Lambs in the snow

I went out running this morning, tiny snowflakes spinning in the chill dry air, barely forming a film on the surface of the trail. A hungry flock of black crows pecked at the frozen dung spray on a field, and opposite them a flock of sheep grazed silently. There's still some greenery peeping through the hard mud, and they seemed happy enough - but, daughter of a North Canterbury sheep farmer that I am, I can't understand the Swiss way with sheep. Cows are tucked warmly away in barns, but the poor sheep, freshly shorn for the winter, are left outside in temperatures well below zero - and they're still lambing! I spotted a tiny lamb, bits of its birth membrane still frozen on the little white body, probably no more than a day old and looking thoroughly bewildered by its rude entrance into this chilly world.

I always used to suffer for the ewes and their lambs back home on the farm, as the lambing season began in early September when the North Canterbury frosts were still pretty severe. But my father brought the struggling ones into the warmth of the barn, and soon the onset of summer had them frolicking outside again. These poor little Swiss lambs still have the worst of the winter to face. Will they get to go into the barn eventually with their pampered milk-giving companions? I'll have to continue running up there in the hills to find out...

Snowshoeing in the Unterschächental

The first snow of the season fell at the beginning of last week. By Sunday it had all but disappeared around us, but high up in Canton Uri at the end of the road going over the Klausenpass there was still deep, pristine snow. We took our friend Elaine, visiting from London, up to the Untershächental for her first snowshoeing experience. The valley is famous for its overhanging ice wall, a mecca for extreme sport lovers, but there was no sign of it this early in the season. Just a few skiers coming down the trail from Brunni, another snowshoeing group, and us, enjoying the peace and grandeur of the snow-filled valley. The other snowshoers had blazed a trail for us so, although the snow was past our knees, the going wasn't as tough as it might have been. We went deeper into the valley than we'd been in the past, passing a summer farmhouse with a whimsical collection of lifesize wooden sculptures, and a wooden plaque with a beautiful forest prayer, as well as the ubiquitous and sometimes eccentric forest shrines. How lovely it is to live in a country whose beauty still makes us marvel...

Küssnacht's Klausjagen

Whips, bells, horns, mitres, and St Nikolaus - Küssnacht's cacophonous Klausjagen has to be seen (and heard) to be believed. Usually held on St Nik's day, 5th December, this year the famous Klausjagen was brought forward to Friday the 4th. The reason for this, we're told, is in order that the celebration can go on all night, including a full replay at 6 a.m., and disturbing the Sunday peace is not an option.

Preparations for the event begin well in advance, but the most visible (and audible) to the innocent bystander, is the whip practising, which is permitted for a month prior to Klausjagen. This means that at any time of day or night, traffic can be stopped while youths take over the middle of the road to throw enormous bull whips into the air, where, if done correctly (and of course this requires a lot of traffic-stopping practice) they produce a resounding crack. Then, about a week prior to Klausjagen, teams of young boys begin to wander the streets, again at all times of day or night, practising their bell-swinging. And these are not small bells...

The big day is heralded with a cannon shot from the hills at 6 a.m. And then another at 7, followed by a 5 minute chorus of church bells. The first parade is a children's version of the Klausjagen in the afternoon. The children, mostly boys, though some girls are allowed in this event, parade in a miniature version of the evening's adult event. Dressed in their white hooded shirts, they crack whips, swing bells, and dance with mini mitres on their heads, all in pursuit of Sami Klaus. The tiny boys in their oversize white shirts and bells are seriously cute, some chewing sticks in imitation of their dads' crooked cigarettes.

