High life
Peaceful fortress
Taki
RGstaad
ain and snow above 6,000 feet have suddenly engulfed the Alps, and when the sun comes out it falls on the glistening mountainsides and makes them look like fortresses. Which many of them are. The Swiss have not gone to war for 700 years because of their armed neutrality, and when I say armed I mean it. Throughout August one could hear the constant shoot- ing of the citizen's army training in nearby Saanen, and in the late afternoon the cafés would fill with young soldiers in uniform drinking beer. It was the best of two worlds, an almost martial atmosphere with- out victims or dead.
There is something about Switzerland's isolation from such bogus institutions as the EEC, and the UN until recently, that creates a feeling of kinship with its moun- tain people, by nature a proud and set- apart folk. Now that the few glitzy types have left for the cities (by glitzy I mean our Arab brothers and their dates) Gstaad has once again reverted to type: a peaceful Alpine village set in the middle of the Saa- nen valley, where cement and glass are the enemy and the only sign of ugliness is the occasional Rolls and its occupants.
As soon as the rains and snow came the farmers brought their cows down from the heights, creating the first traffic jams since Christmas. Swiss cows all have bells around their necks, and when they descend from their summer grazing the ringing can be heard for miles. It sounds better than any man-made noise and that includes a Porsche Carrera 4, with which I took my little boy for a spin the other day. John Taki, 11 years old, is, I'm glad to say, fear- less, and when we hit 240 kilometres per hour he asked for more. Put your pedal to the metal,' was the way he phrased it. Mind you, the motorway was empty, and I do have air bags, otherwise I would never chance it, but a father does at times need to show off to his son. The kid was getting a bit too big for his breeches, as he had already parachuted and gone down rapids.
Needless to say, one month in Switzer- land costs as much as a three-month stay anywhere else in ritzy Europe. Take, for example, speeding. The Swiss don't bother to go out and patrol: what they do is photo- graph you and send you the bill. At 160 mph, had I been caught, and I'm not sure as yet if I was or not, my fine would come close to £1,500. Which means only the rich speed in good old Helvetia, and therefore are the only ones likely to be killed. A fair exchange, in my not so humble opinion. The high cost of living also keeps the New Age creeps out, as well as the backpackers and cheap tourists who invade my country every summer. Again, a very fair exchange.
Now that it's too cold to eat outside, I am once again patronising my winter haunts, the Palace, the Olden and the Chlosterly. The latter is owned by Ruch Mullener, the man who taught me how to ski 40 years ago, and who now skis with Roger Moore. Last week he told me a ter- rible story. It seems that Vivien Clore, the multi-millionaire paramour of Jocelyn Stevens, has had a terrific falling out with Louisa Moore, wife of Roger. It all has to do with a party la Clore gave last winter for Stevens's 60th birthday, and a guest Frank Loewe — catching fire and ending up badly burnt in hospital. Now Rudy tells me la Clore and he are in litigation over her alleged failure to pay poor Rudy fully, and the Mulleners, a very old Gstaad faint- ly, are up in arms. Alas, the richest will win, I predict, and la Clore is far richer. Mind you, so might Loewe. A friend of his tells me he has already gone into tax exile in expectation of the suit he will file against her for his burns.
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