The hills are alive

There's no doubt that when you look at a map around these parts you think, 'Oh, that's just a short walk. A hundred metres or so.' But when you actually translate this, the reality feels very different. It usually involves a 45-55 degree incline at some point, which has the potential to throw even the most rugged of walkers off schedule.


Which is why I was pretty impressed today when I managed to get the kids to school, jump on a train, discover a large hill in a nearby town which had to be scaled in order to attend a German class which was cancelled, run back down the hill, jump back on a train, run back up the hill home again, and all before 9:45am.

A Dear English Pal said to me on the way to a choir rehearsal: 'When I moved here I had to learn how to walk hills.' I suppose it's not something the Hausfrau's family were used to after the Limestone Plains. But how amazing the hills here are, and it's no wonder we see people out walking in droves on the weekends.

Prior to our excursion in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes we spent the day at the Ballenberg outdoor museum in the rolling hills of the Bernese Oberland. If I hadn't been on a few other Swiss adventures I might not have believed how Swiss it all was. (OK, I may have said, 'Out of control,' a few times, but not many.)


Ballenberg is comprised of differently designed houses which have been shipped in from all over Switzerland, from various different cantons. The overall effect was one of idyll and vitality as we wandered through smoke houses and animal pens and herb gardens, and peeked into recreated scenes invoking lifestyles of simplicity without the modern clutter of such paraphernalia as [looks at floor next to computer] Lego and Euro 08 stickers.

After lunch in the courtyard of one of the more Italian-region- of-Swizerland-style villas, during which we were amused to see underwear flapping in the breeze on the second floor balcony, we continued our journey through time and place, finishing up at the local chocolate-making shop where the Hausfrau was compelled to try a dark chocolate with creamy lemon filling. (Sounds palatable, but tasted disappointingly like disinfectant.)

I have to say that in Brienz there were literally hundreds of these old style Swiss houses. A woman who appeared to be enjoying her rustic Swiss balcony saw that we were disappointed that the local violin-making workshop was closed. She had a conversation with DM and promptly made a quick phonecall which resulted in one of the violin builders appearing to let us in and show us around the workshop.


The view from the workshop windows was inspirational and, I'd have thought, ideal for the creation of musical instruments.

I admit that while we wandered through cow-slips and daisies in Ballenberg I'd been half expecting to see Julie Andrews' yodelling head appear as she skipped from behind a nearby hillock. But, at that point, I was entirely happy to settle for a spot of classical violin and the hollow clang of cow-bells.

The Big Meringue

In a sad state of affairs this morning the Hausfrau went to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and pulled down two mugs, anticipating tea and chats (in English) with one or more extended family members... only to realise that of course everyone had gone. DM, DF, DB and DSIL were all safely tucked up in their own beds in Australia, DH was at the coal-face and DS and DD were at school. What a contrast to the past six weeks, in which house guests were with us more often than not, and I only had to yell out: "Sprechen Sie Englisch, dude?" to hear: "Yeah maaate".

After The Wedding, the Hausfrau and family packed into an 8-seater van with DM and DF as well as DB and DSIL, and headed south to Brienz in the Bernese Oberland for a few days of rolling green hills, flushes of wildflowers, cows with bells, crystal clear lakes, snow-capped mountains, old Swiss houses, lots of chocolate... It was totally out of control on the Swiss-0-meter in so many ways.

Our hotel was outrageously rustic, and overlooked Lake Brienz. I thought Lake Zürich was clean, but this was like, well, water with nothing else in it except some aqua food-colouring. And apart from DS (who was spotty and tired from hosting the chicken pox virus) and the Hausfrau (who was sporting a rubbish cold), we couldn't have had more fun or covered more ground if we tried.

The area is full of surprises, starting with Meiringen, which we soon realised was home to the Sherlock Holmes museum, and nested at the base of the Reichenbach falls, from which Holmes and Moriarty plunged in their final battle. At this point I must say that while Holmes may not have benefited from a mobile phone, the Hausfrau was exceptionally glad of hers when DS, on discovering that DH and DD had legged it up the mountain to try to get to the top, ran full-pelt in an upwards direction with the Hausfrau cool on his heels. I say cool, because the kid is like lightning and, after an attempted pursuit during which the Hausfrau was coughing and panting with head pounding, it was all she could do to whip out the mobile phone and dial DH.

Me: It's DS. He's on his way. I can't keep up. I'm sick.
DH: Okaaaay. Hey, look up here! I'm waving at you! Hi!

True enough, DH and DD (at least I presume it was them since they kinda looked like little freckles) were at the top of the fall waving madly.

Needless to say, DH (who can also be like lightning on request) whizzed down to meet DS, and the three of them then bolted down the mountain again leaving the panting Hausfrau in their wake.

It wasn't until we got back to the hotel that DH pointed to the guide book. Turns out that May 4th is the Sherlock Holmes festival in Meiringen, in which Holmes fans congregate for a pilgrimage to the falls. Sadly for DH, who is a big Holmes fan, May 4th was to be the day after our departure.

Luckily for us, though, Meiringen is also the alleged home of the meringue, and we had stocked up on the way through, so at that point there was really only one sensible thing to do which was of course pull out the meringues and start scoffing.

Eye in the sky

Having recently discovered that a few of DS's school friends had chicken-pox, it was with some trepidation that I boarded the plane avec ma famille (when oh when am I going to find German comes more easily than French?) to Mother England for the wedding of DC and DCIL-to-be, henceforth to be known as DCIL.

However, the wedding went ahead without a pock or a hitch (other than the intended), and the Hausfrau and DH had a few extraordinarily proud moments as we, misty-eyed, watched our spruced and beaming offspring lead the bridal party down the aisle. DC was, of course, radiant, and was as amused as I was when, following allegedly impeccable behaviour during the photo session and a very long day as the shortest guest at the wedding, DS yawned loudly during the best man's speech and announced even more loudly during a pause: 'Mummy. This is soooooo boring.'

Not so boring was the rest of London. No indeed. Both DH and I had lived in London as kids, so there was a certain amount of travelling down Memory Lane to be done, and not without a few good cups of tea to fortify us along the way. I even managed to catch up with a Dear English Pal from about 6th grade, with her two children and her DH. Now that was a lot of laughs, especially when faced with some rather antiquated photographs of DEP and Yours Truly.





In fact we covered a lot of ground in a few days, starting with the London Eye, which was made all the more momentous when we noticed, at the crest of the ferris-wheel-like ride, that Big Ben was in fact chiming 12 o'clock midday. Not so much fun for a nearby Kiwi tourist, who appeared to be glued to the centre of the seating bench the entire way, and frequently warned his offspring to stay away from the windows (at which point I must draw attention to the fact that the entire 'pod' minus the floor was comprised of window).







I also managed to get my Hausfrau Art Hit when we visited Dear Youngest Brother (DYB) at one of his workplaces, also known as the Tate Modern. (Oh yes, did I mention The Tate?!) We were treated to entry to the members' lounge, where we had a huge lunch of designer grub and coffee, and then feasted our eyes on - oh joy - lots and lots of art. The Hausfrau was most pleased to clap eyes on some work by de Chirico, having spent many hours poring over reproductions of his looming-shadow paintings in text books during high school. And, as usual, I walked away with the conviction that art always looks different in the flesh.

And so, as we arrived back in the land of chocolate and cow-bells, it was with some relief that I spied the first spots on DS's face. I think of it as a near-miss: chicken pox don't look too flash with tartan trousers.

[Stay tuned for the next episode, in which Spotty Boy accompanies Snotty Hausfrau on some of the most out-of-control Swiss experiences you will ever read about.]