Switzerland is a small mountainous country, whose climate is anything but tropical.

It may seem surprising that it has become one of the world’s leading chocolate manufacturers.

Now that you mention it, swissworld.org, it does seem strange. I’d never wondered about Swiss chocolate much before – I’d just devoured it in large quantities without giving much thought to its origin and history.

But now that Swiss chocolate is fresh in my mind and recent on my tongue, I thought I’d find out a little more.

The European love affair (indeed, the vast bulk of the top twenty chocolate consuming countries are European) began with the introduction of cocoa to Europe from the Americas in 1528 by the Spanish conquistador, Cortez.

By the 17th century, the appeal of this new la-di-dah drinking chocolate had spread from the Spanish court to the French court with the marriage of the Infanta Anne of Austria to King Louis XIII (1615). Although the heyday of hot chocolate was winding to a close by the 19th century, the popularity of the recently invented solid chocolate was on the increase. It took off from there – and soon chocolate bars, milk chocolate and fillings of dried fruit, liquor and praline emerged as if by alchemy.

Switzerland became synonymous with chocolate in the years 1890-1920, a period which coincided with the “golden age” in Swiss tourism. I tried to find some recent facts and figures about the consumption of Swiss chocolate, but like any statistics, you can find just about anyone willing to say anything.

I couldn’t resist the figures from CHOCOSUISSE, the Association of Swiss Chocolate Manufacturers, as anyone who captions a graph of Per capita consumption (Source: International Confectionery Association) with ‘The Swiss like chocolate’ are definitely alright by me in the high-brow stakes.


The Swiss like chocolate. In 2007, as in previous years, they had the highest per capita consumption with 12.3 kg. However, this includes purchases by tourists and cross-border commuters.

And I like Swiss chocolate. I was most impressed to sample the Swiss interpretation of “chocolate biscuit” as heavy on the chocolate and light on the biscuit (I mean, if I wanted a “biscuit chocolate” I would have asked for one!)

While it was otherwise, and I’m almost sorry to say this, filled with bollocks – the magazine La vie à Crans-Montana (“Switzerland’s Prestige Magazine”) interestingly introduced one of their articles with:

‘The Russians appreciate Switzerland in winter for its prepared ski slopes and high-tech facilities; the Helvetians adore Russia for its wide open wild spaces.’

Which got me thinking about the skiing spots I’ve been to in Russia – mind you, not for skiing, just for a bit of good old-fashioned voyeurism.

Like the time I ventured up north beyond the Arctic Circle to Kirovsk and the Khibiny Mountains, just to spend my afternoons at the Apatity Geological Museum, being guided through “the biggest shop in town” or wandering through people’s decrepit garbage / storage space and personal rubbish dumps.

I guess during the winter the wrecked car bodies get covered in white, and in green during the summer, so no-one is perturbed by the grimy spring unearthing.

Almost everything in Kirovsk was grey, but it wasn’t as sombre and depressed as it could have been. Instead it was just what could be expected in a Russian mining ski resort town – dust and grit contrasted by a splash of colour in the form of a gaudy branded ski jacket.

Looking back and trying to describe it, I’m reminded of the morose French character in the Molvanîa guidebook spoof, whose “off the beaten track” hints often lead to malaria and hypothermia (somehow simultaneously) all in the aim of avoiding tourist traps. Sometimes travelling solo in Russia can be like flipping a coin and getting both heads and tales at the same time. You just take the good with the bad.

The good included crème brûlée ice-cream and Kirovsk’s “Potemkin village” train station, where just the ornate façade was created and now it stands (precariously) as an ornate wreck.

My goodness Russia had amazing ice-cream (my dentist can provide a testament for just how much I ate of the stuff), but try as I might I never got into the popular pastime of eating it in the middle of winter. Determined chewing and biting effort is not something I associate with an enjoyable ice-cream experience!

There’s not much to mention about my final day of skiing, other than the huge dump of snow of all over the mountain, especially in the mid and lower sections. As a result, our house had a fresh covering and even the village was transformed into a magical place. Unfortunately for the skiing, the fresh powder was no more than a deceptive sprinkling of icing sugar on top of a formidably frozen iceberg.

In other words, not great skiing.

I’d either career out of control then thump down hard in a fall on the ice or jolt unexpectedly to a standstill in the thick powder drifts.

All in all though, it was a great holiday (ahem, “work”) – and of course one prone to excessive poetics…

But I went to have a beer and a croque-monsieur at a café in Crans last night, and watching the snow falling gently outside, I was charmed. The décor of the “Café-Bar 1900” played its part in the entrancement – with frosted glass lanterns, somewhat anachronistic posters from the 1920s, and the ample spirits reflected in mirrors and gleaming from the polished wooden shelves.

There’s something about a steady stream of drifting snow that is so beautiful though – actually I think it’s the whole mountain atmosphere. It’s impossible not to get all Robert Frost or artistic airline commercial by just mentioning the evocative majesty of falling snow…

But you can tell you’ve got it bad when smile from the chairlift, watching the clutters of multiple ski groups on the slopes and thinking that they are unfurling like ribbons!

