Two hours later, and with another grueling 45 minutes ahead, I grudgingly thanked Scarlett. If nothing, she'd provided the perfect trailer to my Swiss holiday. Later, as we dined on pumpkin mousse soup and pinot noir wines, I prepared for a night excursion to the Viamala Gorge, 15 minutes from Andeer. Fast facts about this natural wonder translated into the following: 321 steps down the gorge take you to the Rhine; the gorge is only a few metres wide in parts and this old muletter's trail takes you across the borders into Italy, a path that Goethe had traversed. Years later, when he recalled the journey, the author dubbed Viamala the most treacherous rocky pass in Switzerland.

To me it was a Grand Canyon tour of sorts, though the still night air and blanket of darkness did little to quell my paranoia of missing a hollow. Shepherded by lantern-toting guides, climbing down the 321 steps was hardly a task. The return journey was something else. I stopped at every second opportunity, trying to catch my breath while I pretended to admire queer rock formations gouged out by powerful torrents. My guide sang paeans to the beauty of ravine, turning to searchlight in every direction that my eyes wandered. His powerful voice echoed in the darkness with the music of the Rhine as accompaniment. Glimpses of bridges that once formed the Viamala (literally; bad road') trade route served as grim reminders of the hardship that both man and beast endured. A breathtaking sight. It's another matter that I'd hardly any to give away.

I woke up at the crack of fawn the next day, impatient to let in a rush of air into the room. Perhaps it was my best bet at fortifying the lungs. Later, I dwelled on the wonders of artificial respiration - the oxygen cylinder, to be more precise - as the Post Bus raced towards the neighboring town of Thusis around 2 hours from Basel by car hire.

Andersen once served the army, never Santa Claus, and now volunteers as guide for Graubunden Tourism. It took him only give minutes to bring us to our first stop - a beautiful parish, though neither historic nor culturally significant. It stood in the middle of undulating pastures. Patches of maize crop and cluster s of apple orchards made for the only distraction. The occasional toot of narrow-gauge Rhaetian Railway carriage, the lone manmade creation within miles of this isolated prayer house, didn't seem out of place or jarring to the ears. I imagined the rain - a streak of bright red - sailing through acres of rippling grassland.

Equally striking was the decoration of colourful wreaths in the cemetery within the parish. Signs of the last Sunday mass lay around: candles, half burned, stood on the graves; a plasma book forgotten on a pew; even a wedding announcement on the solitary blackboard.