Day 6 of Odyssean Journey brought us from Lyon to the Camping de Molignon, in the district of Anniviers, Switzerland. We drove along A40 and then on E62 by the side of the beautiful Lake Geneva for a total of 335 km for just over 3.5 hours.
There are places we visit because they are beautiful. Then there are places we visit because they mean something. Chandolin was both.
High in the Swiss Alps, surrounded by pine forests, wooden chalets, church bells and snow-marked peaks, this little village could easily have been just a scenic stop on our Odyssean Journey from the UK to Kolkata. But for us, Chandolin had a deeper pull. We had come here because of Ella Maillart.
Ella Maillart was one of the great traveller-writers of the 20th century — Swiss, adventurous, fiercely independent, and far ahead of her time. She had been an Olympic sailor, a skier, a photographer, and above all, a woman who refused to live within the limits expected of her. Her journeys took her across Central Asia, China, Kashmir, Tibet, Nepal and India. In the 1930s, when such travel was difficult for anyone and almost unthinkable for a woman travelling alone, she crossed vast landscapes by horse, camel, car and sheer determination.
For a journey like ours, following the spirit of the old Silk Roads, Ella Maillart felt like a quiet guide. Long before we reached Central Asia ourselves, we had read about her travels through Turkestan, about the mountains and deserts, the nomads and borderlands, the mystery of places that still pull travellers eastwards.
Switzerland was more like a pilgrimage, and not merely a detour for Odyssean Journey.
In Chandolin, Ella built her chalet, Atchala, and spent many years returning to this mountain village after travelling across the world. Standing outside that simple wooden house, we felt something difficult to describe. It was not grand or dramatic. But it had a presence. Here was a woman who had crossed deserts, sailed seas, photographed distant cultures and written about the world with rare honesty — and yet she had chosen this quiet Alpine slope as her place of return.
The name of her house, Atchala, stayed with us. In Sanskrit, it suggests something “immovable” or “constant” — a name with a quiet sense of permanence. In Bengal, at-chala also refers to a traditional architectural style, often seen in temples and mosques, especially among the terracotta temples of West Bengal. This layered meaning made the name feel both personal and deeply rooted in history.
The small museum dedicated to her felt intimate. There were photographs, books, posters, maps, letters and personal objects. A hat. Sailing medals. Images from her younger years. Posters from talks on Nepal and India. These were not just museum pieces. We could almost feel the essence of a life lived with courage, curiosity and discipline.
What moved us most was not simply that Ella had travelled far. Many people travel far. What made her remarkable was the way she travelled —observing and questioning. She was not ticking off countries. She was trying to understand lives of people she encountered. Perhaps that is why her story still feels so relevant. At its best, travel is not about escape. It is about seeing the world more clearly and perhaps seeing oneself more honestly too.
After visiting the museum, we walked through Chandolin with a different feeling. The flowers, the old chalets, the church tower, the mountain air — everything seemed connected to her story. This was not just a beautiful Swiss village anymore. It was the place where a life of great movement had found stillness.
There was also something personal in that moment. We were travelling in Chetak, our Toyota Hilux, carrying maps, camera gear, diabetes-awareness leaflets, hopes, anxieties and a roof tent. Our journey was very different from Ella’s, of course. The world has changed. Roads, phones and border systems have made some things easier. But the old impulse remains the same: to leave the familiar, to cross boundaries, to meet people, and to return with stories larger than oneself.
That evening, beneath the mountains, our roof tent became our little chalet on wheels. The valley grew quiet. The clouds moved over the peaks. Somewhere above us was Chandolin; somewhere behind us was Ella’s Atchala; and somewhere ahead lay the long road east.
We came to Chandolin because of Ella Maillart.
We left with the feeling that she had quietly blessed the journey ahead.
Stay tuned :)
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