The world of volunteering is a transient beast that leads us down paths we could never predict, and in my opinion is all the more special because of it. On one of these unexpected pathways I found myself winding up in St. Gallen, Switzerland, during a stretch of the beautiful European summer. A friend of mine that I had volunteered with let me know he was having the time of his life riding Spanish Mustangs and sword fighting on a farm here so I decided with nary a second thought, to come over and join him.
Owned and run by a Swiss-American couple who were both mad for horses and anything renaissance-related, I was warmly welcomed and told that, after my duties were completed, there would be time for some medieval martial arts training afterwards with giant swords and lord knows what else. I knew instantly I was going to like this place…
Now part of my duties revolved around being a stable boy. However, I had never spent any time around horses at all, who to me seemed altogether too big to be allowed. All I knew about horses was that one end had teeth and the other could kick you like... well, like a horse. It was therefore with some trepidation that I started out on my first job- mucking out the stalls. Armed with nothing but a shovel and a Wheelbarrow I was expected to go into the stall with these feisty fillies and clean away their poop and the accompanying soiled hay.
Now I love all kinds of animals- big or small, furry or scaled, human or otherwise it doesn’t really matter to me, but I’ll admit that every time one of those horses so much as twitched, I leaped back with arms raised expecting that a hoof sandwich was going to be headed my way. Gradually though, I realized that my horsey friends were actually just too lazy to bother with attacking me and were content to simply enjoy the fresh hay I brought every morning, and even listened politely to my attempts at singing.
Now while I may have been getting used to being in close proximity with these big guys, I almost lost my lunch when I was told that my next job wasn’t just to feed them, but to actually jump on top of the fidgety one in order to “wear him out a little bit” because he had too much energy. Did I mention I had never ridden a horse in my life?
However, I like to consider myself fairly adventurous and I’m normally willing to give pretty much anything a go, so when I was asked to ride a fractious horse for the first time in my life, I bravely and confidently looked my host right in the eyes and said “Hell no!”
Unfortunately, this was not an acceptable response so with a little more prompting and a lot of reassurance that I almost certainly wouldn’t die, I was given a leg up and took the reins.
To my surprise, it felt similar to a warm and furry motorcycle, which I have had a lot of experience with (the motorcycle part anyway, not so much the warm and furry kind). With this tenuous comparison to give me some confidence I found I could relax and gradually became so comfortable I could unclench my jaw and butt cheeks for up to several moments at a time.
In fact, by the end of the day, I was riding bare back and even swinging a sword around (of which the family had a vast number of), feeling that this was actually a whole lot of fun and that I really had missed my calling as a cowboy knight.
Now, my aforementioned friend who invited me to stay here is a real character. He is a large and rather terrifying Maori man- he was basically a 6 foot wall of tattooed solid muscle, but annoyingly had cheek bones that would make an elven queen jealous. He and I got along immediately (as Kiwis almost always will when we meet one another in unfamiliar territory), and had already bonded well while in Italy drinking the local pub out of it’s red wine supply (which is a story for another time, but virtually made us local celebrities, I swear).
We both had some martial arts experience and so when the chores were all done and we were offered the opportunity to learn some medieval swordsmanship from the host family, we both leapt at the chance.
The host dad took us very carefully through the correct forms, etiquette and history of the weapons we held, ensuring we didn’t begin without fully appreciating the weight of gravitas that accompanied the noble art of the knight. Now being boys, and competitive, and good mates, we promptly ignored everything he told us at the get go and started whacking pell-mell at one another, laughing in delight at any bashed helmet or bruised rib we managed to get.
Eventually however, we were calmed down enough by the disapproving glare of our host, and in no uncertain terms told that if we didn’t do it right we wouldn’t get this opportunity again. We both looked appropriately shamefaced, and obediently began the sparring once again, this time following the explicit guidelines he dictated to us.
It was a great workout- those swords are blimmin heavy and the padding bulky and hot, so we were soon sweating profusely and, to my surprise, growing more capable at swinging these enormous weapons around in a controlled and accurate way. Once we got the hang of it, we were cautiously allowed to spar against one another again, and we genuinely tried our best to follow the rules and regs, but inevitably things started to became more ferocious as we each tried to outwit the other and put as much oomph into every swing as we could. When the session was finally over we were both drenched in sweat, banged up, completely drained but absolutely delighted, counting the numerous scrapes and bruises we had accrued as tokens of our knightly bravery.
We practiced this most nights, and eventually became so comfortable that we even took a free afternoon to make a silly, and carefully choreographed movie demonstrating some of the skills we learned (you should be able to see this in the video section).
Now, horse riding and sword fighting aside, we were still in Switzerland, which really is one of the most beautiful countries you will ever be fortunate enough to lay eyes on. Big T and I (I nicknamed him this as his name was Tredegar and I wasn’t confident saying it right) decided we couldn’t ignore the incredible range of mountains that bordered the farm where we were working, and decided that a massive hike was definitely on the cards. I would stare up at these mountains longingly each day as we were working outside with the horses, barely containing my excitement at the upcoming hike.
So, on a sunny Sunday, we were graciously dropped off by our hosts at the base of these and told to pick a path and go for it. We were told in no uncertain terms that the last train back to their home that night would be leaving at 7.30pm and we had better be on it, or look forward to a chilly night at a derelict train station in the Swiss Alps.
We started amidst a few other avid hikers- local people who were out there for the sheer joy of it- most older and fitter than we were, and much better prepared, but we had youth and ignorance on our side and nothing was going to hold us back from conquering a mountain or two.
