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Sheltered by trees and awash in birdsong, Richard Burton’s grave is bathed in a pocket of sunlight when I arrive at Vieux Cimetière, Céligny's old cemetery. To describe this place as off the beaten track would be something of an understatement. There’s nobody else around – the sort of spot where the only people you might meet are determined dog-walkers or hardy hikers – and even the faint hum of distant traffic is drowned out beneath the trickle of a nearby stream. The headstone, a simple moss-tinted stone, stands among ivy and ferns, its only words are his name and the years that mattered most: 1925-1984. At the base sits a small white lantern with Burton's photograph inside, left by another visitor. Pots of flowers in bright reds, purples and a solitary yellow daffodil bring flashes of colour to the shade of the woods, while a low stone border frames the plot, its top laid with grey pebbles and ringed with neat beds of greenery. Behind it, a small shrine has been assembled on the cemetery wall. Two ceramic cherubs watch over the grave, and beneath them a note fixed to the stone carries a polite request in French: “Dear visitors, if you notice the plants look thirsty, it would be wonderful if you could give them a little water. There’s a watering can and a tap by the cemetery gate.” A small Welsh flag printed at the top reminds us that, even here in this quiet corner of Switzerland, the man buried below – in a patriotic red suit with a rugby ball and a book of poetry by his good friend Dylan Thomas, so the story goes – was unmistakably Welsh to the end. In fact, if you were to describe the surrounding landscape without using clichés like idyllic, scenic and tranquil, you might say it does feel a little bit, well, Welsh. Like a slice of Burton’s native Afan Valley – itself known as “Little Switzerland” for its alpine-like forestry – transposed to the Swiss countryside. Perhaps that’s part of the reason it appealed so much to the movie star, born in Pontrhydyfen 100 years ago. For while Burton’s initial reasons for settling in Switzerland in 1957 were tax-inspired – he writes in his diaries how the British press branded him a “traitor to Britain” and “lumped [him] in with [Charlie] Chaplin and Noël [Coward] as rats leaving a sinking ship” – it's worth remembering that this was before he achieved superstardom. He was acclaimed, yes – already twice Oscar-nominated, and recognised as one of the finest stage actors of his generation, his thunderous voice spellbinding audiences around the world. But this was before Cleopatra, before Elizabeth Taylor, before he became one half of the most famous couple on the planet, and before more people were reading about his private life splashed across front pages than were watching his films in the cinemas. Switzerland, therefore, wasn't just where Burton died; it was, more importantly, where he chose to live, for longer than anywhere else – including Wales. And this is the Switzerland I will explore on this journey. A Haven in the Mountains To understand Burton's Switzerland, I first need to explain how the country itself is stitched together – and I promise to keep this short. Switzerland is divided into cantons, a bit like counties in the UK, though each one guards its independence with the pride of a small nation. Most fit together neatly on the map, but there are some quirks, and Céligny is one such quirk. Although it's surrounded on all sides by the canton of Vaud, it officially belongs to Geneva, making Céligny a tiny Genevan outpost marooned in the Vaudois countryside. For centuries, this strange arrangement has endured for complex reasons of history, religion and local politics, and it's given the village a curious dual identity. On one hand, it has Geneva's prestige and privacy – the sort of place where bankers or diplomats might keep a discreet second home – and on the other, it enjoys all the natural pleasures of Vaud: rolling vineyards, blue lakes and the Alps hovering in the distance. It's not hard to see why that balance might have appealed to Burton, a man who prized solitude yet lived a jet-setting life of glitz and glamour. Céligny offered both – within easy reach of Geneva’s bustling international airport and train stations, but far enough away to feel completely lost in the wilderness. This was not my first visit to Burton’s final resting place, and when I last made the pilgrimage a decade ago, Professor Chris Williams, editor of the excellent The Richard Burton Diaries, kindly offered some travel tips. This time I was more prepared; not only did I have my previous experience to call back on, I had a copy of those diaries to guide my escapades, both physical and digital – it’s quite a tome to be lugging around the great outdoors. I was also joined by my guide, Debra Kinson, a wonderfully warm and knowledgeable expat from Manchester who, after 30 years in the country, knows all of Geneva’s best-kept secrets. We started at Burton’s former home, the perfectly named Le Pays de Galles which, as those who paid attention in French class will know, means Wales. Despite numerous changes of owners, the name is still proudly emblazoned on the outer wall, behind which is a sprawling lawn which, during my visit, was being maintained by a robotic device frantically trying to keep it watered in the sweltering heatwave. The house itself sits well back from the road, and I did not disturb the occupants – this is, after