Hopp! Hopp! Hopp!

I am not a lot of things. Politically aware (slash particularly interested). A German speaker (unlike my little miss, who is currently singing herself to sleep with Schweizer Deutsch nursery rhymes). Abstentious from social media (particularly circa 4pm after a long day with the brats). Elegant under pressure (elegant full stop). A hater of cheese and wine. A regular exerciser.

Despite the latter, or more likely because of it, I’ve long needed the motivation of fear to get me moving. Mere common sense and immediate feel-good rewards apparently do not cut it: I need a looming, terrifying goal if I am going to actually don running shoes and get going. Knowing this about myself, and that I needed a solid kick up the butt, I signed on to the Swiss City Marathon.

It needs to be clarified immediately that ‘Swiss City Marathon’ is the name of the running festival that takes place in Luzern annually, as opposed to the distance I ran. It includes a marathon and a half mara, as well as the far less salubrious 10km run and the kiddy 195m dash. You may wish to hedge a bet on which event I entered (clue: the kiddy race was for participants strictly under the age of 6). Incidentally, though, over here ‘marathon’ seems to refer to any longish run, not necessarily the 42.2km slog that I am never likely to even think about completing. There was a recent run through town – a measly 7.2kms – that entrants kept referring to as ‘the marathon’. I was infuriated about this until I had the opportunity to refer to my own measly 10k as ‘the marathon’, and now I am obviously all about it. Sorry, genuine marathon runners. THUNDER STOLEN.

At any rate, I signed up, did my training, and ran said race. It started in Horw and snaked its way back into Luzern proper, passing through hobby farms, the local stadium, temptingly close to my house, bizarrely – it was kind of like a seedy night club – through the KKL (a concert hall and gallery), and then looped through the old town to finish inside the Transport Museum. Despite having lived in the city for a few years now, the race was an entirely novel way to experience it. The streets were lined with musicians – oompahpah bands this corner, alphorn choirs the next. Perhaps the best part was the enthusiastic spectators. Nearly the entire trail was populated with well wishers yelling ‘Hopp! Hopp! Hopp!’ as we ran past. And because our names were on our running patches, every now and then ‘Hopp, Wendy, hopp!’ (Or, ‘Go on Wendy, take that selfie!’ over the loudspeaker as I pulled my phone out upon entering the stadium. Selfie taken, thankyouverymuch.)

Aside from viewing a new side of my home, committing to and completing the run felt like a significant personal achievement. I’ve (slowly) run this distance and greater before, but since my little terrors have arrived I’ve felt I have little control of my time or my body. A lot of this is choice, but prioritising exercise doesn’t come naturally to me. The fear of the impending run forced me to rethink that, and the payoff was far beyond the completion of the race. I had four training sessions a week to myself. I learned to listen to podcasts, starting off with educational-ish ones which were quickly shunned in favour of the dulcet whiskey tones of Alec Baldwin’s celebrity interviews. I missed at least one bedtime a week, a happy coincidence which inspired several evening runs when I ordinarily would not have gone. I was frequently in so much pain that I was unable to dwell on the niggling nonsense of my everyday, thinking only about my next breath. I forgot, at times, that I was a mother and a hausfrau and felt like…just me, something I didn’t realise I’d not felt in a while. I felt strong, and strong in a way I’d not felt before the kids: aware of my body and its capacity and thresholds. Plus, I can tell people I ran a ‘marathon’, so there’s that.

I’d like to say that a corner has been turned and I am now embracing my new-found running freedom. I’m continuing with it, but to be honest without a target it’s hard to find the necessary momentum to force me out into the sleety night (it’s dark in the fours this time of year. Every day, around 3pm, Adsy exclaims in delight ‘Gosh! I’m staying up late tonight!’). I’d like to think the increased movement has been contagious: within a day or so of finishing the race, our little bear took his first few Frankenstein-esque steps, and he’s quickly progressing to be a right little speedster. If he keeps it up, perhaps next year he and his big sister can enter their very own 195m ‘marathon’.

