Leaking in Liechtenstein
While I love a micronation perhaps more than the next man, the prospect of touring the diminutive country of Liechtenstein filled me with even more wonder than usual as she is, without a doubt, the European nation I know the least about and, therefore, the most mysterious. Surely, there would be a plethora of peculiar attractions and fascinating facts just waiting for Lowri and me to unearth as we embarked on our four-day tour of the nation from its little toe to its bulbous head. Having slept the night before in the ominous shadow of the Liechtensteiner Alps on the Swiss side of the Rhine, we anxiously crossed its most southerly bridge over the river into the increasingly overcast nation and began our venture in earnest.
Liechtenstein, the sixth smallest sovereign state on earth, has had, like many petite principalities, an uncertain and turbulent past. Sandwiched between relative giants Switzerland and Austria, the sixty-two square mile territory has never been completely assured of its sovereignty as much larger empires have traded and sold it to each other on a fairly regular basis over the last thousand years. The Liechtensteiner family, from which the country takes its glorious name, first started purchasing parcels of land in the area in 1699, gradually increasing their plot while becoming a member state of the Holy Roman Empire. When that polity folded, and following a complex administrative restructuring of the Rhine region by Napoleon, the prince of Liechtenstein was left without any obligation to feudal lords outside of his borders, almost by accident, and the microstate was born.
Looking the suck the sap of all things Liechtensteiner, we stopped in the first town over the bridge, beautiful Balzers, and sought a small castle on an outcrop that overlooked the sleepy settlement. Although only standing a mere seventy metres above river level, the walk to its modest gate was akin to summiting K2 given the biblically wet and wild weather we unfortunately encountered. And despite the closure of the castle’s interior for the season, the surrounding courtyard was satisfying enough to have made it worth getting utterly drenched for. With views extending to the increasingly stormy mountainous eastern edge of the nation, our next destination, we began to feel ever so slightly apprehensive that the desolate weather would make the drive there increasingly treacherous.
We were right. The single-lane alpine road we had selected was slipperier than snot on a brass doorknob and after our twelfth hairpin turn overlooking what seemed like the whole of Liechtenstein, we started searching for a safe location to turn back. Given Vishnu’s impressive girth, this was near impossible and so we had little choice but to continue crawling higher and higher into the thickening mist. With visibility diminishing by the moment, we entered a long brightly lit mountain tunnel and prayed for finer conditions, and an Irish bar, on the other side, but to no avail.
The reason for our folly was to visit the seemingly picturesque settlement of Malbun, the country’s premier ski resort located some sixteen hundred metres above sanity. Having gratefully avoided driving over a precipice to our certain deaths we inched our way into the village some hours later to the sound of our immense relief and the smell of a fatigued clutch. Even more depressingly we swiftly discovered that everywhere in the town was shut and hardly a soul was to be seen. Even the promised snow that adorns all postcards of the place was absent; instead, a fine highland mist shrouded the best mountain views. We waited for Vishnu to cool down before, gently, destroying our clutch on the way back down.
Believing this to be our one major concern for the evening we nervously pulled into a car park on the outskirts of Schaan and inspected the damage. Relieved to discover that everything appeared, and smelled, as it should we breathed great sighs of reprieve and started to plan our tranquil night. That was until we slid open the sliding door into our living space and discovered a Niagara-like torrent bursting forth from every orifice of our skylight and onto our previously comfortable, and dry, bed. Not having the tools, sunlight, skills, or motivation available to attempt a repair, we gathered all available vessels and sought to place them underneath every visible drip. Needing to continuously empty them until the rainstorm passed, we opened our value Lambrusco and Liechtensteiner lager and battened down the literal hatches. Would we get wet? Yes. Would we get drunk? Absolutely. Would we survive to tell the tale? Well, I am, so yes, but do return to find out all the riveting damp details in the next, and hopefully last, episode of Leaking in Liechtenstein.
J