Oh, get me to stop – someone pinch me!

Sunday, being my day off, was spent similarly to my days on… skiing.

The only exception was that I was able to spend the whole day on the slopes, only stopping for a cake and hot chocolate “hospitably” provided by the CMA (Crans-Montana-Aminona Domaine Skiable) in the form of a ten Swiss franc voucher for the Resto Petit Bonvin on purchasing your lift pass.

It was also the perfect excuse to get me further afield, on higher altitude slopes where the snow was fresh, the views pristine and plenty of opportunity for distraction watching the slalom course and freestyle snow park [insert all applicable “need for speed” and “serious air” clichés here. Think up your own, but be sure to say them in a breathless, yet gravely “extreme” radio voice].

To get to Mount Petit Bonvin (2,400m) is a bit of an up-down-up-down process, but a rewarding one all the same. From the comfort zone of the familiar blue gondola take the icy plunge down Nationale to the gondola Violettes Express (avoiding at all costs the dislodged rocks and exposed tree roots!). Head down to La Barmaz and take the Toula chairlift and you’ll have your first glimpses of the restaurant and the peak. A comfortable blue run, another chairlift – and voila! You’ve descended to the haven of the gods! Have a hot chocolate to mark the occasion!

I topped the day off with a beer in the sunshine, with a panorama of snow-capped peaks stretched out for my visual appreciation… ahhh… what bliss!

There’s nothing like Warsteiner, the favoured beer of German train stations, to get one acquainted with every single one of the Rhône Valley peaks… I’m just glad I’m here, and not on Deutsche Bahn!

Today I felt that my Crans-Montana mountain dreams had come true. The crowds abated, the runs were smooth and clean… It’s a pity I couldn’t see more than half a metre in front of me, but I can’t have everything or else I’d just be spoilt!

Instead of the Saturday morning rush that I had expected, the opposite eventuated. As it was raining down below and a dense cloud up on top, only thousands (not millions) tackled the Swiss slopes today. Plus, Saturday morning is apparently the exchange period when people leave in the morning and arrive in the afternoon, or something of the sort. Not the day to buy or top-up your lift passes, I guess.

I had a few runs in the middle section (which also had the benefits of only half-rain, half-whiteout) and then came home for some tea and cake. This in itself deserves some airtime because I found a “Tyrolean Cake” at the supermarket, and I was eager to test its authenticity. First bite, ah yes, traces of marzipan – could quite possibly be Austrian!

I was also drawn to the brand name – “Betty Bossi” – could you imagine working with here in the kitchen? It would be hell! But, come to think of it… that could quite possibly have been my nickname in the second grade of school!

But on further research (don’t, dear readers, think you’ve stumbled across a blog of mere speculation – these are the hard facts!) it emerges that there has never actually been a Betty Bossi… the culinary dominatrix never actually existed but is a fictitious product of a Swiss margarine manufacturer (oh well, next they’ll tell me that there isn’t an Easter Bunny either!)

Let’s go skiin’ now, everybody’s learning how…

I’m considerably more optimistic today. It’s amazing the wonders that can be done for any unconfident and bruised Day 2 skier by trawling the beginners’ slopes until reaching the stage of bored to tears. I’m feeling much better about spotting and avoiding the ice (which is, I’ve realised, much easier when I’m not trying to traverse an 89° incline), and also spotting the other beginners’ slope virgins. This way, if I see them again during the day, I can swish my skies, swing my hips, and pat myself on the back because I feel like hot stuff compared to them – rather than being discouraged by those local or affluent enough to ski on all occasions.

But there are still slushy moguls on the way down to the mid-station of the red gondola. This is the route I’ve nicknamed the “washing machine” (as it’s very wet, with whites and colours all mixed in haphazardly together) and it’s as tricky as it was yesterday. At a higher altitude you get used to combating the ice on shorter runs. Then to finish, you’ve got the veritable rollercoaster down the gauntlet of the “washing machine”, packed full of people with the same fatigued idea of a nice warming après-ski beverage to anesthetise their weary and wounded limbs.

Ladies and Gentlemen, hold onto your hats, goggles, gloves and stocks… it’s going to be a wild ride.

Yesterday, exhausted after the morning’s skiing and tested to the limit by this hair-raising conclusion, I even managed to fall off the track home again, and landed skis and all into a big muddy embankment.

I think that’s why I was a “little” down on the whole skiing affair.

The man who stopped to help me out of the ditch said with a smile ‘It’s better if you stay on the piste.’

Thanks… Einstein… I’ll remember that for next time I feel compelled to nosedive into a clump of bushes!

Now I don’t know what hurts worst – my shins or my pride. I know that they say the first day skiing is the most painful, but I didn’t remember exactly how mentally scarring it could be.


Beautiful but painful!

My history of skiing isn’t great. I come from a ski-buff family who are not only very capable of swishing on planks of wood (did I mention that we were always a very old school skiing family?) down snow covered slopes, but who are also very capable at it.

I, on the other hand, only launched into my first hesitant snowploughs when the crèche objected to my presence, arguing that their day care services weren’t provided for sulking teenagers.

