Swiss Mountain Dog anyone?

It’s an ever shrinking world. I took a call today from a lovely gentleman who would like me to take care of his dog while he spends a holiday in Switzerland. We had a lovely chat about his dog, obviously, but also about country. Not only is he going to the same area which I know well but to the exact same resort: Thollon Les Memise, a beautiful Savoyard village on the French side overlooking Lake Geneva. Small, small world.

I was hoping he had a Swiss Mountain Dog but alas no. I have a soft spot for Switzerland and the Swiss and as much as I am in awe of the great Orson Welles’ theatrical talents I always felt he was mean in his attitude towards this peaceful alpine land and I’m inclined to defend it.

“In Switzerland” Orson said, “they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace and what did that produce ….? Only the cuckoo clock.”

A bit scathing, isn’t it? Mr. Welles would tend to suggest that cuckoo clocks outnumber everything else in Switzerland. This is not true. Banks do. Banks even outnumber the small pocket knives indigenous to the country’s legions.

This proliferation of banks has both advantages and drawbacks. On the bright side, bank robberies are rare as there aren’t enough bank robbers to go around. Also, bank queues are short, but this means it is hard to appear inconspicuous in a Swiss bank especially if one is not a native. It’s easy to spot a tourist in a Swiss bank: they’re the ones without handcuffs coupling them to designer attaché cases.

This type of secrecy and mistrust is inherent in Swiss culture. They want outsiders to know as little about their country as possible, particularly if our grandparents once opened a bank account in Geneva to protect their savings from Nazi hands.

There is yet one more pitfall waiting to ensnare the unsuspecting visitor in this country’s banking system. The logo for Credit Suisse is the red and white cross, but beware: there are so many red and white crosses of one sort of another all over Switzerland it is pitifully easy to find oneself in a queue – albeit a short one – to cash traveller’s cheques and the only clue that you are not in fact in a branch of Credit Suisse but an infirmary is when a large woman in sensible shoes brandishes a syringe and attempts to rub antiseptic on your upper arm.

On the subject of infirmaries, while it is true that few destinations match Switzerland for its invigorating scenery, few also match it for the opportunities to sustain a fatal physical injury. I talk, of course, of skiing.

It was once common for novice skiers to suffer accidents towards the end of their holiday, just as they had attained a degree of confidence to attempt the more precarious runs. These days, thanks to huge advances in graphite ski technology, experienced and seasoned skiers now often break their legs on the very first day. Tour operators, however, are extremely attentive to the skiers’ needs and should large patches of green appear on the pistes they quickly transfer parties to a resort at a higher altitude where conditions are better.

If, however, all you see are large patches of sand, you took the wrong flight and are in Swaziland, and tour operators are unlikely to transfer you from there.

Please don’t assume that you are bound to have a serious skiing accident while in Switzerland – or Swaziland for that matter – leading computer-aided actuaries have shown that it could just as easily be your holiday partner who breaks his or her neck.

This warning also applies to the Eiger. This notorious peak with its North Face known by the ominous sobriquet of Murder Face has been there for millions of years and if no one bothered to climb it until 73 years ago there must have been a good reason.

If you do find yourself stranded on a snow-clad precipice in Switzerland and are fortunate enough to find a cowbell-strewn Heidi-esque chalet in which to seek shelter, do not point and grimace at the boar’s phallus hanging from the beams. It is a Swiss lucky charm to guard against lightning. Not so lucky for the boar alas, and not, so far, embraced by Magnet in their “chalet kitchen” range.

Dried swine genitalia reminds me that I have yet to mention Swiss cuisine … and raclette. This is a DIY affair involving stale bread dunked in molten cheese. A device fashioned on a prototype Singer sewing machine is brought to the table, plugged in, a four pound lump of cheese on its base begins to melt and the mystery of the scorch marks on all Swiss tablecloths is unravelled. The runny cheese is then eaten with the stale bread accompanied by plain boiled potatoes wrapped in a yodeler’s undergarments. Mmmm! Another favourite is rosti, which, to the untrained eye, appears to be fried potato peelings. The trained eye can see that it really is made of fried potato peelings.

As for fruit, the Swiss appear to have an unjustifiable antagonism towards it. Whatever you do never leave your children alone in Switzerland with apples on their heads.

These endearing idiosyncracies of the Swiss seem alarmingly normal, however, when we consider that government officials in Zurich spend around £8 million a year washing the grit before it is spread on snowy streets. People who are able and willing to pay taxes to launder grit clearly have a need for a bank her head of population.

Suddenly, a time-keeping device involving a small bird on a spring seems like quite an accomplishment.

I’m not sure if this really is the ringing defense I embarked upon, but it’s certainly how I remember it.

Anyone out there got a Swiss Mountain Dog they’d like me to take care of?