As Bouddi and I trundled down the hill towards home, the last warm rays of the autumn sun warming us, the familiar sounds and smells of the traditional Valaisanne black nose sheep wove their way into my consciousness - visceral reminders of my childhood growing up on a farm. I kept my eye on a dog I hadn’t seen before, a lanky Border Collie type, energy alerted to us. It seemed to be attached to a group of older mountain men sitting on the tailgate of a beat up red beast of a car, having elevenses. And by elevenses I don’t mean tea and scones but beers - Swiss style. Sometimes I’m grateful my German is literally non-existent as they commented on my dog. One of them piped up in reasonable French and we all made small talk, grunting for a couple of minutes about dogs, cheese and the weather in no particular language and I headed home up the hill.
But this is Törbel and no connection lives in isolation in the vortex of mountain life. The next evening as I was about to climb the heart stopping stairs back up to my eagle’s nest of a home, I noticed a car trailing us - a hard thing to do in such a small village and not ideal in the dark as a woman alone. I gave a nonchalant wave and tried to start up the stairs with the dog. But the headlights flashed and the car pulled to a stop almost on top of us. It was Kort the ‘cheese-man’ from yesterday. He’d deliberately tracked me down to offer me his finest Moosalp cheese from the high mountain plateau that rises above the village. I have to admit, it’s not the first time I’d been offered such edible gifts - there was Tony Love (what a name right?), and his box of papayas way back in my university days. And then the suitcase full of mangoes I was obliged to bring back from Thailand as my ‘get well soon’ gift, but cheese? Even now I laugh at the scenario, me tottering on the steps, a bit desperate to get home, not fully understanding the randomness of the cheese offer, in the dark, from someone I barely knew and whose language I didn’t speak. I somehow managed to indicate that I’d be happy to pay, keeping it transactional seemed like a good plan, but all this earned me was a snort and a pinch on the cheek as if I was a baby talking nonsense. And so I thanked my cheese stalker profusely and dashed up the stairs with kilograms of cheese, including a 25 year old sample (had I heard that right?), and double checked I’d locked the door behind me.
Such things don’t happen in cities where there are stronger social boundaries and the unspoken rules that keep you from ever giving or accepting anything from your neighbours and never really knowing who you are living with. All you ever really learn in a Swiss city is when you’ve used your washing machine or vacuum cleaner at the wrong time on the wrong day.
I debated with friends over gin and tonics about the cheese-gift (whilst enjoying it too of course), and we came to understand two important things. There is actually such a thing as 25 year old cheese and Kort’s Törbel Käse is indeed one of the finest. So if you’re ever Moosalp way please stop by Kort’s honesty-cheese-fridge, or better yet seek him out and grab yourself a wedge of this aged mountain delicacy. But what I really learned from Kort is that mountain generosity is pure. It comes with no expectations, and is born of a simple willingness to share life’s good stuff with others. And in a world where almost everything we do feels soulless and transactional, we all need more cheese without expectations.