Preconceptions go out the window on European bus tour

After the gondola trip in Venice everyone said goodbye.

Until I'd actually been on one, I thought coach tours were the stuff of yobbo legend: nudie runs through the Swiss Alps, beer-swilling contests on the bus, partner-swapping in the Colosseum.

Okay, I'm exaggerating but I was a little nervous to meet the 40 people I would be sharing a coach with for the next 13 days across the Continent, the first leg of a Kumuka Worldwide tour that would continue around Europe for 28 days.

To my relief, my preconceptions were just that. The trip catered for travellers all ages, and of my lot waiting in the lobby of a London hotel, most were in their 20s and 30s, already coupled off and toting sensible-looking suitcases on wheels.

I couldn't have imagined that in just a few minutes I would be jabbering about my life as we hurtled into France at 300kmh on the cushy Eurostar, and hours later taking photos of my new friends in front of the Notre Dame.

I certainly couldn't have guessed that just a week into the trip, I would be stripping off to my undies in front of the Aussie league players, a Texan accountant and a Kiwi designer - then plunging into the French Riviera at four in the morning.

But things happen fast on bus tours. By the time we'd arrived in Paris to meet our British tour guide, a patient and knowledgeable bloke, whose buzz word was "fantastic", most of us had buddied up with someone with whom to share the first free afternoon. In my case, six heads proved no better than one when it came time to navigating the labyrinthine halls of the Metro, a hilarious tale of woe we later shared over the first of many group dinners.

At my table: a) a psychologist, b) an environmental planner and c) an IT expert, who I would later discover to be a) slightly crazy b) a murder witness and c) a woman thrilled to be on the opposite side of the world to her husband.

As we bonded over the cheap French wine, we learnt why people were here. Most of the Aussies, Kiwis, an American and a couple of South Africans had chosen this tour as a matter of convenience: most of the meals, travel and accommodation were taken care of, leaving us free to enjoy the sights.

Others were attracted to the ample free time in the itinerary, and the fact there was no pressure to stay out past your bed-time if you didn't want to.

The only real pressure, it seemed, was that of time, and less than two days to see Paris made for a demanding start. There is so much to do in the city of lights it would have been stupid to try to do it all.

So the next day we did just that, starting with an early morning hike up the Eiffel Tower to avoid the queues, a stroll through the Rodin gardens to visit the Thinker, a blat through Napoleon's oddly shaped tomb, then on to the Musee D'Orsay and one wing of the Louvre.

As we settled into our seats at an evening cabaret, a cheaper alternative to Moulin Rouge, I felt culturally gratified, knackered and guilty I hadn't managed to get to the Sacre Coeur.

But hey, we were on holiday.

After a relaxing waterside lunch in Geneva, I watched lazily from the coach window as the deep-green fields rolled past, gradually turning mountainous as we threaded our way along one of two mirror lakes. By the time we'd reached Interlaken, a quiet and picturesque Noddy-town that butts up against a snowy mountain face, I felt well and truly relaxed.

Even more so after an evening at the ridiculous Fawlty Towers-style Bebby's, where our cheese fondue was served by a madman from Basel with a water pistol in one hand and a bottle of schnapps in the other.

Thankfully, altitude does wonders for hangovers, and the following morning, most of us took up the option to travel on the Jungfrau Joch, the famous Swiss train that winds slowly and silently through Lauterbrunnen, ascending to 3571m, the highest point in Europe.

During the two-and-a-half-hour trip, I wouldn't have been surprised if Heidi had come yodelling her way down the mountain, plaits a-swinging, as picture-perfect Switzerland materialised: alpine homes with their precise ratios of wood to glass, the odd hiker trudging up a hill, a stream that runs a pale mint colour through the valley.

At the top, it is achingly quiet, other than the crunch of shoes in snow and the wind whipping around your face. It is also breath-takingly beautiful.

On our next stop, in the pretty lakeside town of Annecy, I spent a therapeutic few hours alone, wandering through the ancient cobbled streets, trying out my French (and the French pastries) and shopping in the markets for a decent pair of shoes to wear for our big night out in Monaco.

I thought my heels were dangerous but they weren't as scary as the roads. As the coach hugged the twisting cliff edge on the drive from Nice to Monaco the next day, the tour guide helpfully pointed out the place where Grace Kelly's car plunged into a ravine. Aside from a piddly white fence, there isn't much to stop others from doing the same.

Mansions, swimming pools and apartment blocks spring out of the orange earth, Le Palais Royal emerges on the rocky embankment and pristine super-yachts glisten in the harbour.

Fewer than 30 people a year are accepted as new citizens in this 30,000-strong principality. As if to confirm Monaco's pretentiousness, the restaurateur was grouchy when we arrived for dinner, hurling loud insults in French at one of his waiters.

Halfway through the meal the restaurateur spilt red wine all over a diner's trousers. When she asked for soda water to soak it up, he returned with a bottle, a maniacal glint in his eye, and tipped the entire thing over her lap.

I knew how she felt when I woke the next day in my Nice hotel room with wet hair, salty skin and vague recollections of a late-night swim. Then I spent a carefree day on the pebble beach with the leathery, saggy-boobed locals, only to discover we weren't the only ones from the tour who'd had a dramatic evening. One of the women had slipped out of the club and got lost on the dark streets of Nice trying to find her way back to the hotel.

