The Clockwork Fortress: Switzerland's Well-Funded Nostalgia

Every evening at exactly nine o'clock, the residents of Schaffhausen are subjected to a sound that belongs to a bygone era. High above the Rhine, perched in the Munot fortress, someone pulls a leather strap to ring the last manually operated alarm bell in Switzerland. It is a ritual that has endured for more than four centuries. While other nations might replace such antiquities with automated systems or simply let them fade into obscurity, the Swiss prefer to institutionalise their nostalgia.

The responsibility for this daily acoustic exercise falls primarily to Sabine Hinz. As the seventieth official watchkeeper of the fortress, and remarkably only the second woman to hold the post, she is formally employed by the local civil engineering office, the Tiefbauamt. The arrangement is wonderfully indicative of a wealthy, well-ordered state apparatus that can afford to keep a medieval watchtower staffed by municipal civil servants. She and her husband Andi, along with their children, actually live in a service apartment within the stone walls of the city's most famous landmark.

The Munot itself was constructed between 1564 and 1589. In its active days, the watchkeeper's job was a serious matter of municipal security. From this vantage point, guards monitored river traffic on the Rhine and scanned the horizon for approaching enemy troops or urban fires.

The evening bell had a highly practical function, signalling the closing of the city gates and mandating the end of alcohol service in local taverns. It remained a functional alarm system well into the early twentieth century. Today, the halberds and cannons in the armoury are merely props for the guided tours the Hinz couple conducts.

The division of labour in this historical pantomime is strictly regulated, as one would expect in a country known for its administrative precision. While Sabine Hinz handles the fortress gates, the tours, and the bell, her husband Andi serves as the official animal keeper for the municipal parks department, Grün Schaffhausen. His primary charge is a deer colony that has occupied the fortress moat for over 110 years. In a display of quirky local deference, the alpha male of the herd is traditionally given the first name of Schaffhausen's sitting mayor.

The daily ringing of the bell has become a spectator sport for the locals, who routinely send text messages to the watchkeeper's quarters. Some residents claim their ears are finely tuned enough to distinguish whether Sabine or Andi was pulling the rope on any given night. It is a harmless, perhaps slightly naive preoccupation for a populace insulated from broader geopolitical crises. As long as the Swiss economy hums along and the state coffers remain full, the evening bell in Schaffhausen will continue to strike, warning of nothing at all.

Written by Christiane Hofreiter christiane.hofreiter@alpineweekly.com