Dear Readers, one of my favourite walks in Obergurgl is along the Gaisberg valley. But to get there, there’s a hard, steep pull up a serpentine service road. The road surface is made of slippery stone-chippings, the sun beats down, and everyone going up in the lift to the hut above has a good view of your (lack of) progress. I have taken to wearing a Fitbit, to log my footsteps. It also records my heart rate.

“What’s your BPM now?” asks my husband, as I suck in some air for the final ascent.

I squint at my Fitbit.

“153”, I say.

“Is that even possible?” he says.

And unless I’ve transmogrified into a hummingbird and not noticed, I doubt that it is. So much for monitoring.

At last we get to the entrance to the valley. I plonk down on a stone, and soon notice that the whole area is full of the blood-red blurs of Six-spot Burnet moths.

They are everywhere here, gathering nectar and bumping into things. As a caterpillar, they would have fed on Birdsfoot Trefoil. These moths are newly emerged, making the most of the short summer season. And less than a quarter of a mile later, there are none at all. Such is the variety of habitats on this walk.

The sheep are finding the heat a bit much. They would be laying in some shade if they could find some, but there isn’t any and this is a risk for humans too – I managed to get a slightly burnt neck yesterday. Here in the Gaisberg, the sheep simply form a ‘sleeping heap’, which seems to work for them.

We stop for sandwiches at a flat rock by the weather. As usual, I am surveying the hillside for marmots, and we soon see one running from rock to rock. Then another appears. This has been a good year for sightings, and I hope a good year for baby marmots.

As we head towards the glacier, the flora changes too.

The Alps are full of succulents like the Mountain Houseleek, which has the ability to conserve water in this dry environment. But what cheers me most of all is my first sight of these flowers: Snowbells.

These little flowers are the very first to appear when the snow has melted – you can see them pushing through the ruined, yellowing grass where a snowdrift has lain. In fact, they are said to melt the snow themselves, by fermenting sugars and raising their temperature. They are a member of the Primrose family, and are never found below 2000 metres, so they are true Alpine flowers.

We turn to head back to the hotel. A cool wind chills us as we slide down the scree and march down the service road. One day, I know, we will not be able to do this walk. Maybe (hopefully) we’ll be tramping up the hill for years to come, but the day will come when it’s too much. This is not being morbid – it’s just being realistic. Some of our older friends no longer come to this resort because of the altitude and the difficulty of many of the walks. But this year we have managed it, and that is a cause for a modest celebration – a glass of water, and a slightly-squashed cheese roll from our lunchpack. Life seems to be a balancing act between being grateful for what we have, and yet not deluded about what lies ahead.

 

 

Dear Readers, there is one plant above all others that tells me that I am back in the Tyrol, and that is the Alpenrose. Some years, it’s already faded. Some years, it hasn’t really come into flower yet. But this year, the hillsides and the forest are full of the cerise flowers.

It is not a rose, as one glance at its flowers will tell you: it’s a Rhododendron. This was a surprise to me, as I always thought of this gaudy family as being something you’d find in Asia. But this is a plant that lives only in the mountainous regions of Europe, and only where there is acid soil. The underside of the leaves has iron-brown spots, which give it its species name. It only grows to a couple of feet high, and can carpet whole areas completely. However, it can’t cope where there is soil disturbance, so doesn’t encroach on to the pasture areas where the other plants thrive.

Although Alpenrose can set seed, and its flowers are loved by bees,  it is especially adapted for the heavy snow conditions which will completely cover the plant in winter: the weight of the snow enables it to root from those branches which are pressed into the soil. It is also a very long-lived plant: one individual in the French Pyrenees has been estimated to be over 300 years old. Not bad for a plant living in such harsh conditions.

Alpenrose is poisonous, but has been used for many years in Alpine traditional medicine as a treatment for rheumatism. And as I huffed and puffed up the mountain trails today, I could well imagine how useful such a medicine might be for those whose whole way of life depended on being able to get up and down the kind of slopes that a Londoner doesn’t encounter. On the other hand, I see many people of advanced years cheerfully eschewing the chairlifts and the bus and walking through the pastures to collect their cows or their shopping, so maybe the message, as in so many things, is ‘use it or lose it’. And aren’t mountain people some of the most long-lived and healthiest in the world? Let’s never underestimate the value of day-to-day activity, of the kind that doesn’t necessarily involve a gym.