The real thing begins at 8.15, with the dimming of the village lights and yet another cannon shot. The fierce whips come first, their lashes missing spectators by millimetres. Next, in an eery silence, come about 200 men in white robes bearing their candlelit "Iffele" or mitres, some higher than two metres, and all beautifully crafted, resembling church windows. The men dance in circles, their mitres dipping and spinning, and as the last of them silently passes, the trumpets arrive, playing the repetitive Klaus melody and leading St Nikolaus and his black companions, who hand out goodies to the crowd. And then the sound of 900 cowbells begins to clutch at the diaphragm. These men walk four abreast, swinging their giant bells from right leg to left, their white hooded shirts briefly gleaming in the light of the myriad camera flashes. They're clearly mesmerised by the rhythmic and deafening sound, and soon we, the spectators, are too. And as they pass, another 200 men arrive with cow horns, blowing short monotonous blasts.

The official parade continues in this fashion, with a pause for refreshments, until close to midnight. But it's not over yet. The hardy ones continue all night, ringing their bells and cracking their whips, and next morning at 6 those still standing come together again for the final parade. And behind them, naturally, the street cleaners, so that soon the only reminders of the previous day's huge party are the occasional white-coated, exhausted, and slightly inebriated stragglers returning home.

West Yorkshire

Next stop on the journey was Wood Hall, near Wetherby in West Yorkshire. With another rapeseed oil farm to visit in the area the following day, we'd decided to drive the 200 miles or so in order to have a more relaxed start in the morning. So I'd found Wood Hall, an 18th century country estate set in a hundred acres of wood and parkland. It was another great find, peaceful and quietly luxurious, with an excellent bar and good food. After another hearty English breakfast next day, we walked the grounds and nearby bridle paths for an hour or so, fighting the blustery wind again. We were just south of the floods that had hit the northern parts, fortunately, but it was wild!

And on to Banbury, on the way back to our return flight from Luton. This time we stayed at Wroxton House Hotel, an old manor house in the pretty little village of Wroxton. We arrived after dark again, and wouldn't actually have realised just how pretty the village is, had our GPS not taken us for a tour of it in the morning. I've no idea why we were lead through the narrow lanes of the village, and I hope it doesn't happen often, but we were grateful for our glimpse of an England not too different from the way it was a couple of centuries ago.

Aldeburgh

From London we drove to Aldeburgh, a journey of some four hours. We were visiting a rapeseed oil farm in Suffolk the following day, about half an hour from the coast - and I can't resist the seaside. The sea is, apart from my children, what I miss most about New Zealand.  East Anglia's wild coast is a little different from our sandy beaches, but ah, that ozone! We stayed at the Wentworth Hotel, an enchanting Victorian pile right on the seafront. This was November, so it was dark well before we arrived at around 5 o'clock. But there was a welcoming fire in the lounge, so I settled down with my book and a glass of merlot, while Gary, still struggling with jetlag, took a nap. We were amazed by the hotel's restaurant - wonderful food, with the freshest fish I've eaten since Auckland's fish market. And to further impress us, there was avocado oil on the menu! Sadly, it wasn't a good avocado oil, lacking flavour and colour, but nevertheless it was featured. We left the chef a bottle of the real thing - Olivado's Extra Virgin version - when we checked out next day. After breakfast, another feast of smoked haddock and poached eggs, we ventured out to the seafront for a walk to the next village. There'd been gale warnings the night before, and indeed there was a gale. Great with the wind behind, a mission on the return journey. We loved it! And what a gorgeous little town Aldeburgh is, all ancient seaside cottages, fishing boats and stone lookout towers. We'd have loved to spend another day there, wandering on the fens and hunkering down by the fire. But the oil farm called...

