Venice at Last!

You may have noticed a slight mishap in the last postings: a reversing of order. There is no excuse. Your trampess was removed from any connection to the ether and, in an effort not to lose the plot completely, wrote but did not post multiple chapters. This method has not normally resulted in an apparently erratic return to the north from the south or vice versa, but this time it did. Let’s just say my German organisational override was overridden by my Italian dolce far niente location and the inevitable happened.

The tramp, in his infinite wisdom, and trust me it often seems to at least approach infinite as a limit, decided that the WLW would not return to the amazing campsite it had called home when we went to La Fenice in the spring. The trip from the Jesolo was a long one and the fall weather, while bright and sunny, no longer made the lido such an enticing location (though personally, the trampess has spent many happy hours walking on frozen beaches; another time perhaps). It was thought that we should widen our horizons and try one of the campsites on the Mestre nearer Venice. The address of the first choice (open all year, internet connection, reasonable star rating on the hygiene and amenity factors) was entered into the SatNav system and fingers were duly crossed. As they needed to be: every now and then, the voice loses any connection to the brain that drives her and keeps sending us in circles. Not good. This was one of those times. Of course, as we overrode the commands and zeroed in on the site (thanks to reverting to old fashioned map reading), one could see some of her frustration (roads closed off, building works and countless other minor obstacles). The tramp persevered though drew the line at entering the campsite until he could see the way out again (some campsites are like lobster traps to the WLW – he feared this was one of them). It was possible to turn around (and indeed we did) but decided not to stay as the “open all year” really meant (in true Italian style) “unless we want to close for the winter – which we do – tomorrow!”. We could have stayed one night but the hassle of getting set up and then moving the next day was hardly worth it despite our lack of stomach for trying a new address and the fact that it was getting later.
Not to be deterred, the next Mestre address was entered into the SatNav. The site, while having a less impressive array of stars and a location which didn’t automatically recommend itself (the neighbourhood was more factories than families), proved to be much more salubrious. Quite spectacular in fact. It does call into question the star ratings in our campsite guide book. The tramp drove through the pine trees to the end of the site and parked parallel to the water and only a few feet away from it. The view? Not apparent as it was a bit foggy the evening we arrived, but dear reader when we woke to a clear morning, the campanile of St Mark’s was centred in our living room window. Not as close, you understand, as it is from the Cipriani, but the Giudecca (or anywhere else on the islands of Venice proper for that matter) does not allow WLWs – not even one’s as elegant as the tramps’. Our view was not just Venice in the distance with the sun rising behind her in the morning and her lights sparkling across the water in the evening, but the passage of all manner of ships (from every country in the world) from early morning til late at night: majestic cruise ships and workaday container vessels, ferry boats, smaller fishing boats, tug boats fore and aft of the cruise ships (even those which didn’t need them – as was evident from the slack lines between them – or in some cases lack of connection altogether - all part of keeping the locals employed!). While Venice was some distance away, these boats were not: their horns often made me feel they intended to stop in for breakfast or supper!

The amenities of the campsite were almost as good as the view: excellent showers; Maytags in the laundry room; washing up facilities; a small supermarket; a London bus which doubled as an internet café, a caffe (two ff’s in Italy) and restaurant. Of course, after one week, the supermarket closed (not enough business in the winter), the restaurant closed and the internet bus was never open, having shut for the winter before we arrived. But the upside was a five minute walk to the boat which only took 15 minutes to reach Venice – 20 minutes on a choppy day. The boats started at 8am (very good news) but the last boat left Venice at 6:30pm (not very good news) – though one can return by a combination of train and bus (this looks like the Venetian equivalent of a slow boat to China – one can only imagine a 2 hour journey replacing a15 minute one). On the other hand, the reason for staying later is to have dinner (no museums are open late) and since the tramps have their proper meal at pranzo and the Italians do not know the meaning of a light supper, the reason for staying late combined with the inconvenience associated with it began to evaporate.


No mountains to climb, no Manhattan gym to be found (the fitness room at the campsite was also closed for the season – do I begin to see a pattern here??), how would the tramps occupy their time and stay fit? Staying occupied is no problem. Venice bewitches – even Napoleon was enthralled by Piazza San Marco and while it is the most glorious square in the world, it would be wrong to spend the rest of one’s life sitting in the sun, enjoying the view, drinking a perfect cappuccino, and letting the water rise under one’s feet. Water in St Mark’s Square? Perhaps you have not had the experience of aqua alta in Venice. The Venetians, who take everything in stride, and have seen it all before are prepared in various ways for the seasonal rising of the water. For stranieri it is an amazing phenomenon. First of all, there is the problem of turning down an alleyway and coming to a passage submerged in water (I don’t mean a puddle I mean water several inches deep – shoe ruining, trouser wetting deep) with no way out. Or finding that the fondamenta on both sides of the canal one has reached are impassable. Ok , turn back, consult the map and try again. Interesting: whole areas under water. The locals of course are all wearing their wellies – or funny galoshes that tie over their shoes (glorified plastic bags, but fitted and strong). Alternatively, some shop keepers, not wishing to lose custom, put paving stones (usually odd shaped, not flat, and not terribly secure) in the water in the general area in front of their shops. Some put bags of sand. Pedestrians pick their way across the stones like children trying to cross a stream. Sometimes the stones were too far apart and only the tramp with his advantageously long legs could bridge the distance. Your trampess, feeling that stilettos are really not appropriate in Venice (too much walking not to mention cobblestones made of volcanic rock not offering the stability one looks for in the pavement beneath a well constructed but none the less fragile heel of a Manolo – evidently this is a view shared by even the most fashionable of Italian retailers in Venice – none of the shoes in the windows had high heels – bella figura gives way to the Darwinian survival instinct yet again) wore her trusty Christopher Brasher walking shoes (the acceptable face of the hiking boot of the same name) which are, of course, fully waterproof. So the occasional, deliberate step into the water between stepping stones was not the disaster it might have been (or for the tramp would have been). As aqua alta is governed by the tides, it is, if one knows when the tides are, and which parts of Venice are most effected, an entirely predictable, and therefore, to a certain extent, avoidable phenomenon. But no area is immune, though some are more prepared than others. Indeed, like clockwork, the tables in Piazza San Marco, which are stacked up in readiness, are positioned into a long connected line by the locals in time to provide a bridge around the square just as the water is rising. Occasionally, this being Italy, albeit northern Italy, the local police force had to direct the foot traffic on the tables in front of St Mark’s to ensure that it kept moving. It did make having a coffee in the square at times remarkable resistible. It also meant that while the water was high when we entered the one wi fi point we found (remarkably also free!), by the time we left (much longer than it took to drink the cappuccini we ordered to legitimise our presence) the water had receded.

Aqua alta made our walks more adventurous but never impeded our intent to conquer Venice: historically and topographically. The Italians being Italians, it didn’t even impede our acceptability at the most elegant restaurants: my elegant jeans, rolled up took on an edgy chic which together with an extremely simple, not obviously branded, Hermes belt more than made up for the practical shoes and the outrageously practical, plastic ponchos that protected us from the occasional, unpredictable downpour. One dares not mention the state of the coiffeur! Of course, the Venetians have always been traders and therefore take the strange ways of stanieri in their stride, but we managed to penetrate the inner circle and wound up at the best tables in our favourite restaurants. It has always been the trampess’s confirmed conviction that restaurants that really care about food, prefer clientele who really care about food. It is intuitively obvious to the casual observer, and Italian maitre d’ are certainly more than casual observers, that the tramps do care about food.

Many days your tramps set out with the day planned: which museums to visit, which churches to visit, where to have lunch (or at least where to look for lunch) but often their plans were overcome by opportunity. Today, for example, we completely changed our plans — we were strolling near the Rialto, with the idea of heading toward a museum we hadn’t yet made it to, when the fish market beckoned. The fish market near the Rialto is quite amazing – not only are there millions of different fish and near fish (octopus, squid, shell fish), they are all labelled – not in the normal way with name and price, though that is part of the labelling – but also as to whether they are elevata (farmed), or al pescatori (line fished by real fishermen), and from what waters (Italian, Greek, north Atlantic etc). The fish looked so good, and the locals were buying. Who were we not to follow suit: your trampess bought a particularly plump and fresh, Italian Orata caught by a fisherman. Of course having the perfect fish meant finding some perfect vegetables and fruit to complete the meal. This required stopping by the vegetable market we had discovered in piazza Margherita (a charming square almost undiscovered by non-Italians, where a morning cappuccino commands a local price and not a special, high price devised for tourists, including Italian tourists). Of course with such a meal the trampess needed to lay in a little wine and happily discovered a charming hole in the wall with an impressive catalogue of local wines and a tasting counter where wine and bruschetta – made before your eyes by the patroness – were available. In fact, it seemed to be a local favourite for a light lunch – it was hard to actually just buy a bottle (or two – though it should be said the patron was quite happy when I did!). Before you knew it we were back on the boat to the WLW and soon your trampess was gutting and scaling the fish. The tramp proclaimed that he had not eaten better in Venice (the trampess was not sure that her gutting capability was quite as good as do Forni’s – lessons at le Manoir not withstanding, and of course there was the need to remove the garbage post haste – fish innards not being the ambient aroma one wants in the WLW- particularly with the proximity of all rooms to the kitchen! – incense has its place!) And so daily life overcame art – at least for one day.

Vienna Revisited – twice!

The tramp decided to give himself one last chance to like Vienna and so decided that he would remain there while the trampess did her duty in London. It was even decided that the trampess should return to Vienna so the tramps could do a few things together that had eluded them on their first trip. A visit to the Spanish Riding School being one.