Dear Readers, it has been such a task trying to decide on the Wednesday Weed for this week. I wanted to find a plant here in the Alps that we also have in the UK, even if not necessarily in East Finchley. After a lot of deliberation, I have settled on the Spotted Heath Orchid, because it is very common around these parts, but you would look for a long time to find it in Britain, and there are some very interesting reasons for this.

When I think of orchids, I tend to think of the waxy blooms of the Phalaenopsis orchids that are for sale in every supermarket and florist, but the orchid family is much more varied than this. Tropical orchids tend to be epiphytes – that is, they grow on the branches of trees and other plants. Most European orchids are terrestrial, growing from tubers (the generic name Dactylorhiza means ‘finger root’), and these roots produce new stems and flowers every year. Hence, they tend to grow in places which may be mown, but where the soil is not ploughed or otherwise disrupted.

The root is interesting because different parts play different roles. One part supplies the stem with the materials that it needs to produce the flower and seeds, while the other part conserves the elements required for next year’s plant. However, the flower is only fertile if the orchid is in relationship with some very interesting fungi.

We are only just beginning to understand the interplay between some kinds of fungi (called mycorrhiza) and plants, but this is an ancient relationship which influences many elements of a plant’s success. The mycorrhiza may intertwine with the plant’s own roots or even grow within them, extending their area and making the uptake of water and certain minerals much easier.  In return, the fungi have access to the sugars that the plants produce. This kind of ‘deal’ between two different kinds of organisms is known as ‘mutualistic’ or symbiotic. It is vital for the health of soils, and is, of course, yet another element which is disrupted when we blast fields with chemicals, particularly fungicides.

Where the Spotted Heath Orchid has access to the mycorrhizal fungi, it may produce seeds.  The plants are hermaphrodite and are pollinated by bumblebees.  My Field Guide to the Flowers of the Alps mentions that this plant is found in ‘unfertilised’ meadows and pastures – fertilizer disrupts both the balance of plants in a grassland, and the soil ecology, including the fungi.

I found this particular plant growing beside one of the glacial streams, where it would be regularly flooded and where the soil is damp, and this is another requirement for the plant to flourish. It would once, I’m sure, have been common in our water meadows, but then, according to Historic England’s pamphlet on conserving such environments, we have lost over 90% of our grassland in lowland areas, and long-standing water meadows are vanishingly rare. Here in Austria, Orchids are common enough for no one to comment on them, and I hope to find some more examples for you later in the holiday. In England, you are as likely to find an unfertilised, unploughed, damp grassland with no biocide use as you are to find a golden eagle. Having said which, I can think of one such meadow along by the river in Oxford, which has never been meddled with. The variety of plants and insects there would rival that of Obergurgl. Some days, I could weep for what we have lost in the name of profit and production.

But still, this plant is thriving here in the Alps, and is found in mountainous areas of Europe as far east as Siberia. It has a wide range of common names – according to the Plant Lives website, they include Curlie-Daddie, Dandy Goslings, Queen’s Finger and Crow’s Flower. This would suggest a rich harvest of folklore and medicinal uses for the Heath Spotted Orchid, but so far I have only found one tale, from Hungary (courtesy of Plant Lives). As usual, it was for a love potion. The roots of the plant needed to be dug up on Midsummer Eve, dried, and mixed with menstrual blood. The mixture should then be sprinkled on the food of the reluctant lover, in order to turn him or her into a besotted swain. I can only imagine how delighted they would be when they discovered what they’d been eating.

 

 

 

Dear Readers, today we set off on one of our favourite walks. We headed downhill into the valley to the right of the photo, known as the Rotmoos. At the far end there is a gradually retreating glacier, and this leaves a large area of terminal moraine, rocky strata where only the toughest of plants and animals can survive. But at the entrance to the Rotmoos is a much kinder area, with bogs and a more varied flora.

