Important information at a glance
The custom of "Wetterläuten" is maintained in Ruhpolding to this day. At one time, it gave farmers the last hope of averting the destruction of their crops or a lightning strike. Even though there’s been a lightning conductor here for a long time now, the chimes still ring out in Urschlau during bad weather.
A hot day in August, the sky is bright blue. But there’s something in the air. The animals have long felt it. And then everything happens very quickly. Dark clouds gather suddenly and veil the Urschlau. Apple trees bend in the ever-stronger wind. The forest rustles. The first fat raindrops fall. Followed by rumbles of thunder. The storm is just a few valleys away. But it’s getting closer. Ever closer.
Martin Lex quickly pulls on a jacket and runs the few steps from the farmhouse across to the small, white chapel with the onion domes. He has the key, the main door creaks and opens. Now he is in the vestibule of the “Maria Schnee” pilgrimage church. There’s a sign on the wall: "No one has ever come to the Mother of Mercy in vain, she has relieved everyone's suffering and guilt with her meek arms.”
There is lightning outside. A loud threatening rumble follows almost immediately afterwards. The thunderstorm is now almost over the Urschlauer Hof. Quickly, Martin continues into the church – he has no time to look at the magnificent altar with the Holy Family. He climbs the steep wooden steps to the gallery, grabs the ropes and pulls with all his strength. Bell chimes fill the valley. It’s as if their clear sound were challenging the thunder, quietening it, casting it out.
Evenly and rhythmically, Martin Lex pulls the ropes. The part-time farmer comes from the Urschlauer Hof, as his mother and grandfather did before him. The property dates back to 1785. The little Maria Schnee church is even older still. Wolf Urschlauer had it built in 1631, in the middle of the Thirty Years War. He even sacrificed a large part of his property to put the Mother of God in a merciful mood.
Martin Lex’ ancestors also rang the bells when storms were looming. People used to believe that the sound waves of a consecrated bell could banish thunder and lightning. They also lit the weather candle in their parlours. And the furnace was fired up to burn some holy pussy willows from the last Palm Sunday. Superstition? Folklore? Faith in god? Martin Lex shrugs his shoulders. “There’s no harm in it, anyway,” he says with conviction.
It turns quieter. The thunder and lightning wane. Even the rain is only falling very lightly now. Martin Lex lets go of the ropes, the bell fades away. The danger is averted, once again. He can’t always be on hand for all bad weather. But because he always keeps an eye on the weather as a farmer, he rings them whenever he can.
Through the open church door flows the scent of freshly washed earth and green meadows. The first tentative rays of sun make the raindrops glisten. Even Martin Lex’ oxen come out from their shelter. No one actually knows whether it helps or not – the "Wetterläuten". But the Urschlauer Hof has been untouched by any storm to this day.
