The memory of incessant snow, freezing winds, sludge and ice remind me that the Swiss are far happier in cold and wintry conditions; it’s what the country and its people are designed for, in a way. It’s as if the rest of the year is no more than an unfulfilling non-dress rehearsal in the art of being Swiss, a condition that only achieves perfect national expression in a proper brass monkey winter. The whole country seems somehow to relax in the icy conditions and the Swiss become content at the prospect of the snow-covered sunlit uplands arrayed around them.
In the snow, even the buses and trams seem to be more punctual than they are in other seasons. Baselers seem to live fuller and stand taller through these shivering days of freezing mists and swirling winds. They talk animatedly together at staff canteens all week about the relative merits of ski resorts, then as the afternoon light fails on Fridays, they scarf up their kids, cram all the bulky paraphernalia of skiing into a big car and vroom triumphantly and deliriously off towards the slopes. I imagine the routes to Interlaken, Gstaadt and Grindelwald streaming with gunnel-packed cars merrily tooting, their happy occupants yodelling with joy as they reach their snow-laden destinations.
In the time of snow, always turn left not right at the motorway that goes through Basel. This Confucian statement appears to be true and it means that if you live in Basel and are going skiing just for the day it’s better to go to the Black Forest in Germany or the Alsace in France than to the Swiss resorts south of Basel. We had a first outing in Belcher, near Feldberg in the Black Forest. There was a magnificent view from the top that extended right across to the Alps, and we could see the canapé of mist that had lain over and enveloped the whole plain looking right back nearly 80 kilometers to Basel where there was an extra plume of cloud caused by the pollution from the big incinerator plant there. After several years’ not skiing I had fear, whereas my daughter had none. Our neighbour Mark kindly and expertly taught her the basics of skiing during the day. Six or seven times we all went down the green slopes with Mark helping my daughter to ski and with me just trying to keep up with them while transfixed with terror.
The next weekend we drove south, turning right onto the motorway. Langenbrucke was just a sloping field with a very rudimentary and creaking pulley and a few hand-holds, and two routes down either side from the top of the slope. I never quite managed to avoid an undignified exit from the pulley and repeatedly made dramatic and involuntary staggering movements as I tried to bring my skis back into balance after letting go at the top. My daughter was a lot better at it and was skiing fluently and repeatedly down the hill, “lapping “ me several times in the process. We went up and down perhaps ten or twelve times on either side of a simple sausage and bread lunch, then later in the afternoon our feet and hands, and the shivering Tyson (our borrowed dog for the weekend) told us all that it was time to take a snow check.
Swiss snow is not, in general, much of an irritant, although the snowfalls, coupled with the extreme cold weather, finally broke my resolve of going into work on the bicycle in all weathers, come rain come hail etc. It is just not possible to cycle sixteen kilometers into work in the dark at a temperature of 15 degrees below zero, with hardened slush lining the bike lanes and irritated Swiss drivers whose intimate style of driving, in sleek dark-windowed mercs, does not improve in such conditions, to say the least.
One afternoon my daughter and I came back home via the shops in Binningen after an unpleasant encounter with a man who told us to go home to America (?) because I could not speak German. Suddenly the weather turned in thirty seconds from weak sunshine to an apocalyptic hail-storm with a massive attitude. We ran for shelter from the shards of ice slicing down from the sky. My daughter was hungry so we took shelter in the shop next door on the main street of Binningen, Lang the butchers, and I spotted some sausage rolls in the window and so asked for one of these. Evidently the sausage rolls, despite being in the window, were no longer being sold. Even though the shopkeeper was aware that I was not going to make any other purchase, she offered us one each to eat. We accepted. This was a piece of serendipity and I reminded myself when getting back into the car as the hail battered on the roof that small acts of generosity more than make up for small acts of the contrary.