High-de-high

It is a long journey - two days each way with overnight stops. But, as I discovered, coach travel is an attitude of mind. You can obsess about the hours sitting in one place or treat it as an extended sightseeing tour, especially if you're lucky enough, as the group I joined was, to have a knowledgeable driver who pointed out all the places of interest.

I had travelled part of the route before, but as navigator with my head stuck in a book of maps. This time, I sat back and enjoyed the journey. This time I could relax and enjoy the scenery as we passed through the Somme, now a peaceful marshland nature reserve, but once a desolate mire in which countless First World War troops died.

Thanks to our driver I also discovered why each French motorway bridge is painted a different, bright colour. It's to stop drivers falling asleep at the wheel - an idea that might be usefully imported into this country.

Gradually, the flat plains of the north gave way to rolling hills, then mountains, the tedious drizzle turned to brilliant sunshine and, at last - a little saddle sore - we arrived in Annecy, Venice of the Alps.

The title is well deserved. Its medieval heart is criss-crossed by waterways and on an island in the middle stands one of the town's landmarks - the former jail. Small bridges lead you through narrow archways, into cobbled squares and quiet yards where a variety of shops, restaurants catering for all tastes and pockets and atmospheric cafes and bars shelter in the shade of covered archways.

This is a place to wander, or to sit at one of the many pavement cafe tables to enjoy a tartiflette - a regional speciality, made from combining potatoes, bacon, cream and the local reblochon cheese.

Or, if the heat of the sun gets too much, cool down by taking one of the guided boat trips around the lake past tucked-away beaches and caves accessible only from the water.

For anyone still feeling energetic after a day spent sightseeing, a trip into Annecy in the evening is rewarding. After the bustle of the day, the town shows its more relaxed side, its ancient buildings lit by the gentle glow of lamps, the mountain peaks softened as day gives way to night, and the roar of cars and buses replaced by the buzz of conversation from the numerous cafes.

On a coach trip you have to put your trust in your driver. He says he can get you to the ferry terminal on time, you don't doubt him. He tells you the hotel is just round the next corner, you take him at his word. He tells you he can drive a standard 50-seater coach down a pass that even a mountain goat might think twice about, you have faith in him.

Although nervous of heights, it is proof of our driver's skill that I would not hesitate to travel through the mountains again. The views were truly amazing as valleys, woods and snow-covered peaks unrolled before us en route to the Col des Aravis mountain pass, popular with cyclists (who can have their cards stamped for reaching the top) and the organisers of the Tour de France (it was included on both the 2002 and 2006 race schedules).

I quickly realised that my image of the Alps owed much to a TV serialisation of Heidi (wrong country) and Ski Sunday (wrong season) - but the further we travelled into the mountains, the more I discovered they were not too far removed from reality. The cows really do wear bells round their necks and the houses with their steep roofs and shuttered windows conjure up scenes of cosy winter evenings huddled around an open fire.

The Col des Aravis, the internet will tell you, is a mountain pass linking the Haute Savoie and the Savoie regions of France at an altitude of just under 1,500m. What the internet cannot convey is the sense of peace you get here, or how clear the air is, or how awe-inspiring the landscape. A tiny chapel welcomes travellers, wooden chalets have souvenirs and food for sale, but they all fade into insignificance as you stand and stare at the beauty of the natural world around you.

Amid the timeless beauty of this part of France, it is easy to imagine that the great events of history passed it by. But then you return to the towns, turn a corner and see a plaque on a wall, a remembrance square or a shrine to a young Resistance fighter shot dead by the Nazis, and you realise that even this idyllic spot has been touched by the darker days of modern European history.

'Over there you can see Mont Blanc" - wherever we went, this mountain seemed to go with us, dwarfing the other peaks around it. This was a mountain with attitude, and one that deserved its name. As the sun beat down on us, Mont Blanc gleamed in the distance, the rays bouncing off its brilliant white slopes.

Nestling at the foot of the mountain is the ski resort of Chamonix where outdoor pursuits dominate the local economy. So it was no surprise to discover that, should the mood take me, I could hike up the lower slopes of Mont Blanc. Unfortunately, I'd left my boots at home that day, so I took the train instead.

Up the wooded mountain side we chugged, with Chamonix soon no bigger than Toy Town in the valley below, before pulling into the station overlooking the Mer de Glace glacier. And this is one mighty "sea of ice" - the second largest in the Alps - its surface all pitted and craggy as it moves imperceptibly down the mountainside.

A cemetery might not be the most obvious place to visit while on holiday, but in Chamonix is a graveyard that reveals just how dangerous Mont Blanc can be. Simple plaques along one wall, many bearing only a name, age and date, are dedicated to the climbers, including several guides, who have lost their lives on its slopes.

In contrast to the rugged splendour of Mont Blanc and the outdoor heartiness of Chamonix, the spa town of Aix les Bains - where Queen Victoria was a frequent visitor - was full of frantic activity with a never-ending stream of traffic bringing those keen to take the waters or plunge into the hydrotherapy pools. As they plunged, I escaped to the peace and quiet of one of the local parks.

As a major city, I had expected Geneva to be busy, but nothing had prepared me for what met us as we got off the coach. Countless vehicles whizzed past at speed, filling the air with noise and fumes. Just as I was ready to dismiss the city, on a whim, I turned off the main thoroughfare and, at the top of a steep hill, found the other face of Geneva, one of quiet streets where the bicycle reigns supreme, of little winding streets and grand buildings.

Down below, modern city life went on, but it is the memory of this peaceful corner of the city that will stay with me, as will the narrow, twisting byways of medieval Annecy and the clear mountain air of the Col des Aravis.