The Cow Festival

Four countries in five days!  Sounds hectic, frenetic, full on. But it hasn’t been. Despite the frequent crossing of boundaries, we aren’t doing serious mileage and are stopping frequently to take in the views, sip coffee and of course take photographs.  If we get chatting to some locals along the way, all the better!  This is definitely more of a saunter than a spirit, more of a dander than a dash!

We have passed through numerous tunnels carved into the mountains, some relatively recently, but most from a different age when there was little or no machinery to hack and delve, prod and drive through feet, miles even, of rock and stone. The entrances to the oldest tunnels still show the signs of the hand hewn rock, each thrust of a strong arm visible in the patterns of the implement against the stone.

As we move eastwards across northern Italy, the buildings become more akin to my previous image of the architecture here with terracotta roof tiles and tubs of plants, although some of the Tyrolean styles remain.  Whereas any Irish village worth its salt has a church and at least one pub, here in Italy you can bet your bottom dollar on a church and a soccer pitch!  We have heard friendly matches going on till late the last few nights, often with a few supporters on the side-lines. A benefit of the climate no doubt, as well as testament to the country’s passion for soccer!

And so we arrive in Slovenia. Knowing nothing of its history, politics, or socioeconomics we look forward to discovering this country which certainly looked beautiful on the drive from the Austrian/ Italian border. Where the landscape in Austria was pretty and picturesque, and in Italy more shabby- chic, here in Slovenia it is undoubtedly working land as evidenced in the small machinery and farm tools at every barn and shed. We have driven around Lake Bled, with its familiar castle and islands but continued past this busy area to the quieter Lake Bohinj.

Over breakfast the next morning, we ask the owner for recommendations on places to go. 

‘It’s just a short walk around the lake’ she says, pointing us onto the road. But of course, distance is relative. This thought occurs to us an hour and ten minutes after we set off walking around the lake and still appear to be some way from our intended destination. We are heading to Ucanz on Lake Bohinj for the annual festival celebrating the return of the cattle to the valley. Yes, we are going to a cow festival!

Shaded by the trees, the walk (albeit longer than expected) is lovely. The lake to our right is regularly populated by canoeists and the occasional swimmer. In the forest on our left we watch for wild mushrooms, a delicacy of the region and much loved by our mate Paulo!

After almost two hours of walking, the mounting traffic informs us that we are nearing our destination. The fields of parked cars indicate the size of this event but nevertheless, we are surprised by the hordes of people milling around a meadow nestled beneath the Julian Alps and rubbing shoulders with the Triglav National Park. There are stalls selling everything: hand-knitted socks; funky jewellery; underpants (large); wooden bowls and plates; farm machinery; slippers; second-hand attachments for axes and hammers; local dishes of soup and stew, and of course alcohol. Lots of alcohol. The woman who told us about the festival suggested we arrive in the morning. After three ‘it’s just the locals getting drunk’ she said. I suggest that, being Irish, we’d probably feel quite at home in that milieu, but she merely sniffs dismissively.  Clearly no one drinks like the locals here!

This is the 61st year of the festival. It marks the return of the men and their cattle after spending three months in the mountains to escape the heat of the summer and allow the cattle to graze on the higher up meadows which remain green throughout the warm months. The men will have spent those three months living in basic huts, with no alcohol, meagre food other than what they are able to hunt, and little or no company. Of course, in recent years, technology has allowed them to at least have contact with loved ones, but it’s frowned upon to return home during the period for any reason other than an absolute emergency.

The local mayor makes frequent and lengthy speeches from a large stage, with speakers which resound all around the enormous valley. From the occasional snickers and averted eyes of the audience, it is apparent that the absence of alcohol and women during the enforced solitary confinement are recurring themes, along with the enthusiastic encouragement to make up for lost time. Whilst the obvious (if somewhat oblique) references to sex at a family event are surprising, the endorsement of excessive drinking in the context of a short abstinence feels very Irish, and I am tempted to enthusiastically participate!

I mistakenly try to buy beers from the volunteers’ stall, where free alcohol is provided to those who’ve been working hard since the early hours setting up the stage and providing logistical help. I’m embarrassed but also really thirsty and apologise profusely whilst ask for directions using increasingly frantic hand and eye gestures. The man takes pity on me and gives me a free beer and a very strong handshake. I feel like I’ve won the prize bull award.

There is music and dancing and lots more speeches until the finale when the cattle are herded at a fair old trot, down a fenced-in path past the crowds into a field behind the stage to loud applause and cheering. Many of the cows wear garlands and bells, the judging now having been completed, and the noise of their bellows, the call of the herders as they push them onwards, and the thumping of hundreds of hooves makes for a rousing event. Everyone is on their feet clapping and cheering on the cattle and the farmers. It feels like the bull race in Pamplona, but without the risk of being speared to death. 

Much later that evening, we are sitting outside a bar debating whether or not to have a final drink of the day. Since leaving the festival, we’ve had a gorgeous swim in the lake, eaten ice cream, strolled through the village and had a pre-dinner siesta. It’s been a tiring but lovely day.  We decide it’s been long enough and are leaving when three trucks pull up and unload dozens of young men, all clearly the worse for a day of celebrating. Whilst some walk steadily to the bar others take shaky steps, stumble or hesitate, that age old move of being unsure where to put your foot once you’ve lifted it! The owner is delighted, welcoming them to his premises, practically licking his lips at the knowledge that these guys have money to spend and are intent on doing so. The two young women serving roll their eyes at each other, presumably knowing they’ll earn their wages tonight.

In a previous life I’d probably have happily joined in the drunken rollicking, got stuck in with the men, and enthusiastically celebrated the end of the summer with them. But tonight, I’m glad to leave them to it and feel somewhat sad that this is their chosen way to mark a return to village life. The mindless drinking and consuming to obliteration feel very like the homesick Irish in London who I witnessed on many an occasion, singing songs from the Old Country as they sipped their pints, and whose watery eyes tell a tale of displacement and loneliness. Somehow the fun of the day has been lost with the trucks disgorging men whose sole mission appears to be to drink to oblivion.