The days passed quickly even with Tim away in Vienna. Earlier in the week, on our morning coffee stroll, I was struck by a glorious tree in the middle of town with stunning yellow foliage. Intending to return to take some snaps, I was shocked a few days later to see that there were no leaves left; the tree was a collection of motley sticks against the grey sky, slightly smudged with fog. It’s already colder than most Sydney winters and I am increasingly aware how pathetic my tolerance to bad weather is. We’re trying to live by the Scandanavian mantra: ‘there’s no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing’, but I suspect that might be bollocks.
These daily walks take us past all manner of curiosities. One of my faves are the numerous farm stalls. There are about half a dozen dotted around our area that I’ve seen, some in town and some on the roads circling us. Usually part of a small allotment, they generally sell eggs, apples, pears, quinces and sometimes (apparently delicious and unpasteurised) milk, rabbits and chickens. They all operate on the honesty system where you choose your goods and log your purchases in a wee book, taking any change you need. I’ve not actually purchased anything from them (mainly because I am a bit unclear on the log book lark) but I can’t resist going in and looking, and probably arousing suspicion of larceny most foul.
I also get a disproportionate amount of amusement out of the postal service, called The Post (in German, of course, Die Post). Without fail I think of Sideshow Bob’s tattoo: The Bart, The. Kills me every time. There are boxes dotted everywhere, including one down by the river, on one of the walking tracks. I like to think of someone penning an old school unrequited love letter amidst the gorgeous trees and then popping it in the mail (although, given the name of the post service maybe it’s an old school death threat instead).
This weekend was quiet; we had to do some furniture shopping which I can assure you is as wretchedly dull here as it is everywhere. On Sunday, happily, nearly all stores are closed so we decided to walk part of the way to Lucerne, and capture some of the fleeting Autumnal colours.
All throughout the woods are little bird houses, of different shapes and sizes. On our stroll we counted over a dozen of them, nestled in the trees.
Our village is surrounded by farmland. There are fields of corn, the afore mentioned apples, pears and quince trees, many cows and the odd horse. Tim whinnied and both our girl and the actual horse looked at him disdainfully.
He had more luck demonstrating dandelion blowing.
As we walked through this grove, we could actually hear the leaves falling around us, a sound neither of us are familiar with. They rained down thick, fast and golden.
It’s easy to walk here – there are trails, it seems, between almost every village and there are always many people strolling and cycling along. This one took us through farmland and along the river to Gisikon-Root, a small town about five kilometres away.
Our little passenger once again enjoyed the ride.
We arrived in Lucerne and explored the festival. By explored, I mean we found a beer tent and ate two kinds of pork for lunch.
Adelaide was happy with her blueberries, though.
We then wandered around our neighbourhood-to-be; this park is about a block away from our new digs and is set on the banks of Lake Lucerne.
We are getting increasingly excited – despite the woes of furniture shopping – about the impending move. Our temporary apartment has been fantastic but it feels exactly that: temporary. Although we’ve shuffled furniture around, hung the girl’s mobile (which, happily, my father reconstructed for her following relocation woes), and tried to acclimatise we don’t really feel settled as we know we will be up and moving again shortly. However, we’re trying to make the most of our wee town before we go; and with that in mind I am determined, honesty system confusion aside, to farm-stall-shop this week (I’ll hold off on penning death threats, though).