Sunday, July 3. 2005
Hills alive with the sound of cowbells
Happy grazing....
In 10 years, almost 30,000 Swiss farms have disappeared, more than a third of the total.
By Imogen Foulkes
Original Article: BBC News, Switzerland
Imogen Foulkes joins an alpine cow procession in Switzerland and discovers how a classic summer way of life in the Alps is under threat.
Swiss Alps
In 10 years, almost 30,000 Swiss farms have disappeared
Last Saturday I got up at three in the morning - a crazy thing to do at the weekend perhaps, and I certainly questioned my sanity when the alarm clock went off.
But I had a good reason for getting out of bed when the moon was still up. I was going to join an alpine cow procession.
That is the day the farmers take their cattle up to the high mountain pastures for the summer.
Farming was once the mainstay of rural Switzerland. It was government policy to produce enough food for the entire population.
But competition from Europe's open markets, and cuts in subsidies, are changing that.
In 10 years, almost 30,000 Swiss farms have disappeared, more than a third of the total.
Dawn procession
After a drive along dark winding roads, I reach the end of a narrow valley and meet Erich Waefler. He and 20 other farmers have gathered their cows ready for the procession, and as the sky turns from grey to pink, they milk them.
As the procession begins, and the valley echoes to the musical sound of 200 cowbells, I see that the whole community has turned out
Taking the cows up the mountain is a yearly necessity, because the grass in the valleys needs to be kept for winter's hay, but it is also a festive occasion.
Once the milking is over, the cows get special bells, enormous things bigger than their heads. I wonder how they can walk wearing them, but they do not seem to mind.
Erich has several bells, some more than 50-years-old, bequeathed to him by his father and grandfather.
And the farmers get dressed up too - black, short sleeved jackets with edelweiss flowers embroidered on the lapels, pristine white shirts, brown trousers.
But despite the party atmosphere, Erich is a man with something on his mind.
"The future is very uncertain," he confides. "We are losing our subsidies and the price of milk is falling. I am 50 now, and I will go on for a few more years, but my son's got other plans. I do not know if he will take over from me."
Still, young Thomas Waefler is here this morning to help his father.
Cowbells
As the procession begins, and the valley echoes to the musical sound of 200 cowbells, I see that the whole community has turned out - from 5-year-old boys with cheeky smiles to arthritic grandmothers. They are all needed to get the herd up the mountain.
We walk single file, climbing steeply, through streams, and over scree. At one point we ascend a long flight of steps set into the rock - not easy for hooves. At another, we squeeze through a crevasse. A glacial waterfall rushes beside us.
As I watch Erich and Thomas coax a stubborn cow upwards I ask myself whether this effort is really worth it.
Farming alone simply does not pay the bills anymore. Every one of these men has already had to find a second job: ski-lift attendants in winter, or mountain guides in summer.
But when we round the last bend in the path, I see what all the hard is work for.
A green alpine meadow is spread out before us, surrounded by snow capped peaks. The lush grass is dotted with deep blue gentians and golden buttercups - it may be high summer in the valley, but here at 2,000m spring is in full bloom.
Smiles and laughter break out. Erich proudly points to a mountain chalet in the distance.
"That one is mine," he says. "That is where we will live for the next 10 weeks. My heart lifts when I see it. I feel I have come home."
Tradition
The simple rewards of keeping up tradition and working in beautiful surroundings seem to be enough for this generation of farmers, but not for their children.
Local school teacher Hans Schmidt, who has also joined the procession, hears a lot of plans for the future from his pupils.
"If you ask them about farming, 99% will tell you no way," he says.
"They have seen their parents working harder and harder for less and less money, and they just do not want to do it."
When we reach Erich's chalet, we are welcomed by his wife Barbara with fresh bread, and home-made cheese.
Labour of love
Son Thomas, I notice, has already changed out of his traditional alpine clothes into combat trousers and baseball cap.
"I have got an apprenticeship as a carpenter," he tells me.
"I want to learn something and get a proper job."
He smiles shyly in his father's direction.
"Farming, well, I do not know, maybe I will keep a cow or two as a hobby."
Erich hears this, but says nothing.
