Murten/Morat

Today, Tuesday, we woke up to cloudless skies with a forecast for 30 C. (about 85 F.), the promise of the perfect summer day. I planned an excursion to the town of Murten (French: Morat), northwest of Lausanne. It lies in the mostly French-speaking canton of Fribourg, but this one town is German-speaking. It is one of those anomalies that make Switzerland so unique. As I remember the story, it had something to do with the outcome of some local war and the township being awarded to (German-speaking) Bern (which is not that far away). This country is such a unique confederation of three distinct cultures and languages, each jealously guarding its rights. The German-speaking area compromises about two thirds of the population and is predominantly Roman Catholic, the French area (the Romande) is slightly less than a third and is predominanly Calvinist, and the Italians have one canton. Somehow they make it work and it is admirable. Language is such an essential element in self and cultural identification that people tenaciously cling to it. The fourth official language of the land is Rhaetio-Romansch, a derivative of Latin. It is spoken by only a small minority in the province of Graubünden but it is kept alive with goverment support as something uniquely Swiss. I heard it spoken on the local radio the other day. It sounds like someone speaking Latin who has just taken a major hit from a well-stoked bong. I've been listening to local radio the whole time. The Swiss dialects take some getting used to; I have to listen really carefully to get the gist of the French. There is some Italian as well. Being thrown into this lingo goulash makes my brain hurt. The Swiss are famously adept linguists. It is not uncommon for someone to speak four or five languages: Hochdeutsch, their local dialect (which can be like another language altogether), French, Italian, and English.
Anyway, on the way to Murten. I had been there before, some twenty years ago, and remembered it as a particularly charming place. I took a secondary road north (more interesting than the autoroute) and after about 45 minutes saw a turn-off for the town of Estavayer-le-lac, on the west shore of Lac Neuchâtel, which announced itself as a walled medieval town. I could see the towers of the castle from a distance. Well, I'm a sucker for a walled town, so I turned down the road to check it out. Isn't it great to have a car and explore as the spirit moves you? It wasn't very big, but was a gem of a place, so charming and lovely I wanted to wrap it up and take it home. Flowers bloomed everywhere, adding a riot of color to every corner. The Swiss do love their flowers. I made it to Murten about half an hour later. It still has its medieval walls, and its own lake as well, the Murtensee (see photo). The one main street has arcades on either side, just as you see in Bern. Most of the fine patrician houses were built in the 17th and 18th centuries. It was gloriously beautiful, a dream of a town. In the distance, to the west, there were mushrooming thunderheads over Le Jura, the mountain range that forms the border with France.
It was about midday and I had thoughts of lunch. I have always loved Swiss cuisine as it is a blend of French and German elements, avoiding the fussiness of the former and the heaviness of the later. And do they do amazing things with cheese! Passing a bakery that had the most scrumptious looking wares in its window, I treated myself to a Zwiebelkuchen and a Pflaumenkuchen -- a small onion tart and a plum one. The onion tart had a filling something like a soufflé, with an incredibly light and cheesy texture; the crust was light and flakey like a croissant. It was just about the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. The plum tart was equally heavenly, not too sweet, light and fruity. Whoever thought these up should get the Nobel Prize in Tart Making!
I wanted to return by a different route, so I took a country road that bypassed Fribourg before turning south. It was lovely farmland, dotted with ancient villages; there was even the occasional castle to be seen. To the east were the peaks of the Berner Oberland, the high country around Bern. The French call it Le Pays d'Enhaut (the high country) or, in a typically Swiss fusion of both languages, L'Oberland Bernois. James made a delectable meal and together we polished off a bottle of a fine local rouge. Quite a fine day it was.