Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.
We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.
The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.
‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.
We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted. I cried out. ‘Wait!’
After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.
‘Stop! Wait!’ I called to the men.
‘We have to keep on going,’ Dad said and disappeared into the distance.
Boyfriend waited while I aimed my camera at the perfect scene and snapped several shots.
Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.
‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.
We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.
Dan sighed as he filled in the archive retrieval request form. ‘Things I do for her majesty—Eloise Delaney.’
Under reason for retrieval, he wrote, “Relevant to cold case, the fatal accident of Milo Katz.” He had a hunch, but that was all. Had a gut feeling back in 1981 when he was a recruit, and the youth group was a-buzz with the sudden and tragic death of Milo. Something about his then friend, Sven’s behaviour in the weeks after the road accident had disturbed Dan, but being a trainee policeman, Dan put his head down, stuck it in the proverbial sand, and got on with training.
Dan recalled Christmas Eve, Sunday School kids doing their nativity play and Sven never came into the church hall to watch. Just kept loitering out in the carpark, smoking. Cigarette after cigarette. Even his girlfriend, Fifi couldn’t persuade him to join in the festivities.
While Dan hunted in the rolling file cabinets, he nodded and murmured, ‘Sven and Fifi, bonded over missing dads.’ Never discussed. Never. They went missing and their existence vanished with them.
Curious about information the police might have on the elusive von Erikson, he spotted the man’s name on a box on the middle shelf. Detective Dan Hooper pulled out a file titled, “Jan Von Erikson”. The one slip of paper described a disturbance on January 1, at 2:00am, 1977. One word dismissed the event. “Domestic”.
The account read, “Police were called to a disturbance at the home of Jan von Erikson in Somerton. Neighbours had heard loud shouting and glass smashing and called the police to attend. Police in attendance described the perpetrator, Mr. von Eriksson as drunk, belligerent, and angry.”
Dan flipped the page. No mention of von Erikson’s disappearance. No one asked. No one said. Had he disappeared? Or was it all in his youthful imagination?
He stared at the page. 1977, and he recalled Sven turning up to youth group with a brand-new Ford Falcon XB. Shiny red, as he remembered. Dan had been so envious that Sven, a contract labourer, could afford a shiny, red Ford Falcon XB. How could he? Sven was, what, nineteen? Same age as he was. And Dan knew he, at nineteen and a poor police cadet, didn’t have enough money in the bank to buy such an expensive car. Darn! He had to settle for a run-down, ten-year old Ford Cortina. Courtesy of church friend of the family, Gracie Katz.
The detective scanned the single sheet of paper with his phone and mumbled, ‘Something fishy here. Delaney’s onto something.’
After placing the Jan von Erikson file on the shelf, Dan moved the rolling cabinet to the 1978 section. He used a ladder to lift the cream and brown file box from the top shelf titled “Missing Persons, Percy Edwards”.
‘At least his Missus did the right thing,’ Dan said.
He hauled the box out and lugged it over to a desk. Under the light of a wide green hooded accountant’s lamp, Dan leafed through the wad of notes. Witness statements, leads, and character references.
Percy Edwards was a respectable businessman who dealt in antique furniture, art auctions, valuations and insurance. He belonged to the Ford car club which seemed odd to Dan. He remembered Percy from church as a man who exuded airs and graces, who he imagined preferring the elegance of a Mercedes Benz, rather than the common Ford.
Dan chuckled remembering a friend of his, Leigh who had gone camping with his family and Percy and his son Jimmy had come along too. Percy had never gone “roughing it” in the bush before and had complained endlessly, from the start of the camping trip to the finish. Leigh’s Dad never invited the high and mighty Percy on a camping trip again. Not that Percy would’ve gone after suffering the indignities of sleeping on stony ground under the stars.
Jimmy was okay about camping, though. He became a regular for youth group camps, hikes, and the road trip to Western Australia. In Perth, Jimmy was arrested after drinking beer in a public place and spent the night in the lock up. On camps, everyone appreciated the entertainment Jimmy provided with his strong singing voice and his acoustic guitar. He remembered the not-so-complimentary songs Jimmy made up about his father. That was before he disappeared. Jimmy lost his music mojo for years after his father mysteriously left. Started munching through packets of crisps instead.