The dam(n) weekend

As exciting as it is to cross the border into another country, the nature of Switzerland is such that it’s not always necessary to do so to experience a new language and culture. We are firmly planted in the Deutsch canton of Lucerne, but just over an hour away (through the longest tunnel in the world, the Gotthard, which stretches for a numbing 17km) is the Italian canton of Ticino. Lured by an easy getaway towards Italian deliciousness, we hit the road – and the traffic associated with said tunnel – on Friday afternoon.

When we travel, we prefer to stay in apartments (well, actually I prefer to stay in a five star suite with full housekeeping service and a butler and free flowing fizz, but that ain’t happening any time soon) so that there’s a seperate sleeping space for the kids and the capacity to chill after they’ve gone to bed. We’ve done hotel rooms where we’ve had to sit silently drinking wine in the bathroom and one horrible stay in a teeny tiny room where we had to text each other as we sat in bed so as not to wake the finally sleeping Addie a few centimetres away. We’ve had some great apartments, and we’ve had a few doozies. Unfortunately this weekend fell into the latter category. A traditional style Swiss house in a tiny village, the place itself was cluttered, musty and decidedly odd. The town was a single stretch of highway with very little going on, other than an ice hockey game on Friday night which nearly prohibited us from being allowed access the house (which in hindsight may not have been the worst outcome ever).  I’m prepared to take a miss every now and then but it felt like this set an unpleasant and difficult-to-kick tone for the weekend.Ticino with Ann, Doru, Sebi-017The plus side of shoddy lodgings (other than being able to stay up with our friends like actual normal adults after all the brats had gone to bed, of course) was being motivated to leave it as much as possible. We hit the road first thing (well, as first thing as you can get with three brats underfoot) to Contra Dam in Vogorno.

The dam was built in the early 1960s and uses water from the nearby Lake Maggiore to support a hydroelectric power plant (which somewhat blights the view, but such is the price one pays for electricity I suppose). It was used in the opening scene of GoldenEye after which it has become a popular and terrifying bungee jumping location (although it should be noted that James Bond did nowhere near the amount of screaming that was echoing around the dam last Saturday). Ticino with Ann, Doru, Sebi-021We then made our way to Ticino’s capital, Bellinzona. A stunning city with no discernible ice hockey games, we explored one of the several castles perched above the town.

Our kids worked on their levitating skills.

Castillo de Montebello dates back to the 15th century, and is complete with all the castle frills: moat, drawbridges, archer’s holes. Not only was the castle remarkably well kept and an important archaeological site, it also had excellent hills on which to refine rolling.

Hill rolling works up an appetite, which was sated in the town square with my favourite all time food: pizza. (Addie spied on her all time favourite: cake.)

I’ve often remarked on the ease with which we can access The Natures here, and on Sunday we decided to get the hell away from leave our lodgings and head up the mountain we could see out the somewhat grimy windows. A funicular (or ‘funny cable car’, according to Ads) took us to the top where we strolled through light rain, finding at the peak…another dam.

Despite the rain, the day was lovely. We enjoyed the walk through Autumnal forests with the kids strapped to our backs, feasting on sweeping views.

And Alpkäse (serviced with local polenta, which was a total winner.)

Funny-cable-car-049All the kids fell asleep on the stroll back to the funny cable car, at the base of which was the best excuse of all to avoid going home: a park. Once the kids had slippery dipped to their hearts’ content (little Ted also gaining his first blood nose due to a slipperier-than-expected dip) we made our way back and numbed bad house pain with raclette and wine. Which, as it turns out, did the job just fine.

Carbon Copy

There are many positives and negatives associated with social media but in terms of helping the less memory-savvy of us recall our past activities, it certainly has merit. It was only due to a friendly Facebook reminder last Friday morning that Tim realised five years ago to the day, on a business trip to Switzerland, he had made precisely the same getaway on which we were about to embark. The primary difference between the two trips – other than the ankle biters and trouble-and-strife coming with him, of course – was that the first one allowed him to witness (via dodgy internet in a shady hotel room at an unsocial hour) his beloved Sydney Swans triumphantly winning the grand final, whereas this weekend…well, not so much.

We’d done the trip to Colmar in the Alsace region of France before the boy had arrived, but we’d always felt that there was plenty more to explore (cough wines to drink). So when some friends from home – an ex-colleague of mine and her lovely family – were making a pit stop there on their holiday, we shamelessly crashed their party. As did the Autumn leaves, which were popping up everywhere we turned.