London and the MasterChef Live Food Show

A mere week at home and I was off to London, loaded up with posters and other trade fair materials I'd brought back from New Zealand. We'd been to the BBC Good Food Show in Birmingham in June, and I (foolishly) thought it might be a good idea to do another. Well, indeed, it was a good idea. But it's such hard work! Fortunately, our dear friend Elaine offered to help out, so she and I and her nephew did the setup on Thursday - posters on the wall, stock stashed away under and on tables. Gary arrived directly from New Zealand and helped too, spaced out though he was. And on Friday it began - three long days of hustling Olivado oils. It was fun - but so, so hard on the legs and feet. A surprising number of punters already knew our avocado oil, but this sort of event is definitely worth doing. Once people have tasted it, few of them don't buy, or at least ask where they can get it. One satisfied customer gave us a glowing review on her excellent blog: http://weekendcarnivore.com/2009/11/19/weekend-carnivore-goes-to-masterchef-live/

By 7.30 Sunday it was all over and we gratefully hobbled back to our hotel. And our last 24 hours in London was all pleasure, catching up with friends and a night out at "War Horse" at the New London Theater. What an amazing show! I could never have imagined that I would weep over a horse constructed out of wood and leather and manipulated by three actor/puppeteers. Joey, both as foal and fully grown, was just so real. Intriguing that the actors' listed roles were "head", "heart" and "hind". That three people could portray such pathos through a huge horse puppet was extraordinary. We had read Michael Morpurgo's beautiful book before we went to London, so were ready to be moved- and moved we were!

Despite my best intentions, it's been hard to keep up with the blogging! No real excuse, other than a lot of travelling. In October to New Zealand for two weeks - Gary was working, so I went over as well, mainly to see my kids. And I did, and we had a great time. New Zealand in spring is all sun and wind - lovely if you can find some shelter from that cold bluster. Two weeks was far too short though - barela enough time to get over the jetlag and I was back on the plane. It's such a loooonnnnggg flight! Singapore Air is about as easy as it gets, about 22 hours in the air, and, on the way over, a brief stopover in Singapore. Coming back was tougher, with a 7 hour stopover. I filled in the time in the transit lounge - an hour or so in the gym, another hour at the laptop, then a massage, some lunch, and I was almost ready for the next leg. Painful - but, like pregnancy, the pain is soon forgotten. Next trip, March...

Tinguely in Basel

I've been countless times to Basel, and never to the Tinguely Museum. But last Sunday my friend Mimi and I were strolling the banks of the Rhein and suddenly, there it was. The kinetic fountain in the park in front alerts the visitor to the fantasy that's inside. There the sweeping riverside passage of the majestic Mario Botta building leads us to the second of three floors filled with the cacophonous harmony of Jean Tinguely's amazing structures. What extraordinary creations out of rusting, discarded and damaged objects. Every 15 minutes the touch of someone's foot triggers an outburst of movement, light and sound, making this museum a marvel of sensations.

Nordic Adventures

A whirlwind two week tour of three countries, three cities (four, if we add a forgettable 24 hours in Tallinn) and successful meetings with PR companies in each. From Copenhagen we flew to Stockholm, where I'd booked accommodation in a funky new hotel called Story, superbly located in downtown Stockholm. Self-checkin, eclectic design, excellent restaurant, comfortable room, yet remarkably quiet - and close to the Östermalms Saluhallen, a fabulous old market hall selling delectable delicacies. We immediately headed there for a late lunch of salmon and herrings washed down with a glass of Pinot Gris.
A more thorough exploration of Stockholm has to wait for another visit though, because two days later we were on the overnight ferry to Helsinki. Our ship left at 5, and it was a gorgeous evening so we stayed out on deck for an hour or so watching the archipelago glide past us. It was a 17 hour journey, and next morning we were on deck again marvelling at our huge ship's passage through the narrow channels of Helsinki's harbour.
Our first hotel was the Haven, a new and luxurious place on the waterfront - its only drawback that our room, with its glorious views, had no opening windows. More glorious autumn Nordic weather here too, if a little colder than its more southerly neighbours. We wandered out to inspect Helsinki, loving its compactness, broad boulevards, and magnificent architecture, stopping for a leisurely coffee at Strindberg on Pohjoisesplanadi, soaking up the sun and Helsinki from our outdoor table. Dinner that night was at Juuri,  a selection of succulent "sapas" (Finnish tapas). Superb, but how much better they would have been with our delicious light avocado oil instead of the heavy oil they'd been cooked in! Our immediate task - to educate these Nordic chefs...
We took the Linda Line catamaran to Tallinn on Saturday. A pretty little old town, to be sure, but on this weekend it was awash with tourists, many of them all-night revellers, a number of those, unfortunately, staying in our hotel. We were ready to return to heavenly Helsinki next day - but the Baltic wind came up and our sailing was cancelled! Thankfully, we managed to get the last two places on the slow Estonian ferry back. An interesting trip, locals laden with duty-free grog, daytrippers dancing to the live band in the lounge bar...
This time we stayed at the Hotel Glo, in the heart of the city, where we were given, oh joy, a room with an opening window. A stunning hotel, lovely clean design, great breakfasts and a perfect position for further exploration of Helsinki.