Dan photographed page after page of the Edwards file. Boxes of evidence must not leave the storage facility. Percy Edwards fine upstanding citizen. Percy Edwards tall, distinguished, moustache, patting Jimmy on his head calling him, “Ma boy”.
Mrs. Edwards, otherwise known as “Primrose the plentiful” (yes, you got it, her real name was Primrose) as she had borne the illustrious Lord of the Edwards manor, eight children. Always pregnant or breastfeeding, yet eternally immaculate, black hair coiffured in a beehive to perfection, and with fashion sense that made her a trendsetter amongst the ladies. President of the church ladies guild, fantastic fundraiser, chairman of the local school’s Parents and Friends association, and all-round super mum. As some of the younger girls at youth group used to say about her, “What a woman!”
Dan smiled remembering how when her husband walked out the door and never returned, Primrose Edwards persevered. She worked on the checkout at the local supermarket, studied part-time and made full use of her mothering skills to become a teacher, and by gum, an exceptionally good teacher.
He thought then of Lillie. It was Mrs. Edward’s tenacity that inspired that socially awkward yet attractive girl Lillie to train to be a teacher. What ever happened to Lillie? he wondered. Is she still teaching?
His youth group had all grown up and drifted. Like Mr. Edwards they had disappeared into their grown-up lives. However, unlike Mr. Edwards, they were still traceable.
And Mrs. Primrose Edwards, was she still alive? Dan made a note to check the birth, deaths and marriage records. Or he could just ask Fifi, the encyclopaedia of life and everyone in Adelaide. Primrose was her mother. Besides, since Eloise was friends with Fifi, all he’d have to do is ask to have a chat with Fifi.
‘Who needs Google when you have Fifi,’ Dan laughed as he finished the final pages of scanning.
Dan entered the lift at the basement and as it propelled him upwards to the ground floor, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hello Dee,’ Dan spoke.
‘Hey, Dan, I’ve been searching all day,’ Dee said, ‘you don’t happen to have a number for Sven von Erikson?’
‘Hey, Dee,’ Dan chuckled, ‘you must be psychic. I was just thinking of him. Why?’
‘Um, I think he might be key to the investigation.’
‘What? How?’ Dan stepped out of the lift and onto the ground floor.
‘Well, I have found out that he had a red Ford Falcon. Didn’t Mr. Wilke who we saw a few weeks ago say that the motorbike was struck by a red painted car?’
‘Oh, oh, yes, I’d forgotten about Mr. Wilke. Yes, follow that up.’ Dan strode to his desk and packed up his laptop. It’s going to be a long night. ‘Good work Dee.’
‘By the way, did you remember that I interviewed Lillie Edwards, formerly von Erikson, today?’ Dee sounded proud of herself.
‘What?’ Dan dropped his laptop. It thudded on the table. ‘How? How did you…?’
‘When I read the reports, I remembered Lillie from school days. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’ll be. It is Adelaide after all. Anything useful?’
‘Maybe. That’s why I would like to speak to Sven her brother. And there was a friend of hers she was always hanging around with. Fifi? Married Sven. Was, I mean.’
Dan snorted. ‘Welcome to the family. I’ll send through the contact details.’
‘You have them?’
‘Yes, just not on me at the moment.’ Dan wasn’t about to plop Eloise, his former partner fighting crime into the conversation. He avoided triggers of the Dee kind as Dee and Eloise never got on. ‘I’ll text them to you as soon as, okay.’
‘Great!’ Dee replied. ‘Bye.’
‘Great work, Dee. Catch you in the morning,’ Dan said and tapped the red button. Must make note to send Dee the details, he murmured while leaving the office.
[Eleven years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
I add here, that today, is my paternal grandfather’s birthday. In 1886, he was the first of his family to be born in Australia, a true-blue Aussie. His 12 siblings had been born in England, and his parents in Germany. Like the rest of his family, he was full of adventure and yen to travel. Seven of his siblings were missionaries. Some in China, while he and his brother were missionaries in the Sudan. Although his brother then went on to be a missionary in Korea, my grandpa continued his mission work in Sudan for decades until he retired in 1954. But, even after his retirement, the spirit of adventure spurred my grandpa on to travel to Central Australia to visit my uncle in Ernabella at the top end of South Australian, and my dad in Hermannsburg, Northern Territory.