As we headed down, we met up with our first old friends- Long-eared sheep. They graze up here and across all the mountain valleys until the end of September, when they are driven back home. ‘Home’ normally includes Italy, but for the first time in decades the Italians are unable to pasture their sheep here because there has been an outbreak of foot-and-mouth. I’m sure many of us remember how devastating this terrible disease was when it hit the UK, and my heart goes out to the Italian farmers who are coping with it. May it be quickly brought under control, for the sake of humans and animals.

So, here we are at the entrance to the valley. I have never seen so many of what my biology used to call ‘yellow compositae’ – in other words, dandelions and hawkbits, nippleworts and Leopards-bane, Ragwort and Groundsel. But I am keeping an eye out for another old friend.

A holiday in Obergurgl is not complete without a marmot sighting, and, as we walked down, one galloped right across our path. But it wasn’t until we were eating our hotel-provided lunchpack that we got a  proper look. For my North American animals, this is a rodent about the size and build of a groundhog. This one was looking particularly sleek and happy, and didn’t even bother to whistle when he saw us, which is most unusual – normally the slopes ring with the irritated cries of marmots.A marmot giving a proper warning whistle will stand on his back legs and then bow down as he does so, as if worshiping the mountain peaks opposite. The marmots’ main predator is the eagle, so they watch the skies with all the intensity of a meerkat on an anthill. But they also need to get on with eating before the winter comes and so some of them become indifferent to humans. It is illegal to shoot animals in the Oetz National Park, which is where Obergurgl is located, but every hotel has a fine collection of stuffed animals and mounted deer skulls to show that this wasn’t always the case.

Onwards! And here are yet more old friends.

I consider these Haflinger horses to be some of the most beautiful in the world. As they stood on the opposite shore of the glacial river that tumbles through the valley, their manes and tails stirring in the breeze, they looked like creatures of legend, made of bronze and gold. They are ‘owned’ by the family Scheiber, who own pretty much everything in the Oetz valley, from the cement works to the biggest hotel to the car hire company, but for most of their lives these horses roam free, brought in only for the winter.

As we head up the valley towards the glacier, the plant life begins to change.

I love that this plant is called the Spiniest Thistle, and wonder if there is also a Spinier and Spiny species to complete the set . The Spiniest Thistle certainly lives up to its name – every surface is covered in sharp protuberances. It is an unprepossessing plant, with its yellowish-white flower, and its attendant swarm of tiny flies, but it does point to an interesting fact. In the higher altitudes of the Alps, nearly all the plants are pollinated by flies, rather than by bees and butterflies.

Lots of plants grow in cushions once we start to get into the moraine itself – the big danger here is desiccation, and being close together helps to preserve water. This Moss Campion was actually much pinker than it appears in the photo here – many of the flowers are intense in colour, almost as if reacting to the UV rays.

And here is a real find. Remember Ivy-leaved Toadflax from the Wednesday Weed? Here is the Alpine version. In shades of violet and orange, it’s a delight, hiding amongst all the grey rocks. The flower is exactly the same shape as that of its urban cousin.

Reluctantly, we head for home. It’s important to pace yourself when you’re middle-aged and out of shape, and the walk back to the hotel has some horrible downhills on service roads before we can get our Almdudler (a herbal brew that we’ve become rather fond of over the years).

But there is one last small treasure. Just coming into flower at the edge of the bog are some Spring Gentians. They are the bluest things I have ever seen, so blue that they almost hurt to look at. No photo will ever do them justice.

 

Dear Readers, one of the glories of Obergurgl is the meadows that surround it. I have never been to a place with such a variety of plants, and because the growing season is so short here, everything seems to burst into flower at once.

All the flowers above were growing in full sun. In the shady areas, the flora is completely different.

Need I say that the meadows are full of insects? I have never seen such a diversity of butterflies and day-flying moths, flies and beetles. Insecticides are not used here, and the meadows are so steep and awkwardly shaped that most are still cut down by sickle, usually in mid-July. The sheer number of species of plants and animals speaks volumes for such a regime. I have a dream that one day our road verges and roundabouts, field edges and derelict land, will be as welcoming and varied as these fields. Enough with the monoculture and the Round-up, I say.

As we headed uphill, I noticed a tumbledown shed.

But what was this emerging from underneath?

I am not sure if there are honeybee hives in the shed, or if this is a wild swarm that has made itself at home. Either way, these insects will have a varied and interesting diet for the next few months.