Wonderful Copenhagen

Who'd have thought it! Copenhagen in late September and we're sweltering in our autumn clothing! This is the first of three cities on our Nordic tour to promote Olivado and avocado oil in Scandinavia. So Thursday and Friday were all meetings and acquainting ourselves with this very stylish city, and the weekend was for being tourists, beginning with an extraordinary dinner at a restaurant near our old hotel, and recommended in the weekly newspaper. We were lucky to get a reservation at Saa Hvidt, as our host Frederik explained when we arrived. There was a private party happening in the restaurant upstairs, but a Japanese food writer had booked a table downstairs, and we were to join them there in the small space near the kitchen. An American food photographer was also wandering around capturing Frederik and his colleagues at work producing their very special Danish cuisine - all totally fresh, local and seasonal, a set 5-course menu with accompanying wines. It was magnificent, a procession that began with smoked mackerel, through slow-steamed cod, vegetables in pear sauce, pork tenderloin with sweet beetroot and wild chervil, to a slow-baked apple reminiscent of tarte tatin with blackberries. Heaven! We rolled home to our hotel.
We'd moved to a new hotel on Friday afternoon, this one on an old barge moored at Christianshavn - quieter, I thought, than the inner city hotel we'd been in. Mistake! I hadn't noticed that we were moored about 100m from the busiest bridge in Copenhagen. Which was fine for me, as my dodgy inner ear likes that constant hum, but my sensitive-eared Gary suffered.
Saturday dawned warm and sunny, so we did the Danish thing - hired bikes for the day. I found a bicycle hire place called Baisikeli, a name which intrigued me (the Swahili word for bicycle), as did their operating principle (proceeds go to their workshop in Tanzania, where old Danish bicycles are recycled and sold or given to needy Africans). So we strolled across the city to Baisikeli, where we swapped African experience stories with the owner and eventually rode off on our lovely big upright Danish baisikelis.
First priority was breakfast, not always easy to find on the weekend in Copenhagen, where a vast brunch is the order of the day, and foreigners wanting just fruit and muesli are not welcome. But we found just that, and a great coffee, and fortified, set off again to explore. A fortuitous mis-turn took us to Vestamager, a nature reserve east of Copenhagen, with a myriad trails through the moors and woods. We were looking for Dragor, and some cruising hours later we found the delightful little village, south of the airport, its narrow lanes drawing us past yellow-painted thatch-roofed houses to the harbour, where we joined the locals at a seaside cafe, tucking into huge plates of fish and chips washed down by a Danish beer.
Finding our way home again was easier thanks to the wonderful Danish propensity for cycle tracks everywhere - even alongside the airport. We cycled under incoming and outgoing wingtips to the Amager Strand, a new beach development with sandy beaches and large wooden structures providing protection from the elements. On this last weekend of the summer it was a busy place, abuzz with cyclists and pedestrians and even the occasional hardy swimmer. Back across towards Christianshavn we cycled through the immaculately hedged alleys of Klondermarken, protecting the tiny painted wooden summer cottages lining the canals, and on into Christiana, the so-called  "free city", hazy with cannabis smoke on this sunny Saturday afternoon.
We returned to Christiania for dinner, to another restaurant recommended in our newspaper. Spiseloppen was harder to find, but also well worth the effort. Directed there eventually by a Christiania local, we climbed two flights of graffiti-lined stairs to a long crowded space at the top of an old warehouse, and enjoyed a different but delicious dining experience.