After a catch up dinner when we arrived late Friday night (Adelaide speaking in hushed tones about being allowed to stay up late, see the moon and eat some ice cream at a restaurant) we decided to explore the small town on a mini tourismo train the following morning. There was a pre-programmed audio tour available in multiple languages, however all I learned was that two year olds prefer the iPad to local history, nine month old daddy doppelgängers think the headphone jack is a toy purely for their oral amusement, fruit pouches make lovely leg accessories when inexpertly squeezed by both children, and Colmar sure is a real purdy ol’ town.

We reunited with the Family Grozdanovski for that staple of travelling with kids: park time. Slippery dips for our monkey, a football slash basketball hybrid for theirs.

Because Motsy is clearly a creature of habit the next stop on our tried and true agenda was Riquewihr, a walled town about half an hour away. We shuttled our way there through vineyards with burnished leaves, anticipating the Alsatian bounty awaiting us.

We did not, however, anticipate our companion at lunch: angry Nicole Kidman.Colmar -098We enjoyed a delicious feast (complete with kidneys bravely ordered and consumed by Liam) and caught up on gossip, travel tales and the pressing issue of Nicole’s anger, and whether her companion was in fact a semi-Dame-Edna-ed Barry Humphries.

The short drive back to Colmar was made even more spectacular by the incoming storm (although possibly not so much for those waiting back in Riquewihr who were caught in the rain), the light bouncing off nearby hills and villages in manner spectacular.

Ever the photography enthusiast, Tim paused for numerous ‘ain’t this pretty’ breaks on the way home, forcing Bailey to get in on the snappy action (Tim’s enthusiasm rarely takes any prisoners). Bailey caught both the leaves and our little bear perfectly.

Despite this being Tim’s third iteration of this particular itinerary, we left Colmar the following day (detouring past the toy museum to indulge our girl’s love of baby dolls and her mama’s unexpected love of train sets) fully anticipating that we’ll return, despite all the other lovely places to visit. It’s sweet, close, super tasty – and besides, we’ve been left with so many unanswered questions. Why is Our Nic so angry? Who is her Barry Humphries-esque companion? How did she even wind up in the Alsace? Such mysteries can only be solved with Colmar dedication (and Crémant).

Bring it

It may surprise you to know that I am quite a sentimental kind of person. I can’t let a festive season pass without viewing (preferably on multiple occasions) ‘It’s a Wonderful Life‘ and there’s a Dire Straits album that was oddly slotted into my teens that will reduce me to tears if heard unexpectedly. There’s a ridiculously large box of child-related paraphernalia that I cannot bring myself to cull and I live in genuine fear that Posh and Becks will break up. But nothing brings on self indulgent melancholy like good ol’ Autumn. I’ve been wandering around for the last few weeks fairly misty eyed over the turning leaves, the chill in the air, the darker nights and the mellowing of the light (although this morning, against my better judgement and for reasons I am unable to articulate, I tried a Pumpkin Spice Latte. I was almost cured of Autumn Love right there and then. Yikes).

Earlier this month was the two year annualversay of our move to Switzerland, further impetus for reflection. This year I celebrated by making good on my FOMO. A few months ago, at the start of summer, Tim had climbed Mt Pilatus with some colleagues. I was hideously (cough childishly) jealous and, on Motsy’s urging, decided to give it a go myself. Despite having nowhere near the level of fitness required to scale the 2,128m mountain, it turns out I’ll do anything to get a morning away from the brats. A friend and I took it on, and after almost four hours of solid upwards hit the peak. Although the nicest day of a bad bunch, the mountain was still covered in heavy fog as we climbed. It made for poor visibility but given the scrambley nature of the path we took and my fear of heights, it was possibly for the best. Tim and said brats met us afterwards for a grill, where we cheersed to two years well spent (and it’s lucky arms are used for cheers-ing, as lord knows my legs were not up for anything much after that hike).

The last two years have gone swiftly. Theodore – who of course wasn’t even remotely on our agenda at the time – is now the age that Addie was when we moved here. In those early days, we looked around at childcare options and found that a lot of the playgroups were only accessible for ‘older’ kids – starting at about three years. I didn’t think too much more of it until it hit me a few weeks ago that, completely obviously but also somehow impossibly, my little daughter is now almost three. The horror of this discovery was counterbalanced somewhat by the parallel realisation: I can offload her to spielgruppe! And to spielgruppe she went: Swiss style.

