Strawberries, cherries, and an angel's kiss in spring

"It's snowing in the Black Forest," Swissy Pie announced yesterday afternoon.

"What? No kidding!"

My surprise wasn't for the snow, precisely. Outside the apartment, a cold, heavy rain was intermittently pelting our courtyard. Though it had warmed up since morning, temperatures were still hovering around 14°C, and I knew from unfortunate personal experience how much colder mountain peaks could be than valleys. Given our weather in Basel, I had no problems believing that it was snowing on top of Blauen.

What was so disorienting was that two short days ago, snow was the last thing I'd have expected to see. At the time, we were being oppressed by a heavy, humid air mass that left us sticky with sweat. On Friday our thermometer registered 31°C (nearly 90°F); Saturday was little better. So, my mind was already in summer mode. A little early, given it's only May, but still, snow simply didn't fit into the picture.

We had to see for ourselves. Piling into our car, we set off for Germany.

I can't remember the last time we drove just to drive - back when Swissy Pie was still trying to sell me on moving to Europe, perhaps. But our adventure soon took on a life of its own. Without a particular destination in mind (though I had a vague idea we'd head for Blauen), Swissy Pie was free to take impromptu detours and make spur-of-the-moment decisions to check out off-the-beaten-track places such as the tiny town of Vogelbach, and a cemetery for local soldiers who'd fallen during the World Wars.

On the first such detour, we discovered Ötlingen, a charming town with fantastic views over Basel, the Alsace, and Germany. Somewhere between there and Kandern, we came across a roadside farm stand that was doing a brisk business for locals and foreigners alike. Several cars were pulled into the make-shift gravel parking lot. Part of the draw was that it was Pfingsten Montag, so almost all stores and many restaurants were closed. But really, these roadside stands are the best places to buy produce that's fresh, local, and delicious.

"What do they have?" Swissy Pie asked as we zoomed past.

"Um, I just saw strawberries."

"Just strawberries? That can't be."

I'm not certain what made him turn the car around, the prospect of proving me wrong, or the prospect of strawberries with quark for dessert. (In his defense, he never seems to tire of strawberries and quark.) Whatever the case, a minute later, we were crunching into the lot, right behind a Dutch car.

The stand sold strawberries, alright - cardboard boxes filled with giant, fragrant berries. But Swissy Pie was right. There were lots of other goods, from apples and potatoes, to fresh bread, to apple juice and milk. But real treasure was right next to the strawberries: plastic containers mounded high with the first local cherries we'd seen this season. Like the asparagus, they were early - but nontheless very welcome.

We grabbed a box each of the strawberries and cherries, as well as six enormous eggs (laid by free-range chickens, of course), and continued on our way. By now we were entirely distracted from the snow. We were too busy snacking on our cherries. So when I saw a sign for someplace called Schloss Bürgeln, I didn't hesitate to express an interest in seeing it. (Schloss is the German word for castle.)

Swissy Pie duly drove us up the narrow, thickly forested approach. Aside from being beautiful, it had the added advantage of giving me cover to toss a handful of stems and pits out the window. (I didn't feel bad - they're biodegradable, after all. And I figured cherry trees would be a nice addition to the land.)

At the end of the road, we came to a small parking lot, a trailhead for at least ten different walking paths, and a single paved path leading directly up to the Schloss. We opted for one of the more scenic routes through the forest, which was densely populated with stands of beech and fir trees; black, orange, and brown slugs; mice (or at least their holes); and buzzards. Near the castle, the woods gave way to fields of chamomile, nettle, and yarrow, trampled down and glistening with rain. We had to detour to avoid the occasional wild rose bush and Weinbergschnecken, large edible snails that are considered a delicacy in France (though Swissy Pie seemed to have little interest in adding them to our dinner menu).

The Schloss itself was a surprise. Though I could tell from the signs below that it was still in good condition - it boasted a restaurant, after all - I'd expected something similar to Burg Baden, only better maintained. But instead of a towering stone edifice, we saw a gracious estate mansion that wouldn't be out of place in a Jane Austen novel. A tangle of rose gardens, half-wild, half-manicured, surrounded the house. Wild strawberries peeked through the ivy encircling its walls. And the menu for both the restaurant and the terrace cafe looked quite appealing. Too bad nothing was open for the holiday - this is yet another place we're putting on our To Revisit list. (Note: Tuesdays are Ruhetage - in other words, it's closed.)

