Tomorrow is Bonfire Night in Switzerland!
The Swiss National Holiday celebrates the founding of the Confederation Helvetica in 1291. A citizen of each of the states Uri, Schwyz and Unterwalden climbed to the top of a small mountain called Rütli and swore "We will be a single nation of brothers"
It took them 524 years to complete their task, as it wasn't until 1815, that the last Cantons joined in the fun. And it wasn't until 1994, that it was considered important enough to be worth celebrating.

One of The Three, is often stated to have been the Swiss national hero William Tell, who supposedly had an active part in helping free those parts of Switzerland, that were under Austrian rule a the time.
A few years after the brotherhood was declared, Tell forgot to greet a hat hanging in the streets of Uri. The hat just happened to belong to the Austrian Protector of the area, Gessler, and he, somehow, wasn't too pleased about Tell's negligence and ...
... well, you know the story anyway, because you saw the television series in the 60s just after Robin Hood's third round of repeats!

The thing is, though, where as we have signed documents from our Guy Fawkes, declaring, that it's o.k. for us to set fire to the Houses of Parliament every fifth of November, there is no proof of William Tell's existence. There are no records of the family name Tell, Täll or Tello in Uri - officially he was never born, never got married and never died. In fact, if the German playwright Schiller, hadn't written a play about the whole affair, it would have been forgotten by today.

If Tell didn't exist, then the Confederation Helvetica couldn't have been formed, Switzerland never have been liberated from Austrian tyrants and we couldn't have fireworks tomorrow.
That being the case, I would like to thank Mr. Schiller, for giving us the day off work tomorrow, to let us celebrate his great play!

I drove through Grisons (Graubünden) with my parents once, so that they could see some more of those lovely Swiss mountains. At round about midday we were hungry and stopped off at a restaurant that looked quite inviting.

The waitress, confronted with a carload of Brits, didn't seem too friendly. She dropped a stack of menus on the table and asked us impatiently, what we wanted to drink. We ordered our drinks and set out to tackle the menu - quite a daunting task, as it was written in the local dialect.

My father found 'Chrütter' somewhere in the menu and wanted to know what it was.
When the waitress came to our table to serve our drinks, I asked in German if she could explain what 'Chrütter' is.
My reply was: 'Na, Chrütter san Chrütter, oder?!' she sounded the words as if she were hacking up hairballs - I haven't mastered the Swiss combination of ch to this day, but the Swiss like the sound so much, they write it on the backs of their cars!

Anyway, it took some time, for the fact to sink in, that I hadn't understood a word she had said, by which time she was gone anyway!

A while later she came back to the table with the soup my father had ordered - and, because she was looking elsewhere, proceeded to pour it into his lap! He wasn't too pleased, but before he could catch his breath enough to do more than groan, the woman was apologising profusely and mopping his trousers with a serviette.

All of a sudden, she was as friendly as a person could be and after clearing up the mess and serving the rest of the meal (without further mishap) she came to the table with a bottle, which she proffered for my inspection - on the bottle was written 'Chrütter' and there was a picture of some herbs.
The penny dropped and the translation in my mind was immediate:
'Well, herbs are herbs, aren't they?!'

Needless to say, we didn't tip and my parents drove back to England with fond memories of Swiss hospitality.

I always dreamt of opening a cheese shop, selling the best cheeses (most prominently from France) and good wines to go with them.
If I'm ever going to fulfil my dream, I most certainly have to leave Appenzell first.

Whenever I visit a market here, there are always two or three locals selling their home made cheese.
You may go to any of the local supermarkets and find yards of cheese on display, most of it with signs that say 'Local Produce'.
Driving around the area or hiking the mountains, even, you will see signs that pronounce 'Chäs vom Buur/Farmhouse Cheese'.

I can spend hours at the various sales points, wondering whether to take the cheese from Village x, Cloister y or Alp z, whether I might prefer the raw milk, or the pasteurised and which of the goat's cheeses will be better.

There are cheeses with caraway, bear's garlic, mountain herbs, peppercorns, olives, and you may choose between young, medium, mature or very mature - some of them even look as if they could move of their own accord.

The strange thing though, is that between April and October (that is another story, but I still have to do some maths), I seldom see people buying cheese here. There can be queues three deep at the meat and cooked meat counters, but I get served without delay, when I buy cheese. The locals, trying to sell their ware at market, always look a little cheesed off and the paths leading to the farmhouse cheese are deserted.

The meadows around my house are flooded with the sound of cow bells. The milk from those cows goes to the local dairy where 120 loaves of cheese are produced every day - you know, those big, round loaves. The cows produce milk on Sundays too and they don't have holidays, so that means 43,800 loaves of cheese a year - just the one dairy.
There is a dairy in the next village too, and the next but one!