Last Friday I picked up my new bicycle - a custom-built Swiss "Tour des Alpes" model. I asked our friendly salesman Bruno if this lovely, light but sturdy bike would help me up the hills, but he told me I'd still have to do the work. And he was right, sadly. But at least there's several kilograms less of it, with easier tires and better gears, than on my old mountain bike. I rode it home from Zug, testing both bike and my new shoes and clip-in pedals. I fell off only once, at an intersection. To be expected, I'd been warned. Next time out, I fell off again, this time despite having carefully removed my left foot from the clip - it was my right foot that I tried to drop onto! Large bruise on the left thigh, right knee dripping blood - perhaps after this I'll learn...

So yesterday Hilary and I decided on a bike ride rather than our usual Heidi Friday hike. We met in Cham and set off towards Bremgarten, soon happily cycling the quiet farm roads of the Reuss valley, through pretty farmhouses and villages. A bit of a hill challenge seemed necessary so we turned off towards Muri and up a steady but gruelling enough 400m climb towards Brunnwil. From the top it was a glorious 4km freewheel down to the Baldeggersee, past a pretty little schloss presiding over a hillside of heavily laden grapevines. Alongside the Baldeggersee we rode, kilometres ticking past, and back through Hochdorf to Sins, across the little covered bridge over the Reuss, and then I turned off towards Hünenberg and home, while Hilary returned to Cham. I clocked up 85km, according to my new odometer - a good 25km longer than any previous ride. I was happy to get off that saddle and out of those pedals! It's addictive though - I'll be back on it tomorrow...

Heidi Day in the Maderanertal

Another Friday, another "Heidi day" for us and our guest bloke, Gary, and we were back in Canton Uri on another gorgeous August day, this time to the Maderanertal, a stunning alpine valley with an access road that gets the adrenaline pumping. Only 3km long, the narrow road up to Bristen from Amsteg twists up a steep cliff, a vertiginous drop on one side and hairpin bends blasted through the rock. A notice top and bottom warns drivers to wait at certain times when the Postbus is taking the road - there's certainly no room to pass it.

True to form, we got lost almost immediately, taking the high road across the valley. Our extra ascent had its advantages though, not only distancing us from the many other hikers and cyclists, but also providing us with untouched treasure troves of wild strawberries, raspberries and blueberries. Back on the trail proper, we climbed again, passing the 150 year old Maderanertal Berghotel. Coffee on a sunny terrace beckoned, but we ignored the call, instead taking the trail straight up the mountain to the Windgallenhütte 1000m above. Some thoughtful person had added the warning "sehr steilen Bergweg" (very steep mountain path) to the yellow signpost, but we ignored this too, marching up a near-vertical trail, grateful for our Leki sticks as we clambered over rocks and roots, pausing for lunch near the top as the trail began to level out. Despite burning lungs and legs, we were grateful we weren't attempting to walk down this hazardous path - and watched in amazement as a couple of elderly locals cheerfully set off down it with only their wooden sticks to help them.

Perched at 2032m, high above the valley and with superb views across to the glacier covered Oberalpstock, the Windgallenhütte was a perfect drink stop before our more gentle descent to the Golzernsee, and a refreshing soak in the lake's cool waters before we took the cable car down to the valley and another hair-raising, bus-beating journey back to Amsteg.

Hiking in Andermatt

Hiking buddy Hilary planned to spend the weekend at her Andermatt apartment, so we joined her there for our Friday hike, Gary given temporary girl status and allowed to join us. The original plan was to tackle the Gemsstock, but when we saw the dotted blue line on the map that indicates serious alpine hiking, and read about a vaguely terrifying "transverse", my vertigo began to kick in at the mere prospect of crossing that glacier.