By the time we got back to the car, it was getting late, so after a short stop for me to pick wildflowers, we headed home. We never did make it to Blauen to verify the snow report. But at least we had a blast not going!

What a long strange weekend it's been

There's no longer any doubt in my mind: the climate of the Rhine river valley is downright surreal. I've lost count of how many sunny, precipitation-free days we've had. But over the past two weeks, we've had 9 days where the thermostat's shot past 75°F. Despite a slide back into the comfortable 60's in the middle of last week, the arrival of the weekend sent the mercury climbing again. Great for Swissy Pie, who loves hot, sunny weather. Not so great for me: I'm an Eisbär. (If you've got any doubts, see my photo.)

Friday, when Global Librarian and her friend Laurie came to Basel, was the transition day. When we set the date last week, the forecast had called for rain. So I was thrilled to wake up to see the sun glittering in a clear, haze-free sky. Nor was it too warm: it was actually chilly enough that I debated putting on a sweater that morning.

Good thing I didn't. By the time we finished our little walking tour of the Altstadt and enjoyed a leisurely al fresco lunch on the charming terrace of Au Violon, the weather was starting to warm up. Things were just about perfect when we made our way over to the Tinguely Museum. But after we'd clambered and clanked and whirred our way through the exhibit, which Global Librarian recounts perfectly here, it was downright hot. (The lead photo of the fantastic chairs, by the way, is courtesy of her.)

Our journey back along the banks of the Rhine was like a walk through the Garden District of New Orleans, only without the mosquitoes, crime, or vampires. Heavy boughs of wisteria draped themselves across beautifully maintained old houses. Just past a screen of exquisitely tortured sycamores, a languid river rolled toward the sea. At times, the air was so thick it didn't feel like we were walking: we were wading through hot, liquid sunshine.

Saturday and Sunday, it only got worse, but each day Swissy Pie managed to draw me out of our nice cool apartment: first, with the prospect of frog-viewing in the Petite Camargue d'Alsace, and then with a Geissenfest in the Black Forest. I'm not sure why a goat festival sounded so interesting to me, but it did. So I slapped on some sunscreen (Swissy Pie managed to evade my minstrations), we got out our bikes, and off we went to Germany.

But the goats were not to be easily reached.

First, Swissy Pie had equipment problems halfway there, so he sent me racing back to Basel to get his other bike and drive it out. (Now that's dedication.) Then, we found that you had to be able to climb like a goat to see them: the road up to the Geissenfest, which was probably an unpaved goat path in the not-so-distant past, was so steep that at one point I swear my front wheel lifted off from the ground. Eek! Thank goodness Swissy Pie allowed that not everyone has Geissen genes, like he seems to. So, we headed back to get the car, and even with its 170 hp engine, it needed to be in second gear the whole time!


At last we made it to a make-shift parking lot, judging by the number of Mercedes SLKs adorning the meadow. (Apparently there are a lot of rich goat-lovers out there!) We pulled into an empty expanse of grass. I pulled on my shoes, which I had conveniently needed to drive over, but Swissy Pie was forced to go barefoot to the upper meadow, where the goats were. There was also another parking lot up there: that was probably meant to distinguish the regulars, who knew about it, from tourists like us, who parked a long way off. But at least the walk was scenic!


The festival itself was very small. Like any self-respecting festival, anywhere in the world, there were booths selling food (in this case, bread, bratwurst, and fries), drink (beer), and random souvenirs (bottles of sour cherry schnapps, jars of local honey, leather collars with goat bells attached, free trade coffee beans, and hand-woven baskets). And while there were a lot of people milling about, there was one thing the goat festival was noticeably short on: goats. Perhaps we arrived too late in the afternoon, and missed the fun, but there were less than 20 goats at the entire show!



Still, the kid goats were adorable, and the scenery was fantastic. And it was worth going, just to see the other attendees gawking at our funny cyclist outfits and Swissy Pie's bare feet!