Ok, ok, I’m just kidding, I wasn’t ever THAT bad. I can ski a bit now, it’s not a problem – but even still it had been about five years since I last “graced” the slopes and this old machine was decidedly rusty. Luckily (the sarcasm runs thick), my companions decided to “help me get my bearings” by taking me on all the most treacherously steep and icy routes, all in the name of a fun and basic orientation overview of the mountains.

Not that it helped. I saw nothing but the ground or my skies flying off in another direction… repeatedly. I did however manage to be able to differentiate between the degree of severities of the ice compaction, and I think as the to-be-bruises on my legs come of age, they’ll provide a comprehensively documented historical record of my falls. I can’t wait…

I’m a bit grumpy, so forgive me that my observations follow suite – but I think I’ve figured out the cause for the epic rift between skiers and snowboarders. It all comes down to footwear and a subconscious level of jealously masked by a possessive and fiercely guarded discomfiture. It seems to be this mark of endurance that leaves skiers with a reputation for being uptight, but honestly, who can relax with such intensely crippling shin pain?

I get a lot done when left to wander by myself.

I love to walk around pointlessly – or seemingly so. There is always something to see or a topic to muse over to the soundtrack of footsteps. It’s not like I’m some recreated nineteenth century Parisian flâneur wannabe (the stock character of the grands boulevards dandy, Baudelaire’s ‘gentleman stroller of city streets’) because I’m (first and most obvious point coming to mind) not male and am thus inclined to have a poke through supermarkets I encounter along the way, just for the sake of having a browse and seeing what’s available… My strolls aren’t gentrified and dignified strolls to see and be seen, but more along the lines of scurried anonymity (or so I hope anyway).

I walk to think and it gives me a great time to reflect. For instance, in the Polish ski resort town of Zakopane I opted for trudging the snow-filled backstreets rather than joining the jostle for the cable car bound for the slopes. It was somewhere on this afternoon of pine tree branches weighed down with snow, black-shawled babushki and stringy smoked cheeses that I decided to study in Russia – and voila! The rest is history!

But anyway, without any claims and profundity and in this vein - I’ve covered most of the territory of the co-joining Crans and Montana on foot. I’ve figured out the town centres (not that it was rocket science), located the funicular and found some pretty neat tracks through the woods to lakes and secluded chalets nestled amongst the snowy trees. Hmm… on heading back home again I’ve also realised that the public transport is free… but where would be the fun of discovery if I was sitting on a bus seat!

Enough of my fears that I was being transported to a nineteenth century thermal bath somewhere in the Swiss Alps, I’ve actually found myself at the Crans-Montana ski resort in the predominantly French-speaking canton of Valais… and let me tell you – I’m quite chuffed about it. I now know what people mean about the “perks” of a job, because the best part about my little skiing holiday is that I’m actually “working” – and lift pass, skiing, snow and slopes (alongside considerable eating, lazing and backgammon back at the chalet) are all part of the required tasks for the next fortnight.

I could get quite used to this – however, there are the remaining 40+ weeks of being an au pair in between these annual ski holidays, so maybe I should set my sights a little broader.

Maybe you’ve seen Crans-Montana in the news recently (if you are keenly reading about the women’s skiing in the newspaper sports pages) because the Women’s Ski World Cup was held over the weekend of March 8-9 (so I’m sure it was all Women’s Day clichés in any of the reportage… well, it would have been if they had hired me to cover the event!)

But as for first impressions, I’m feeling pretty good about being here in the cool, crisp mountain air. One is spoilt for scenery on the train ride from Geneva to Sierre, as the train traces along Lake Geneva to Lausanne and Montreux, and then through the mountainside grapevines of Valais with snow-capped peaks around every new corner. I’ve already seen some of those kitsch but scrumptious carrot cakes with the hyperreal marzipan carrots, so I’m quite looking forward to the coming weeks of wet and cold feet. It’s all give and take really.

I’m going to Switzerland in March, which I’m most excited about.

Hold on – that sentence sounded most Jane Austen-esque (overly romantic sentiments conveyed through stilted dialogue). I’d better stop myself there before I get charged with an insult to Eliza Bennet offence.

But there is a reason I’ve been conveyed back to the early nineteenth century, and it’s all due to Google. You see, I just thought I’d google the name of the place where I will visit. The first and only relevant reference came up with this text by Johann Gottfried Ebel:

It seems to me that I’ve stumbled on the original Lonely Planet, published in a Jean Gaudin translation in 1810.

Looks like I’ll just have to look forward to the baths of Louësche (Leukerbad)! Hope they’re still accepting customers!

Oh no. Of course the reality of the situation is far less amusing. I just typed the name wrong.

Siders (French: Sierre) exists in the twenty-first century too. I’m not being transported in both place and time.

I’m going with the family that I’m au-pairing for. I won’t say “woo hoo!” because then you won’t be able to determine if I’m being sarcastic or not, and maybe the wrong impression will be reached.

I will issue a collective “woo hoo” though for having some new material to write about (and everyone reading issues a sigh of relief) - but never fear, I’ve still got plenty of oddball stories about Russia up my sleeve!