Waldspielgruppe is forest playgroup, where the kids toddle off to the woods for the afternoon. They forage for wood, build a fire and play with knives, cook and eat cervelat (a sausage that Tim and I liken to vegemite: divine if you grow up eating it but absolutely vile if introduced to it later in life), and generally have a fabulous mucky time. Addie had her induction last week so Teddles and went along for the ride, but she starts solo this Friday and could not be more excited. It’s both thrilling and heartbreaking to see how grown up she is, and to watch her chatting to the leader and the other children in a language I can barely understand made me grateful once again for the opportunity we’re getting here.

To capitalise on her new skills – and to marvel at the newly fallen snow and the gradually changing foliage – we took a wee family hike yesterday. We went to Elm, about an hour and a half from Luzern, took a quick cable car up the mountain and did the Giant’s Playground walk. Our surly looking little bear has RBF, like his sister before him, but was actually very happy to be out on his papa’s back.

It is ludicrously easy to get outdoors here. Swiss efficiency is astounding. Cable cars take you to seemingly inaccessible peaks, where there are nearly always comfortable places to sit and rest, family friendly walking tracks to follow, and fireplaces – stocked with fire wood – to grill your lunch. This walk was only just over 2ks, a perfect distance for the littlest walker, and had an activity site every few hundred metres which was just enough to bribe inspire little Addie along.

We stopped for lunch where Addie abandoned all waldspielgruppe learnings, leaving the fire-building duties to the lads in the family, instead joining her mama in a far superior pastime: salami and cheese consumption.

Lunch consumed, we continued the loop trail along – marvelling at mushrooms (and someone’s Sporty Suit) and as always the ridiculous view. We get out and hike a fair bit, but this was the first trip that we felt was well executed. Planning and timing went without a hitch, the walk was perfect for our family, and our grill game was strong. As we made our way back to the cable car (and the massive outdoor trampoline area that was a sure fire Addie approved activity) we were, I confess, fairly self congratulatory.

Although Tim’s contract here is permanent and has no formal end date, we’d always had in our heads that two years was the time we’d commit to staying. Almost as soon as we’d jumped off the plane we figured we’d be staying longer than that, given how much exploring there was to be done. We have a long and lovely trip to Australia planned over Christmas, so we’ll see how much good food, coffee and weather influences us, but it’s hard to imagine leaving here any time soon. I mean:

Besides, if we’ve only started to nail our hiking game after two years, imagine how we’ll bring it next summer.

Random Ronchamp

I had a serious case of itchy feet last Friday. It was most likely comprised of the recent exodus of visitors, my general motherhood malaise, and a good old fashioned greediness for pastries. As usual for a Friday morning, the kids and I went to the local playgroup. A few hours later, having confirmed that Tim was on board, found lodgings that were a reasonable distance away and having packed the car in a fashion somewhat haphazard, we were en route to France. We pulled up at a farm stay a few hours away just in time to do some twilight exploring (slash meeting ponies).

Ronchamp was never on our list of must visit places – to be honest, I had no idea it even existed. But one of the great luxuries we have living here is the capacity to visit unscientifically selected places without prioritisation or regrets. It’s a real treat. Especially when, as luck would have it, we chose a place only a few kilometres from this.Ronchamp-341The Notre Dame du Haut is a chapel designed by Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier. It’s nestled in the woods on top of a hill, flanked by two buildings – an oratory and a convent – by Renzo Piano. We’re not generally church visitors – either on Sundays as part of our travels –  and we didn’t know what to expect.

We were in awe.

Before World War 2, the site was home to an earlier chapel and was a place of great pilgrimage for Catholics. After the original church was destroyed by bombs, Le Corbusier was commissioned to build a new place of worship. An unorthodox choice of architect, Le Corbusier was known for his passion for standardised living and had pioneered several utilitarian-style buildings, believing that all people deserved to embrace a new affordable, comfortable standard of living. The church wished to deviate from its traditional model and embrace the future through modern art and architecture. Le Corbusier similarly departed from his general principles and created this beautiful structure which was in response to the location rather than housing principles. He used primarily concrete – his work is characterised by the use of cheap and practical materials – as well as stone from the original fallen church.