Now anyone who knows me will tell you that I have absolutely zero directional sense. I personally feel it should be on the disabilities register, as it can be a real challenge, especially for a world traveller like me. So when Big T suggested I take the lead for where we would trek, I picked a pathway that led vaguely ‘up’ and started off.
The lower valleys were truly picturesque perfect- steep green pasture leading up to glorious snow capped peaks in the distance, little wooden cow sheds, and the beautiful Swiss cows scattered about, brass bells clanging merrily through the valley. Don’t let their big eyes fool you though- Swiss cows are huge divas- they know they are valuable and expect to be given the right of way every time. Interestingly, I had found that though I am lactose intolerant, I could drink the Swiss milk with no problems, apparently their ancient genealogy led to a milk that still had the necessary proteins I need to digest it (without creating a gas that I’m fairly sure could be weaponized).
Dietary restrictions aside, it was a pretty hefty walk. Big T had the motto ‘suns out, guns out’ so it wasn’t long before we were both shirtless, sweating, and stopping periodically to gaze in wonder at the unimaginable beauty that surrounded us. As soon as you rose above the cliffs of the valley, the scene opened up, and I cannot stress enough how majestic it was. Jagged mountains led away as far as I could see, impossibly high, incredibly green, and with these vertigo inducing dips and valleys that plunged thousands of meters down before climbing up the next peak.
We wandered for a few hours, with a vague intention of coming to a beautiful Brauhaus (or brewery/ restaurant/ hotel) that we had seen perched precariously on the side of a mountain earlier on the trek. Now to be fair, these beer halls just kind of appear when you least expect them- hike for 4 hours up a sheer cliff face and at the top will be a quaint little cottage waiting to serve you ice cold beer and schnitzel.
However, as is inevitable with me, we ended up losing the main path, and after several hours of bush-wacking our own paths, we eventually and gratefully came to a sign- finally something that might let us know where in the world we were headed. However, all the sign said was ‘do not pass beyond this point without a helmet, harness, and crampons’.
Now both of us are experienced enough travelers to realize the very real risks of a path like this, and as neither of us had health insurance or any specific alpine climbing expertise, so we of course decided to have a crack at it anyway. Dear Lord it was magnificent.
The path itself was really nothing more than a ridgeline between what was certain death on our left, as a multi-thousand foot drop fell away underneath us, and slightly more prolonged certain death on the right, which was not quite as steep and had a few jagged outcrops which you might be lucky enough to break a leg or two on on the way down. We loved it though, it was exhilarating, dangerous (especially as the wind picked up), and altogether beautiful.
After an hour and a half of balancing on the ridgeline, the path opened up, widening safely and leading us through rocky section that was dotted with patches of snow- we had finally hit the true alpine section.
After the relative warmth of adrenaline fuelled ridgeline balance, we were beginning to freeze as the cold wind blew across the snow and our sweat drenched clothing did little to insulate from it.
Fortunately, before I had time to put too much thinking into my plan of murdering and living inside a Swiss cow, I rounded a corner and there, lo and behold, was an enormous Brauhause, set deep in the mountain amidst the snow, just waiting to ply us with her wares.
The thick wooden walls welcomed us in, and the interior was warm, deliciously scented with heavy Swiss mountain fare.
Promptly one of the waitresses heard us chatting (I think I had said something like ‘bro, check it out, this place is choice as’). She came over and immediately asked if we were kiwis. Turns out she was an import from Aotearoa as well, and as we shared our stories of home and abroad, she happily shouted us the essential in Swiss beers and a few sneaky Schnaps on the side.
After we were happily fed and watered, I asked her if it would take us more than an hour to get back to the train station, as it was beginning to get a bit late. She looked at me as if I was joking and said ‘you must be joking!’. The train, we find out, is approximately a 4 hour hike down through steep mountain paths, and making it by sundown would be nigh on impossible.
Big T and I looked at one another, the same thought passing through our heads.
“Mission accepted,’ he said with a big grin, and we promptly thanked and tipped our kiwi friend, headed out the door of our wonderful oasis, and began the long and speedy (and as the sun dropped below the horizon, steadily more dangerous) run down the mountain.
And run we did. Pounding down that mountain nearly destroyed my knees, I dread to think of the punishment that Big T was doing to his, but we were fit, motivated and stupidly stubborn, and neither one of us was going to quit.
As we ran, the rush of air and pounding of my feet on the gravel was suddenly interrupted by a low, deep moan. I thought I must have imagined it but a few seconds later it came again, this time at a different pitch. I slowed, stopped, and looked at big T- he had heard it too, and we had no idea what it might be- it sounded almost like one would imagine a yeti might sound like, beautiful and piercing, yet travelling for miles across the valley.
Below us, the valley stretched out towards a still lake, and over the lake, more notes drifted across to accompany the first, and we realised it was music emanating from 20 foot long horns that were the traditional instruments of the mountains here in Switzerland. The music echoed eerily through the entire valley, as though they played to welcome us home from our long and treacherous journey. In the fading sunlight, the sound seemed to intensify, and somehow highlighted the beauty of the scene before us- the mirrored surface of the lake reflecting the mountains and the soft glow of gentle fires to create a true paragon of Swiss scenery. This was one of those rare moments when time seems to stand still, and my eyes became moist as I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the privilege of being here in this place, at that moment.
Time waits for no man however, and we still had an hour of running to do to get to the station. We ploughed on, bodies aching and lungs burning, but buoyed on by the incredible adventure we had been a part of.
We didn’t make the train in the end, and had to make a very shamefaced call to our hosts to make the lengthy drive up to get us, but I wouldn’t have changed one second of that day. Switzerland had shown us what she had to offer, and we were left in awe.
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