This segment of our adventure through Switzerland is a bit more “militarized,” if I can put it that way. On our last day in Switzerland, after I officially declared that I no longer wanted mountains, glaciers, or any other form of climbing, Anna suddenly came up with the idea of visiting a cave with stalactites and stalagmites. An excellent idea — except she had it around 3:00 pm, and by the time we managed to mobilize ourselves and leave the house in that scorching heat, it was already 4:00 pm.

Naturally, on the way to the cave we were diverted by a herd of Swiss cows, absolutely impossible to ignore. I must say that the other two members of my family have an unwavering passion for four‑legged creatures: horses, cats, dogs, cows, goats… if they could, they would scratch all of them at the same time.

Anyway, after about fifteen minutes of them trying to coax the cows into being scratched — while the cows remained firmly suspicious — we got back in the car to continue our journey.

Barely five minutes after the bovine episode, we heard a few loud pops, as if someone was firing a gun. We were in an area of hills and forests, so I panicked instantly: I told George we should turn back, because surely someone was hunting nearby without having posted any warning signs. I was afraid we’d end up with a bullet in the windshield.

His response was to pull over at the first parking lot he saw, next to a shabby building, and leave us there, wishing us a pleasant trip to the stalactite‑and‑stalagmite cave. He had clearly smelled gunpowder and disappeared immediately into that old building.
Anna, calm as ever, got behind the wheel and continued on without him, toward the cave, which was barely a kilometer away anyway.

When we reached the cave’s parking lot — surprise: they had just closed the shutters. A few visitors were slowly heading back to their cars, a clear sign that we had arrived at exactly the wrong moment. Anna then suggested that we should still hike up to the cave, along that wooded path, at dusk.

I was still panicked from the earlier shots, and the signs in the parking lot warning about lynxes in the area were not helping at all. So I told her we’d better go back and retrieve George before he got kidnapped by the shady characters in that shabby building.

So we turned around, transforming everything into a sort of “rescue operation” to recover George, whom we hoped to find intact. 🙏🏻

We stopped again in front of the shabby building, and the gunshots were now louder and more frequent. I told Anna to stay behind me, or better yet, stay in the car. Of course she didn’t listen; she’s like a pilot fish, she follows me everywhere.

At the entrance, I saw some posters in German, but my brain was too busy with apocalyptic scenarios to translate anything. We went inside. On the right, a long window, silhouettes dressed in black, wearing ear protection, and two men lying on the ground. My first thought: “That’s it, they’ve pinned George to the floor.” 😳😨

I looked more carefully, my eyes adjusting to the light inside. George was indeed lying on the ground, but in a “keen student” position: a Swiss man was explaining how to shoot with a semi‑automatic rifle, while another was filming him like some shooting‑range influencer. 🤦🏻‍♀️

George turned toward us, beaming, and said in French — as if we were at a picnic, not in a shooting range:
“Voici mes nouveaux amis suisses ! Approchez, ils ne mordent pas.”
(Here are my new Swiss friends! Come closer, they don’t bite.)
While I was still processing the dramatic scenario I had imagined, he seemed perfectly integrated into his new circle of Swiss friends. My reaction below… And to think I believed he had been pinned down, tied up, and kidnapped by lunatics.

I stormed out of the building, still fuming, and only then did I realize we weren’t in some shady place but in a shooting club. The Swiss have this national obsession with target shooting — ranges everywhere, ammunition, rules, the whole package. If you have a shooting permit, you’re treated like family. George does, so of course they adopted him instantly.

All’s well that ends well. My heart finally calmed down and, after George fired every cartridge available, they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Then we headed home, because the next day we were returning to France.