all, a home, and Céligny is not a place that welcomes many tourists. But had I spoken to them, based on outside appearances at least, I would have commended them on maintaining the house in much the same way it appears in Burton’s old family snaps. A nearby place that does cater for tourists and offers a warm welcome is Buffet de la Gare, Burton's favourite eating place in the municipality. Like the house, it has undergone a few ownership changes since the 1980s, but the current owner has done their best to retain the original look and feel. As expected in Céligny, prices weren't the cheapest, but while it was serving first-class food and drink, it did so without pretension; there was no standing on formalities, with animated discussions in both French and English all around me as friends shared French fries and bottles of wine, with the tipple of choice being a tasty Pinot Noir from the region, and the local delicacy, as it was in Burton’s day, was perch plucked fresh from Lake Geneva. The locals speak of how, after a night at the Buffet de la Gare, Burton used to take the quickest route home as the crow flies, which meant crossing the old train line directly opposite his home. While this slightly perilous walk left many on edge, especially if it had been a heavy night, it would be impossible today, because the old train line has been replaced by a high-speed alternative. It's a similar story with the cemetery – or rather, cemeteries, for while Burton is buried in the old cemetery, a new cemetery has been added before it, which has confused many a visitor over the years, myself included. By all accounts, there are some who have made the long journey to Céligny and, after checking every headstone in the new cemetery, have left disappointed, not realising that, had they continued walking down a sloping hill, just out of sight and deeper into the wilderness, they would have found the original cemetery. Not only will checking the headstones here reveal Burton just inside the gate but, as Debra tells me, the other names in the cemetery – including musicians, religious figures and military people of standing – serve as a reminder that this has long been an area for the elite. Also, a few long strides away from Burton’s grave lies one of his friends, the Scottish writer Alistair MacLean, from whose pen came Where Eagles Dare, the film adaptation of which gave Burton possibly his most famous catchphrase: “Broadsword calling Danny Boy.” After paying our respects at the cemetery, we wandered the streets of Céligny, a charming if quiet village more accustomed to privacy than sightseers. But to really explore Burton’s Switzerland we needed to head to the big city, and I also needed a base from which to plan my itinerary – and I found the perfect one just outside Céligny’s borders. Geneva Calling If there's one thing that unites all of the locations on this trip – besides Burton himself, of course – it's Lake Geneva, or Lac Léman as the locals call it. A glistening crescent-shaped body of water – 60 per cent of which can be found in the Swiss cantons of Vaud, Geneva and Valais, the other forty belonging to France – it’s a source of both food and recreation. I stayed in the YOTEL Geneva Lake, less than a 10-minute taxi ride from Céligny and with easy access to the city itself. A stone’s throw from the water, it has some spectacular views, day and night, and my visit coincided with the full moon, which turned the alpine waters silver. Geneva is a place Burton knew well. This is where he started and ended many of his acting gigs, the airport corridors lined with paparazzi as he touched back down, and where he ran everyday errands – from picking up the book he’d ordered to buying a new typewriter. On a more sombre note, it was also the hospital he was rushed to on that fateful night in 1984, sadly never to recover. Often called the “Peace Capital”, Geneva is home to the Palais des Nations, the United Nations’ European headquarters, and dozens of UN agencies, including the UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency. It’s easy to forget that, for all the headlines about Burton’s “hellraising” antics, he cared deeply for people and was among the first UNHCR Goodwill Ambassadors, using his fame to shine a light on the plight of refugees. Most of these agencies sit in Geneva’s newer international quarter – a sharp contrast to the old town, where I spent most of my time. The two feel like different worlds: one humming with ambassadors and glass-fronted offices, the other a maze of cobbled lanes and hidden courtyards. Even the fountains – of which there are many, pumping pure glacial drinking water to cut down on disposable bottles – are miniature works of art, with water spurting from snakes and other strange creatures. In fact, my personal highlight of the city was the art, both public and private. I whiled away an afternoon at the Museum of Art and History, whose collections span fine art to archaeology, including, appropriately enough, pieces from the era of Cleopatra. Fascinating statues also dot the city’s streets. The epic Reformation Wall in Parc des Bastions features John Calvin at its centre, while elsewhere I stumbled upon “Frankie”, a life-size tribute to Frankenstein’s monster – the protagonist of Mary Shelley’s novel, conceived on Lake Geneva during the “year without a summer” when she and Percy were stranded there with Lord Byron. It’s a reminder that, centuries before Burton, British