If the people of Appenzell don't eat all that cheese, who eats it then?
There must be mountains of the stuff somewhere,
Hang on ...
I wonder if that's why the mountains here are so high?

There is a strange difference between renting a flat in Germany and renting a flat in Switzerland.

A Swiss flat always has a kitchen already built in (that is not necessarily the same as a built-in kitchen!) and a communal washing machine.

When you rent a flat in Germany you have the option of either putting in your own kitchen, or haggling with the previous tenant, over the price for the one he put in (or haggled over).

Of course - no one told me that before I moved to Switzerland, so I now have a complete kitchen in my cellar after moving here from Germany!
I also have a washing machine in the cellar and a dismantled Wardrobe that is 4 m wide and 2.4 m high.
I live in a 200 year old farmhouse - the highest ceiling here is 1.87 m!
(Just as a matter of interest, the lowest door frame is 1.65 m - ouch)

You'd think that Swiss hand-workers would be aware of such simple facts.
Not so. I recently ordered a double-bed, which was delivered and put together by a professional carpenter. He laid it out upside down on the bedroom floor and started securing the joints.
When I realised what he was doing, I said 'That's not going to work!'.
He gave me one of those looks that says 'Keep your nose out of this - I'm the professional here.'
After a few minutes though, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked 'Why don't you think it will work?'
I pointed out the fact to him, that as the bed's frame is 2.6 m square and the room only 1.84 m high (yes - all my rooms are different in height!), he wasn't going to be able to turn the finished bed over.
He had to contemplate that for some time, before he started to dismantle the frame again.

At long last it rained.
The skies turned black, wind came up and, for all of ten minutes it poured down with rain.

Cows, it seems, rather like humans, are never quite happy with the weather.
This morning they were huddled under the trees utilising what shadow there was.
For the last ten minutes they have been huddled under the trees sheltering from the rain!

How do they do it?

It was spring. You know, the time of year when the meadows are strewn with yellow and blue flowers and the cherry trees are in blossom.
Everything was covered in snow - and had been since October, including the cherry blossom.

One of the locals:
Do you see that tree on the hill over there?
Yes.
Do you see the shape it has developed.
Yes.
That means it is going to be a very hot summer!

Two days later the snow was gone.
A week after that it was hot enough to mow the meadows.
We have had blistering temperatures for five weeks.

How do they do it?

It took me a while, but now I realised why ...

Everyone here moves around like snails at the moment - avoid as much exertion as possible - it is too warm.
10:30 a.m. - the temperature outside is already up to 34°C and more to come.
And it has been like this for the last five weeks!

I have taken to getting up an hour earlier to go to work, because being on a motorbike at 'that' time of day is almost cold.
My social life has changed too. Even though the windows of my flat have been open all day long (please don't tell any burglars where I live), it is just too hot in there to spend any length of time after arriving home from work.
There is a permanent draught and my orchids have long since passed away because of it, but the draught is hot - it is like standing in front of a hairdryer!

To get away from the heat I have developed a new tactic. I drive down to the local lido (open-air-swimming-pool for those with the same vocabulary as my spell-checker) where the terrace is planted with chestnut trees - it is a dark and cool place and almost empty because those dressed in swimming trunks and bikinis pass over it as quickly as possible to avoid the 'cold'.
It is the ideal place to drink a refreshing wheat-beer and read a book.

Sadly they close at 8:00 p.m. and I have to set out for the next place with somewhere cool enough to sit.

The local bar has tables outside and the seats along the wall have been in shadow long enough by now to be bearable.
To sit on one of these seats for longer than 60 seconds involves ordering something to drink - preferably something alcoholic.

After an hour I have been updated on all of the local gossip, know that Miss X has a bun in the oven for the third time and is only sixteen and I can consider making my way home.

On my drive home my neighbours can be seen sitting outside their homes enjoying the cool of the evening.
We have all taken to spending as much time outside as possible, preferably under a large tree, just to avoid having to enter one of those unbearable buildings called homes.

We sit around chatting and every now and then, someone will venture inside to retrieve another bottle of wine.
Then at some point someone will exclaim 'Oh, look, it is (insert a very late time of your preference) o'clock!'
This is the signal for us all to rise and to return to our own homes.
And we hope, that tonight at least, it will be cool enough to be able to sleep!

Everyone here moves around like snails at the moment - avoid as much exertion as possible - I'm too tired to think and I have a hangover.

I do wish the locals would pronounce names correctly.
During an introduction someone said to me: I am Liseli (Elizabeth), this is my Husband Hansi (reserved for budgerigars in Germany) (Johannnes) and this is our grandchild, Denis.
I shook the proffered hands and introduced myself, while thinking, that Denis looked a nice-enough lad.

