It is my first day in Verbier. The chalet is on the upper perimeter of the town so I set off from the door, straight up through the steepening meadows towards the mountain ridge . The long grass still holds the night’s rain but the sky has cleared and the wild flowers embrace the morning sun; my nostrils flare, assailed by the scent of moist grass and flowers.
A cloud of small white moths bursts upwards as if to warn of my approach; a swarm of agitated grasshoppers speeds on ahead of me. A small iridescent blue butterfly spars with a grey one; they spring apart and a second blue appears on the scene. The two of them whirl about each other like dervishes and then dart off together. The white moths have lost their fear or their strength; they land and become narrow slivers of shining whiteness, like pale hyphens on the dark green stems of the grasses. The grasshoppers also settle on the grass stems, facing upwards, as if ready for take off. If they land pointing downwards, they soon turn round to face the sky. A ponderous dark brown butterfly cuts across me at knee level and on it’s zig zag flight it strikes grass stems hard enough to make them wave their heads. A mate follows close behind: seduced by looks perhaps, or just the right scent?
I stop to peer at some bright yellow ranunculus: what are those flashes of red? I lean down and see tiny vermillion spiders, never more than one on each blossom. A bee with pollen-bulging biceps comes in to land; a lightening quick probe and off to another bloom. The bee never lands where there is a resident spider: avoiding an unwanted passenger or just a coincidence?
I myself have to follow a zigzag course to avoid treading on gentians, saxifrage and the occasional lily or orchid. Tall campions with bulging throats, and wild geraniums, in shades of mauve, are in such profusion that I have to force my way through them as if they were grass.
A steep and narrow path intersects my climb and I join it for a time; the going is easier but I’m not disturbing the insects so I see fewer of them. Even the flowers seem less profuse. As I pause to consider this, I notice another person lower down on the same path: a woman, dressed most arrestingly. Her white shirt sleeves, catching the sun, swing back and forth under a wide brimmed, black hat and stand out against her ankle-length black dress. She is climbing towards me. How fast she moves. I am reminded of a shepherd I once watched in the high mountains, darting down between the rocks to catch up with his herd of goats. My knees were hurting at the time so each step downhill was, for me, a painful slow process and I stood gazing enviously at the ease and grace of his progress.
The woman is almost upon me. I step back into the long grass to let her pass. Should I say, ‘ Bonjour, Madame’ or ‘Mademoiselle’? Now she is abreast of me: a calm, pale, fine face shows for an instant under the hat. No sign of perspiration, no heavy breathing. She must be really fit. ‘Bonjour, Mad…’ I never complete my greeting and she makes no acknowledgment; she is already striding on above me. She reaches a rock and disappears behind it. She should soon appear on the other side, but then she doesn’t. She must have stopped. I’ll find her when I climb past the place.
An animal runs swiftly across the mountainside above me. Is it a marmot? I always like seeing marmots as they remind me of how my parents met. When my father was serving in the RAF in India between the Great Wars, he used to go hunting during his leave. He had a Harley Davidson motorcycle and side-car, which carried his guns, camping equipment and his devoted fox terrier . On one hunting trip, Father was somewhere on the Khyber Pass when his terrier disappeared. The dog was always chasing marmots and would often follow them down their burrows. He must have got trapped. Father waited for 3 days before going back to his Air Station at Jadhalpur, but left a Lost Dog notice at the post office in Peshawar, the principal town near the foot of the pass.
The next expedition across the Khyber Pass was an Indian Army Colonel and his wife with Sealyams and retinue, mounted on horses and donkeys. They came across a bedraggled, hungry fox terrier, obviously not a native mongrel, gave it food and took it with them. At Peshawar, they found my father’s notice in the post office and got in touch with him. He went to the the Colonel’s Regiment in Delhi to collect his dog, became friends with the Colonel and his wife and some years later, married their niece. And so, I’m me.
But this animal was the wrong colour for a marmot and moved with the swiftness of a fox. In Switzerland, I had never seen one in summer, only seen their tracks in the winter snow. Where is the woman? I look everywhere, but there is no movement. Way above me, I see a refuge and I can just make out a terrace with awnings. I’ll stop for a drink and a sandwich perhaps.
I am the only customer. The friendly waitress asks me if I had come straight up through the meadows since I had appeared from beneath the terrace.
‘Yes’, I say.
‘A steep climb’, she says.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘but I was overtaken by a woman younger than I: she was climbing comme une chevre’. I hope the description does not appear rude. The waitress smiles encouragingly, so I go on, ‘she was dressed most unusually: une longue jupe et un grand chapeau noir. Did she go past here by any chance?’
For the length of a breath, there is no reply. Then she says, ‘oh! no, she never comes this far but you were lucky to see her’.
‘What do you mean’, I ask.
‘My father saw her many times, though I’ve only seen her once and I’ve lived in Verbier all my life ‘.
‘But, who is she?’, I ask haltingly.
‘My father knew an old man in the village, who said he knew, but he refused to tell anyone and then he died…’ .
I go down by the same route. I stop to talk to the cows, their bells clanking and echoing. I wonder if they know her. I address them in French. ‘Connaissez vous, mesdames, la dame au chapeau noir?’ But they just stare at me. Another stupid human or perhaps, another stupid foreigner, they’re thinking..
Out of the corner of my eye I see a vivid purple flat-topped flower, but I’m on a steep path and in mid step, so I don’t stop; I’ll sure to see more, but then I don’t. I turn off into the grass and almost immediately, I see the same flash of extraordinary colour. This time I stop: it’s a perfect little conical orchid, barely 6 inches high and not flat, as I had thought.
A cloud of viridian green grasshoppers springs up at my feet and flies on ahead of me. Gradually I overtake them; I must write today’s events down before I too am overtaken, I think.