When the trampess returned it was not directly to the campsite but to Manhattan – probably the best fitness centre in central Europe: 5 floors of exercise equipment, classrooms (for yoga, power stretching, creative step and who knows how many other types of fitness classes), assessment rooms, saunas, swimming pools, spas, changing rooms, and restaurants in the most modern glass building in a business mall. Quite, quite unexpected. Also unexpected, but perhaps not surprising, was the fact that the tramp spent his entire time there and never managed to determine whether Vienna proper was worth the detour! It was, of course, not just the splendid facilities but the outstanding personal trainers that kept the tramp on his dedicated mission to improve his fitness. In fact, the tramp had taken the liberty of signing the trampess up for an assessment the day after her arrival. After a heavy two week schedule in London (with a less than intense workout schedule), the trampess might have preferred to work up to an assessment to ensure her best performance, but the tramp’s enthusiasm was not to be denied. The tests were impressive and took over an hour and a half: VO2max, strength, flexibility, body alignment, BMI, balance. The 10 page evaluation was ready later that day (including muscular diagrams in colour to show relative strength and flexibility); the discussion with the senior trainer was scheduled for a few days later. Both senior trainers (the one who did the evaluation and the one who interpreted and the prescribed the programme) had been professional athletes. This was serious. Everyone who went was serious. No room for wimps. But the upside (apart from acknowledgment that the trampess, despite her two decadent weeks, was in excellent shape) was a short strength programme (most people waste their time a gyms, spending far too long on muscle building) – apparently 30-35 minutes on strength training is optimal, more is a relatively low return investment – and one built entirely around free weights (excellent since the WLW has no room for anything else!) – again more functional and more efficient than machines. Perhaps best of all, was a wonderful balance training session (for those of your who may be of a certain age, balance work is the new Sudoku only better). The one area that your trampess received a “needs to improve” mark for was flexibility – again a few key multipurpose stretches, and I was in business.

Now no guide book would send you to Vienna for Manhattan, but I assure you Manhattan is worth the detour. Somehow, though, after a hard day there, the tramps decided that they deserved some treats. So concerts, operas, Mass with the Vienna Boys Choir, two trips to the Spanish Riding School (one for the grand performance, one for the training session), hikes through the Schoenbrunn gardens and visits to Franz Josef’s apartments there were interspersed with the demands of intense balancing, strength and aerobic workouts. Not to mention yoga sessions. In my innocence, I thought yoga demanded precision and mindfulness but not exertion. HA! Not at Manhattan. Some classes were so small (4 students) that the intensity was exhausting (personal attention insured that mistakes were not allowed). Even in a class that required no previous training, handstands (yes, handstands) were the order of the day. The quality of Manhattan is not just in the trainers, but in the trained!

After our extensive efforts to engage ourselves in Viennese history and life, the tramp concluded that there was much to like. Franz Josef was an interesting and likeable man and his home at Schoenbrunn reflected his modesty, hard work and simple tastes; he was just unfortunate to have as his political opponent one of the greatest political brains Germany ever produced. Timing is everything – even for emperors. His wife, on the other hand was clearly a difficult case: a neurotic anorexic obsessed with her own beauty who abhorred her role and was only happy in her gym (oops!) or travelling (oops!). Her neuroses were passed on to her son who together with his mistress committed suicide at Mayerling (at least his death gave rise to a beautiful ballet, though that cannot have been any consolation to his father). The riding school was, despite being a tourist attraction of the first order, remarkable. The Vienna Boys Choir, on the other hand, was a disaster, a terrible mix of the sacred and profane. The choir sang mass in the small chapel in the Hof (the emperor’s palace in town). The expensive (yes, you pay to go to mass!) tickets were for seats; the cheap seats were standing places not at the back of the church or in the side aisles but in the centre aisle between the pews. Photographs were allowed, so the hoards in standing places were taking pictures while those in seats (which creaked – not good for the music) could barely see (an interesting take on the first shall be last, and the last first). I won’t even mention the chaos of trying to get to communion if you were in the back seats. The singing was beautiful but the experience anything but. It wasn’t helped by bringing the boys down from the choir (where they were during the service and where they couldn’t be seen) down to the front of the chapel to take a bow at the end. One can imagine Franz Josef inviting the boys for a hot chocolate after mass on a special Sunday but not having them come down for applause at the end of a service. On the other hand, in ironic counterpoint, a concert performance of Mendelsohn Bartholy’s Elias with Thomas Quasthof was a deeply moving, spiritual experience in an entirely secula

The End of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Ascent of Venice

Overwhelmed by the architecture of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in Vienna, the tramp decided we should give the other side of the partnership a look-in. A few emails to my favourite Hungarian, well, now Englishman, and we had a plan and a list of must sees in Budapest, not to mention the ever reliable Eyewitness guide to Hungary. The trampess had one more trip to London in the service of her favourite opera house and it was decided she should return to Vienna from whence she and the tramp would set out to the eastern part of the Empire. By now you realise, that even in the carefree, but well planned life of the tramps, not everything goes exactly to plan. The trampess’s last days in Vienna were spent hiking in the Wienerwald – alone. The tramp had an ailment that caused him to take to his bed and the WLW, as luxurious as it is, is no place for an active trampess to spend the day.

The Vienna Woods are famous or course – one can walk all the way from the tramps’ entry point past Schoenbrunn and into town (I can only imagine that if there is a Vienna marathon, this would be the route – no need to stop traffic, a nice place for spectators to watch from, and plenty of hills to test the runners). I would not like to say, though, that the paths are particularly well marked. Perhaps it is a city phenomenon: the park is contained by the city (even if it is hundreds and hundreds of acres) so one can’t really get lost: walk long enough in one direction and one is bound to come to the perimeter; whereas, in Bezau, the paths need to be well marked or one could wind up walking all the way to Switzerland or France or Italy – so simply finding oneself at an impasse. In any event the lack of adequate signposting did make the walks seem somewhat more adventurous. Your trampess paid attention to how the sun was moving so she had some hope of at the very least winding up on the right side of the park. At the very worst, the fall back plan, at least of the first day, was to reverse direction when it looked like the last rays of sun were an hour and a half away. In the end, it did not quite come to that, though it would be fair to say that my approach to the hike was a relatively risk averse one (I followed no sign that indicated a 30km destination, for example – after all one could not be sure of reaching it since it was highly likely, as I found out another day, that there would be adequate signage to get one there, nor was I optimistic that there would be signs at intersections leading me back to where I had begun the hike) – I tended to go uphill (my preferred direction in any event) since I would have a view that might also give some perspective on my position akin to having a map (which of course I did not have). Suffice it to say that I arrived back at the WLW on the first day in daylight and in plenty of time to make the tramp’s supper.

The second trip into the Woods was made by a decidedly braver trampess. As I saw it, the worst that could happen was finding that in a fit of exuberance and unrestrained use of my VO2 max, I had made it to Schoenbrunn and would require public transport to return home again before sundown. There were moments when it became clear that this was probably not the worst case, but happily your intrepid trampess has lived to tell the tale and the principles of up and circular still stand her in good stead. The up in this case was well up: after mounting the hill I had climbed before, I went farther and deeper into the woods, comfortingly passing a few country inns with simple fare (not that I am a bratwurst and bier blonde, but it is nice to see life and the security of loos – especially when one is on one’s own and there is no one to stand lookout). After the second inn, there was an outlook station that was well built if simple and clearly (it stood higher than the neighbouring tall trees) afforded panoramic views of the Viennese countryside. Reminding myself that I had trained myself out of a fear of heights, I mounted the open stairs to the top. These were, by the way, not the sort of stairs one wished to encounter anyone going in the opposite direction on: bending backwards over the railing to allow a larger person past could induce fainting in those formerly suffering from a fear of heights. Given the tramp’s frail state sending out an SOS from the foot of a look out tower the location of which I would have been helpless to describe was not a good plan. The reward was worth the risk – it was a clear day and I had a perfect view of my small part of the world – which included an appreciation of just how vast the Wienerwald was. Nonetheless, I decided that a longer walk than previous could be made as long as I pursued a route I devised from the look out point.

It was in fact a beautiful route – though occasionally the path ran out (without warning of course – but happily, with no gingerbread house at the end, either) and I would occasionally have to retrace my steps and take the other fork. At one such point, on the top of a high hill, I decided that it would be easier to go off piste as I could see a path below that followed the direction I wished to go. A little more work than I had hoped (the underbrush slowed me down and the ground was very uneven), but nothing compared to my astonishment when I heard frantic rustling behind me as a gigantic hare leaped across my path. If you are thinking sweet little Easter bunnies, banish that thought immediately from your mind and think huge march hare with big, very big, front teeth. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Obviously so did he. In fact his jump was very impressive – and he kept his skin on. I wondered what other wild beasts might be lurking and if they would all be quite so frightened of me. There were moments, too, when I thought that having seen no one for hours was probably not great, especially when the next person to cross my path was a slightly nervous, lone male. Images from To Kill A Mockingbird came to mind but, of course, I kept telling myself, not everyone who walks alone in a lonely part of the woods is disturbed or dangerous, after all I was walking alone for exercise, air, and the joy of being in nature. Nonetheless, I was quite pleased when my chosen path eventually (and I do mean eventually) came to the edge of the woods and I had a clear path to my goal on a well trodden path – never mind that I was still an hour from the WLW.

Soon it was off to London again, but this time no panic in finding the airport! The return was equally smooth – with the small exception that all plans had changed. It seems that Austria and Hungary (in this they remain united) have laws about snow tyres and from November 1 all cars are required to have them (or else not be on the roads). The WLW and the Smart between them have 12 tyres – no small expense then, especially when the plan for the winter is to go south., where snow tyres would only slow us down (not that we are the fastest thing on 12 wheels!). Buying 12 tyres for a few days (yes, I know, our days always turn into weeks or maybe even months but still) did seem a bit extravagant but one could not risk the weather (there is already snow in Bezau!) so there was only one thing to do. Start driving south. Venice – here we come again – and not via the Dolo

Last Days in Bezau, First Days in Vienna

With the Schubertiade finished, there was no reason to stay longer in Bezau – except that the weather at this time of year is supposed to be the most perfect, and the mountains remain, well, as beautiful as ever. So the tramp decided that we would stay until we need to depart for Vienna, where, once again we were meeting up with our French friends for an evening of opera before they and I have to return to London.

The weather was stunning one day, grey the next, pouring rain the next and then stunning again. This meant that the timing of walks and gym had to be considered more with the weather in mind than the usual blind application of one day mountains, next day gym. But with the internet weather forecast for the week posted on the door of the camp lounge, it was not too difficult, even for a blonde, to propose to the tramp an appropriate adjustment in the schedule. So we had many beautiful climbs interspersed with hard work at the gym on rainy days. Nonetheless, on our last day, the weather, while not supposed to be thunderous, was slightly off-putting. The trampess was not about to be put off. It was clear that one could not have an inactive day before a long drive. This would be unhealthy and boring. The tramp agreed. We set out in our new merino long-sleeved t-shirts and headed toward Baumgarten. The climb up was quite pleasant: the occasional drizzle, then clear, not cold but not hot either. The tramp, who always insists on not getting wet (except by his own exertion of course) stopped from time to time to either put on his anorak or take it off. The trampess, who believes that drizzle is pretty much the same as sweat, sees little point in putting on an anorak for anything less than a proper rain (she rarely carries an umbrella in London for much the same reason, though arguably in London protecting the hair has some social value which it doesn’t have in the alps – looking like a damp rat in the forest is not really out of place, whereas it clearly is on Bond Street).