Six months later, I happened to bump in to Denis at a local festival and was a little surprised at the slight swell under his shirt.
Now, though, even the most unobservant dimwit would realise, that Denis is really Denise!

I was reading the other day, about the Swiss Blog Awards and was a little surprised, to see that the winner was awarded her prize in Reka cheques. This reminded me of a strange fact - the Swiss officially have three currencies. (five?)

There is, of course hard cash in form of Swiss Franks - nothing to beat them, or so the Swiss think.
If that is so, then why on earth, did they also invent Reka cheques and WIR?

Reka checks are vouchers created by the Schweizerische Reisekasse (Swiss Travel Fund), sold at a discount by many companies and associations to employees or members for the purpose of promoting family tourism within Switzerland. They are accepted as payment medium by many Swiss railway and transport enterprises, hotels and other establishments in the tourist field. Thus said, one would think they were travellers cheques - one would be wrong! You can also use Reka cheques at the petrol station, at the Co-op and in many restaurants.

WIR is an abbreviation for Wirtschaftsring-Genossenschaft, a cooperative based in Basel that has been operating a cashless payment system on the basis of a closed circular flow of money since 1934. WIR cheques are not cheques as defined under Swiss law. WIR booking orders are never paid out in cash, but instead entitle the bearer to acquire goods and services offered by WIR participants by way of exchange. (UBS)
The idea behind both systems, is a closed economy - keep business in Switzerland. Neither currency is accepted outside Switzerland - they have to be spent here. Essentially a sound economic basis, keep imports down and the cash flowing.
How strange then, that when you actually try to use them in Switzerland, people look down their noses at you as if you were trying to pay with counterfeit Turkish Lira!

Reka cheques are held under ultra violet light and rubbed between thumbs, while at the same time you can sense a member of the staff edging towards the door, just in case you try to make a bolt for it.
If you try to pay with WIR, the vendor always starts to haggle 'well, I'll take 30% WIR, but you'll have to give me the rest in Franks' and you can bet your last Dollar, that if he will take 100% WIR, he is pulling the wool over your eyes - either the quality or the price stinks!

I just don't understand why then - if no-one wants the stuff - it is in circulation at all!
Strangely - if you pull out a wad of Euros, you can pay in most shops with them and in Tourist centres you can even pay with Dollars!

Just recently an 'Entertainment- Evening' was put on by the Yodel Club in our village.
Most of my neighbours belong to this club and so one day my doorbell rang - one of my neighbours wanted to sell me some tickets for the evening, just to make sure I shouldn't get turned away at the door ...
Well, because I do try to take part in at least some of the villages social life, I purchased a ticket and when the evening arrived, duly made my way to the village hall.

Upon entering, my path was efficiently blocked by my neighbour's wife who grumbled at me 'Hender reserviert?/Did you make a reservation?' I held my ticket under her nose and tried to make my way past her but still she blocked my path and grumbled 'Wie isch dr Gschlacht/What sex are you?'

I blinked uncomprehendingly and memories of segregated assemblies at school shot through my head - Boys on the right-, girls on the left-hand side of the hall. Then I glanced down at my legs, just to make sure that I hadn't put on a Kilt by mistake and that this was perhaps the reason for confusion.
I hadn't, so I blinked at her again, slowly beginning to feel a little silly and said 'Male - I think'.

With that, she burst out laughing - most unusual for these reserved mountain-folk - and spluttered "No, no, that means 'What is your surname' here!"
I told her my name, she consulted a list, grinned and said 'Row five, seat number twelve.'
Apparently every single visitor had a hand selected seat.
I was just a little disappointed though, to find that there was no sign on the seats, to inform other people who they were going to be sitting next to.

Well, what shall I say? We weren't segregated and if you like yodelling, it was quite a pleasant evening!

Saturday started off well enough - it was heavily overcast and there were no mountains to be seen anywhere.
There was, however, something that made me suspicious - when I got up, the farmer was driving up and down the meadow outside, mowing the grass. They don't do that if it is going to rain, they spread muck around instead!

My first thought, was that he had lost some of his marbles - it was cold and gloomy and was quite obviously going to rain any minute and yet there he was driving up and down as if the sun were out.

Well - he was right, of course. Within an hour the temperature had risen ten degrees and although it still looked as if it would rain any minute, it was almost unbearably hot. Then, just after Midday the curtains were ripped open so that the mountains were suddenly still there after all and then sun beat down upon us as if to make up for the mornings lost time.
And that is the way it stayed for the whole weekend.
Pass the shadow please.