalise on cheap fuel in Luxembourg and avoid as many tolls as possible, which I could do all the way until re-entering France near Saarbrücken; it was a no-brainer.

I began heading east along the coast, with Calais fast disappearing in the rear-view mirror, before veering right to start my southward progress past Lille’s bustling edges. The roads were a joy, smooth, fast-flowing, and fairly empty, although the scenery left a lot to be desired, being mainly flat arable farmland; all of that would change soon enough though. Upon entering Belgium, the roads deteriorated quickly, with potholes and long stretches of rough tarmac, the north being in much worse condition than the roads to the south. The quality and safety of the drivers also deteriorated, with tailgating, speeding, and last-minute erratic lane changes that kept me alert on these much busier roads. Threading the needle between Brussels’ historic centre and Charleroi’s industrial heart, I hit the only traffic jam of the day, a twenty-minute delay counteracting the gains I’d made on the earlier train. Four hours after leaving Calais, I crossed into Luxembourg, my first real target of the day, to top up on cheap fuel at Aire de Capellen, a behemoth of a petrol station with 12 lanes of pumps and long queues of cars at each. It was a chaotic dance of travellers all after a bargain.

The road wound south through Germany towards Saarbrücken, then cut back into France, where my newly acquired Ulys toll badge tested my nerve on its first use. With my heart racing and locals looming behind, I gingerly approached the toll barrier to enter the A4 autoroute at Hambach and Sarreguemines. Would it lift? A quiet beep from the electronic gizmo behind my rear-view mirror brought a fist pump of relief as the barrier rose, freeing me from future toll-booth woes—for France at least.

At 1.30pm, lunch was called for with a pit stop at the services in Keskastel. I ordered a toasted jambon et fromage baguette (I knew my schoolboy French would come in handy one day) and a coffee, which warmed my hands and revived my spirit. The motorway here ran parallel to the pretty Vosges Mountains, so I decided to take my toasted bounty and drive a bit further to Aire de Katzenkopf to enjoy my lunch in the sunshine at a more peaceful spot. France’s aires, like this one, trace back to the 1950s, and were born as rest stops along the growing autoroute network to ease traveller fatigue, and over the years, have evolved into hubs with picnic areas and toilet facilities, adding practicality to the country’s vast road system.

By 4.15pm, I’d reached the Ibis Styles on Grosspeterstrasse in Basel, my stop for this first night after covering 513 miles without incident.

After a refreshing shower, I set out to explore the city in the warm evening air. Strolling across Wettsteinbrücke, which spanned the Rhine, I was surprised to see scores of people floating on the river and drifting downstream, their belongings beside them in dry bags. I continued along the far bank, keen to see what was happening, but also to grab a drink and get a bite to eat. On Claraplatz, I withdrew 20 CHF from an ATM, but without checking the exchange rate before leaving, I was unsure of its worth; I was just hoping it would be enough to quench my thirst. I soon found a bar close by, where a frothy lager with my name on it glistened in the sun, its refreshing taste sparking thoughts of dinner.

With local currency still in my pocket, the evening’s beauty drew me into Küne Kebab on Untere Rebgasse for a takeaway to savour on the Rhine’s banks. The delicious, spiced meat and fresh bread were still steaming as I unwrapped the döner from its foil and tucked in, watching hundreds of swimmers float past. This tradition of drifting with the current for both leisure and transport dates back to the 19th century, but it’s still popular today across many of the rivers in Switzerland (it certainly beats a packed commuter train as a way to get home after a hard day’s work in an office upstream). I spent a pleasant hour people-watching and enjoying the warmth of the sun along the riverbank, but as the last of the light started to fade, I began to head back towards my hotel, re-crossing the Rhine, this time on Mittlere Brücke, weaving through the medieval old town’s cobblestone streets, past Marktplatz and Basel’s rich terracotta-coloured town hall, while enjoying the city’s hip young vibe, which was boosted by the presence of Switzerland’s oldest university.

A last beer at the hotel bar made a fitting end to a wonderful first day. Exhaustion from driving melted away as my head hit the pillow, and I started to dream of the sights I was likely to see as I drove through Switzerland’s mountains to Genoa tomorrow.

To continue reading, head to: Chapter 2: Over the Passes to Genoa