“ I’m always either in the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time.” I explained between mouthfuls of dense creamy cheesecake.

“It’s like the flower equivalent of the northern lights then?”

The family party hubbub seemed to fade into the background. Amy was exactly right. The Lady’s slipper orchid was my floral aurora borealis. Despite spending ten summers working in the Alps it was still giving me the slip. We meticulously scraped the remaining smears of cake from our plates as I enumerated the ingredients and ran through the baking method. Cake and wild flowers are pretty central to my world.

I can’t confess to having full-blown orchidelirium, but I’ve always loved a tick list. This particular tick hit the sweet spot of being (a) exotic sounding (b) locatable in the mountains and (c) a bit elusive. My oft-thumbed alpine flower guide showed stiff vertical, and twisted, floppily horizontal petal shapes that reminded me of an outline of a Breton headdress. The spreading petals were tinted maroon though, not white. Plus there was the jutting silky, yellow central well of the ‘slipper’ that just looked weird.

Although it isn’t described as “rare” Cypripedium calceolus is described as being “very local”. Depending on where I hoped to find it my imagination variously combined the flower above a tightly laced Swiss dirndl bodice; a swirling scarlet flamenco dress or even a beribboned morris dancing outfit. What “very local” really means is that the Ladies slipper orchid, although present  all the way from southern Norway through to Italy, is very, very picky about where it grows. A limestone or chalk rich soil is essential and open shade is preferred. Additionally in hot weather it quickly dries and scorches. As with cake making, timing is everything.

Jump forward now to the Bernese Alps in Southwest Switzerland at the end of June. Our little family band of five, including an unnervingly fit octogenarian, left our comfy hotel on the edge of forest-fringed Kandersteg to visit the mountainside Doldendorn hut.  We’d had a tip off that the homemade apricot cake there was rather fine. Three hours of weaving upwards through shady woodland on soft, leaf mulched paths seemed like a reasonable effort to verify this. Plus there was the chance of seeing some Bear’s-ears, a perky, white-eyed, sunny yellow relative of our soft hued primroses. The ursine name comes from the rounded leathery leaves. I love the magical fairytale quality of some plant nomenclature. Other names are less appealing though, anyone for long-beaked yellow lousewort?

The flowers we passed on the ascent were perfect; the nodding purple origami twists of Granny’s bonnets, shy downturned rounded bells of wintergreen and the ridiculously showy deep pink swirls of martagon lilies. Eventually, as we sweated upwards, the trees thinned and scrubby, rocky vegetation took over. The path levelled out and meandered towards the hut. Suddenly and totally unexpectedly, right next to the path, was a Lady’s slipper orchid. Sleek and fresh. Backlit, the flower’s centre was a translucent lemon that radiated into orange, then an opaque chestnut before finishing in a blackish-purple point. A white and yellow proboscis flopped from the hairy middle into the heel of a capacious, sunshine-coloured, baby-bootee shaped pouch. Just stunning. 

The apricot cake was also delectable but sadly the Bear’s ears will have to wait for another day. More importantly I need to develop another orchid obsession.

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