So the plan was modified to a five and a half hour circuit of the Unteralptal, up through Maighelspass to Oberalppass and then a train back down to Andermatt. We started with an easy stroll up the valley, dogs Molly and Albi occasionally dashing off in pursuit of marmots, those silly creatures that sit atop rocks and chirp, too much for any self-respecting terrier to ignore. Towards the end of the otherwise deserted valley we came across a tiny alpine farming settlement, with cows and mobile milking shed to one side, and clambering across the steep hill to the other side, a flock of sheep several times larger than any I've previously seen in Switzerland, more reminiscent of a New Zealand high country farm, with shepherd and dogs in residence high above us.

Lunch was at the Vermigelhütte, at 2042m already 600m above Andermatt, and from there it was a steep and rocky climb another 400m to the top of the Maighelspass. Relatively easy for us with our leki sticks, but incredibly challenging for a number of cyclists making their way down the rocky trail. Most got off and walked, but several just bounced on down, mud-spattered, helmeted and completely crazy. "Twice in the last half hour", sighed one guy, changing his rock-punctured tire near the top. It was a spectacular hike, though, brilliant blue alpine bluebells lining the trail up, tiny lakes and moors dotted over the high passes, and the occasional patch of deep snow remaining from the winter.

A long trek down the Oberalppass, the winding, undulating rail at the end of the pass busy with day-trippers, brought us to the station and the Matterhorn-Gotthard train. Strangely familiar, this little platform and the cog railway lines - I'd skied here in February, a very different scene and temperature. The lake now rimmed with fishermen was then frozen and snow covered, and we huddled out of the biting wind in the small waiting room. Back then we left the train at the top of the road down to Andermatt and skied down the long trail, but this time we stayed on for the steep drop down to our cold beers and the train home.

Switzerland's Day

Gary arrived home yesterday, after three long hard weeks in Nairobi. Our plant is now producing fantastic avocado oil, the farmers are cooperative and very happy with their new income - but we still have the same old problems with our former "partners" there, who are doing all they can to sabotage the operation and wrest it away from us. They haven't realised yet that Gary never gives up!

But back here in Switzerland it was Swiss National Day, and a glorious summer day, the doleful, spine-tingling sounds of alphorns mingling with churchbells and cowbells, as the Swiss celebrate their day of independence over 700 years ago. We joined them in the evening, up on the Seebodenalp, a plateau halfway up the Rigi, watching the fireworks and bonfires in the villages and hillsides around the lake.

Knocking off the Gemmenalphorn

It's Friday, normally a hiking day, but for various reasons our little hiking group isn't out there today, so I'm filling the space with recollections of last week's hike, a five hour trek from Beatenberg up to the Gemmenalphorn and down to Niederhorn. The Gemmenalphorn, soaring above the Thunersee at 2061m, features in my friend and hiking companion Hilary's book of Switzerland's beautiful mountains, all of which we're attempting to "knock off", in the immortal words of that other high-flying Hillary, Sir Ed.

We started at Beatenberg, and the first couple of hours were a doddle, a stroll through an alpine valley of streams and freshly cut meadows. At the head of the valley was a "Beizli" selling alp cheese, so we stopped to buy some, stepping back a few centuries into a dark cellar with wood fire burning under a huge copper cauldron of curdling milk. After this our path went up, steep and tortuous, to a flower-covered plateau, and lunch on a sun-warmed rock. Then came the assault on the Gemmenalphorn, truly a "horn", a rock needle up which we threaded, passing a family of ibex en route. Alert but calm, they sat beneath their rock staring at us sweaty, camera-waving humans. We came across several more of these majestic creatures, some perched atop rocks, others resting with their young in the shade, as we clambered from one peak to the next, until eventually the trail flattened out to another plateau leading to the Niederhorn cable car, back down to Beatenberg and a welcome beer.