And not all the cattle in this area are Tyrolean Greys.

One of the local farmers keeps a small herd of Highland Cattle. He started about ten years ago with three cows, and now has about fifteen animals, including some of this year’s calves. This breed is admirably suited to the cold weather, and seem to be coping quite happily with the very un-Alpine heatwave that we’ve had for the past few days.

So, after a somewhat sweaty but extremely enjoyable walk, we ended up at the Sahnestuberl, a rustic mountain hut whose name means ‘cream-making house’. And while I generally disapprove of people taking photos of their food when they could be eating it before it gets cold, I hope you’ll forgive me just this once…

And while I was tucking into my cake, a butterfly was feeding from the salt on the handle of my walking pole. It’s nice to know that someone else is benefiting from all that toiling uphill.

 

Dear Readers, I was awoken this morning by the sound of cow bells. I looked out of the window to see this small herd of Tyrolean Grey Cattle being driven out to pasture. During the night, they live in this barn, right in the middle of the village.

Then, every morning they return to the pastures that at this time of year are full of wild geranium and birdsfoot trefoil, buttercups and daisies. They are a most handsome breed, and an endangered one: there are only 4000 Tyrolean Grey Cattle left, which is unfortunate as they are hardy and self-sufficient creatures, and can thrive during the short season and extreme conditions of the Alps. Furthermore, they have been around for over a thousand years, grazing these very pastures.

They are phlegmatic beasts, and if they are sitting in the middle of a path chewing the cud you will most certainly have to tiptoe around them, as there is no way that they are getting up. Indeed, why should they? They are too busy making milk and putting on weight, for these cattle are used both for the dairy products that they provide, and for their meat.

The calves come in a variety of colours, from darkest charcoal to cream, but all have a rather attractive ginger topknot.

I can’t help but think that the life that these cattle lead is as close to ideal as it can be for a domestic animal – the freedom to wander, the company of others, a warm place to sleep and a fine herbal pasture to graze. I  only wish that the other creatures that we eat could enjoy the same conditions, rather than the hell of a factory farm or a feedlot. If we choose to kill in order to eat, it seems to me that the least that we owe those who feed us is a decent life, even if it costs us more financially. After all,  the cost to the animal is everything that they have.

Dear Readers, I wonder if you would like to come on holiday with me? Today I am off to Obergurgl in the Austrian Tyrol, a place I’ve been visiting since the 1990’s. It’s the highest parish in Austria, at 6,330 feet above sea level, and every year we spend a day or two feeling slightly breathless and light-headed as we acclimatise. Half a dozen valleys spread out from here, and the flora and fauna are spectacular.

It’s so high up the weather can be very unpredictable – it started to snow shortly after I took the photo of the marmots. On the other hand, you can be sunburned very quickly with the high UV light. You never know what you’re going to get, so you need to pack for everything from blizzards to heatwaves. And the three real essentials are some good books, some knitting and the travel scrabble, because this is not a place with a lively night-scene. For that, you can head down to the strip clubs of Solden if you don’t mind walking eleven miles 🙂

The locals are mostly friendly…

Though it can get a bit crowded.

But mostly, it is the place that I love most in the world (next to London and East Finchley, of course).

Sadly, the village feels to me as if it is gradually closing down as a summer destination. In winter, it’s a popular ski resort  and this is the time when the family-run hotels make most of their money. As the proprietor of our favourite hotel told us, during ski-season people will drink a couple of bottles of wine per table at dinnertime, but in the summer it’s a glass of beer and an early night. The hotel that we usually stay at is closed this year, and so is the biggest hotel, the Edelweiss. After all, who would want to work all year round if they could make enough money in six months? So, this year could be our last visit to this enchanted place. I would love to share it with you over the next few weeks, so that you can see why it means so much to me. I will try to make the Wednesday Weed a plant that it’s possible to see in the UK (even if not in East Finchley) but I also want to show you what makes this place so unique.

Of course, if there are technical difficulties when I get to Austria you might have to wait for the photos when I get back :-). I’ve been promised WiFi at the hotel, but who can say what will actually be available? This is the mountains, after all.

Normal East Finchley service will be resumed with the Wednesday Weed on Wednesday July 22nd.