As luck would have it, or perhaps less bad luck than dithering over whether to go or not to go and if the former where, we arrived at the lift station at the top of Baumgarten 5 minutes too late for the lift. This was partly because the tramp had said that it would take 45 minutes to reach the lift station from where we were and the last lift before lunch was in 30 minutes so there was no point hoofing it. Unusually, the trampess, who likes hoofing it on principle, complied. Clearly a bad call. The question now was whether to walk down to the middle station (a 45 minute walk according to the sign post) or wait 55 minutes for the post lunch break lift. The tramp, figuring that lunch breaks might not end exactly on time, decided we should walk. By this time, it was very foggy and drizzly. Your tramps both put on their anoraks: the trampess’s coral (one of the reasons for buying the merino wool t-shirt was, of course, its perfect coordination with the anorak), the tramp’s a most exquisite light emerald green.. We were visible! As it transpired, visibility was important. While we chose the fastest, simplest way down, it was not a path that we had followed before, and it required some attention (down always being worse than up in any case) both in terms of following (one could not see very far ahead so the markers were not always visible until after one had committed to a decision) and in terms of slippery rocks. There were two reasons for wishing to make it to the middle station in time for the first lift there: the first was the usual desire to get back for food before late in the afternoon; the second was a corollary: we had seen a large bus load of elderly Germans whom we believed would be eating lunch at the restaurant adjacent to middle station and if they were in the queue before we were (which they easily would be if they were watching to see when the cable started moving) it might take an hour for us to make it down! An army may move on its stomach, but the tramps moved in anticipation of the stomach’s needs. If we didn’t hoof it before, we hoofed it now, but within minutes we were out of each other’s sight. Frequently, the trampess, pathfinder as usual, had to stop to make sure that the bright green anorak popped into sight through the fog. The same fog that prevented us from seeing each other more than a few yards away, prevented us from seeing our target even though we thought we must be near. We could only hope that the timing of 45 minutes was correct and that we weren’t being significantly slowed down by the lack of visibility. The trampess was not optimistic on the later count, but as it transpired, we found ourselves on top of the station almost exactly 45 minutes from the time we set out – and just as the Germans were getting up from their tables. We turned on ramming speed (if you remember the slave ships in Ben Hur), and were in position for the third lift down; not perfect, but not bad. Lunch was at a civilised hour despite dithering, the weather, and the hoards.

We had planned to leave the campsite that evening following a visit from our friendly, local carpenter who was meant to come to fine tune the adjustments he had made to the trailer better to secure the Smart while travelling. He had always been reliable but for some reason he neither came nor called. In the end, we went to bed and decided to leave for Vienna in the morning. We were sad to leave but the bright lights of the city awaited. The tramp had put the trampess in charge of restaurants in Vienna, so the last meal at Hildegarde’s outpost in Bizau before leaving entailed reading both the Gault Millau on Austria and an Austrian gourmet guide. Having written down a selection of about 15 restaurants (chosen for quality and location – in so far as I could ascertain location – location in this case meaning proximity to our French friends’ hotel), the trampess managed, in her best German (it always helps to begin by saying, in German of course, I really don’t speak German – this usually garners sympathy especially when one speaks rather better than expected – of course booking a table for 4 does not require the vocabulary or grammar of Heidigger), to secure a table at one of the finest (at least according to both books) tables in Vienna. The tramp insisted, once we arrived in Vienna and were settled into our campsite, that we go into town and get a feel for where everything was – including which table we had at the restaurant. Now the trampess was not dressed to inspect – in fact there was a distinct possibility that in my faded trousers, hooded Princeton sweatshirt (a Christmas present from tramp1), and Canyon Ranch canvas bag (a Birkin might have made up for the rest), the maitre d’ might decide to lose the reservation. The tramp went in on his own and returned saying that I had better come: the table was in a nice position but it was too big and not conducive to conversation but it was the only one left. Now the tramp is usually pretty good on these matters and has very definite opinions on what constitutes a good table. As it was possible to slink into the bar without revealing my identity, I disregaraded the possibility of rejection and checked out the table. Dear reader, it was perfect: in the window niche (on the first floor) overlooking Graben (the via Condotti of Vienna) – quite splendid. It was a table for six: an elegant banquette on 3 sides and chairs on the fourth. I returned to the tramp. We would sit two on the sofa in the window and two directly opposite on the chairs. And indeed, that is how it was laid when we arrived on the day.

The next day we picked our friends up at their hotel, confidently strode in the direction of the restaurant, walked in and up the stairs to the first floor and were taken to our table, whereupon our friends exclaimed, “but this is a table for a king!” The tramp smiled and said the trampess always managed to find somewhere decent to eat. Now, it must be said that the food was excellent but the portions were very small (unusual in a German speaking country where the reverse is generally the case), so when we left to go to the Albertina to see the van Gogh exhibition, we were sated but not stuffed. This meant that after the van Gogh (outstanding and which clearly meriting another visit on a less crowded weekday morning), a trip across the street to the Hotel Sacher seemed in order. Our French friend seeing the queues outside the main entrance suggested we walk around to the side where, indeed, there was another entrance and only a short queue which disappeared quite quickly. Once we were seated, the two men had no hesitation in ordering the house speciality but your trampess (and it must also be said her French female friend) showed remarkable restraint and just had coffee (this is the real reason French women don’t get fat). Less remarkable, actually when one knows that coffee at lunch included a small box of irresistible chocolates and where the trampess showed no restraint.

With no time to waste, we repaired to our friends’ hotel and changed for the opera: Ariodante. It was worth the trip to Vienna – a splendid production, beautiful music and excellent singing and dancing. Not being huge fans of counter tenors or baroque opera, the tramps were delighted to find themselves enthralled. Dinner afterwards with the conductor (our friends know how to lay on a treat!) meant that bed was an extraordinary 1am (usual bedtime in Bezau being 9 or 9:30) - something to do with campsites not being in the centre of town! Still meeting up the next day was agreed for 9:30 so we could get a decent night’s sleep.

A quick trip to the Kunsthistorische Museum to room 10 (a room your trampess remembered well from her first trip some 35 years prior) – the jewel of the museum, a huge room filled with Breughels: the calendar paintings, the peasant wedding feast, carnival, the tower of Babel and more! With the most important Velasquezes on loan, this was the room to be in. There was no point being anywhere else (happily, our friends share our philosophy: see a few splendid things and leave; do not ruin the experience of the great by feeling obliged to see the rest. Harsh but very rewarding), so after an hour we left for lunch. The restaurant was again amazing but not thanks to your trampess (almost everything she had chosen was closed or fully booked, post Mass Sunday lunches being very popular) – but the concierge worked very hard to find us the perfect venue: the seventh floor of an hotel overlooking Stefan’s Dom. Japanese and Austrian cuisine in remarkably successful counterpoint. The trampess had to cut her meal short (well not before a totally decadent pudding) to jump the underground for the airport: one stop and an easy connection to the fast airport train. Of course, all of you know Murphy’s Law, a corollary of which is that if something is so easy to find “you can’t miss it”, this is surely not the case. To say that I went around in circles trying to locate the entrance to the fast train is the rational description of the frenzied dance I did. Eventually, with the aid of some Italians also going to the airport, I managed to get on the fast train after the one I should have easily made, having first rejected the slow train (I would have definitely missed the flight), a taxi (I would have likely missed the flight) whereas with the fast train I had a least two minutes to reach the ticket counter. Every now and then, I am happy to have discovered the joy of running – this was one of those occasions. Sprinting was easy, the crucial part was sprinting in the right direction. I followed a young English girl who was also on the train and also looked a little nervous throughout the 16 minute journey. Intuition bore fruit – we arrived at the Easyjet counter with 1 minute to spare, checked in, shared war stories on the way to the gate, sat next to each other on the plane, discovered a mutual love of opera and, in short, became new best friends.

Dressing in the Mountains: Chic? Functional? High Tech? Rehabilitated Old Tech?

If even the cows have special attire for coming down from the mountains, then one has to assume that there is a dress code that separates serious climbers in the know from mere weekend wanderers. One would not want to be seen as part of the dilettante crowd. Of course, there are levels of seriousness which also must be matched with cultural preferences. The Austrian farmers coming down the mountains with their cows came down clearly on the lederhosen and checkered shirt side but it is fair to say that on a normal day, neither they nor their fellow countryman wear such garments. Even the sports shop in Bezau appealing to the more traditional customer has only a small part of its inventory filled with lederhosen – though a not insignificant part is comprised of loden and tweed jackets with leather trim for both men and women so perhaps as the weather begins to change, lederhosen with tweed may be de rigueur. I was tempted by a lovely camel coloured pair of tooled leather kneehosen ,but the tramp rolled his eyes when I pointed them out. He didn’t respond more favourably to the short lederhosen in the same colour. I admit they would have fit in perfectly to the Springtime for Hitler scene in the Producers so probably don’t meet the criterion of understated (we won’t even mention age appropriate!). Still the kneehosen were quite lovely – though they probably would have added as much weight as the large backpack – a plus if one considers that extra weight undoubtedly over time would add a few points to the VO2 max and take off a few pounds from the trampess- effortlessly.

So leather and tweed rejected we moved on. The shop just around the corner, which is part of a small chain, and which is run by a young, exuberant sportsman who has a new-fashioned sense of service coursing through his veins, has not a pair of lederhosen or loden coat in sight. He does carry every Austrian, German, Swedish, Swiss and English brand of high tech outdoor garment available. He seems to have tested them all, knows entire catalogues by heart and is willing to order anything that he has not decided to stock. He also has a magnificent selection of backpacks, Nordic walking sticks, gloves, carabiners and everything else one could possibly want for a hike up the local mountain. The tramp is well familiar with the shop and is greeted like a long lost friend whenever he enters (long lost friends in Germany and Austria being greeted by name, surname of course – it takes a very long time before one becomes a first name friend!) It is clear that when he was left on his own, the tramp spent a lot of time (we won’t even mention money) improving, if not the technique of his climbing, at least the technical quality of his wardrobe.

