Wordsmith
the man with the worlds ’ best job
Kev Reynolds meets someone with a rather unusual souvenir...
B
ack in the old days, before I became a self-
number of attractive villages and small towns, guided
unemployed scribe, I managed a youth hostel
by an efficient series of waymarks.
with my wife. Interesting times, they were. No
It was summertime and I picked ripe cherries that
two days were the same. The hours were long and
hung over my path, spitting the stones into the long-
demanding and the wages pitiful, but we enjoyed each
stemmed grass as I walked. The sun was a big brass
challenge and relished the opportunity to share our
gong, but when the heat haze allowed, I gazed with
love of the countryside with visitors of all ages and all
delight at the snow-capped Bernese Alps across the
nationalities.
flat Mittelland. Crickets threatened my eardrums,
It was that love of the countryside that had initially
and of an evening swifts raced to and fro in a feeding
attracted us to the job, and after serving an unofficial
frenzy.
apprenticeship at a hostel in the Swiss Alps, we came
I made the mistake of carrying a tent, for I’d bivvy
back to the UK with a vision of running our own place
in a meadow sometimes, or stay in a youth hostel or
in the Lake District or Snowdonia – somewhere among
in one of the few mountain huts that were open. One
mountains where we could raise a family and live out
night I slept in a barn near the great limestone cirque
the dream.
of the Creux du Van, from whose rim I saw my first
But fate had other ideas and we found ourselves
brocken spectre. But early in the walk I noticed that
among the greensand hills of Kent, hundreds of miles
Solothurn was not a great distance from my route,
from the nearest mountain. And there we discovered
so when an opportunity arose and I found a public
a wonderland that bound us in its spell. Fifty years on,
telephone (these were pre-mobile days), I dialled
that spell remains as strong as ever.
Ingrid’s number.
During those YHA years we met tens of thousands
‘Stay where you are,’ came the familiar voice. ‘I will
of walkers and cyclists who escaped to the countryside
come and collect you. You must sleep in my place.’
whenever they could, and found that escape enriched
Then she added: ‘If you don’t mind the floor, that is.’
their days. Young and old, they came from Norwich
‘My place’ was a neat, single-storey building on
and Norway, France, Holland
the edge of a small, typically
and Belgium, Bristol and
Swiss town, with an outlook
‘I bought it years ago,’ said Ingrid, ‘to along the gentle curve of
Brentwood, Swanley and
remind me of your corner of Kent. It’s the Jura hills. It was an
Switzerland. They came in
twos and threes, individuals
unremarkable house, the
my idea of heaven,’ she explained.
and groups, loners, odd-bods,
sort you’d retire to when you
outcasts and extroverts, as
couldn’t manage a flight of
well as school parties from home and abroad. But it
stairs, and Ingrid shared it with her elderly mother
wasn’t just the countryside that brought them to our
and a pampered cat. As she showed me into the lounge
neck of the woods, for we also live within spitting
the first thing that caught my eye was a framed print
distance of castles, stately homes, historic buildings
of a watercolour by Rowland Hilder depicting a 16th
and deer parks. There’s something of interest
century farm that stands above my village at home,
wherever you stray.
complete with its twin oasthouses and old barn;
Did I say it’s a wonderland?
winter-bare trees above, sweep of meadow below. It
Ingrid Spielmann came two or three times, bringing
was a painting I’d seen hanging in several houses, but
a group of primary age children from the school
would not have expected to find in Switzerland.
where she taught in Solothurn at the foot of the Jura
‘I bought it years ago,’ said Ingrid, ‘to remind me
mountains. They’d stay a few days, walk across the
of your corner of Kent. It’s my idea of heaven,’ she
fields to Hever and Chartwell, then make a visit to
explained.
London before heading back to Switzerland.
After showering the day’s grime from my body, I
The children wrote thank you notes and sent cards
joined the two women for a simple meal, during which
at Christmas. In between, Ingrid would sometimes
we conversed in a tangle of English punctuated by my
write a brief letter, telling us of other outings she’d
shameful attempts at Schwyzerdeutsch in response to
taken her kids on; chatty letters full of nothing of
the old lady’s questions. Being far too polite to laugh,
any importance, but good to read nonetheless. It
she merely smiled and wondered what the devil I was
was contact we appreciated, for it revealed a level of
prattling on about.
friendship we hadn’t expected, and gave a bonus to our
Meal over, Ingrid went into her study on whose floor
work.
I’d be sleeping, and returned holding a large Havana
But after seventeen years we found ourselves out
cigar. As she handed it to me for inspection, I detected
of tune with the change of direction YHA was taking,
a slightly embarrassed smile pucker her face.
and by sheer fluke I began to earn a living writing
‘When I was a young woman,’ she explained, ‘I
about mountains. A couple of years later, and as part
worked for a short time as an au pair at Chartwell.
of that work, I walked the Jura Höhenweg, a little-
When I left, I’m afraid I took this as a souvenir.’ She
known trek some 299 kilometres long, that stretches
blushed for a moment, then looked at her mother and
from Dielsdorf outside Zürich to Borex, a small village
laughed out loud.
to the north of Geneva. Along the way it crosses the
‘It’s one of Mr Churchill’s cigars.’
highest summits of the admittedly modest Swiss side
Now I never thought I’d find one of those at the foot
of the range – Mont Tendre, La Dôle and Chasseral,
of the Jura…
all around the 1600 metre mark – passing through a
www.kevreynolds.co.uk
6 Outdoor focus | summer 2019