On that note, over the next few weeks, I will continue to take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]
Uluru—The Sign Not to Climb
Monday, July 8, 2013
Last night, over a game of cards, the T-Team decided to stay an extra night in the Yulara Campsite.
So, that morning, after a well-deserved sleep in, we pottered around the campsite, cooking, sorting, and relaxing. My husband, Anthony was doing a great deal of hunting…things, where were they?
Around midday, the T-Team, loaded up with hampers for a picnic lunch, set off for the Rock. We dutifully lined up at the National Park check point, for our passes.
Once through, Anthony gazed at the Rock. ‘Wow! It’s huge!’
‘It’s even more spectacular third time round,’ I remarked.
‘How long does it take to climb the rock?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a couple of hours, although, we are older; more like my Dad’s age when he climbed with us kids in 1981. He took longer to climb than us.’ I wasn’t keen on climbing and was going to give my excuses (such as inadequate footwear) when we arrived at the climbing site.
Over lunch, my brother and wife discussed with us their reservations about staying another night, as they had not budgeted for it. A reluctant Anthony agreed we would cover the cost of the extra night. After all, having seen the magnificence of the Rock and the Olga’s, Anthony wanted to spend more time exploring these wonders—and hopefully, climb the Rock…another day.
As the afternoon light bathed the conglomerate boulders of Kata Tjuta in bronze, the T-Team explored Walpa Gorge. Except Mrs. T who had retreated to the van. She had a headache.
The site had been seriously sanitised since the T-Team’s last visit in 1981. All for the tourists and preserving the environment. Parts of the track were paved, with plastic bridges over ditches. The edges were roped off and signs warning of fines for those who chose to stray from the path.
‘Boring!’ Richard said. ‘You have to stick to the path.’
‘But I want to still see what’s up there,’ Anthony said.
‘You can get a $135 fine if you go off the path,’ a random lady warned as she passed us.
My younger niece nodded. ‘I know, my brother just went a little off the path and this Indigenous guy appeared from nowhere and told us we’d be fined.’
‘So, I jumped right back on the path again,’ my nephew added. ‘I didn’t want a fine.’
As the T-Team Next Generation, we then hiked up Walpa Gorge as far as we could go. Not far, actually. Not like the old days when we climbed to the top of the gorge and could see the “plum pudding” rock formation on the other side.
From Walpa Gorge, the T-Team drove along the road to the Valley of Winds. After a short hike to the vantage point, we admired the view of boulders that had taken on the formation of rounded steppingstones. A school group passed by. They chatted amongst each other entertaining us onlookers with snatches of assorted topics ranging from food, to adventures in the cold.
Evening and Anthony insisted on cooking sausages using the camping BBQ facilities provided. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the snags were ready. Even shared a few with the teenaged T-Lings who have hollow legs when it came to food.
Then, as the campsite descended into darkness, Anthony’s voice rose in frustration. ‘Lee-Anne, where are your boots?’
‘Boots? Why do you need my boots?’
‘You need proper hiking boots for hiking,’ he snapped. ‘How are you going to climb the Rock in your sandshoes?’
‘Not going to climb,’ I muttered.
‘Where are they? I’m sure we packed them.’
‘Maybe we didn’t,’ I bit back, then wandered off to the BBQ facilities. There I heated up milk for hot chocolate.
Later, after drinking hot chocolate, I rang Son 1 back in Adelaide. During the conversation, I said, ‘By the way, I am missing my hiking boots. Would you be able to find them and bring them up when you and your brother and Grandma come up to Alice Springs next Saturday?’
Dee clicked on the video-recording app on her mobile phone. Lillie’s voice rang shrill, but shaky at times. She had interviewed Lillie in her college office, late the previous afternoon. Hard for Dee to discern if this private school principal is telling the truth.
Still, Detective Inspector Berry was pleased with herself. Tracked the elusive Lillie down—with the help of the Electoral Roll, Births, Deaths and Marriage Records and Trove.
Lillie seemed happy to share her perspective on that night of Saturday, November 29, 1980. Dee reflected, a little too willing.
“I remember that day, I mean night,” Lillie spoke, “We went down to Sellicks Beach for the end of year bonfire. There was this old man on the cliff top waving his arms around and shouting.”