To be fair, this is in part because the trampess herself made some small comment about the importance of sweat wicking garments. The tramp, of course, knows what sweat is, and knows that he sweats, quite a lot in the mountains if the truth be told, (which is why climbing mountains is such an effective aerobic activity) but until the trampess explained, had no idea about wicking sweat, let alone why it was an important aspect of hiking apparel. Confession: the trampess did not know this either until she was setting off for Nepal with tramp4 some years ago and mentioned to a very sporty friend that she would, of course, be packing all cotton garments (the trampess having never been a fan of polyester or anything similar). Said friend gasped in horror and said that trekking in Nepal was definitely not to be done in cotton, was she out of her mind, and did she not know the importance of sweat wicking fabrics? Obviously she did not. Ignorance was replaced with knowledge by a quick trip to Covent Garden and the numerous outdoor sport shops there with the result that the trampess and tramp4 sat in comfort over lunches in Nepal after 4 or 5 hours of heavy trekking in dry shirts while their fellow, less informed travellers, were getting a chill in their sweaty, cotton t-shirts. Happily, though not expecting to return to Nepal anytime soon, the trampess kept her wardrobe and hiking boots (4 season Christopher Brasher leather boots, still wearing well) and so had a base wardrobe for the current adventure. The tramp not having gone to Nepal and not having seen the wardrobe, what with its unsuitability for nights at the opera in London, packed a comfortable but low tech wardrobe for his hiking. As he was suffering from both very wet shirts on hot days, and rather soggy jeans on wet days, he took the trampess’s comments seriously and decided to kit himself out more appropriately. Easier said than done given the tramp’s extreme (he would say elegant) height. Happily, no doubt due to more milk and meat being available than at the time the tramp was born during the war, current generations of Germans and Swedes have a sufficient number of tramp height, outdoor sportsmen to make it not impossible to find trousers long enough off the peg (though certain brands are more likely to produce results than others). Occasionally, the trampess was asked to make small alterations to insure the success of such garments (large hooks sewn on the inside of trouser legs to attach to shoe laces to keep the trousers in place – the tramp is nothing if not inventive in his solutions – some might say he is inventive in creating problems that require creative solutions. I have yet to take him to Monticello but it will without doubt be his favourite house ever, Thomas Jefferson’s inventions being as personal and idiosyncratic as the tramp’s).

Idiosyncratic he may be, but let it not be said that the tramp doesn’t fully embrace the new when he sees the light: once he tried the odd sweat wicking t-shirt and climbing trousers, he set out to build a hiking capsule wardrobe with a vengeance. Indeed, soon his gym clothes were new as well (why wouldn’t one want high tech t-shirts in the sweatiest of all environments?). Of course, he did notice the one downside of these marvellous fabrics: smell. There is no getting around it they do get smellier faster. This is all right as long as either we don’t encounter anyone else or get to a washing machine frequently enough, but with the limited water supply in the WLW it could prove a touch tricky in Mongolia!

It was with this future limitation in mind, and with the arrival of slightly cooler weather, that the trampess spotted a small section at our favourite shop that she had only glanced at before since it was next to men’s underwear (not my natural browsing zone): merino wool t-shirts (long sleeved and short) in basic black (a bit harsh for an aging blonde and not exactly a nature friendly colour) but also in some livelier colours. The blurb accompanying the t-shirts emphasised the technical wonders of merino wool: soft, light, sweat absorbing, non-smelly (nota bene), easy to care for (hurrah!) and so suitable for turning weather. Who would have thought – all this from a natural fabric. Before you know it cashmere will be the latest solution for fall climbing! Allowing for all the marketing hype, I did nonetheless find myself tempted by a little coral number with a darker red edging, short sleeved, summer weight and on sale. Clearly an indication, that in the interest of knowledge and enlightenment, I should be open minded about old fashioned fabrics repackaged as high tech solutions. One must always be open to experimentation.

To say that it was fetching and functional is to understate the sheer delight this small investment afforded your trampess on one of those days where it was cool in the forest and hot in the open fields – or the warmth it added under a fleece on a particularly grim day. So perhaps cotton is passé but wool is in. In fact in order to ensure a comfortable fall in the Dolomites, your trampess ordered (our new best friend in Bezau was more than happy to order ahead of his normal stocking plan and went through the new catalogue to make sure that there was nothing else I wanted and to be certain I was happy with the weight and colour I had chosen) the slightly heavier weight, long sleeved version. The tramp, convinced that the trampess knew her onions when it came to technical clothing, and being at her side when she was indulging her desire for the long sleeved version, ordered himself a long sleeved version in black (well black does suit white hair much better than blonde – and in his all black gear he resembles Wotan, especially with his big hat and Nordic sticks, more than Johnny Cash, which may or may not be a good thing depending on your philosophical outlook). We were promised that we would have them in 3 days. It should be added that in the meantime, our NBF also accepted the tramp’s Polar trekking heart monitor overnight to set it and explain to the tramp the next day how to use it (it is well known that most manuals are useless except to people who already know how to use the instrument in question). Now that is real service especially when you know that he didn’t even sell him the monitor! We will never buy anything anywhere else – well not for mountain climbing anyway.

Exploring Old Haunts, the Importance of Chin-ups and Watching the Cows Come Home

The tramp had often commented that on the road to Mellau (base of the beloved Kanisfluh) there were signs to Lech, a village where we had gone skiing with tramps 1 to 4 at the insistence of friends with whom we stayed at the delightful Hotel Schneider (arguably one of the most expensive holidays any of us had ever taken, the Excelsior and Gritti notwithstanding). Still one can be nostalgic even about outrageously expensive holidays and it has to be said that the food and the company made up for a lot. Since there was no danger of our giving up the WLW visiting Lech would be relatively danger free (at least to the purse strings). And of course it met the tramp’s primary criterion for climbing: the possibility of a long hike up and a gondola down. It also was near enough to be reached by Brengenzer bus. The trampess, as usual, was put in charge of logistics and the date was set.

It was a beautiful day and the journey by bus required only one change. After only a short distance, the bus pulled to the side of the road. Traffic had come to a complete halt. The local citizenry were on the pavements (from the aged to young babes in arms) and many had cameras. Soon it became apparent why they were out in numbers and we were stopped: the cows were coming home. Now you may think that the cows come home in the evening, and indeed that they come home every evening, but you would be missing the point. Alpine cows live up in the mountains during the summer, grazing on fields that are covered in snow in the winter. The fields in the valleys are growing the grass that becomes the hay the cows eat in the winter – and, of course the tramps watched the farmers near them mowing, turning and collecting grass several times from the same fields the whole summer. So the cows coming home was a very special day marking the end of summer and the return of the cows from the high fields down to the valleys. Such a day is full of ritual and the cows and the farmers both were suitably decorated. You may ask how a cow dresses for such an occasion. I assure you that Cinderella going to the ball was not more carefully adorned: artful sprigs of rosemary and pine were turned into wreathes, wild flowers interspersed in the greenery for colour and bells (well, I am sure you expected the bells) around their necks ringing to announce the parade – for a parade it was: all the local farmers were bring their herds down to the village at the same time. If you know that this part of the world is referred to as the Kaesestrasse (cheese street), you soon will understand just how many cows we are talking about and just how long it took them to pass. If the cows were adorned for the ball, so were the farmers: lederhosen, leather braces, checked shirts and wonderful hats – also adorned with rosemary, pine branches and flowers to match the crowns on the cows. Even the tramp leapt to his feet and pulled out the camera. This was truly an amazing sight: an endless stream of cows and farmers oblivious to their traffic stopping march. Since there were no signs in any village announcing the re-entry, one can only assume that this remains an unadulterated, genuine, farming ritual and not a tourist event. Nor does it seem to be co-ordinated across the region: we later ran into similar, smaller versions in other villages, each one traffic stopping (it doesn’t take much to stop the traffic – a slow moving tractor will do the job quite nicely) whether 10 cows or a hundred.

This did, of course, make us wonder if we would ever make it to Lech, but as the event was so spectacular in itself, and the day so perfect, we decided not to let time be a worry. At least we had a seat (the bus to Lech turned out to be quite popular and a number of hikers joined after we did and had to stand for the best part of an hour) and no need to worry about the navigation system or where we would be able to park. A change of bus after a short wait and we were nearly there. Of course, we hadn’t counted on the road works. It seems that much road improvement takes place in the summer so that the roads are ready for both the snow and the great influx of winter tourists. Just as we were nearing Lech, which is much higher than Bezau, we hit the road works. Dear reader, the road went up a steep and curving path and was completely unfinished – and in some places only passable by one vehicle, so that great queues of traffic were held at a temporary light (or worse road workers who decided randomly when to let the cars in the other direction have the right of way) to control the flow of traffic into the treacherous, single file zones. The tramp breathed a deep sigh of relief that he didn’t have to drive in such alarming conditions. Such scenic routes under such conditions do not make for enjoyable driving! Eventually, we arrived in Lech, were turfed out of the bus and fell into the local tourist office where we confirmed our choice of mountain and set off.

Strange how different a village looks when you see it in a different season. Flowers everywhere, a gurgling brook and terraces with people sitting outside have cappuccinos. The tramp remembered the various mountains he had skied (the trampess gave up downhill skiing in Lech and took up cross country – a very, very satisfactory decision: both because the cross country paths were glorious and rarely peopled, unlike the down hill slopes, and because cross country skiing is almost as good as mountain climbing in the effortless weight loss category: your trampess was the only member of the group to lose weight while staying at the Schneider where Frau Schneider’s kitchen is well known for both its gourmet standards and its Germanic sense of portion) and chose the path that would give us the longest uphill hike. It was glorious. Cool at first as we walked through gentle forest which opened into meadows or along the edge of the mountain , so we had beautiful views into the distance. As we climbed higher the terrain changed and opened up. The trampess took a deep breath as she turned a corner in the path and found herself face to face with a horse (used to meeting cows under such circumstances, she was thrown by the rather more determined look of the horse: cows may be bigger but they are somehow more benign; one never knows how a horse will react to invasion of its territory), in fact, as it turned out, several horses. The cows may have gone home, but the horses certainly hadn’t.

