This article was first published September 16, 2025, at fieldethos.com.
I was in south central Germany – Bavaria is beautiful in early autumn, by the way – living it up on the dime of a premium firearms manufacturer. The trip had been a smashing success, and the best was yet to come. My visit to Germany just so happened to coincide with the celebration of Bavaria’s most provincial holiday, Viehscheid, and I couldn’t wait to join in on the festivities.
Viehscheid celebrates the homecoming of cows that have summered in mountain pastures. Herds of cattle are rounded up in early fall, adorned with wreaths and ribbons and bells, and then paraded through the streets of every small town in Bavaria. The pageantry and fanfare was a sight to behold. Or so I’d been told.
It looked to me like Viehschied was just an excuse to drink beer with breakfast. I saw steins of the stuff being demolished well before 8:00 AM. Between the beer and the brats that were being served for breakfast, the porta potties stationed around the town square were in for a long day.
I was enjoying one of those breakfast brats myself, while bobbing my head along to the beat of the the oompa loompa like volksmusik playing in the background, when my tour guide, on loan from the firearm factory I was visiting, sat down at the table across from me. I had liked the kid from the minute I met him. He was young and enthusiastic and every bit as excited about Viehscheid as I was, though not for the same reasons. His excitement had little to do with cultural appreciation or honoring tradition. The kid was single and excited about taking advantage of the holiday to hook up with a young lovely.
It had taken me a minute to recognize him when he sat down because he had changed out of the button up and blue jeans he’d been wearing and put on his Viehscheid best. All the locals had. The men were outfitted in traditional lederhosen and wearing cow hide clogs. There were handcrafted, stag handled knives tucked into pocket sheaths on their hips and feathered, felt hats on their heads. The ladies were arrayed in traditional attire as well, peasant blouses beneath jumper dresses. The whole scene looked like something out of Sound of Music. Either that or a Ricola commercial.
I had expected to see lots of lederhosen at Viehscheid. I was in Bavaria, after all. But I don’t guess I had ever given much thought to what German women wore to such festivities. I figured that their dresses had a name, and I later learned that they do. They’re called dirndls, if you’re interested. But I had no clue at the time. So, I had asked the born and raised Bavarian sitting across the table from me, the young guy from the firearm factory, the one looking for love. Though his English was excellent, he didn’t immediately understand what I was asking. Trying to explain myself, I gestured with my hands to pantomime the straps of the dress and clarify what I meant. The minute I did, my tour guide started nodding his head.
“Ah,” he said, a knowing smile on his face.
Then he leaned in and positively leered. The kid gave me a wink and whispered.
“Ah,” he said again. “Das boobs.”
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