There was more drama the following night in Montecatini, a vibrant town two hours out of Florence, where we enjoyed our first traditional Italian meal as a group, dining on caviar, olives and grappa, a lethal drink made from the pressed skins and seeds of grapes. The sight of a glassy-eyed blonde burbling in an Australian accent as she later stumbled back to the hotel shocked one of the locals into calling an ambulance.

But they were only minor incidents on a tour which was more memorable for its sights. Take Florence. I'd always imagined it to be quiet, quaint and quintessentially Italian. And in some parts it is: the view of the sedate River Arno from the medieval Ponte Vecchio (old bridge), the way the majestic Duomo cathedral looms over the narrow cobbled streets, the spire of the Palazzo Vecchio that interrupts the skyline.

But elsewhere, it's fast-paced, in-your-face, sensory overload; more like Paris meets Hong Kong.

Shops sell Gucci and Prada, tour groups merge in the streets and the atmosphere is as happening as any major city anywhere in the world.

Having rushed through the Italian wing of the Louvre, I couldn't wait to see the works of Giotto, Leonardo and Michelangelo at the Uffizi Gallery.

Unfortunately the queue was too long to contemplate but I got a sense of the city's artistic heritage as a young busker performed Vivaldi on his violin for the line of people.

We'd already seen the world's most famous naked man on countless pairs of boxers in Pisa but in the flesh and fresh from a recent cleaning, Goliath's muscular nemesis was worth the wait. Flat images fail to convey the enormity of the task Michelangelo undertook when he carved David from a single block of marble, discarded for an imperfection by two other sculptors. Every muscle and vein gleams.

I wished we could have extended our time in the beautiful Tuscan countryside as an antidote to that hectic day, but bus tours wait for no one.

Still, we did manage to jump-start our metabolisms with a delicious food and wine-tasting in the Chianti region, where even the tee-totallers sloshed down excellent young reds and a variety of fine delicacies, such as Ribollita, a broth made from stale bread, olive oil and pureed vegetables.

Next stop was the mist-cloaked village of San Gimignano, with its dingy Medieval Criminal Museum, equipped with all manner of instruments of torture. Punishments on display included whips that lashed the victim until he had open wounds. He or she would then be forced into a bucket of human excrement and wheeled around town with only a head poking out.

Rome, a city where modern life coincides chaotically with the ancient world, was equally scary at first.

On our first sight-seeing day, going by the ancient advice: "when in Rome", some of us hired scooters, the transport of choice for most locals. All we knew was to drive on the right, use the horn and keep our wits about us. Cars, buses, taxis and other scooters merged dangerously at every turn and we found ourselves shooting through the gaps and making lightning-quick decisions.

One minute I was swerving to avoid a group of nuns crossing the road, the next I was dangerously distracted by the majestic Victor Emmanuel monument rising up on the left.

The police only laughed and pointed me in the right direction when I found myself barrelling down a one-way street straight towards them. Just when I started to feel really reckless, an elderly woman on a turbo-powered number cut me off, a look of pure nonchalance on her face.

This high-speed pursuit was a great way to see Rome. Our pedestrian tour mates would tell us later how they sweated their way around the tourist map, barely pausing long enough to sip from one of the city's famous drinking fountains.

We, on the other hand, had enough time to explore the Colosseum, have a beer at the top of the magnificent Spanish Steps, eat paper-thin pizza outside the Pantheon and throw coins into the Trevi Fountain for good luck.

The day our ferry chugged into Venice, with its awe-inspiring Byzantine Basilica and ornate, middle-eastern domes, the mood was sombre. Some had already said goodbye in Rome, but that day the tour would farewell 14 travellers before continuing through Eastern Europe.

Venice was spilling tears of its own as it has done for centuries. In more recent times, those who operate in the historic St Mark's Square have built platforms to adjust for the rising tides. Despite the controversial dams put up to ease the problem, the brown liquid seems to gurgle in out of nowhere, forcing cafes to close as they fill to knee-depth.

With the surge came the odd dead pigeon and water rat.

We spent the morning getting lost in Venice's narrow streets, burying ourselves in shops selling famous Venetian masks and glassware (I bought a gorgeous, lolly-coloured ring) and saying our goodbyes after a traditional gondola ride.

If time flies when you're having fun, it goes even faster in Europe.

CASE NOTES

Tour details

Kumuka Expeditions' London to Rome European Escapade is a 10-day hotel and luxury bus tour through France, Switzerland and Italy.

What it costs

The tour price ex-London is $2310, which includes a high-speed Eurostar train through the Chunnel; accommodation in Paris, Interlaken, Annecy, Nice, Florence and Rome; a night cruise on the Seine and walking tours of Florence and Rome as well as nine breakfasts and five dinners. Various extensions are available. For example, three days in Venice costs an extra $500.

Things to do

Optional activities include a night at the cabaret in Paris, a trip up the Jungfraujoch and paragliding in Switzerland, a visit to the Monte Carlo Casino in Monaco, a tour of a French parfumerie in Nice, a day trip to Pompeii, a gondola ride in Venice and plenty of nights out on the town.

Further information Call 0800 440 499 for a copy of the new brochure or check the website.

* Rebecca Barry travelled as a guest of Kumuka Expeditions.