I turn to Lukas, intrigued by the depth of his knowledge.
“Tell me, Lukas… how was this region settled?”
He smiles, his eyes shining with a calm enthusiasm.
“I’ll tell you both versions, because they each have their place here in Switzerland.”
He takes a deep breath, as if gathering his thoughts, then continues:
“First, there are the legends—the ones found in old books, passed down from generation to generation. It is said that the first to colonize Switzerland were the Nordmänner, men from the North, who came from a land called Mittnachtsonne—the land of the midnight sun. They are described as Swedes and Frisians, strong and brave, accustomed to harsh winters. Their lands could no longer sustain them, so they decided to leave. They consulted their priests, who commanded them to form families, head south… and never return, under penalty of death.”
I listen, captivated, and in my mind I see these peoples on the move, crossing wild lands with their faith, their legends, and the strength of their origins.
“They formed groups—about 6,000 men. They drew lots to decide who would go, swore loyalty to one another, and chose three leaders: Swyzer, Swey, and Hasiùs. The name Schwyz is said to come from Swyzer. Part of these clans supposedly crossed the mountains and settled in a valley they named Hasli, after Hasiùs. These Nordmänner are said to have settled in the Alps, founded villages, braved the cold, and thrived.”
Lukas pauses for a moment. His gaze drifts toward the mountains on the horizon, then his voice returns, softer:
“But there’s also what history teaches us. Before these legendary migrations, Switzerland was inhabited by the Celts, particularly the Helvetii. They lived here as early as the 5th century BCE. In 58 BCE, they tried to migrate westward, but Julius Caesar stopped them. Afterwards, the Romans conquered these lands and Romanized the Celts. Switzerland became a province of the Empire for several centuries.”
I nod, already transported by this tapestry of peoples and centuries.
“Then, around the 3rd century, as Rome was declining, others arrived: the Alamanni, of Germanic origin, who came from what is now southern Germany. They settled in the north and east of Switzerland—what we now call the German-speaking part of the country. Little by little, they blended with the Celto-Roman population. And from that fusion emerged the Alemannic culture, with its own language and traditions.”
He turns to me, eyes sparkling, a smile at the corner of his lips:
“So, to sum it up… the legend speaks of the Nordmänner, but the historical reality is mostly about the Helvetii and the Alamanni. The Swedes and Frisians probably never came here, but these stories carry a distant memory of the great migrations—distorted by time and tales.”
I smile, in awe.
“It’s incredible to think about all these peoples who shaped Switzerland… The way legend and history intertwine here feels so natural.”
Lukas nods.
“That’s what makes this place magical. The mountains, the valleys, the lakes… everything here inspires stories. And during the carnival, you feel that echo of the past even more.”
Around us, the guggenmusik bands are still playing, the crowd dances on—joyful and colorful. A sense of continuity passes through me, as if the celebration, the stones, and the wind were singing together, in harmony. Lukas has just unraveled the threads of the past, and now I feel them slowly wrapping around me.
I then cast a wonder-filled glance at the façades of the houses below. Ancient frescoes glow under the lantern light.
“Lukas, these paintings… It’s like every wall is telling a story. Why are they here?”
He stops, places a hand on a stone wall, and gazes at the city for a moment.
“You have a good eye, Véronique. These painted façades—they’re the beating heart of Lucerne. They’re not just decoration. They tell who we are, our past, our values.”
He explains that most of these frescoes appeared from the 16th century onwards, though some date from the 19th or early 20th century. Lucerne was a crossroads in the Alps. Merchants came here for wine, salt, and fabrics. The guilds and homeowners, proud of their success, had their houses painted.
He points to a house adorned with grapevines.
“This one is on Weinmarktgasse, the historical center of the wine trade. The frescoes show the grape harvest, the dealings… and sometimes even protective saints like Saint Nicholas. They were saying to the world: ‘Look how prosperous we are.’”
I follow his gaze, captivated. Other façades display coats of arms, scenes of battle.
“Some tell key moments in our history,” he adds. “Like the Dornach house, which celebrates the Swiss victory over the imperial troops.”
He then tells me about the Zunfthaus zu Pfistern, the guild house on the banks of the Reuss.
“There, the frescoes show a family tree, coats of arms. A way of saying: ‘We’ve always been here.’”
His gaze softens.
“These frescoes don’t speak of the Nordmänner or the Celts. But they carry their spirit: unity, pride, memory. They tell us that this city was built by the peoples who crossed the Alps, who built bridges like the Kapellbrücke, and who learned to live with the mountains, the river… and the silence of the wind.”
He lets a silence settle. Then, in a quieter voice:
“Your name, Véronique. Your birthday. They connect you to this land. Maybe you carry within you a part of Lucerne’s story. These painted walls don’t just speak to the eyes. They speak to those who know how to listen… like you.”
I feel a gentle warmth fill me. As if the walls themselves were whispering something to me. Something very old. Very tender. Something that feels like me.
And it’s that very evening that I decide to leave my village and move to Lucerne.
Because deep down, I know: the mountain is calling me.
My place is here, in the heart of Switzerland.