Beyond the horses, the path rose above the tree line and that meant a very rocky road. In fact one felt as if one were walking across a giant’s gravel path. Not easy to tell which way to go, but every time your pathfinder thought she was off the trail (except once, when she was) she spotted a blaze of colour that indicated the path – one learns that different trail markers have different eye lines and one has to adjust to the distance they judge appropriate for markers. This is, of course, all part of the fun and no doubt keeps the brain from becoming lazy (all good for preventing Alzheimer’s I am told). It was at this point I realised the importance of the machine in the gym that the tramp never uses and that the trampess always does: the chin-up and dip machine (used by those of us who cannot do an unassisted chin-up but nonetheless want perfect arms in evening gowns). There were several points where the path was so steep and narrow that the Nordic walking sticks had to be placed on rocks (or between them) in positions much higher than one would have naturally chosen. But when there is only one possibility, one must take it (it would have been unconscionable to have waited for the tramp and then to hope for a hand up!) so the sticks went up and the trampess lifted herself to the next level as if on the beloved machine (proving once again that vanity may be the motivator but the unforeseen need is not falling off the side of a cliff). While the consequence of not being able to do the manoeuvre was rather more than failing on the machine, it did make the trampess grateful for all the times she had suffered on it.

After a few more gruelling lifts, the object of our hike was in sight: a lift station. The tramp decided that it was still some distance off and we should sit down on our wonderful, protect the bottom from rocky places pillows, last used in Verbier, and have some nuts and chocolate. The trampess never says no to such a suggestion and this was no exception – though the thought had crossed her mind that if they just pushed on, made it to the lift, and sped down, perhaps, just perhaps, one could still catch a late lunch at the Schneider. Clearly the tramp had reached a blood sugar deficit that required immediate action, so the trampess kept the thought to herself. An hour later, the tramps found themselves back in town. The tramp suggested going to the Schneider – but amazingly it was closed, apparently, as always, for the summer. We repaired to terrace of the wonderful Voralberg just below the Schneider and had a rather magnificent cappuccino with delicious biscuits (now you know the trampess never eats biscuits but these were small, delicate, clearly home-made, too good to resist biscuits and it would have been almost criminal not to eat them – and after a long hike, a little sin is almost a virtue).

The trip home was uneventful except for the beginning. The tourist office gave us the wrong bus stop for our return and when we arrived at it, the driver there told us we had 3 minutes to get to the other side of town to catch our bus. With only one bus an hour, the tramp and trampess threw on their backpacks and ran. You will be pleased to know that the caffeine and sugar rush proved up to the job even if the shoes were inappropriate for running and the tramps arrived home in time for supper as usual.

Schubertiade Second Instalment, Grand Entertaining on a Small Scale, the Importance of Weather and the Seventh Day Rule

Not long after tramp1 left to return to the cold and rainy weather of the Hague, it was time for the second session of the summer Schubertiade to begin. The tramp and I had originally planned to be in Italy by this time but had been persuaded by the friends who introduced us to the Schubertiade last year to return when they were. The first session had been so outstanding, the walking so wonderful and the weather, on the whole, so fine that it didn’t take much to do the trick: master classes with Peter Schreier, a few concerts by Goerne, Lott and Bostridge and we had decided to stay. Now the event was upon us and logistics loomed large: how could we maintain our compelling hiking and gym routines with Peter Schreier master classes every day from 10am – 2pm? (as it turned out he decided that 10am-1pm was adequate – it is amazing how much of a difference that hour made!), concerts in the evening, and the need to meet up with our friends? Our perfect schedule was being eroded, not to say downright destroyed, by one of the main purposes of our wandering life. But the challenge of life, as always, is to reconcile the irreconcilable.

The first week was not too taxing (since the master classes didn’t begin until the second) and even though lunches were often very late (I do call 4pm late) on hiking days, on gym days they were at a quite reasonable time (if one considers, and many let’s face it wouldn’t, 2pm reasonable). This meant, of course, that inviting our friends to lunch at the WLW (which we clearly had to do since the husband was desperate to inspect the WLW and the wife was more than a tad curious) would require the date to be a gym day. No one, not even the tramp, would reasonably expect other people to fit into our unreasonable schedule! As it transpired our friends were following a not totally dissimilar approach and often having late lunches or early suppers. We decided on 1pm on the day of the Felicity Lott concert (which was at 4pm). They could come dressed for the concert and we could all leave directly after lunch, and if we had supper with FL after the concert, an irresistible prospect, well, at least it wouldn’t finish at midnight!

The WLW can seat 4 at the (extendable) dining room table and the tramp, afraid that it would be impossible to eat al fresco (as we do every meal) if the weather was foul (which it is every third day), duly experimented with extending the table and swivelling the driver’s seat around. We have never had to do these things as social life in the WLW has been non-existent (though social life outside has been more than satisfactory). The tramp had no difficulty with the table. It extended quite easily and he was feeling quite confident. The driver’s seat on the other hand proved quite challenging, not to say impossible: the steering wheel kept getting in the way. The manual offered no solution. Clearly the steering wheel could not be removed without prejudicing the real purpose of the WLW. A quick call to the factory and the problem was solved (a bit like moving the goose, the fox and whatever the other animal was on a raft that only held two, it required several manoeuvres which were not obvious but which cumulatively worked). Of course, the ever sensitive tramp then became worried about the placement since it was clear that certain positions were better than others and at the same time the trampess had to be near the kitchen (without having to climb over one of the guests). By now you will have concluded that between the tramp’s great logistical brain and the trampess’s blondeness, even that worrisome problem was solved, and a placement agreed.

As it happened,God was on our side the day of the lunch, and the formidable due diligence exercised by the tramp the previous afternoon was not needed: the sun was glorious and al fresco dining was on the cards. Except of course for the problem of seating. While we have two wonderful, comfortable chairs which would clearly go to the guests and two stools comfortable enough for us (which have lids that convert them into side tables), it became clear to the tramp that the two stools would have to be used as side tables as there simply wasn’t enough room on the table for four place settings and food. It would be unthinkable to eliminate either. It was also clearly unacceptable, according to the tramp, to keep the food in the kitchen and have the trampess running in and out. What to do? The trampess broke off from her food preparation and dashed in to Frau Albrecht (she who solves all problems) and asked to borrow two chairs. Not a problem. The trampess carried two wooden chairs from the camper’s breakfast room to the WLW. A bit later Frau Albrecht turned up with two garden chairs with cushions – even better. The tramp returned the wooden chairs and the trampess continued to prepare lunch.

The tramp had approved the menu (tramp1’s favourite chicken dish, ratatouille, and lentils with garlic and ginger, with Stippmilch and rote Gruetze for pudding), but now he was beginning to panic: shouldn’t there be a first course? Our guests always had a big salad at their hotel before dinner; shouldn’t we have salad as a starter? And what plates would we use for each course? The tramp insisted that one could not have the salad on the dinner plate. The trampess, now moving into high gear (and not even dressed yet!), replied we would use small plates for salad, dinner plates for lunch, and porridge bowls for pudding, but we could not have separate forks for the salad unless we washed forks in between courses. Also, despite all efforts to find additional wine glasses the previous day (wine glasses could be found but none that matched the existing or, indeed, more importantly, could be stored safely in the WLW), none were found. The tramp agreed that the guests would have the 2 glasses we had and the trampess would use a second small water glass. The tramp set a perfect table - nearly there!

The guests arrived on time and as the trampess dressed the salad the tramp took them on a tour of the WLW. Now you might think that a tour of a vehicle 7.5m long and 2 1/2m wide could not possibly take very long, but you would be wrong. Two self-confessed anoraks and a willing female can get quite absorbed in the how it works and where are all the water tanks, and how much do they hold, and how long does that sustain life (all of which is part of the external tour) before one even moves inside to the wow, a real bathroom, my goodness what a big bed, good heavens is that the guest bedroom, satellite television, no kidding stage. Notwithstanding, the trampess didn’t quite manage to change for lunch (ratatouille is too dangerous when washing and ironing are a major undertaking and dressing while the external tour was on was cutting it a bit fine – one never knows how long even anoraks will take and it isn’t as though the bathroom/dressing room is more than a few inches from the kitchen or for that matter the front/only door. Eventually, we sat down outside with our splendid views of meadow, chickens ranging freely, mountains and brook. The two wine glasses and extra water glass were quickly removed from the table as the friends have a no wine before 7pm policy. Having seen the kitchen, the friends were astonished with the variety of dishes the trampess was able to produce for one meal (it is an art learning to cook on 3 small burners – the constraint being less on the side of 3 and more on the side of small – especially for more than 2 people since the pots are small to match the burners; part of the solution, of course, was to make the ratatouille the day before and the rote Gruetze in the morning - before going to the gym but critically after breakfast when that pot was needed). The tramp winked at the trampess – a thumbs up for her culinary efforts. The trampess always loves a good wink. – especially when the pre-prandial angst is high. It seems that the rote Gruetze was particularly successful (the wife volunteered that her husband would do almost anything for cooked berries and that probably he wouldn’t want to leave – ever) - especially rewarding since the thought of making a nemesis in the rather primitive oven is not one the trampess has entertained (although this does seem rather wimpish since she remembers a perfect chocolate cake made by sherpas over an open fire when trekking in the Himalayas)!

When seconds on pudding were being willing accepted, the Gamin was brought out. The Gamin? Dear reader, you will remember one of the first adventures with the WLW was in Cologne, where the WLW had to be de-coupled from the Smart and abandoned owing to an illegally parked BMW blocking a one way street after which the tramp spent HOURS studying and buying a hand held GPS system for climbing the mountains in all of Europe. The interest in such a device came from the fellow anorak (hereinafter referred to as FA) now sitting at our lunch table. Oohs and aahs and how long does the battery last, do you have a full colour screen etc followed. The tramp confessed that actually he hadn’t learned how to use it yet. FA offered to take it away for the night, study the difference between his (an earlier model) and install the grid (installing the grid is apparently very important because while you would think that the Greenwich meridian was the starting point for all cartography it isn’t. Most countries in Europe have their own systems and this can be a nightmare if one doesn’t overlay the maps which had been uploaded with “the” grid), and then give the tramp a quick lesson in usage over dinner a few nights hence. The tramp was, needless to say, extremely grateful for the offer and immediately handed over a sack full of equipment and manuals. Meanwhile the trampess put on the espresso. After coffee and the ritual dark chocolate we all tumbled happily (well in the case of the trampess after a quick change, too) into our cars and drove off to hear the wonderful Lott. Supper followed at the Adler (all the best hotels in Germany and Austria are either called Hirsch or Adler; both exist in Schwarzenberg and both have excellent restaurants. Funny how no one ever calls an hotel Fisch or Maus.) and this time the meal began with a glass of champagne. One waits, and one is rewarded.