She gave a short laugh. “Fifi thought that he was calling for Milo. Remember him? He was this loser from our school who had repeated year 8 twice. Not the brightest of bulbs, that one. Or should I say, not the full glass and a half.” Lillie chuckled at her own joke in reference to a current commercial involving a chocolate milk drink.
“Now, I was with Renard that night. Thought all my Christmases had come at once, you know. I remember being so proud of cutting your lunch, Dee. You see, as I recall, he said he was meant to be at a party you were putting on that night, but here he was, with me.”
Lillie stabbed the air. “He was afraid of you, Dee. Afraid of what you’d do when you realised that he didn’t turn up at your party. He reckoned your party would be boring.”
She’s enjoying this, Dee thought, then asked, “How did you travel from Adelaide to Sellicks beach?”
Lillie pursed her lips in a sly smile, “With my brother, Sven. In his Ford. So much better than chugging along in my mother’s little red Honda. Mum needed the Honda. Ladies guild meeting at the church. You should’ve seen the fuss my brother made about that. Reckoned I’d cramp his style. With Fifi, I s’pose. Fifi’s Jimmy’s sister who was with Sven at the time. Neighbours actually. Anyway, Sven didn’t have a choice, but. He just had to deal with it and endure me in the back seat.”
“Who else was there?” Dee asked.
“Oh, there was Fifi’s brother, Jimmy. Oh, yeah, Sven had to drive him too. Not a happy camper, Sven wasn’t. He plopped insults and sarcastic remarks aimed at Jimmy and me all the way to Sellicks. Poor Jimmy, he looked a bit sad and kept shovelling handfuls of salt ‘n vinegar chips into his mouth and crunching. Um, Jimmy’s my husband now. We grew up, as you may have gathered, Dee.”
Dee resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Lillie’s efforts to be condescending to her. Teachers. They never change.
“Anyway, also, besides Sven, my brother, and Fifi Edwards,” Lillie continued, “there was Francis Renard, as I have mentioned. Anyway, while we were there, we heard these sounds of puttering that filled the cove. And Sven, who had an uncanny ear for such things, reckoned it was a motorbike ridden by Milo Katz. He was right.”
Lillie smiled. “Sure enough, Milo on his Kawasaki turns up. He sprayed sand all over us. He was not popular.
Sven steps towards Milo and asks, ‘Who invited you?’
The rest of us cried, “Gate crasher! Gate crasher!” and we all threw sand at Milo.
Sven threw his cider bottle. ‘Go home to your mummy, Milo!’
Milo dodged the bottle and says, ‘Hey, I just wanna good time.’
Sven plucks up a rock. ‘You are not welcome here. Go away.’
‘Why not? I have every right to be here,’ says Milo.
‘Are you thick or something?’ Sven shakes his fist. He’s still holding the stone.
‘Did you call me thick? Did you call me thick?’ asks Milo.
‘Yes, you moron! Now, go home!’ Sven hurls the stone, hitting Milo’s helmet.
‘Hey! That’s my head you hit!’ Milo, hands on hips, leers at Sven. ‘You wanna fight?’
‘Be my guest, fool!’ Sven hits Milo’s shoulder.
‘Oh, cut it out boys!’ Fifi gets between the guys splitting them apart. ‘It’s not worth it.’”
Lillie takes a breath.
Dee asks, “What happened then?”
“We had this uneasy truce,” Lillie says, “Milo one side of the fire, in the smoke, Sven and the rest of us crowded on the other side. The tide was coming in and waves began to soak our feet and put out the fire.
I wondered why Milo doesn’t take the hint.
Jimmy munched through his third bagful of chips. Chicken, this time. I remember that because I was annoyed by his crunching. And I remember Milo too. Bad habits.
Milo coughed. And spluttered. He blew his nose into a grimy handkerchief and inspected the contents. He tried to move out of the smoke, closer to us.
[Photo 1: Brachina Bonfire (c) L.M. Kling 1999]
He provoked Sven again and they ended up fighting again. Sven and Milo toppled onto the sand crushing beer cans, steam-rolled one on top of the other singeing leather pants and denim jacket, rising from the ashes in a slow dance of boxing and fists and cuffs, and culminating in Sven’s $50 Reflecto Polaroid sunglasses flying into the fire. The coals must’ve still been hot as they melted the glasses on impact.