Hiking the Strada Alta

Every summer, on the last weekend in July, the park in front of our house hosts the Seenachtsfest, a three day event of carnival rides, music and beer tents that bumps and grinds into the wee hours and penetrates the densest of earplugs. This year, with Gary away in Nairobi again, I planned an escape down to sunny Ticino, in the southern, Italian part of Switzerland. I'd heard about the Strada Alta, a 45km hike from Airolo to Biasca along the old track used by muleteers on the Gotthard route, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to check it out.

My friend Rebecca offered to join me, sparing me the deafening silence of my own company, so, backpacks stuffed with essentials (spare knickers and socks, books and a pack of cards), we took the train down to Airolo on a glorious Saturday morning, smug and comfortable above the morning's already several kilometre long queue of cars waiting to go through the Gotthard tunnel.

Airolo's cafes were packed with hikers and cyclists, and we joined them for an espresso before setting out on the first leg of our journey. It was deceptively easy, that first 17 kilometres, most of it on small roads or trails, and like all Swiss trails, well marked and signposted. We passed through pretty villages and steep alpine meadows, stopping for iced tea at a friendly little osteria, filling our water bottles with icy mountain water from the ubiquitous and oh so welcome water troughs. Lunch was a Ticino platter, a feast of finely sliced local cured meats and cheeses, with delicious tomatoes and bread, washed down with a beer on the shady terrace of another hospitable osteria.

Our first overnight was in Osco, where dour service, shoebox rooms, a lacklustre meal, and a sleep-disturbing proximity to churchbells briefly dimmed our enthusiasm for our Italian Swiss neighbours. Back on the trail, however, our spirits lifted as we strode out on glorious paths, passing from sunny meadows into cool beech and pine forests. This was to be a shorter day, but, assiduously following all the signs, we took the high and hungry route, clambering up and down steep, rocky paths which bypassed the villages with osterias. We were rewarded, on this less-travelled route, by banks of wild raspberries and strawberries, their startling sunbursts of sweetness keeping us going until Anzonico, our second destination.

This was much better, the friendly little Osteria Anzonico offering another huge Ticinese platter to hungry hikers, this time lubricated by a couple of flasks of merlot. Our room was large and comfortable, opening onto a terrace where we lounged with our books, tired legs at rest, until it was time to eat again. A peaceful night, only a distant echo of cowbells lulling us to sleep.

And on to Biasca, more raspberry-lined wooded trails taking us into the gorges of Vallone, a challenging section of wild river crossings and vertiginous cliff trails. As we began the steep descent into the valley we bought a jar of delicious honey, redolent with the alpine summer smells of fresh cut grass and alpine flowers, a tasty memento of our journey.

Küssnacht am Rigi

It seems there's an army of Swiss Expat Bloggers out there already. But, so far, none from Küssnacht. Küssnacht literally means "kiss night". Hence the title of this blog, which is my answer to Facebook, and those "friends" who keep asking for information about our whereabouts and happenings. And to explain the spelling variations: the ü (u umlaut) doesn't work on the web (or on most non-German keyboards) so my url uses the "ue" variant.

Küssnacht - usually referred to as Küssnacht am Rigi to differentiate it from that other, single-s Küsnacht on the lake of Zurich - is a village of around 10,000 inhabitants nestled in a shoulder of the Vierwaldstättersee (often referred to as the lake of Luzern, because that beautiful and heavily touristed city is on the western arm of the multi-limbed Vierwaldstättersee) and in the lee of the majestic Rigi. It's in the Canton of Schwyz, one of the original three cantons of the Swiss Confederation, and, according to legend, Küssnacht is the place where William Tell killed Gessler, bringing freedom from the oppression of the Habsburgs.

So we're living in the very belly of Swiss history, and, we believe, in one of the most beautiful parts of this astonishingly beautiful country. From our terrace we look south across the lake to the three big mountains, the Jungfrau, the Eiger and the Mönch, east to the Rigi, and southwest to Pilatus, Luzern's locator mountain.