Volltext: Jahrbuch des Historischen Vereins für das Fürstentum Liechtenstein (2008) (107)

A haying party taking its noon-day rest on the Triesenberg. These little huts, with the wood-wast- ing roofs held on by stones, are for storing hay. Tile roofing is rapidly being adopted and Liechtenstein, more prosperous, is be- coming less picturesque. Lawnlike, hay-covered slopes alternate with rocky percipices tufted with trees. 
After an hour and a quarter of climbing, an open- ing between the trees reveals the second plateau, its rugged western face hidden by giant trees, but its top carpeted in softest green. There is a Cluster of buildings around a Single home and at the far side potato fields with mauve and white blossoms. A PARADISE MARRED BY MISTS Then back into the forest and up, up, up to the Gaflei kurhaus (sanitarium). The guests, just eating break- fast, stare at one who has ascended from Vaduz so early. Some of their number, not under my necessity of making the most of that glorious day, whose sun has only just now topped the mountain peaks to beam down warmly on that parklike highland piain, are just starting out for the Fürstensteig, a savage, broken path along a savage, broken mountain side. If Gaflei could rid itself of the mists that hide it for days on end, it would be paradise. Within an hour or two of its comfortable chairs one can get all the climbing most men want and look off to peaks whose farther sides, though better known, are no more beautiful. St. Gallen, the Grisons, the Vorarlberg, the Lake of Constance, Mount Sentis, the wall of rock and snow behind Ragaz and Chur, the softly sloping mountain mass whose farther face drops to the Wallensee like the background of a Norwegian fjord - there is scenery enough when it can be seen. To-day the atmosphere is as clear as the ringing of a distant convent bell among the hüls of Umbria. Before the World War the Fürstensteig was a well-protected path bound to the barren rock by iron tubing. It must have been thrilling even then. Many of the iron barries have since been swept away by storm and avalanche. Why, at an altitude of more than 6000 feet, at the head of a narrow, tremulous rock staircase, must one walk into a cow pasture, green with grass, past a sign asking one to close the gate, so that the cattle will not wander from paradise to inferno? Ten minutes downhill and up a shale slope by zigzags so steep that one's feet slip and one looks the 222


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