It is considered to be one of the first post-modern buildings, and one of the finest religious monuments. Our two year old also considered it an excellent venue for hide and seek.

Le Corbusier designed the chapel to be invisible until the summit of the hill is reached, mimicking in some aspects the Acropolis. Once at the top, the landscape opens up and views as far as the distant Jura mountains can be spied.

There was also a chance for us all to practice our climbing, with an Indiana Jones-esque mini-pyramid conveniently positioned for toddlers and crawlers alike.

The chapel is still functional, and at any given time worshipers can be found within the hushed walls. Said walls – filled with rubble from the bomb site in a symbol of renewal and continuity – were smattered with jewel-like stained glass windows. It was serene and atmospheric.

There were two separate altar chambers, with the roof opened up to the sky. The light seemed to glow in each of the unexpected pods.

In a minor miracle, both children tolerated our architecture-gazing admirably. They were rewarded with the antithesis of the Notre Dame du Haut: a visit to a monstrosity of a playground, notable only for its carnie atmosphere and alarming abundance of bouncing castles. I shall not sully the beauty above by posting any photos.

The chapel was certainly the highlight of our weekend and the most notable part of Ronchamp which, although a lovely spot, was otherwise very small and nondescript. I was going to say quiet, but the little (deceptively grinning) terror you see below proved me wrong on that front, with almost hourly wake ups on our second night away.  Perhaps little Teddles, much like his architect Grumps and interested-in-everything father, is a budding building enthusiast too.

 

Sure can

Tim, who runs at a much higher base body temperature than I do, doesn’t agree with me but there has been a cool change here over the last week. Given the fragility of Swiss summers (and apparently my pessimism), I am convinced it’s all over and am eyeing up new snowsuits for the kids. Although likely premature, we’ve definitely been hit with a wet wave and as such opted to evacuate Luzern last weekend, following the slightly less grey skies to the French neck of the Swiss woods.

We’re still learning lots of lessons about travel and parenting, but one that we finally seem to have grasped is to have an activity planned; gone, for now at least, is the pleasant aimless wander* of our pre-kidlet days. With this in mind we made our way to Papiliorama in nearby Kerzers – a ‘habitat for Swiss and exotic butterflies’ (honestly, they all look fairly exotic to me).

Years ago, I did a multi-day hike in the Northern Territory which passed by a natural amphitheatre which was a breeding ground for butterflies. My hiking companion, having a bit of an issue with moths, was not terribly keen on said amphitheatre but did her best to man up and check it out. Sorry to say it, J-No, but my punt is Papiliorama – with its domes filled with butterflies in their thousands – would probably not be up your alley either.

One of the things I particularly enjoy about the company of our two year old (spoiler: it’s not the attitude) is her curiosity about the world around her and the challenge that sets us in explaining anything and everything, frequently things I’ve not thought about in years. I’ve nailed shadows, and thunder and lightening has been regularly covered given the current climate. Our trip to the butterfly park afforded Tim and I an excellent opportunity to argue over the meaning of chrysalis versus cocoon (depressingly, I was wrong, which makes me wonder if she’s growing up with an incorrect understanding of other matters. Shadows are our evil twins from another dimension, no?).

Addie had hoped to see a ‘huge orange butterfly’. It turns out, like her aunt, she is not terribly enamoured with insects flying near her noggin, but luckily for everyone the tropical environment allowed for her favourite pastime.Papilion-270As well as butterfly enclosures, the park had a nocturnal dome featuring rats the size of possums, a small bat colony and nocturnal butterflies. Writing that down makes it sound horrific (nocturnal butterflies are totally Stephen King-esque, no?), and unsurprisingly is not how the park is marketed. There was also a rainforest dome, with a bunch of exotic birds including the happy chappy below. Our little miss has being saying ‘sure can, toucan’ ever since meeting him (she was also convinced that, like her, he had used textas to colour himself in).

The second parenting / travel lesson we’re slowly getting our thick heads around is: bring a picnic. All the foods taste better outdoors, and if you can find a park in a vineyard-lined  town overlooking hills and rivers, everyone is happy (also, bring mini toblerones aka mountain chocolate. They help with all manner of bribes).