thinkers, writers and artists had long found refuge and inspiration in this city on the lake. Montreux-Vevey If Céligny was Burton’s refuge in Switzerland – his out-of-the-way haven where he could retreat to his library – then the Montreux Riviera is the opposite. For more than a century, this sparkling sweep of lakeside glamour has drawn the rich and famous – a Swiss Monte Carlo, if you will. Burton records in his diaries how he entertained in Montreux, but he was far from the only major celeb in town. Audrey Hepburn lived and is buried just along the lake in Tolochenaz, while Charlie Chaplin’s mansion is a short drive away, now a museum of his life. Jazz lovers flock to the Montreux Jazz Festival each summer, while its place in rock and roll history was cemented when Deep Purple wrote Smoke on the Water after watching the casino burn down during a Frank Zappa gig – there really was fire in the sky that night. Most visible of all, however, is Freddie Mercury. The Queen frontman became a close friend of Elizabeth Taylor’s, and they both lived nearby: he had a flat overlooking the water, while Taylor had a chalet in nearby Gstaad, from where she and Burton would travel to and from Montreux. Today, Mercury has been immortalised in bronze by the lakeside, and when I visited, it happened to coincide with his 79th birthday. The statue was covered in flowers, handwritten notes and a pink feather boa draped over his shoulders, and much like a religious shrine, it reflected an outpouring of grief and gratitude from international worshippers. An unexpected highlight of Montreux was the Freddie Tour, a walking tour which, despite the name, is not entirely about Mercury, but rather uses him as the hook to explore the hidden streets and alleyways. Guide Lucien Müller weaves in trivia and tales while namedropping the likes of David Bowie and Nina Simone, before taking in the studio where Queen recorded many of their biggest albums. Now a small, free museum tucked away inside the casino, you can stand on the exact spot where Mercury recorded his final vocals. Music aside, the town’s movie and literary connections run just as deep. Around the time Burton made a triumphant return to form alongside Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare, its producer Elliott Kastner flew into Montreux boasting about a million- dollar deal for the rights to Vladimir Nabokov's new novel – despite admitting to Burton that he’d only read half of it. “Funny way to buy a book,” Burton wryly wrote in his diary. At the same time, Nabokov himself was holed up nearby at the Montreux Palace, and these grand hotels that once hosted such stars still line the boulevard today, looking, to my eye at least, little changed from the photographs of the time. Yet for all the hustle and bustle of the riviera, the best way to savour Montreux is from the water, and nothing beats stepping aboard a lake steamer and drifting between France and Switzerland in the late-afternoon sun. With a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other, it felt exactly like the sort of moment Burton – who devoured books and loved to sail, and once again wore his patriotism on his sleeve by naming one of his boats Taffy – might have cherished. We sailed towards Chillon Castle, immortalised by Lord Byron in The Prisoner of Chillon, where the dungeons and ramparts are perfectly preserved, and Byron's name – along with Percy Shelley’s – can still be seen carved into a pillar (well, somebody carved them, anyway). The boat then stopped off at Vevey, Montreux’s calmer sibling, with equally sweeping views of the water but a more relaxed pace. I wandered the lakeside, where Charlie Chaplin’s statue gazes across the water, and while I enjoyed popping into two complimentary museums, the Alimentarium dedicated to food, and the Brotherhood of Winegrowers Museum which celebrates the grape, the real joy was simply being out on the lake, watching the light shift from the shimmering surface and up across those sublime mountains that faded into the distance. Alpine Heights The weather , as we know in Wales, is a reliable conversation starter, but the Swiss take it to another level. While I basked in near-30-degree heat on Lake Geneva, a lady on the boat explained how, just a few kilometres away, other stops could be blanketed in fresh snow. Each little corner of the lake has its own microclimate, which was both fascinating and a warning: pack appropriate clothing before heading into the mountains. My first alpine stop was Villars, a smart little village with the feel of a posh boarding school . The rich and famous send their children here to learn, while they go skiing during visits. As the train wound its way up the slopes, I passed group after group of impeccably dressed pupils, and at the hotel, met a few of their parents, equally polite and multilingual. Despite being a keen sportsman – and a particularly devoted rugby fan – Burton admitted skiing wasn’t his natural sport. Writing from Villars in 1960, he confessed: “I tried my first slope on my own. Disaster.” Arriving a little before the ski season, I avoided my own “disaster”, and the slopes were instead given over to a less perilous pursuit: golf. Balls are hit not against nets but up the mountains, over ponds and, in my case, in the general direction of a robust herd of Swiss cows who calmly watched on, safe in the knowledge that the chances of me hitting them, or anything else for that matter, were zero to one. To