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.