We drove through Neuchâtel on the way home, but since we were not blessed with children who love driving decided not to prolong the torture trip and head home. The lovely town catapulted to the top of our list of places-to-which-to-return. Sadly I cannot say the same for Nocturnal Dome of Horror.

* let’s face it, ‘aimless wander’ frequently meant pub crawl.

Eat all the cheese

As I have mentioned on numerous occasions, one of the main reasons we don’t feel terribly homesick here is the number of visitors – family, old friends, and sometimes friends-of-friends and acquaintances – that swing by to visit us (it could also be related to the import level quantities of vegemite I have stashed in the cupboard for daily consumption). One of Tim’s oldest friends is currently with us. They go back close to two decades: Jimmy was the first housemate Tim ever had after leaving home, and part of the link to how we met. The few summer days we’ve been able to spend together have been a (beery and cheesy) treat. Tim, Jimmy and our girl hit the mountains yesterday to get some Alpen views, find some farm cheese (so many different types! all so delicious!) and, bizarrely, eat soup with a rock placed proudly in the centre of the bowl, for reasons unknown.

I took the next shift, sipping sunset wines on the lake as Jimmy purchased his cigarettes at the casino. Much to his amusement, he (dressed in casual tourist attire) was offered the cigarettes on a silver platter, opened and ready to smoke, by a fully tuxedoed butler who also offered him the choice of four languages in which to discuss the lighting of said durry.

Today is Swiss National Day, the day on which the foundation of the Swiss Confederacy is celebrated. Three Cantons originally swore the oath of confederation, and at the rough point where this occurred one can spend the day listening to speeches and celebrating. Given our Swiss German remains not up to scratch, and my love of breakfast is deep, we opted for another Swiss National Day tradition: the Farm Brunch.

An increasingly popular tradition, the brunches were an initiative to support local smallholdings and encourage people from towns to better understand what farmers do. We took a short bus ride out of town, after which we followed the signs (and fellow brunchers) under the watchful eye of Mount Pilatus to our farm.

A gorgeous morning for a walk, we followed the country path up the side of the hill (the very mild hill in the snaps, not the massive ol’ mountain), working up our appetites.

Our hosts farmed Angus beef and grew an apple orchard. Brunch was a huge spread of local cheeses and meats, Bircher muesli, to-die-for apple juice freshly pressed from their own orchard, and rösti with bacon and egg. (While I had no complaints, I had promised the little Swiss Miss that she could have ‘sausases’, her third favourite food after cake and ice-cream. Happily the abundance of small, sweet bread rolls adorned with the Swiss flag distracted her from otherwise certain sausage related meltdown).

There were over one hundred of us in attendance, and while we opted not to stay to sample the local wine it felt like there was quite a party in the making. We wandered home along the lake, past the local-wine-producing vineyards, and through lovely farmland (in a vain attempt to get two hot and bothered littles to sleep. I assumed my constant dull narrative of ‘look! cows! ooh, a tractor!’ would have been enough to send them off, but apparently not).

The festivities continue this evening, with an abundance of fireworks due to be deployed later tonight. We have our eye on ‘The Big Swiss’, a mean looking rocket type cracker available in a tent that has popped up around the corner from our house purely for the sale of all things pyrotechnical. But of course, the number one priority is to continue on Operation Eat All The Cheese, which I reckon is a totally appropriate celebration of this wonderful country.

They don’t have kangaroos in Austria

After our Black Forest adventure, our troops headed to Konstanz where in a shared custody style arrangement I swapped one Purtell (Tim) for another (Dom), and three of the four siblings got to hang out together for about three hours before Tim hit the road again for work. We lunched by the lake, swapped tales and fuelled the kids with nice cream for the road trip ahead: to Austria.

Moody's-016Years previously I travelled briefly to Vienna, memorable primarily for schnitzel, some stealthy mini-bar theft and postcards emphatically attempting to differentiate the European nation from its similar sounding antipodean counterpart. This time, we stayed in the alpen Tirol area, not far from the German border.

It was hideous.