The following week was the challenging one: classes from morning to early afternoon and the occasional evening concert (perhaps more than occasional if the waitlist tickets came through) and the refusal to give up the hard physical exercise. The first thing that had to go, clearly, was a cooked lunch at any time a normal human being would call lunch time. At the same time, food was necessary. Not eating is no way to maintain the body or lose weight. And of course, one has to observe the rule: breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper (which in our case means no dinners after the evening concert – though clearly that rule was going to be broken with friends in town. Society corrupts and good society corrupts the most). Breakfasts became, if they were not already, very king like (no fish or game you understand but plenty of the rest). The tramp and trampess arrived at the morning master class fully sated and ready to learn vicariously through the students. At the 10 minute break, variously at 12 or 11:30, the tramp cried, “Nuts!” and the trampess dutifully reached into her bag and pulled out the morning’s ration. After silent munching, the tramp might make a few salient comments on the singing so far and Schreier’s approach to teaching before crying out again, “Chocolate??!” The trampess once again dived into the bag and pulled out pudding. When the class ended the tramps bolted for the door, jumped into the Smart and drove off – either to the mountains or to the gym. Often they did not arrive back until 4 or 5pm. At this point one could only hold on and have a proper meal at 6. Of course, it broke the rule of dining like a pauper but since dinner was followed by a concert and bed was inevitably 10 or 11, it did at least maintain the principle of not eating close to bedtime.

By the end of the week it was clear, though, that this was a very demanding schedule. The master classes were intense and even the evening concerts, which normally one would consider pure joy, were demanding since one needs to study and understand the text of the lieder (easier for the tramp than the trampess: Schwarzenberg is not Salzburg and the text provided in the programme was only in the original German. The trampess’s pocket dictionary does not extend to the poetic vocabulary of the average Schubert lied and while the better know cycles are well known to her, the lesser ones are not. I can assure you that most concerts this week were not well known cycles! With the exception of Pregardien singing Die Schoene Muellerin – an evening that was truly one of the most magnificent and shattered the tramp’s long held conviction that tenors could not sing lieder. Ian Bostridge helped in this regard, too). At the end of the week the tramp declared that perhaps one day a week should be a day of rest. A positively Biblical conclusion!

Omnes viae Romam ducunt and the Others Lead to Baumgarten

After the departure of tramp1, the tramp concluded that his new breakfast regime (porridge, bananas, eggs, perhaps the odd knaeckerbrot with nut butter and green tea) was definitely giving him more energy and therefore more adventurous hikes were the order of the day. Maps were pulled out after supper and studied so that the next morning the tramp and trampess could set out on new, long hikes, some of which could start from or wind up in different villages, as long as our trusty Bregenzerkarte would bring us home on one of the local (and very superior) buses.

If I have not said it before, climbing up is wonderful cardio exercise (and as you will remember is the basis for effortless weight loss), walking down is stressful for the knees and cartilage and therefore to be avoided at all cost, so the tramp wished to discover walks with a minimum climb of 1000m and a lift at the top for the return journey. The trampess began studying the local bus schedules to discover which of the tramp’s newly discovered routes were achievable with local transport (after all it is one thing to hike for 5 hours in the mountains and quite another to have to walk along a main road for 17km to return home!).

Before wandering too far afield, the tramp decided that there was another route to Baumgarten which had not been explored. It was a fine day and the two tramps set out early. The tramp’s pace had improved and we arrived at a decision point that would take us up to the top of Baumgarten or on a longer path through a high valley north of Baumgarten and towards Schoenenbach. A check of the bus schedule indicated a bus returning from Schoenenbach to Bezau at around 4:15 and another at 5:15. With a good supply of nuts and chocolate in our back packs and our camels fully loaded with water, we decided to head for Schoenenbach (besides it has such a promising name). The walk through the valley was stupendous: the valley was long and narrow and the view through the mountains was ever changing and truly beautiful. We walked up for some distance, though not in the relentless way that walking to a summit means, so it was thoroughly pleasant and not at all demanding. An hour or two later the path took a turn down and it was clear that it was going to be a steep down for sometime. The weather had by now turned and was chilly and windy. The tramp decided we needed to stop: to tighten his shoe laces (always required for a descent) and to stoke up on nuts and chocolate. It was going to be a long and gruesome walk. Quite how long and gruesome we had yet to realise. Not that I mind walking though herds of cows (I am quite used to that, even when the occasional bull lows at me in a slightly menacing manner), but this particular herd was in land that was particularly mucky so dodging cows at the same time as avoiding wet cow pats was not a perfect rural experience. Nonetheless, we progressed only to discover that the path led across the valley and was going up the other ridge that defined it. This was more like it, though the path was rough and very steep. After a long climb up we went into a forest and began to descend again. It was there that we came across a long stretch of what I can only call quickmud: you know, the alpine equivalent of quicksand. Now the tramp was in the lead (it must be noted that the tramp is very sure footed and has very long legs so that particularly steep descending bits are his forte even though he hates them). As the trampess was negotiating a particularly sticky patch, the tramp cried out “photo opportunity” and shot the trampess trying very hard, and almost unsuccessfully to pull her right boot out of the mud. It did occur to me, that I could remove my foot from the shoe and walk home unshod (or appeal to the tramp to dig out the boot and then put it back on), but happily, without expletives, but with extreme effort on the part of my right leg and both hands, the mud released the right foot. The tramp took a few more photos of your trampess beaming as she trod through mud. Photos are forever, the memory (and the mud) fades, the lesson is always to smile. Eventually, beginning to wonder if we were still on the path, we saw signs confirming that we were indeed still on the path to Schoenenbach.

Signs do not always indicate proximity - I remember seeing signs, with no mileage, on the motorway not far out of central London indicating we were on the way to Edinburgh; one would have thought one was only 50 miles away – this dear reader was one such sign. More muddy fields, more soggy cow pats and the weather now definitely wet – a gentle but persistent drizzle. Eventually we began to descend for real and in the distance we saw a few barns, a small church and a couple of houses. This was downtown Schoenenbach. In another half hour we were in the centre of town just a stone’s throw from the bus stop. THE bus stop for THE bus (we could actually see Schoenenbach’s only bus parked behind a barn waiting to make its Saturday trip to Bezau – it only makes two trips a day, and then, only on Saturday and Sunday). You have heard of one horse towns; well Schoenenbach is a one bus, two days a week town. The queue at the bus stop built up quite quickly behind us. Evidently many come here to walk; few stay. Happily having arrived 20 minutes early we nabbed seats under the awning of a barn at the stop, which also meant that we managed to get seats on the bus for the entire one hour journey back (which of course required a change in Bizau). The tramp decided that the walk from Schoenenbach to Baumgarten would be quite a pleasant one, but that we would never, ever, do it the other way round as we had today.

If coming back from Schoenenbach is a twice in a weekend event, getting to Schoenenbach is even more problematic. Attempting to follow the tramp’s decision, we set out one morning to catch the early Saturday morning bus (there is one in the morning and one at lunchtime; obviously there are none in the afternoon as that is when the bus returns from Schoenenbach). AS we prepared to jump on the bus, the driver informed us that he did not go that far – only to Bizau. The schedule was wrong: only the lunchtime bus operated. A quick look at the map determined our course: another assault on Baumgarten only this time via Sonderdach – a route we had not yet taken. If you find all these village names confusing, let me assure you that the tramp, whose mother tongue is, after all, the local language, continues to confuse them. He does not get confused on maps though and Sonderdach is definitely not Schoenenbach and proved a very beautiful way to reach the top.

Still, we were eager to find new routes that took us up but allowed us to ride down. The trampess (what good is it to be blonde if you can’t come up with simple but effective suggestions) suggested that looking at the Bregenzerkarte might reveal just such routes: it lists all the bergbahns one can use with the card. Lo and behold this investigation revealed a route to Baumgarten from Moos (near Andelsbuch) with two chair lifts from the top. Moos is, of course, another tiny village on the other side of Baumgarten from Bezau and from which has a large car park, including for caravans. This it transpires is the base from which most of the hang gliders we see hovering over Baumgarten start from and land. The chair lift is very active on the way up and very empty on the way down – most hang gliders occupy one side and their equipment (packed into a large rucksack) the other – and of course they go up in the chair and fly down (also not hard on the knees or ligaments but without the benefit of the cardio workout that your tramps get).

