As a nature lover there are mountains you admire from afar, and then there are mountains that stay with you. For me, that mountain has always been the Matterhorn.
Rising sharply at the border of Switzerland and Italy, the Matterhorn is one of the most recognisable peaks in the world — not because it is the tallest, but because of its unmistakable shape which perhaps amusingly, first came to my attention as a child who loved Toblerone.
The Matterhorn's near-perfect pyramid form feels almost deliberate, as if the mountain chose how it wanted to be seen. Interestingly, that iconic shape isn’t symmetrical at all: the Matterhorn has four distinct faces, each oriented to a different compass point, shaped over millions of years by glaciers, wind, and time.
Long before it became a symbol of alpine adventure, the Matterhorn was considered unclimbable. When it was finally summited in 1865, the achievement was shadowed by tragedy, a reminder that mountains demand respect as much as admiration. That history still clings to it — not as a warning, but as a quiet presence.
At its base sits Zermatt, a car-free village that feels designed for listening rather than rushing. No engine noise, no hurry — just the sound of footsteps, weather, and the mountain itself. What draws me there isn’t the idea of conquering the Matterhorn, but of being close to it. To see how the light changes its surface through the day. To understand its scale not through photographs, but through stillness.
The Matterhorn to me feels magnetic. Each time I fly over the Alps heading to Italy I eagerly hope for clear skies and a chance sighting often with Montblanc in the background. Maybe that’s why it feels so magnetic to me.
One day soon, I hope we can travel together to finally meet this mountain not as an image, but as a presence — standing in Zermatt, looking up, finally close to the peak that has quietly shaped my imagination for years.
BW, T.
Photo (c) @Gornergrat
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