Geneva ground to a standstill this afternoon, as it does once a year, for the 27th Course de l'Escalade, the city's annual fun run, in which thousands of fancy-dressed people participated - everything ranging from the inevitable several hundred-and-one dalmatians, via clowns and angels and prisoners and Mickey Mice and Tiggers and bees and Charlie Chaplins, to a man who skied the whole course (which is not only very hilly, but also run entirely on roads completely devoid of snow).
There is also a race for professional and serious amateur runners. The PO did not enter this year, despite at one time (many, many years ago) fancying himself as a bit of a cross-country and long-distance specialist - yet another area, incidentally, in which his modest achievements will no doubt soon be comprehensively surpassed by the Boy Wonder, who has already distinguished himself in cross-country running at Hogwarts.
The Course de l'Escalade traditionally takes place the Saturday before the festival of the Escalade itself, which, as any fule know, is a celebration of the failed attempt by the Duke of Savoy to take the town by surprise during the night of December 11th and 12th, 1602 : if you like, it is the Genevois Guy Fawkes' Night (with a bit of Hallowe'en mixed in).
Legend has it that the Duke of Savoy's forces collected together in Plainpalais - where the main office building of the PO's wonderful employers now stands - before launching an attempted attack on the town. To do so, they needed to climb the city walls (escalade = climb), which they began to do, using bundles of brush and ladders.
The most reliable accounts of what happened next say that a guard atop the city walls saw a shadow and was able to let off a shot in time to rouse the citizens, who successfully repelled the 2000 strong army for the loss of only 18 Genevois lives.
Local legend, however, is far more romantic. For example, it has it that a certain Mère Royaume, a mother of fourteen children (and, by the by, not even a native of Geneva - she was a huguenot from Lyon), was cooking a (presumably very large) vegetable soup in a big cauldron known as a marmite (which has nothing to do with the PO's preferred condiment). When she realized that the city was being attacked, she tipped her pot of boiling soup on one of the Savoyard agressors who were scaling the walls below her window - an act that has come to symbolise the courage of the plucky Genevois and is at the heart of the traditional celebrations every year.
So, for the next week we will be tucking into chocolate marmites filled with marzipan vegetables; children will be coming into restaurants, giving raucously out-of-tune renditions of the traditional Escalade song (though not usually all 68 verses, thank goodness - verses 1, 2, 4 and 68 together now constitute the anthem of the republic and canton of Geneva) and threatening to repeat the exercise indefinitely until we give them a donation to their marmite fund; copious quantities of mulled wine will be consumed; and next Sunday there will be a grand procession in historical costume through the town (there are some splendid photos here).
Oh, and next Friday, the last working day before the Escalade, a large chocolate marmite will be ceremoniously smashed open in the office - traditionally by the youngest member of staff (last year it was De This who did the honours, which added a certain irony to the occasion, as she is not Genevoise, not even Swiss, but French) - using a real sword, to the words Ainsi périssent les ennemis de la République ! (Thus perish the enemies of the Republic of Geneva !).
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