Once again, we tried to manage the littles with keeping them as active as possible. Close to our digs (a 427 year old farm house, traditional in style and quirky in design) was a waterfall hike, which after a day of settling in (and attending to Arlo’s adventurous nature by a trip to the hospital…after he’d already managed to acquire a stitch in his noggin from playing too hard) we bribed convinced the kids to tackle.

The walk was just shy of 3kms, which turned out to be perfect for our three little walkers (and one sleeping baby).

It was even better for me, as I convinced Fake Tim aka Auntie Dom to take both my children for a spell. Sadly I wasn’t quick enough to leg it back to the car and cross the border while I had the chance. Moody's-051I’m not sure what I expected, but I loved Austria. Dommie compared it to New Zealand or Canada (with no offence meant at all to either nation) – associated with and similar to a larger country (Australia and America) but wonderful in its own right and somehow more chilled and adventurous. (And of course, with the starchy Germanic food I know and love). And she was bang on – it was amazing.

The cousins enjoyed splashing in the creek that flowed from the waterfall for which the walk was named and apparently watered the local town (and sorry, town, that my daughter appears to be washing her hands in your drink).

The following day we went back across the border into Germany to visit Neuschwanstein Castle. Built by Ludwig II of Bavaria – the last of the Bavarian monarchs – it was an homage to Wagner (whose Swiss home is perched just over the hill from our place in Luzern) and later the inspiration behind the Disney castle. As Tim was not with us, I was on photographic duty and failed spectacularly in getting the money shot of the castle (‘why do you keep using portrait mode for landscapes?’ he moaned when he saw my pathetic attempts), but you get the picture.

The kids did remarkably well during the short tour of the castle. When wandering through the King’s bedroom, Addie was delighted to note on seeing his desk that Ludwig shared similar interests to herself: ‘Oh! The King has a craft table!’.

The castle was not finished prior to the King’s (fairly suspicious, apparently) death, and as such there were only a few Romanesque-style rooms to view. All were ornate and fairly trippy – Ludwig had hoped to live out his medieval dream far away from the pesky eyes of Munich (and close to the chef’s apprentices, allegedly, which is where he spent a lot of his nightly visiting hours). All photography was banned inside, which is possibly a good thing given how much I butchered the castle’s exterior.

A highlight for the cousins was a horse and carriage ride up and down the hill to the castle (and a highlight for Finn was the horse stopping to drop a load halfway down the hill). Moody's-141As always on holidays, we ate like kings, enjoyed a few glasses of gin / vino / whatever to wash the day away and shot the breeze like champs. Even after almost two weeks together, it felt that there were still many conversations left half finished, but surely that’s the point of family. Despite their two year old woes, Addie has been asking after Arlo (and his much less maligned brother Finn) almost hourly since we arrived home and seems quite disgruntled that they have continued on without her. I feel the same, and look forward to more family times – and finishing those chats – when we see Team Moody again.

 

The Moody Schwarzwald

In a much anticipated visit – not least by Addie, who despite not knowing the meaning of the word banged on about ‘my cousins’ for days prior to their arrival – Tim’s sister, her husband and their two adorable boys arrived in Luzern (after many a transit mishap, including an impromptu visit to Bern) a couple of weeks ago. The Moody family were treated to our usual ‘Willkommen in der Schweiz’ schtick: raclette, chocolate, my (mostly plagiarised and yet still disturbingly sketchy) tour of the town. We grilled cervelat on Mount Pilatus, visited Adelaide’s beloved marble rollercoaster at a nearby glass factory, swam in the lake, and celebrated our nephews’ belated birthdays in little boy heaven: the Museum of Transport. We also shamelessly attempted to force an interest in Switzerland through chocolate-rewarded games, and as a result many tourismo-tastic times were had (which basically means I ate heaps of chocolate too. Only to support the children, of course). Little Theodore has now met half of his Aunties, and was accordingly delighted.

Moody's Black Forest-004Unfortunately, since not all of us can HausFrau, Tim was travelling for work during the bulk of their Swiss visit. To make amends we booked a long weekend in the Black Forest to let the cousins run wild and the siblings catch up over brews aplenty. We stayed in an alleged farm stay which turned out to be a guest house sporting some velveteen rabbits (i.e. stuffed toys), a motley crew of guinea pigs and a lone immobile goat.

