SITTING in a 1st century Roman amphitheatre watching a 16th century opera performed in 20th century costume was a confusing experience.

I was in Avenches, slap bang in the middle of the French language part of Switzerland, for some culture. The opera, Mozart's Don Giovanni, formed the highlight of the first part of my trip.

Now, I'm quite catholic in my musical taste, but my appreciation of opera has always been of the recorded variety. Bits that I've heard and liked. I have never actually been to an opera to judge for myself.

The innate prejudice against something unknown, has, I must confess, won over the curiosity. And I've never been given the opportunity. And I don't understand the words.

So, here was I with little idea of what was going on. The representatives of Swiss Tourism who had organised my visit, clearly felt I was in need of a considerable amount of smartening up culture-wise, but they hadn't given me a real clue as to what was happening.

The opera was sung in Italian, but there were two giant screens – the equivalent of the Christmas panto song with its bouncing ball, following the words. The top section in French, the bottom, German.

Bearing in mind I had been wined and dined very comprehensively for several hours before the panto, sorry, opera, it's not hard to imagine the state of my befuddled mind.

What I failed to appreciate before the performance was that it's all about a randy hell-raising aristo who rapes and seduces women like there's no tomorrow, which indeed there isn't for him, as he ends up burning in hell. Not unlike EastEnders.

As soon as I cottoned on (which wasn't difficult, the staging left little to the imagination) I doffed my cap metaphorically to Wolfgang Amadeus. He knew how to grab an audience's attention.

Next day, after a night at the beautiful Belle Epoque Hotel des Bains, in nearby Yverdon-les-Bains, I was shown round the historic town. The Romans were at it again here using the town as a sort of 'Spaghetti Junction' (pardon the pun) between Italy, Germany, France, and Great Britain.

A huge Roman barge, used for transporting heavy goods, was discovered slap bang in the middle of the town, buried in mud at the bottom of the river. It, and heaps of other fascinating artefacts, are on show in the town museum. My culture quotient was rising.

Thence, by shockingly efficient Swiss Rail, to Vevey, on the shore of Lake Geneva.

My itinerary said "Chocolate Tasting". I have none of the prejudice against chocolate that I had had against opera, and have sampled all types, high and low, over many years. I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I've done my bit to explore the world of chocolate.

But at Poyet's Confectionery, chocolate is spoken of in hushed tones, with reverence and respect. Blaise Poyet, curiously rake-thin, roams the world searching for new choc combinations. One of the most surprising is "The Cuban", combining Havana cigar, hay, humus, honey and pepper, oh, and chocolate.

By now I was beginning to feel my cultural standing was definitely on the up. So my Swiss hosts probably felt that I could be introduced to a more refined experience.

Le Mirador Kempinski is, quite simply, Luxury with a capital 'L'

This 5 star hotel offers some of the finest food and wines in Switzerland, and a world renowned Wellness Spa.

The view from the terrace high above the lake is jaw-droppingly beautiful.

It has its own helicopter pad (if I'd known I'd have cancelled the taxi ) and is 'suite only', signifying it has no such things as 'rooms'. By this stage in my cultural journey I naturally understood these terms.

For the curious, the Suite of Suites (six bedrooms, of course) costs around £6,000. Per night.

Over cocktails on the terrace, director of marketing Heidi Kelly (yes, really, Heidi – Swiss/Irish) told me their philosophy: "We offer absolute luxury and discretion to our guests. Whether they are here on business or pleasure, they can enjoy superb cuisine, be pampered in our spa, or just bask in the wonderful panoramic view".

After my crash course in culture I was beginning to feel affinity with my fellow travellers.

But, no time to sit still. Off to the nearby town of Montreux, and the Jazz Festival.

This was more within my cultural experience. In its 43rd year, the festival stages more than the title suggests, with blues, rock, classical and jazz. Everyone who is anyone has performed here. The Stones, Bob Dylan, Miles Davis, Lang Lang.

Looking through the programme, I drew a big circle on page 37 round the name BB King. 83 years old, the undisputed King of the Blues.

Almost the last of the old-time bluesmen. This was a culture I understood. He came on to roaring applause with his faithful black Gibson guitar "Lucille". The voice, perhaps more powerful than ever, cut through the auditorium, and sent shivers down my spine.

He'd come a long way from the endless Delta jook joints and fish fries of his youth, to this £100 a ticket seated concert hall.

Some were there to be seen, some to see, perhaps not fully understanding that they were in the presence of a force of nature and history. But BB did what he's always done. He spoke of a culture he helped create. One I understood.

He sang the blues.