reach these peaks you take a traditional mode of transport with a historical Welsh connection: the cogwheel train. These rack-and-pinion railways, hauling winter sports enthusiasts up Swiss peaks for over a century, are engineering marvels – and when the people of Yr Eryri (Snowdon) needed a similar line in the late 19th century, they turned to Swiss expertise. Snowdon Mountain Railway still carries passengers using locomotives built in the same Swiss factory, a bond celebrated as recently as 2018 when the trains were briefly reunited. Having made my journey up and down on a similar train, I said my goodbyes to Villars and headed to my final destination, Solalex. By far the remotest spot I visited during my travels, this is a tiny outpost where humans are vastly outnumbered by lumbering cattle and cheeky goats, and where missing the bus really does mean being stranded for a considerable length of time. If Céligny felt like the Afan Valley, Solalex is the Afan Valley on steroids: gigantic mist-capped crags, wild streams and an overpowering feeling of being dwarfed by nature. Yet this remoteness is exactly why people seek it out. The handful of locals workingthere pour fine drinks, cook incredible meals, and even amid isolation, hospitality is their number one priority. Unlike my other stops, there’s no celebrity, no historic gravestones, no Queen statues – but in its own way, it feels just as cinematic. I could easily imagine a scene from Where Eagles Dare being filmed here. On my final morning, as I stood on the hotel porch sipping my espresso before the flight home, I watched the goats putting on one last show – smashing plant pots, overturning tables, even headbutting open the public toilets to maraud inside. The few locals didn’t bat an eyelid, and so I left them to it. My travels began in Port Talbot , where Richard Burton was raised in Taibach nearly a century ago, and having traversed towering mountains, bustling cities, glittering lakes and sleepy alpine villages, it was now time to head back to the steeltown. This pilgrimage might have started at a graveside, but it ended with a celebration of a life as big as the landscapes around me. For while Burton’s memorial in Céligny opts for the minimalist approach with very few words, the one in Pontrhydyfen sums it up best: “Richard Burton: Seren Cymru a'r byd" - star of Wales and the world. A TOAST TO SWITZERLAND (AND BURTON) If you were to list Swiss foodie stereotypes, you’d probably think of Milka-cow chocolate and cheese – fondue, anyone? – but rarely wine. And yet, if there’s one part of the Swiss culinary tradition which deserves more attention, it’s the vineyards. The reason they’re little known isn’t quality – far from it – but quantity. Switzerland produces some of Europe’s finest wines, but most are enjoyed on home soil. The few bottles that escape usually sell at a premium. It means there are really only two ways to try them properly: pay a little extra abroad, or head straight to the source. I chose the latter. Burton mentions wine dozens of times in his diaries – once calling it his “undoing” – and Céligny is surrounded by vines in every direction. The canton of Vaud, known as “the home of Chasselas”, forms part of the Lavaux Unesco World Heritage landscape, where vineyards are woven into everyday life – often family-run and very much part of the community. I visited a trio of winegrowing areas, starting with the village of Chexbres, where the vineyards climb the hillside like a green patchwork clinging to the rocks. It’s also a public walking space where locals escape their city flats to stretch their legs among the grapes – a beautiful, undulating route which works up a thirst and justifies the glass that quenches it. In contrast, nearby Aigle feels more traditional. Vines border a small restaurant serving seasonal dishes, and just beyond stands the wine museum housed in Château d’Aigle – a castle that doubles up as a history of wine making. It felt like stepping back centuries in time, but despite the setting, it’s barely 10 minutes from the clatter of the train station. Winemaker Marc Taverney, of Propriété Veillon, told me that while younger drinkers are driving new trends – sparkling and rosé wines are booming – tradition still matters here. I tried a glass of Chasselas, the crisp white that defines the region, and if this is the taste of tradition, long may it continue. My final stop was the most memorable: Domaine de Trécord in Ollon, a vineyard run by former Swiss wrestling champion Harald Cropt. Before arriving, I knew nothing about Swiss wrestling, but soon learned it draws crowds big enough to fill a British football stadium. Cropt tends his vines with the same focus and strength that once won him medals, and his red – a Grand Cru du Chablais, deep and earthy – is well worth wrestling anyone for. Santé! TRAVEL TO SWITZERLAND Mark flew with SWISS, which operates daily flights from London Heathrow to Geneva. Fares start at £54 one way and include taxes, fees and luggage. Book at swiss.com He travelled with a Swiss Travel Pass, giving unlimited travel on consecutive days across Switzerland’s rail, bus and boat network. The pass also includes entry to 500 museums and exhibitions. Prices start from £229 for a three-day second-class ticket. Book at travelswitzerland.com While exploring Céligny, Mark stayed at YOTEL Geneva Lake, where rooms start from £103 per night including breakfast. Book at yotel.com/en/hotels/yotel-geneva-lake