Sven was livid and vowed to kill Milo. We advised Milo to go. Nothing personal. But that he better take the hint and go. Fifi tried to calm Sven down reminding him that it’s only sunglasses.
Sven loosened his grip and sauntered towards the boulders, and Milo skulked to his bike and rode away, up the ramp, never that night to bother us again.”
“So, describe what you saw of the accident, then,” Dee said.
“Later, Fifi and I slipped away, up the ramp to the road. We kept warm with a kangaroo-skin blanket wrapped around us. We sat on a seat overlooking the miniature party scene. The lads still drinking. They’d moved up near the caves and away from the encroaching tide. We could see the orange glow of the revived bonfire. While we gossiped, focussing on Milo, the crisp air carried the beat of The Groping Paws from the sound system in Sven’s car.
Then we hear this almighty roar. ‘Excellent! A drag race!’ Fifi tears the blanket from me and waddles up the road. Shivering, I follow and peer down the peninsula. As the headlights approach, a dull thud and a blur of something flying, shock us. One headlight wobbles, then is out.
Fifi and I have this argument while rushing to the scene.
‘What was that?’ Fifi says.
‘Probably just a roo,’ I reply.
‘And what roo has two legs and arms? I definitely saw two legs and arms. I’m going to have look.’
We reach the spot. Motorbike shattered on the pavement. A group had gathered around a pole. We go and look. I can’t unsee the human wreckage; man’s frailty etched in my memory.
‘Come, we can’t just stand here. We better tell the others, someone.’ Fifi drags me down the ramp.
Sven is there lolling on the sand. He’s oozing the smell of alcohol vapours, and barely conscious.
Jimmy, through a mouthful of crisps, says to us, ‘A good thing that Milo wasn’t there otherwise he’d be raving about the grisly details till morning.’
‘It was Milo,’ I yell at him.
‘Oh.’ Jimmy pops a large curly crisp into his mouth and munches.
Renard pokes his head out of his Kombi. ‘What’s all the din?’
It’s the first time I register that Renard is there. He must’ve arrived while Fifi and I were up looking at the ghastly scene. I think I told him what happened to Milo to which he replied that was more exciting than going to your party, Dee.
Then Fifi pulls me away and says, ‘Come on, Lillie. We better see what we can do for the poor bloke.’
So, up we go.”
“What did you see then?” Dee asks.
“When we got back up,” Lillie says, “there was a group of pensioners hovering over the blood-stained sheet. Leaning up against the warped pole, a man with black rimmed glasses and bulging nose shook his head saying, ‘There’s nothing we could do.’
A woman, hair in rollers, wrapped in a lavender quilted dressing gown, was gawking, ‘Poor fellow. What a waste!’
It was a grizzly scene and I asked Fifi if we could go down again. I was feeling quite sick.
Renard was kind, you know, he comforted me. I found the whole ordeal very confronting.”
“What? Renard?” Dee asks.
“No, the accident.”
“Where was Sven? Your brother?” Dee says.
“He was there. His car was there. It didn’t go away.”
Dee leans forward. “Are you sure?”
“I’d know if my brother left; he was my ride.”
“What? With Fifi?” Dee leans back. “But you were with Renard, weren’t you?”
“So? So what? Nothing happened if that’s what you’re implying,” Lillie’s voice has an edge; agitated. “Sven was around the whole night and his car was still there in the morning. Besides, if he’d started up the engine anytime during the night, especially when Milo was hit, I would’ve heard it and recognised it. There’s no way Sven did anything. He was there the whole, entire night and Fifi was with him. Go on, ask them. You’ll see.”
The phone recorder clicked off. Interview terminated 18:05 hours.
Dee gritted her teeth and then muttered, ‘She’s lying. And I’m going to prove it.’
She straightened the page of her notebook holding the contact details of Lillie’s brother, Sven von Erikson and his ex, Fifi Edwards. ‘This will prove interesting,’ she said. ‘Pity she didn’t have any contact details for Renard.’
But then she remembered that Dan might. He’s interviewed Francis Renard the other day.
Lillie stared at the pink frosted cupcake in the middle of her desk. Must resist. Must lose weight. Oh, but it’s only one. And besides, you deserve it.
No, you’ll regret it. All that sugar. It’ll make you sick.