The day was glorious and the route simply splendid and quite, quite different from the paths leading from Bezau. The path skirted farms and meadows but was at the edge of a forest. We passed a farm where the farmer had finished mowing and was burning the odd bit of bracken (have I mentioned how beautiful the farms are? Since we are on the Kaesestrasse, you can assume that all farms are dairy farms. This means that there are cows and meadows. The meadows go to the edge of the forests: the cows are let loose on the steep pastures and the lower pastures are mown throughout the summer to make hay for the winter months when the cows are stabled. It makes for a very luscious countryside). The first smell that felt like fall. The path was steep and narrow but pleasant to walk on. It crossed under the chair lift so often the peace of the countryside was interrupted with shrieks of childish laughter from above. Some would even call “Halo” down to us – probably wondering what crazy people we were to be climbing up when a perfectly good (well, actually as we found out on the way down, serviceable is probably a more appropriate word – these lifts are possibly as old as I am) lift would take us to the top. After awhile the path pulled away from the course of the lift and silence returned. The views were magnificent but, of course, completely different since we were now on the Bodensee side of Baumgarten. One could have been climbing a completely different mountain. About halfway up we were overtaken (!) by an extremely fit man of a certain age (probably not quite as old as we, but certainly not in his thirties!) carrying his hang glider on his back. As I mentioned earlier, these are not small like rucksacks, even though they are in that form, so carrying one must be quite a load. Clearly he was the iron man of hang gliding. It reminded me of the old days (not, you understand that I ever did it) of skiing when skiers put their (much lighter) skis on their backs and climbed the mountain they were going to ski down. Clearly the iron man approached hang gliding in that fashion. One would definitely feel one had earned the right to fly after that!
By the end of three and a half hours (and 12:30 by the clock) we had reached the top of Baumgarten. It turns out that the lifts there have a rather longer mid day break than the lifts on the other side: from 11:45 until 1:15. We could hear the lift operator inside the station but breaks are breaks and the fact that demand was building up (several older and rather infirm walkers – one suspects from the other lift to this one – certainly not from Moos – arrived after we did) did not make the lift service commence any earlier, though the operator did come out to open the gate and offer seats on the benches adjacent his hut. We could have walked along the ridge and across to the other side and taken the usual bergbahn down but then our car would have to be retrieved from Moos – a rather long walk from Bezau! So with the usual nuts and chocolate to keep hunger from the door, we waited until 1:15. I always liked chair lifts better than T-bars when skiing but I have to say that running off a chairlift while carrying a back pack can be challenging (at least for the trampess – the tramp, needless to say, is a champion at this sort of thing), so even though I had explicit directions to run to the right while the tramp would run to the left and then come to get me, I must confess that the chair did bump my delicate bottom as I ran off. Even with the help of the lift operator who tried to slow it down. Oh well sometimes blondes really are blondes. But at least we have proved, that while all roads lead to Rome, many in the greater Bezau area lead to Baumgarten, which has the great advantage of being good to the ligaments, even if occasionally bad for the bottom!

Culinary Rewards from the Famed Abbess of the Middle Ages

Tramp1, who when he isn’t studying or working out in the gym, likes to eat. A lot. He requested one of the trampess’s specialities before he left and expressed interest in going to the Schwanen in Bizau where you will remember we failed to get in the day after he arrived owing to the fact that it was their “rest day”. The tramp decided that he and tramp1 would go to the gym together on Sunday while your trampess was upholding the family honour by attending church (have I mentioned that the church in Bezau is large enough to hold the entire population of the village plus a large number of visitors staying in the local hotels? No, well it is, and most of the village is there every Sunday and in what my 7th grade Southern Baptist history teacher used to call “Sunday go to meeting” finery). This way by the time they came back from the gym, lunch presumably would be ready. As it happened, the trampess was happy to fall in with these plans – indeed she almost succumbed to a cappuccino at the Post Hotel (the oldest and grandest in Bezau) as the outside terrace is so welcoming but decided to have the cappuccino in the WLW while contemplating cooking. It was a good plan and lunch (the requested ginger garlic chicken) was ready just as the exhausted iron pumpers returned.

The rest of the day was spent relaxing and conversing over the usual miseries: world politics, European politics, and US politics. Then things became serious when the tramp announced he didn’t think there would be time to go to the Schwanen for lunch given tramp1’s flight time from Zurich – especially since the plan was for him to go by Landesbus. Tramp1 almost hyperventilated, but the trampess saved the day by suggesting that if we were at the Schwanen by noon, the 2:36 bus would be easy to make (it stops in front of the Schwanen) and tramp1 would make his plane. The Schwanen was duly telephoned and it was established that they opened at 11:30 for lunch (after all hikers who are up at the crack of dawn might be down the mountain and starving by that time and the Schwanen is nothing if not accommodating!). It was agreed that tramp1 would pack his rucksack that night and the tramp would put tramp1’s computer into his rucksack so that all tramp1’s luggage (so to speak) would be on our backs for the morning hike.

The next day was beautiful and we set out early (after the usual hearty breakfast of course). Instead of going on the fast route to Bizau, the tramp decided on a longer and more scenic one. Tramp1 was nervous – a good hike was one thing, missing lunch quite another, but the tramp, having first felt that lunch was impossible, felt quite confident that he was reading the maps correctly and that we would arrive in plenty of time. The trampess, while trusting the tramp’s reading of the map completely, was concerned that the route we were intending to take might have been the one which ended on the wrong side of a cliff last year. The tramp assured her this was not the case, and your three intrepid tramps set out. As it happened, the tramp was of course right and we arrived in plenty of time (just before noon) at the Schwanen. Now, if it has not been mentioned before, the area around Schwarzenberg (which includes Bizau) is heavily influenced by Hildegard von Bingen. You will, of course, remember the beloved Hildegard (tenth child of a noble family and therefore tithed to the Church): her sacred music is heard almost every Sunday at some church in England (and one would assume throughout Germany where she lived – in fact, had your tramps known of the importance of Hildegard, they would have undoubtedly stopped at the abbey where she lived on the Rhein when they were making their first delicate excursions) and her visionary writings were given the papal imprimatur. But importantly, for the Schwanen, she was also very interested in herbs, herbal medicines and the importance of eating correctly (she suffered from migraines and perhaps her interest was driven by a desire for a remedy). One can only imagine that the abbey that Hildegard became abbess of was, under her leadership, the Canyon Ranch of the 12th Century. Anyone who lived to 81 in the 12th century must have understood a thing or two about longevity! The menu at the Schwanen was developed under her guidance (well under the guidance of her philosophy) and so we began with the drinks that fit our needs (the descriptions are very fulsome and cover fatigue, depression, the need to relax, the need to be energised and so forth): the tramp and tramp1 had a rather magnificent raspberry concoction; the trampess a sour cherry one (and was reminded that her great aunt, a devout Presbyterian and therefore teetotaller, used to make all manner of vegetable or fruit drinks as cocktails before dinner, with varying degrees of success). Galgant (vaguely corklike in appearance and potent – a favourite of Hildegard) and fennel are always on the table in small bottles to be taken, rather like snuff, but eaten not inhaled, in small doses before (perhaps even during) the meal. The drinks were pure nectar. After much discussion (and translation of the menu for tramp1), we ordered. And while nothing at the Schwanen comes quickly (this is a serious restaurant in the middle of nowhere) it is all wonderful. Tramp1 would have probably been willing to miss his airplane for this lunch. As it happened, there was time for pudding without prejudice to the flight. Tramp1 exclaimed when he saw Kaiserschmarr’n on the dessert menu. He had last had it in Austria many years ago and decided not only was it fit for the Kaiser, it was definitely HIS best pudding. The tramp who is also partial to a good Kaiserschmarr’n suggested that they order one between them (it is a very large portion that the Schwanen produce!). Tramp1 however is allergic to wheat and declared that sadly he would never be eating it again. The tramp couldn’t believe there was any flour in the famed pudding and the waiter was duly summoned. The trampess was, of course, reasonably certain there was flour in it but demurred to the waiter. Miracle of miracles (well perhaps not given Hildegard’s unerring influence), the Kaiserschmarr’n at the Schwanen is made with Dinkel (spelt to you and me) and not wheat and so the pudding was ordered. The trampess had the totally irresistible Basilikummousse with cooked berries (which might sound outrageously awful but, trust me, is sublime).

And so the tramps leapt onto tramp1’s bus (well perhaps leapt is an exaggeration given the deeply satisfying and filling lunch) as it went through Bezau on the way to Bregenz where the young tramp would transfer to a train. Kisses and hugs and computers were exchanged in haste as the bus pulled into Bezau and tramp1 was on his way. All in all a totally satisfying visit - even the discussions between Genghis Khan and Mao had been friendly. It seems both young and old had mellowed.

Kanisfluh Conquered and a New Source of Energy for the Tramp

The drive to Zurich airport went unbelievably well, though it must be said that there was an emergency exit in Winterthur to ensure that if tramp1 arrived with an empty stomach, he would be fed. Like the tramp, tramp1 suffers from numerous food allergies; unlike the tramp, he eats a tremendous amount (something about being young, athletic and working out regularly in the gym) so the concern on the tramp’s part that the combination of a cheap flight (no food) and great hunger required serious attention on the part of the trampess was not ill-founded. Sadly, the supermarkets along the way all seemed to be on the wrong side of the highway. Whenever we exited to a near, but small village, the food shops seemed to be hidden (the tramp concluded that in these places no one eats). Winterthur was the last option before the stores would all be closed. Luckily, we stumbled (as only a WLW can) across a small shopping centre which had both a Co-op and a Migros – the trampess was spoilt for choice and sneaking in 10 minutes before closing time (my mother at this point would have thanked St Anthony), did a major shop. The tramp devised a new rule: one should never travel on an empty refrigerator. The trampess concurred – though she did somewhat timidly point out that the supermarket in Salzburg was not a fertile shopping ground.

Having reached the airport, the question remained where to go. Airport car parks are not on the whole the sort of place the WLW can find appropriate accommodation: the height of the ceilings is inadequate to the WLW’s stature. There did seem to be an almost completely empty car park adjacent to a BP station just near the terminals. Not being put off by the no entry sign at the only place one could see to enter, the tramp drove the WLW in and parked parallel to and near a stack of huge metal beams. It made us look, well if not small, in proportion. I prepared supper and we ate.

Just as the trampess was sipping the last drops of her wine, a police car drove up. I smiled at the tramp, put the bottle in the refrigerator, and suggested that he deal with it. The tramp, who oozed more charm than I have ever seen anyone use on the police force of any nation, smiled and explained that we were waiting for tramp1 and that we were too big to enter the normal car park. The police, equally charming, explained there was no problem but there was another delivery of metal beams and if we wouldn’t mind parking on the side they would be most grateful. The tramp assured them it would be no problem at all and moved just as a large lorry load of beams arrived. We relaxed in the full knowledge that we were now under the unassailable protection of the Zurich police. How safe can one feel! Just under two hours later tramp1 texted to let us know we had landed; the tramp instructed him to come out to the pavement and text when he was there. We drove through the airport once more, stopped, tramp1 jumped in, and off we drove to Bezau. The tramp, his good mood restored, and it being late at night with no traffic on the roads, made unusually good time. We drove into the parking lot of the football pitch (not wishing to cause havoc in the campsite at such a late hour), and turned in before midnight, warning tramp1 that we normally rose at 6:30 and tomorrow would be no exception since we needed to establish ourselves in the campsite as early as possible in order to have a good hike – and not waste tramp1’s precious time off work. Tramp1 assured us that graduate school had trained him for 5 hour nights, so 6 ½ would be a lie in. On that happy note we all collapsed.

