Solitude is a writer’s prerogative, and as my feet wander the earth, my brain wanders the terrain of my creations. It mostly works out. This last week was a challenge, with a painful falling-out with someone dear to me, and the supportive editor-spouse traveling to the land of his birth, to ponder on his origins and connect with his tribe. As usual, I packed my hiking pack, made some snacks, and got underway, ready to challenge myself with a difficult route. A funny thing happened though.
I was on the train which runs along the Walensee, the place I wrote about in my previous post. As I sat there, waiting for my stop, I heard voices—English speaking voices, some with American accents. It looked like a group was going on a hike. I curiously asked, and was invited along to the Zurich Outdoor Meetup excursion. Solitude is a prerogative, which also becomes a habit. I declined. I listened to everyone laugh and chatter. The leader asked me again to join them.
He made it easy to say yes to a route I’d already taken. (I don’t like to repeat routes or plots.) Well, this time, I wasn’t complaining about the crowd; I was part of the crowd. Two young American accountants from Zurich chatted easily with me; then I had an interesting talk with a doctor about how important it is for patients to assume some responsibility for their own well-being. It made me think again about differences in culture.
Like my heroine, Peppa Mueller, I’m Swiss in character and expectations, yet attracted to the ease and friendliness of Americans and other expats. The loose jokes, the voices ending on an uplift, the gangly ease of it all, creates a breezy feeling, sparkling like the lake of the water itself.
You have to write alone. But once in a while, it’s good to come out of your shell and gather impressions.
I wrote this at Easter; the companion trip will be posted above. It’s interesting that in this post I complain about all the people around, and in the next post, I join a group and completely enjoy myself.
Just because the weather is warm, and no snow lies on the ground at 800 meters, where I live, doesn’t mean the places I want to hike at are snow free. I used to try hikes in March or April, only to be turned back by snowfields. I hate hiking in snow. It’s not the discomfort so much. The stuff is slippery. A misstep on a moderate slope turns into a quick slide into the valley below. Also, the snow covers paths, vastly increasing the chances of getting lost.
That’s why I have my go-to places early in the season. One of them is the path on the sunny side of the Walensee. That side of the lake has steep towering cliffs that rise to form the Churfirsten, a mountain chain that divides this part of Canton St. Gallen from the Appenzell.
The Churfirsten side of the lake also has no roads, since it’s too steep to build on. The biggest village, Quinten, which is about the half-way point, is accessible by foot, mountain bike, or ferry.
It’s Good Friday and the weather is more than good when I reach Walenstadt, the village at the mouth of the lake that’s the starting point for this hike, which is described as 7 hours. (Those who wish to do less can hike until Quinten, and the take the boat across the lake to the railway in Murg.) I take the main road towards town, passing the pretty painted house to my left, and continuing on until I come to the square with the town hall building. There, I turn left and follow the road along the lake, passing this old grocery store, now closed. After the harbor, there’s a big recreation area. A well-marked trailhead to the right has signs to Garadur and Quinten. The wide path is gravel, and easy to navigate. Now the ascent begins, up, up, and up to 800 meters, at Garadur. The farmhouse has a tap where I refill water. Garadur itself no longer has the beehives and big organic flower garden, but it’s still a place of peace. Meadows alongside the farm lead to the edge of the cliff, where far below, the lake shimmers in the sunlight.
The first glimpse of the pebbly beach occurs 45 minutes after leaving Garadur, but it will be another thirty minutes along the shore line to reach Quinten and the small harbour. There’s an almost Mediterranean feel to the air today, with the fresh blue of the sky and the brilliant turquoise water, and the wind making tiny wavelets. The air is dry and crisp.
Quinten’s two restaurants are open and packed. Apparently many people
had the same idea I did; the trial is crowded too, by my standards. I haven’t had my visit in the woods to relieve myself. The little artisan stores tucked into houses are opened too, offering local wines, made in quantities too small to be exported, and jams. Little figs the size of fairy fists are popping out in the trees; they can only thrive in this protected microclimate. Gardens are bright with hellebores and lilac scents that air. I pass through Quinten, hoping to leave the crowds behind, but get only intermittent respite. After about an hour, I wind down the trail towards some more open meadows. . Now I’m close to the beautiful falls, and cross the bridge to continue on.
The first clue that I’ve reached civilisation is the Restaurant Burg Strahlegg. Fat fluffy chickens wander around, pestering diners. After this, the road is paved and open to traffic, although normally there isn’t much. As I pass beaches and the Burg itself, which is a ruined fort, there are more cars than usual, which turn into a plague of black SUV’s. Still, there are periods which are traffic free, and quiet. I pass through the long winding tunnels, and soon can see the town of Weesen ahead My destination, the Flyhof, is right outside of town, seven minutes from the outermost bus stop. In the 12th century, when the venerable building was built, it was part of the women’s cloister. It’s undergone many changes since then, but the walls, thicker than my outstretched arm, and the timber cross-beamed ceiling speak to its historic antecedents. My single room has leaded glass panels and a wide wooden sill that serves as a table.
I eat early, since I’m alone, and dressed in the next day’s hiking clothes, and a pair of old felt slippers that I carried. My meal, with generous wine, costs more than my room, but it’s worth it. A thick fresh chunk of Atlantic cod grilled and accompanied by German asparagus is heaven. Many restaurants make the mistake of not draining the asparagus completely, and then covering them with Hollandaise sauce, which gets diluted from the water, but not this one. They may have grilled the asparagus, and the sauce is swirled on the side, along with some raspberry vinaigrette. Because I covered a seven-hour trial in much less time today, I splurge and get a strawberry-rhubarb crumble. If you don’t like rhubarb, you should pass, but to me, the sour, moist rhubarb blends perfectly with the sweetened sour cream topping, and there’s a glass of an Austrian Chardonnay, Unplugged, to finish.
A wonderful hike and dinner, which for some reason I finish with reading a memoir about a man’s military service in Rhodesia and South Africa. He seems to have had fun, but I wonder why it is that violence and oppression can masquerade as a rewarding profession. I keep reading though, in the quiet old former cloister by the peaceful lake. I never claimed it made sense, did I?