Appenzell - a countryside escape
Between silence and hills
The only sound is the sound of stillness. The road stretches for kilometres over the smooth grass of the hills. The farms and rocky mountains stand as a motionless summer backdrop. Cowbells tick the time of these slow days spent in the countryside. On a road trip from Sankt Gallen, I ease into the passenger seat spontaneously as the drive flows into the landscape. The rumour of the town vanishes like a distant choreography.
My countryside escape begins.
Trogen — an authentic Appenzeller village. The houses are as old as the land, with big rooms, cracked floors, and rustic interiors. Sipping a lemonade under the sun on the little main square feels like a holiday. At the bar I laugh with the waiter despite the bees trying to steal the fruity sugar on my cup… On the houses pear and apple trees grow, as if in symbiosis — nature knocking at the door. The paintings on the external walls are a testimony of history: intricate bows, shells, animals, and pastoral scenes make this village a visual storyteller. The wood, greyish from wind and rain, blends itself with the stormy clouds, while heavy oak window blinds protect the intimacy of the fire within.
The road to Altstätten runs downhill, overlooking the valley — a scattered constellation of wood houses, farms, and mountains. The fog is as dense as cream, while the eye moves through the clouds into the lush trees; the air is fresh after the first rain following months of drought. Welcome is the August Market — a gathering of vegetables, cheese, and crafts, accompanied by local country music. A shop engraves stylish cows onto belts for the Transhumance. It is an invitation to go raw. Here, I let the arcades open the gate for me, and let them lead the way. Despite the rain, the enthusiasm is almost contagious.
For the night, there is Gais. The village, with its silent streets, holds an embrace into the darkness. A 200-year-old house is the host. The ceiling is low, holding the warmth of the day. Cooking feels like a primitive instinct — the kitchen is basic, letting the meal be as simple as it could be. The egg yolk is as yellow as a sunflower. The carrots are soft and crisp at the same time. A slice of bread and butter feeds the soul more than the stomach. Even the last birds of summer are now asleep, the wind whispers between the thin glasses. In my pyjama, setting myself for sleep, the house feels enormous, somehow, I ask myself how I could ever fill all this space.
But this silence is different. It is not just quietness. It is an absence that only nature can fill.
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