The mood is lightened by the sight of two small plump black and white creatures racing across the meadow towards us.
"Those are my goats," says Erich. "They know their own way up.
"I let them out this morning and here they are already."
I suggest to Erich that his way of life has become more a labour of love than a way to earn a living.
"Well, yes," he says. "But what would life be if you did not love your work?"
He is absolutely right of course, but as the Waeflers and the other families settle into their chalets for summer - no electricity, no running water - they know that for some, this may be the last time.
But competition from Europe's open markets, and cuts in subsidies, are changing that.
In 10 years, almost 30,000 Swiss farms have disappeared, more than a third of the total.
Dawn procession
After a drive along dark winding roads, I reach the end of a narrow valley and meet Erich Waefler. He and 20 other farmers have gathered their cows ready for the procession, and as the sky turns from grey to pink, they milk them.
As the procession begins, and the valley echoes to the musical sound of 200 cowbells, I see that the whole community has turned out
Taking the cows up the mountain is a yearly necessity, because the grass in the valleys needs to be kept for winter's hay, but it is also a festive occasion.
Once the milking is over, the cows get special bells, enormous things bigger than their heads. I wonder how they can walk wearing them, but they do not seem to mind.
Erich has several bells, some more than 50-years-old, bequeathed to him by his father and grandfather.
And the farmers get dressed up too - black, short sleeved jackets with edelweiss flowers embroidered on the lapels, pristine white shirts, brown trousers.
But despite the party atmosphere, Erich is a man with something on his mind.
"The future is very uncertain," he confides. "We are losing our subsidies and the price of milk is falling. I am 50 now, and I will go on for a few more years, but my son's got other plans. I do not know if he will take over from me."
Still, young Thomas Waefler is here this morning to help his father.
Cowbells
As the procession begins, and the valley echoes to the musical sound of 200 cowbells, I see that the whole community has turned out - from 5-year-old boys with cheeky smiles to arthritic grandmothers. They are all needed to get the herd up the mountain.
We walk single file, climbing steeply, through streams, and over scree. At one point we ascend a long flight of steps set into the rock - not easy for hooves. At another, we squeeze through a crevasse. A glacial waterfall rushes beside us.
As I watch Erich and Thomas coax a stubborn cow upwards I ask myself whether this effort is really worth it.
Farming alone simply does not pay the bills anymore. Every one of these men has already had to find a second job: ski-lift attendants in winter, or mountain guides in summer.
But when we round the last bend in the path, I see what all the hard is work for.
A green alpine meadow is spread out before us, surrounded by snow capped peaks. The lush grass is dotted with deep blue gentians and golden buttercups - it may be high summer in the valley, but here at 2,000m spring is in full bloom.
Smiles and laughter break out. Erich proudly points to a mountain chalet in the distance.
"That one is mine," he says. "That is where we will live for the next 10 weeks. My heart lifts when I see it. I feel I have come home."
Tradition
The simple rewards of keeping up tradition and working in beautiful surroundings seem to be enough for this generation of farmers, but not for their children.
Local school teacher Hans Schmidt, who has also joined the procession, hears a lot of plans for the future from his pupils.
"If you ask them about farming, 99% will tell you no way," he says.
"They have seen their parents working harder and harder for less and less money, and they just do not want to do it."
When we reach Erich's chalet, we are welcomed by his wife Barbara with fresh bread, and home-made cheese.
Labour of love
Son Thomas, I notice, has already changed out of his traditional alpine clothes into combat trousers and baseball cap.
"I have got an apprenticeship as a carpenter," he tells me.
"I want to learn something and get a proper job."
He smiles shyly in his father's direction.
"Farming, well, I do not know, maybe I will keep a cow or two as a hobby."
Erich hears this, but says nothing.
The mood is lightened by the sight of two small plump black and white creatures racing across the meadow towards us.
"Those are my goats," says Erich. "They know their own way up.
"I let them out this morning and here they are already."
I suggest to Erich that his way of life has become more a labour of love than a way to earn a living.
"Well, yes," he says. "But what would life be if you did not love your work?"
He is absolutely right of course, but as the Waeflers and the other families settle into their chalets for summer - no electricity, no running water - they know that for some, this may be the last time.
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