Slow Country 🐄

City life
Calling me all the time
Me and my soul
Geared to attack
Never get a better chance
So what you doing?
Gotta get money
Ain't quite what you're doing

— Slow Country, Gorillaz (2001)

Sun's out and the soundtrack of today is cattle bells. A dozen or so grass on the alp in front of me, non-stop feeding as their bells tingle at every move. These guys certainly don't have a single care in the world.

The forest road winds its way up to the Priener Hütte. A couple of hikers follow it on this Tuesday afternoon. At the bottom of the alp lies a mountain lake, truly cold as fuck. To the south, far away in the distance, Austria's tallest mountains loom over the rolling hills of Germany.

There's five chickens in the coop. They are the epitome of free-range chickens, roaming the alp without restrictions, pecking corn, laying eggs. But as soon as the sun sets, they better get back to the coop. Chickens have zero night vision; if they don't make it in time, before the little door to the coop closes, they'll be left outside in the night, blinded until morning arrives. It's our job to count them, every night. And if one goes missing, we go looking.

I enjoy the cows' presence, even though sometimes they block hiking trails, so that one has to give them a wide berth, because cattle easily are the most dangerous animals of the Alps. Sometimes, when they spot you, they stop in their ways and watch you. "Who the fuck are you?", they must be thinking. "Stay away from my teenager cow girl or I'll run you down, asshole."

A few days later, the bells are all but gone. The soundtrack of the cattle has suddenly disappeared. Summer's over and they're being moved back to the valley to be sheltered in their barns during the winter months. Moving them back to their farms is a job done by Alpine herdsmen and when they are actually driven down in autumn, it is a festive occasion. But only if it's been a good, accident-free summer. If so, the cattle are decorated with headgear such as wreath of flowers, alpine rose and mountain pines. Hikers (such as us) watch this happening with fascination, some assist the herdsmen by making sure the cattle don't go astray.

Apparently, there's a special cow, leading the herd, which gets a particularly elaborate headgear, shaped like a cross; sometimes she also wears bells and little mirrors, which are said to protect the herd from evil spirits on their way down to the valley. It sure is a mystical event.

Being in the mountains is soothing my busy city boy mind. On days like these, I feel so endlessly happy. I haven't felt this happy in a while.