“It is the best,” said the manager, “really the best.”

Had I been able to walk forward three paces, I could have spat down two thousand feet, had I been able to spit.

“It is for you. A good place for a writer.”

“Who told you I am a writer?”

“My brother, the manager of the Schiff. The suite and the view is for you. Cheaply.”

I was being shepherded from one family business to another. I cast a nervous glance at the 00-gauge railway that was laid out for children half a mile below, then concentrated on the nearer pot plants. On the balcony there was that white-painted iron table I had sat at in the Schiff, four white-painted chairs and a white-painted chaise-longue.

“My car will be safe? It was unlocked.”

“The car, sir?”

“The garage.”

“Both will be safe, locked or unlocked.”

There was a pause. The view was changing minute by minute. A white line divided a black cliff below a mile-high iced cake.

“What is that?”

“Where, sir?”

“There.”

“The Spurli. It is a waterfall. At the moment, with little snow left, it is a thread. It comes from that valley up there where our army conducted manoeuvres—”

“Up there? Impossible!”

“To tell you the truth, I was there. I do so each year. I am a major. Then—a word of necessary advice. I should not try to walk for a day or two.”

“You mean I should acclimatize?”

“That is the English usage, is it not? Our American guests say ‘Acclimate’.”

“But I’ve been in the Zurich area.”

The manager made a dismissive gesture, as if the difference between Zurich and the English Channel was too small to be noticed.

“Nevertheless, you are not in your first youth, Mr Barclay, and a day or two of rest is advisable.”

“I shall remember.”

“And with our view before you, we shall hope to be the source, not to say the inspiration, of some notable creation, sir. This is the bell. Our pleasure is to serve you.”

The manager bowed himself out. I moved forward a little. I did not look down over the railing—a gesture for heroes. I pulled the chaise-longue as far from the railings as possible, wrapped myself in a vast duvet from the bedroom, stretched myself out and contemplated the view. It continued to change, to reveal further fantasies of rock or snow. It revealed slopes where there had apparently been caverns, turned the black cliff that had been a backdrop to the Spurli first to grey then brown. I lay, inviting nature to astonish me. It did so, moderately, as usual. For the manager was wrong, of course. I had been in too many places, had seen too many extravagances. In any case, marvellous views don’t get writers or painters going. They just give them an excuse for doing nothing. If anything, a marvellous view gets in a writer’s way. It engages him to it. So I watched, as peaks appeared beyond what I had thought was there and a nearer one proved to be a white cloud. But we have seen the set pieces, the Himalayas, the Andes, the Sahara, storms at sea, cloudless, moonless nights unpolluted by the glow from cities, we have seen underwater fantasies and rain forests—ha et cetera. What a writer needs is a brick wall, rendered if possible, so that he can’t see through it into a landscape suggested by the surface. I saw this would be another wasted week.