Tramp1 was as good as his word and was happy to wake up the next morning when the trampess announced porridge and eggs were cooking (all the young tramps are quite adept at cooking but are very pleased to have the trampess cook for them – in fact it is a well known threat, repeated in a poem the young tramps wrote for her most recent, significant birthday, issued by the trampess if she is really, really desperate – how often can that be?? – to suggest that one or more of the young’s tramps has just had his last meal cooked by her). Tramp1 downed a huge bowl of porridge with a banana, two eggs, several knaeckerbrot with various nut butters and anything else he spotted on the table. Not impressed with the tramp’s two eggs with flax seed and the same knaeckerbrot and nut butter, he proceeded to lecture the tramp on the importance of slow release carbohydrates if he wanted to sustain major physical exertion. The trampess, of course, always eats porridge for breakfast and is never hungry before time, and as it is well know, does not run out of energy. She listened in amusement to the son propounding her own theories on breakfast (to which the tramp had heretofore not given much credence). The tramp promised to try out the theory the next day but maintained that porridge had never been enough in the past. Tramp1 suggested that there was no need to replace the eggs with porridge, the porridge was to be a supplement! The tramp smiled.

Breakfast over, the three intrepid tramps set out on an easy hike (the tramp did not wish to plunge his first son into the deep end on day 1!) to Bizau over marshland. The plan was to have lunch at the Schwanen and then walk home over the hill route. Tragically, the Schwanen has its day of rest on Wednesday so the tramps hoofed it home quickly in the hopes that the trampess would whip up a quick lunch. She did of course. As tramp1 was clearly in top hiking form, the next day, the tramp determined the hike would be to the more challenging Baumgarten. The tramp fuelled himself at breakfast according to tramp1’s suggestion and we all set out. Tramp1 was predictably every bit as fast as the trampess, and indeed, quite obviously faster but as the hike was not overly steep he was content to keep her pace and wait for the tramp to catch up. The plan was to reach the summit at around 1pm when the bergbahn service back down to Bezau resumes and get home for a reasonably timed lunch. The climb went according to plan but there was an unnaturally long queue at the bergstation: there was a problem with the lift and no one was quite certain how long it would take to repair! The tramp was not keen to walk down: he neither wanted to arrive home for an early dinner instead of a late lunch, nor did he fancy the assault on the knees the long march down would mean. Happily, the buzzer went, just as panic was beginning to set in and a few nuts had been eaten, indicating a gondola on its way. It was not long before the tramps were at the front of the queue. The next meal could still be classified as lunch – only just. The good news was that the tramp declared the addition of porridge (with a banana of course) to his breakfast had made a difference. The trampess’s pots were just big enough to cope with the demand for four boiled eggs and a mountain of porridge. The tramp did declare, nonetheless, that he would cry off hiking the next day and go to the gym but the trampess and tramp1 were welcome to climb Kanisfluh. The trampess was thrilled – with young tramp1 as pacesetter, she was quite confident that no matter what the weather conditions the next day (and they did not look promising) she and tramp1 would arrive at the summit. Hurrah! Tramp1 was only concerned that we would take enough food to sustain us (tramp1 worries a lot about getting enough food).

The next morning was suitably grey, foreshadowing rain. The tramp was concerned about tramp1’s inadequate clothing as far as attacking Kanisfluh was concerned but the trampess (being blonde) pointed out the obvious solution: tramp1 would take the tramp’s backpack instead of his own and he would have a ready kit for all weather. That settled, the trampess and tramp1 ate a very sustaining breakfast and headed to the bus stop. They arrived in Mellau town centre just as the rain came. Out came the ponchos. Protected against the elements, they headed to the bergstation where the path to Kanisfluh began. They both knew the obvious: when you are climbing a mountain it is inevitably an uphill journey. The way may be briefly disguised but in the end it is only a disguise, and only brief. Tramp1 declared that he far preferred the sort of unrelenting climb that he was about to undertake since at least one knew one was making progress! Ah, the wondrous optimistic outlook of youth! The trampess was delighted and so the climb began. Partly through the first major assent, it became clear that the forest was protecting your intrepid heroes from the rain and the ponchos were making them very sweaty. It was decided to remove ponchos, shake them, turn them inside out, and return them to the bottom of the backpacks.

That done, the pace quickened. We found ourselves, having started at 10 am precisely, at the edge of the glacial basin (where the tramp gave up the first time and declared the path to the bergbahn was the only way) at 11:30. This was record time (at least in the trampess’s experience and also it must be said compared to the estimated time posted on the first signpost) and meant that if we kept the pace we would be at the summit (note the sense that we were actually climbing a mountain implied in the word summit) by 2pm. As we crossed the glacial basin we came across a large group of teenagers – in the usual swaggering and slow, group walk. Tramp1 turned on the speed and overtook them just before a small bridge. In order to do the same, the trampess wound up hoofing it through marshy ground (yuck – the boots were very miserable – but totally waterproof and luckily nothing splashed in over the top so the trampess’s feet remained dry) and practically leaping onto the bridge in front of some rather amazed young German boys (who never expect to be overtaken by a speeding OAP!). Tramp1 kept the pace for some time (we were taking no chances of being bogged down by a group on a long, narrow trail upward!). It did not take long to lose them completely – most likely they were not following us to the top. Surprisingly the walk across the glacial valley was not as muddy as expected, nor as full of cow dung as the one time the tramp and trampess had proceeded a bit further in the direction of the summit. That walk had been muddy but gentle and the trampess had hoped that horrendously vertical was not going to be the descriptive most appropriate for the next hour. However, the first rule of mountains (namely that they are always an upward experience) shortly became evident. Any thought the trampess might have had that the summit was a gentle climb from the glacial valley soon disappeared. If the first 1 ½ hours were unrelenting, so were the last! Only this time the path was not just steep, but very rocky, not well marked and, oh yes, visibility was very low – the clouds were with us, we were in them, and quite often tramp1 disappeared in the mist. At a crucial point, the trampess had to call out his name to determine the way forward (at least the way tramp1 had chosen to go forward!)- the path went both right and left (if the path was marked the marking was too far ahead to see with the visibility so low) – it would have been bad to arrive at two different peaks : it does not look good for a mother to lose her son on a mountain (never mind that he was in the lead)! Happily, he was within earshot and merely answering told me which way to turn.

Soon a few hikers coming down crossed our path (all, it must be said, older than the trampess; not one tramp1’s age – tramp1 found this vaguely unsettling – where were all the fit, adventurous youth?). We did not speak to them apart from the obligatory “Gruess Gott”, but we felt we could not be far from the top now. It was beginning to get chilly and the thought of adding a layer or two did cross our minds, but we were sweating (not that a trampess ever sweats, you understand) and the sheer energy of climbing was keeping us warm. – or at least focused. One lone hiker came down and as he had passed us earlier, I felt we really must be close now. I asked him how much further and he replied less than a minute (this should give you, dear reader, an inkling of the visibility!) but didn’t I have more clothes? It was he said, very, very cold and windy at the top. How could the weather be so much worse so soon? Is the summit such a micro-climate?? I declared I did and would be ok. He announced he had done the climb in 3 hours flat and was obviously quite pleased with himself. I looked at my watch – if he was right about our being a minute away (give or take 5), tramp1 and I would make it in 3 hours flat as well!

He was right on all counts. We could barely unzip our backpacks fast enough. Tramp1 put on every layer of clothes the tramp had in the pack and then looked up and asked if there were any gloves. There weren’t – the tramp’s hands are kept warm by the gloves he uses with his Nordic walking sticks – not a look the young tramp thought appropriate for his age. His fingers were so cold he could barely open the sardine tin, but by this time in need of food, he managed. Everything we brought was demolished -even the chocolate bar which it seems had suffered by not being eaten on the Baumgarten trip; to say that it did not melt in the mouth is a very poor description of the crumbling collapse that occurred (clearly Lindt does not expect a bar of chocolate to suffer so many dramatic climatic changes in such a short period – this bar had past its prime, notwithstanding a best before date some years hence!). Just as we were convincing ourselves that lunch was hitting the spot and more impressively actually being eaten at lunch time, tramp1 let out an expletive. I would not dream of repeating his exact words, but I followed his eyes as he directed his gaze over his shoulder. The winds had blown away the clouds and we had a clear view behind us. Dear reader, we were sitting on the edge of , if not a cliff, an extremely steep incline (let us say between 85-90 degrees) all the way down to Mellau (approximately 1350m vertical distance). Reclining to rest our weary bones, while not something we had even for a moment contemplated, might have resulted in our premature arrival in town without the aid of the bergbahn – and perhaps without our immortal souls remaining in our all too mortal bodies. To say that your formerly-afraid-of-heights-but-now-happilly-not trampess gulped is the grossest of understatements, but perhaps the ambition of hang gliding (given that fainting might have produced the same result as reclining) is not entirely out of the question; we continued our lunch (without even considering moving forward – though we were careful in rising to our feet afterward), texted the tramp to let him know of our success and then prepared to descend.

If the way up had been challenging, the return journey was worse. This is of course known to all real mountain climbers, but the trampess is discovering these laws for herself, sometimes all too painfully. The large, flat surfaced, rocks which were difficult to get purchase on on the way up were much more terrifying on the way down. And while it wasn’t raining, it was very moist – the ground between the rocks was pure mud. The first time the trampess slipped, she let out an expletive (she is her son’s mother after all). Tramp1 did not hear, and so did not come to the aid of the fallen trampess. Luckily, the Nordic sticks didn’t become detached or wind up in an awkward place, and in the end did prove helpful in returning the trampess to a vertical position, though not for long. After the first fall, it would have been unseemly to swear again, so your trampess reverted to laughing. Tramp1 heard this time (and subsequent ones) and checked to make sure he was not going to have to carry his mother down a mountain – especially since he, too, while not actually falling, was doing his fair share of sliding (and if the truth be told, issuing expletives). Even at the trampess’s delicate weight, the thought of managing her, her backpack and his own was daunting even to tramp1! Happily he did not have to. Once the peak was descended, the final stroll to bergbahn seemed just that.

Back in Mellau, he tramps rewarded themselves with hot drinks and water on the terrace of the hotel which overlooked the bus stop. With only one bus per hour and no desire to walk back, despite the fact that it was now full sunshine, it seemed the sensible way to kill 45 minutes.