Tim was delighted to see some deers grazing through the window on our first night but was sadly disappointed come the harsh light of day.Moody's Black Forest-272We had naively assumed that travelling with four children would somehow be easier – shared adulting, perhaps some lovely cousin play time and plenty of sunny relaxation. While it was a wonderful getaway, I would not recommend holidaying with two two year olds if you have a choice in the matter. Women scorned be damned; hell hath no fury like two toddlers refused whatever it is they obscurely want. Addie and Arlo were at times adorable but primarily the three months between them was like a red flag to the crankiest of bulls. Of course, Arlo committed the most dreadful of sins. My little tattle tale would run to me routinely and say in indignant tones ‘Mummy, Arlo talked to me’.

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In an effort to burn off their steam (and some of the torte for which the region is famous), we took advantage of the forest’s many little trails and embarked on a few nature walks (thanks, Peppa Pig and family for making these acceptable). Our little adventure crew tackled a path built in the wake of an earthquake fifteen years previously, showing the natural regrowth of the area as well as sweeping views of the forest.

I’m always interested in the link between the environment of a place and its narrative; the Black Forest easily lent itself to the images conjured by the Brothers Grimm with wicked witches lurking, lost children and tricks aplenty. We discussed this as we employed some of Hansel and Gretel’s wood-trecking tactics, except breadcrumbs were replaced by Gummy Bears and frankly we were bribing our brats to keep moving.

And between you and me, if there actually was a candy house on the horizon, there were times that weekend I’d have encouraged my terror to run into it.

Still, our little explorers enjoyed their cousin time, scavenging for treasures and, of course, the chocolates.

And we enjoyed the long overdue catch up with Team Moody in the spectacular Schwarzwald, where nobody can hear two year olds screaming.

Done

For the last – I don’t know, decade? – I have kept seasonal to-do lists (amongst the plethora of other to-do lists I maintain, primarily to avoid actually to-doing, a lot of the time). They are usually fairly seasonally predictable. Stews and shiraz in winter, a cold weather hike perhaps, always more reading, preferably in snuggly surroundings. Autumn usually includes some sort of produce picking (apples, maybe, or pumpkins) and spring is picnics, picnics, picnics. Summer’s easy: more swimming in lakes, please, maybe some camping, and all the stone fruit possible (perhaps even incorporated into some sort of tasty beverage if creativity allows). Since the days here have – finally, happily – hit the thirties, I in turn hit last year’s summer list, and found a little non-actioned gem waiting for us: Jucker Farm.

Jucker Farm-339Just under a (very screamy) hour away (why do we keep having children who hate the car?), the working farm is fully prepped for summer thrill seekers such as ourselves. Animals? Tick. Produce aplenty? Tick. Coffee and delicious eats for tired parents and cranky kids? Tick and tick. Rusty tetanus threatening tractors for two years olds? You betcha!

It’s asparagus season here – the Swiss are mad for it, apparently (according once again to our source of all knowledge Swiss – our German teacher) – and not only did we find loads of fresh farm-grown spears but also an astounding array of asparagus-related condiments. I was not aware that asparagus salt was a thing until earlier this afternoon.

Either way, some of the crankiness got left behind as we explored…Jucker Farm-323…met some new (scary) friends…Jucker Farm-688

…and found not one, but three apple orchard mazes. Each, as the saying goes, more difficult than the last. The first had us doubling back a fair bit, during which time we discovered a scarecrow and a giant golden apple in the centre of the maze.

The second was circular, and as such had us a little confused (and my little miss tempted to cheat). The centre of this maze had golden sticks of cinnamon dangling from a tree.

The final and largest maze, which was over a kilometre long, we attacked with a game plan: a picture of the map prior to starting and a path worked out (which may not have been in the spirit of things, but certainly helped move the maze show along). This one revealed a novelty sized golden spoon as its centrepiece.

I can only assume that giant gold apple plus giant cinnamon sticks plus giant spoon equals giant apple pie feast.  No wonder Tim looks so excited at having solved it.

Despite our best intentions – and a delicious looking specimen right next door – we didn’t quite manage to tick ‘swim in lake’ off our list quite yet. However, for this summer at least, Jucker Farm can be marked as done (although I may have to return once we run out of said salt).