I’m not much into sport. Yes, I enjoy an early morning run and play the odd round of mini-golf (if that qualifies?), but that’s about it. When it comes to being a spectator, I’m hardly more enthusiastic, with the one exception of snooker – a sport I’ve loved since the age of 14 and can watch for hours on end. As my husband has a similar outlook (sans the snooker obsession), we have rarely attended sports fixtures as a family. But this changed almost as soon as we moved to the Saanenland.

The beach on our doorstep
One of the many wonderful things about living in Gstaad is that you don’t actually have to travel to attend major events because they come to you. During high season there is so much on offer that it’s nigh on impossible to not get swept up in the excitement and razzmatazz, from the concerts to art exhibitions to the tennis tournament, polo and – bizarrely as I first thought – beach volleyball.

“You really must go; your children will love it,” we were told when we first moved to the Saanenland.

Beach volleyball had they said? No, we must have misunderstood. After all we had just moved from California. We’d spent many hours hanging out along the pacific coastline, spending time on actual beaches where actual beach volleyball was a common sight. But in the Swiss mountains? Surely not?

Apparently yes. Because there was the stadium which had been constructed on the outdoor ice rink area and there were the vast quantities of sand which had been shipped in.

“Mein Block”
As we went along to our first game, we weren’t entirely sure what to expect. Our children were rather young at the time – would they be able to sit quietly through a match. And what of us? Would we be bored senseless on the metal bleachers?

Happily our concerns were unfounded. It didn’t matter one jot that we didn’t understand the rules, the players’ finger pointing signals, the ‘technical time-outs’ or anything beyond the need to keep the ball in play for as long as possible because it was all such massive fun. From the near-constant cheering and clapping to the audience’s pleas on hot days to be sprayed from the hose in the corner of the stadium, to the raising of both hands while chanting “mein Block, mein Block”, it was such a hoot.

Add to that the tempting array of freebies on offer, from pens to hats, to seat covers to flags to the highly-prized enormous foam hands for the “mein Block” routine, the beach volleyball tournament became a highlight of the summer for us.

Too much enthusiasm
The experience exceeded all expectations and left quite a mark on our family because our middle son has now taken up beach volleyball. He too plays on a man-made beach far from any coastline. And in a country not renowned for the sport.

We love to watch him play, but after his last game I’m not sure I’ll be welcome in future. Could it have anything to do with the startled looks of his friends as I raised both arms in the air to give my own rendition of “mein Block” following a period of frenetic play?
Perhaps I should stick to the more subdued world of snooker in future.

ANNA CHARLES