She slowly removed her hand from the cake.
But I need sustenance for the drive home.
Reach for the cake.
No, I’ll get a headache.
Replace hand on her lap. Stare at the cake.
She reflected on the interview with Detective Dee Berry. Sure, she was meant to tell a different narrative. Was it that night she spent with Renard? Hadn’t she actually gate-crashed Dee’s party because she wasn’t invited?
All the intervening years Sven had insisted, convinced her that she, Lillie had got it wrong. Imagined the accident, like a bad dream. Her mum had supported Sven. Mum, now, all muddled and in a nursing home. What would her 84-year-old mum say now? “No, dear, you have it all wrong—Sven’s the brains in the family, ya know.”
Lillie picked at the icing and licked her fingers. In increments the cake disappeared into Lillie’s mouth.
Last night, August 1, my husband’s maternal family hailing from Switzerland, we celebrated Swiss National Day. My husband’s mother was born in Basel and then grew up in Zurich. Her mother came from Wattwil, St. Gallen.
So, the family gathered at our home and enjoyed a firepit fire in the backyard.
When I asked my husband where fondue was “invented”, he said that fondue comes from the French part of Switzerland. In winter, the poor farmers used their cheese and bread to make a meal—fondue.
So, in memory of all things Swiss, here’s a revisit of an earlier post when the T-K Team travelled to Switzerland in 2014.
K-Team in Switzerland—2014
Welcome with Alphorns
Sunday, August 17, the real fun began—and so did the early starts.
Up by 6am to race to Zurich Airport to meet the rest of the K-Team, Hubby’s family: his mother (Mum K) brother (P1), niece (Miss K), our son (Son 1) and his fiancé. Drove into the airport car park where Hubby became confused and drove out again and then in again. After finding a park we made our way to arrivals where an English man chatted to Hubby.
‘We’re from Australia,’ Hubby said.
The English man nodded. ‘I can tell.’
A young woman accompanied by a man dressed in Swiss costume who’d been standing next to us spoke to us. We soon established that we had been standing next to Hubby’s second cousins.
We then waited together for the K-Team fresh from Australia to roll through the arrival gate. Tired of waiting, Hubby wandered down the hallway and there near an alcove of shops, he found our weary travellers.
Must be the atmosphere in Zurich, or just jetlag as after greeting us, they stood around for at least an hour discussing what to do. Hubby and I took custody of their luggage and had a coffee while they lingered in the hall in suspended animation apparently organising the lease car and then debating how to change Australian dollars into Swiss Francs.
Just as I pulled my diary out to write, movement, and then we were on our way to the farm near Wattwil of Toggenburg in the Canton of St. Gallen.
There Alphorns, and cow bell ringers, and the stunning green hills and blue mountains of the Santis greeted us. Mum K shrieked and cried and hugged her relatives. Our niece exclaimed, ‘It’s all so beautiful!’
Willing members of the K-Team tested their muscles swinging the huge cowbells, or their lungs playing the Alphorn. Some had more success than others. I escaped the test by recording the event with my camera.
After the insecticide incident, our hosts showed us our rooms and one of our cousins gave us instructions about the bathroom and how to place the flywire in our windows to keep out the “fleas”. She meant flies.
Mum K went missing. Found her in the dairy—yes, we were on a dairy farm that is still owned by the family. I was amazed that Swiss farmers have as few as ten cows and yet they make a living! Wouldn’t happen in Australia. And our hostess promised us fresh milk, dare I say it, raw milk, straight from the cow the next morning. Ah, the advantages of living on a dairy farm in Switzerland!
‘Actually,’ Hubby stated, ‘the Swiss Brown milk is known for its high fat content, so the milk is used for making cheese.’
As the T-Team talked to their dairy-farmer cousins, in this barn for the cows, I held my nose and edged towards the door. The up-and-personal experience with the cows and their calves in their enclosures, proved too much for my senses, and I suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk to the forest.’ I moved out of the barn, sure that my bovine-close-encounter would be used in what was at that time in 2014, a future story—TheLost World of the Wends.
From the barn, the K-Team took a ramble to Mum K’s beloved forest—a smaller forest than one she remembered from her youth, but one she recalled vividly in a novel she wrote, A Teenager Long Time Ago.
Tru-Kling Creations 