Geneva has a  special fascination for me. It is a beautiful 
town with plenty to do for children in their holiday mood.
We indulged in strenuous physical activities in the outdoor 
sports.I distinctly remember the spots we frequented.
One of my favourite spots in Geneva was on the lake-side : 
a stretch of promenade from the first bridge eastwards. 
Here, after having manoeuvred on to the long expanse of 
concrete which runs parallel to the lake, and having duly 
ignored the no cycling notices, my brother and I would 
spend our time racing each other from one end to the other, 
taking evasive action whenever a policeman came into sight 
from behind a parked car. I remember this as the place 
where I first came into contact with the Swiss police. One 
moment all was sunny and hot; the next I was shivering from 
the way the gendarme's hand suddenly appeared on the 
handlebar. Not only had I no licence-plate fixed on my 
bicycle, but I was cycling in a prohibited area. For some 
moments I just stared up, bewildered. Then I had the idea---
 for the first time, strangely enough----of forgetting my 
French, and gabbling in English. It worked; and both the 
policeman and I walked off, very shaken.

But this Quai du Saleve also evokes pleasant memories: 
along the edge of the hot concrete, where the water flows 
gently by,dark, green and coolly quiet, the fishing-and 
pleasure-boats are pulled up, and they provide a pleasant 
contrast to the lake with their varied and bright colours. 
Here and there lie old oars or mended sails, and perched on 
the ends of little stone jetties we children could fish 
with lines borrowed from the old man who hired out the 
pedalos--- pedal--driven little craft that were popular 
among the tourists who frequented the cafes lining the road 
behind the quay. The water by the edge of these jetties was 
clear, and so dappled with sunshine that the occasional 
little fish looked like a whole shoal of them. Our 
excitement would, of course, scare away even the one, so 
that eventually we would wander back on to the promenade as 
empty--handed as ever, return our lines to the old man, 
and, if we had the money for ices, make for the end of the 
concrete, where, by the pier from which the big steamers 
started their journeys, a mobile ice-cream stall was always 
parked under the trees. It was our habit to see what 
outlandish mixtures we could obtain at as little expense as 
possible, for our friend the ice-cream man was the only one 
in the whole town who sold a choice of eight different 
flavours.

With these ices in our hands, we would then go and sit on 
the edge of the little beach, and watch the famous jet 
d'eau about thirty yards away in the lake itself, which all 
day during the summer months forced a jet of foaming water 
several hundred feet into the air. On days with a slight 
breeze, we could edge along the stone wall which leads out 
to the base of the jet, sit there on the edge of the fine 
spray blown shorewards, and look back at the 
quay,completely happy.