La Désalpe – The Day I came Home with the Swiss Cows

There are not many places in the world where you are awoken in the early hours of a summer’s morning to the sounds of frantic mooing and a right kerfuffle going on below your bedroom window.  In our village, at the foot of the Jura, it is an annual occurrence that still manages to take us by surprise.  Peering, bleary eyed out of my bedroom window, I see the usual apoplectic bovines wearing flowery versions of the late Queen Mum’s hats, being raced up the village by boys bearing sticks.  Several red-faced farmer’s wives are in hot pursuit.

That was my description of cows being sent up to the alpine pastures last May.  Now it was time for the cows to come home.  The Désalpe was here again and I thought I might forego the usual route down by train with all the other tourists and walk along with the farmers behind their cows.  The cows were practically family; I was on first name terms with Clémentine and offspring in the field adjacent to my house and I had missed their low moaning sounds and peaceful stares.

“When does the Désalpe take place?” I nonchalantly asked my neighbour Serge.  He looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and resignation that we foreigners of the village did not have this date embedded in our brains or instinctively knew when the time was right.  “Comme d’habitude,” he growled without looking at me, “the last weekend in September….quand il pleut (when it rains)”. There was no Gallic shrug accompanying that last remark or chuckle as one would expect in France, for this was Switzerland and he was not joking, just passing on a fact.

Trying to look as “local” as possible I dusted off my walking boots and went to visit my nearest farmer.  Henri is the owner of a lovely herd of brown beauties and as his back garden overlooks mine I thought I might have a chance claiming neighbour proximity.  I stepped in a few muddy puddles on the way for the sake of authenticity.

I caught Henri in his yard where he was partaking of his daily prandial – white wine in large thimble-shaped glasses – with his workers.  They were admiring a clean tractor and pretending not to notice as I approached. 

“Bonjour Messieurs!” I heralded sounding as cheerful as I could.  They halted mid-sip looking at me not unlike the vacant cows I had come to talk to them about.  My boots were inspected.  I explained that I wanted to join them in the Désalpe.  No reply, so I started again only this time louder.

“J’ai compris, j’ai compris,” said Henri raising his free hand as if my French was hurting his ears.  He took hold of the wine bottle and rather than offer me a drink went around and topped up the glasses.   It was time to bring out the big guns and so I reminded him, kindly, of a favour he owed my husband who once gave him some advice about remodelling his barn.

“D’accord, d’accord.  Samedi 7 heures St. Cergue”, he muttered.  “And bring a stick.”

I returned jubilant but those around me were not so enthusiastic.  “That’s at least 20 kilometres with a herd of over-excited cattle being driven crazy by the crowd,” said my husband.  Marie-Thérèse my ally in the Epicerie was also against it.  “Faut pas le faire” (Don’t do it) she muttered ominously.

By Saturday I had a compromise.  Meet up the mountain at St. Cergue where all cows converge at a more godly hour of 8am, walk first kilometre with herd and if indeed cows dangerously over-excited walk down normal dog route through the woods.  I roped my friend Inger in with me.  We met at the station to take the little red train up to the top of the Jura.  Her Golden Retriever Rosie eyed my stick.  I explained it was for hitting cow rumps.  I held the stick menacingly in front of me.

“No, it’s no good,” said Inger “just looks like a fairy’s wand with you.”

 We left the train and joined the crowd of tourists lining the streets.  The air was still damp but the sun was beginning to shine through which put end to Serge’s prophecy of rain, I was pleased to note.  The sound of alpine horns echoed softly around us as we perused the stalls selling a myriad of cow related products.   Amongst the various sized cow bells lined up in descending order, was a desk top calendar comprising  glamour models of the bovine world.   Hand-carved wooden wine coolers were also on sale.  One an intricately carved replica of a precariously angled Leaning Tower of Pisa caught my eye – putting a bottle back in that could be a challenge after a few glasses.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better Inger spotted the Marmotte Grease.  Sold in tubs as a panacea for arthritis and lumbago.  It also claimed to enhance sporting endeavours but for this you needed to buy two tubs:  one for warming up muscles and one for cooling them down.  I had time to buy several tubs as Christmas stocking fillers when a thunderous noise heralded the arrival of the first lot of cows.  Amidst the cacophonic sound of horns, whistles, bells and loud applaud from the crowd, the embarrassed looking cows stumbled by in their wobbly headdresses.

This year the organisers had changed the route and instead of simply passing by as in previous years, the cows were now sent back into town around the roundabout in a sort of lap of honour.  Many of the crowd cheered but I detected looks of boredom amongst the herd.  It was all in danger of becoming a Gary Larson cartoon.

If ever you were looking for proof that Switzerland was high up in the world longevity stakes then look no further than the Old Cheese Makers of Gruyère.  They came after the cows, nattily dressed in black jackets over black trousers and little alpine scull caps and looked indeed mightily well fed and healthy.  They received a deserved round of applause, not sure if that was for their cheese making skills or for navigating the roundabout at their glorious age.

Next Henri’s herd appeared on the horizon.  Stick at the ready I braced myself for joining the group of jug-eared, shiny eyed, red faced, village boys bringing up the rear but when the cows filed past I decided they looked very mutinous and with my husband’s warning words echoing in my ears I hid behind Inger.  Henri would hardly miss me and my fairy’s wand in any case.

We took the usual peaceful route home down through the leaf strewn chemin de loup through the woods, leaving the crowds and over-excitement behind.  Rosie carried my stick all the way down and as we approached the village lying peacefully in the autumn sunshine it occurred to me that it wasn’t only the cows, I too was coming home albeit my way.  

Copyright Jules Ritter September 2007