Yesterday ended just as beautifully as it began — possibly even better, because there were sausages for tea. Ruth, the wonderful woman who welcomed me into her home, cooked up an absolute storm: Swiss sausages, creamy risotto, and some carrots that absolutely did their job. As if preparing a feast for one eternally-hungry pilgrim wasn’t enough, she even made a feta salad — based, she said, on prior encounters with ravenous walkers. I had to disappoint her slightly; after second helpings of sausage and rice, I was too stuffed to do much more than poke at it. But oh, I was grateful. Especially since the only other food options in Orbe seemed to be located somewhere in Narnia.

These past few days have left me totally wiped. So Ruth’s kindness this morning made me want to cry tears of jam. She was up at 07:00 preparing a breakfast of fresh bread, local cheese, and her amazing homemade jams. However, now that I’ve left France, I must sadly report the croissant era is over. No more pain aux raisins either. I mourned briefly, then made do with half a baguette and three different kinds of jam, because resilience is key.

Once I’d fuelled up and reunited with my boots and socks (which had been exiled to the garden for... reasons), I eventually waddled off just after 08:15. I say “waddled” because walking slowly would be an understatement. The first 10km were easy — just enough of a climb to produce some light perspiration (a.k.a. "gentle glistening"). The trail took me back along the magical, green, Disney-princess-level peaceful Orbe Gorge, then peeled off through some fields and forests that looked like they’d been colour-graded by Wes Anderson.

I’ve realised I far prefer the bright, colourful houses and whimsical livestock of Switzerland over the endless fields of French grey and beige. Still, there was a certain charm to the repetitive rhythm of France:

* Where are the people?

* Will there be a bar?

* Will the bar exist or be a mirage?

* What am I doing for dinner?

* Am I accidentally walking into someone’s garden?

* Where do I sleep?

* Will it have a shower or a bucket?

Switzerland is a different beast. People say hello with actual warmth, and nobody looks like I’ve just asked them to adopt a stray cow when I say I’m walking to Rome. That said, I do miss the constant chorus of the "Bakery Bonjours" I was starting to get used to!

Speaking of bakeries: Ruth told me the first town had one. Of course, it was closed. “Quelle surprise,” I muttered like a bitter detective in a French noir film. Fortunately, I found a small courtyard café that was open. The coffee was great, the sun was shining, and for a moment I forgot I was carrying half my worldly possessions on my back.

Minor panic at the till when I noticed the receipt said “CHF” instead of €. Ah yes — different country, different currency. Luckily, Monzo saved the day like a tiny financial superhero.

Onwards I trudged to the next town, which — despite the promises in the guidebook — had no services either. I sincerely hope Italy is better stocked. Feeling slightly deflated (and rethinking my life choices), I stuck my headphones in. Music always helps me walk faster — partly for motivation, partly so I don’t hear myself complain out loud.

Then came a miracle: in La Sarraz, there was an open restaurant. For the first time during my tip so far, I decided to stop and eat a proper lunch (i.e not a baguette or quiche). I even had a chat with the lovely waitress and drank a super-cold iced tea that tasted like actual happiness. Honestly, I left that place like I was starring in a music video — faster pace, hair blowing in the wind (OK, sweat), and legs that suddenly worked again.

The final stretch to Cossonay was along a flat field path beside a stream. Inhave seen several hydroelectric factories these past few days. Yesterday, the pipes that snaked down the hillside were like enormous steel anacondas. Very scenic. Very industrial.

Also: more wildlife! I forgot to mention that a few days ago, a roe deer gave me a long, suspicious stare, as if to say, “You don’t belong here.” Today, I saw more — and butterflies galore. One landed on my sock (deeply validating), and another gently perched on my hand like some kind of Disney endorsement.

Arriving in Cossonay was a breeze, but staying there? Less so. Everything was ludicrously expensive. The guidebook actually warned me this would happen and suggested hopping on a train to Lausanne. Which is exactly what I did.

Now here’s the twist: the “train station” in Cossonay? Not a train station. A funicular. Yes, a literal cable car down the mountain. After battling with a ticket machine that clearly didn’t want to be helpful, I jumped aboard. It waited patiently for me to finish faffing, then whisked me down to Cossonay-Penthalaz, where I caught the train to Lausanne.

Naturally, the hostel was another 3km walk (because what is life without one more hill and extra walkl?). Check-in was amusing: the girl at the front desk was cracking up at everything we talked about. No idea if she was delirious or just Swiss and happy. Either way, she made me laugh a lot too. It was quite the welcome. 

I’m glad I pre-ordered dinner, which meant I could shower and eat without even pretending to be functional. There’s someone else in the four-bed room, which will be interesting. It will only be the second time I have had to share a room during my journey so far. It is also strange: having a bar which is open and serving beer, one that exists and is not hidden, closed or in some empty barn. It’s all very... civilised.

This might be the most relaxed blog post I’ve written. Tomorrow is laundry day (the socks are beginning to take on a life of their own), and a full rest day. Thursday, I’ll head back to Cossonay and walk the rest of the stage properly. Because that’s the kind of pilgrim I am: food and coffee-driven, occasionally scenic, and always coming back to finish what I started.