While it would be good for the carpets to be vacuumed everyday, the strain on the knees and the soul might be too great, so it was deemed by the tramp that once every three days would be sufficient to keep us up to German standards of cleanliness and, by extension, godliness. That was of course before reaching our one star camp ground in Bezau.
The arrival in Bezau was as expected: as soon as we were within a few kilometres, it began to pour. This is normal; this is why we have serious rain ponchos to cover us both for hiking and for attending the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg (the reason for coming to Bezau). The landscape is stunning and nothing seems to have changed since Julie Andrews won Christopher Plummers’ heart. The fields are mown, the cows roam freely in the fields, the chickens walk about close to the barn, easily scared by the arrival of trampers passing. And the campsite is the spare field next to the farmhouse but gravelled over for the greater comfort of the WLW.
The view is splendid: a rushing river (noisier but not trafficked by passing cargo or tourist boats like the Mosel), fields and mountains. One could (and indeed one has) have a worse view at breakfast. The entry into the camping ground passes a small football pitch (for the local school children) perfectly groomed and maintained, with dugouts for each team, dressing rooms etc - definitely as good as any English public school facility (albeit only one pitch – but then this is a village and it probably takes the complete town with no end of season injuries to mount a full match). Unfortunately, on the eve of our arrival a match was on and all the locals had driven (shocking really in a land of bicycles – but it is the end of season, so perhaps a few participants from other villages had to be brought in – and while it is possible to ride bikes from one village to another, if the village is in the wrong direction, ie over a local mountain, one might have to be a Tour de France cyclist to make the journey, let alone arrive fresh for the competition). Suffice it to say that with cars parked on both sides of the road (a big word for such a small by way) the WLW, which is both long (especially with its little Smart trailing behind) and wide, faced a challenge. Now the tramp is a most excellent driver and has already demonstrated his skill rather more than he would probably like on some very narrow winding roads (with the occasional precipitous drop on the side), and it seemed that he somehow managed the turn, the curve and the second turn into the campsite that had been waiting expectantly for us all day (no doubt the first time anyone had reserved a Stellplatz for a month). These turns and curves, you understand, being somewhat less in total length than the total length of the WLW and its hanging load. With a little beetle hanging over the road on one side and an estate car not so strategically parked on the other, it was slightly more of a challenge than even the tramp could manage and inspection afterward revealed a small scrape in the paintwork of the latter. The tramp being a good and honest soul left a note. It was not until after the tramp was in his pyjamas, however, that the knock came on the door. Luckily your trampess was still dressed, if unable to cope, in German, with the possible ensuing drama. The tramp, always willing to rescue a damsel in distress, especially if the distress, as in this case, was of his making, greeted the visitor, asked him to come in and said he would return – which he did, fully dressed. After some time, and with German composure and Austrian charm, the issue was resolved.
The next morning, a gorgeous sunny day, being a Sunday, the trampess resolved to go to church. The tramp assured her of four things: every village has a church; it will be easy to find (the spire rises above the farm houses); this being Austria, it will be Catholic; and finally church bells will ring to announce the time of the Mass. Three of these were true. The fourth was not: the bells rang at the end of Mass. Even though your trampess set out in good time by Mosel standards (where Mass was a very civilised 10:30), it was not good enough: it is clear that the Austrians do not alter their time of activity from weekday to weekend. I arrived at 9:30 just as the 8:45 (tell me that any church except in Bezau begins at 45 past the hour!) Mass was ending. Of course, this being a village, it is the only Mass of the day. This much at least did not surprise me.
The only solution was to apply myself to godliness in other ways. But vacuuming on a Sunday morning, where strict observation to the Law was obvious (the women were wearing formal dress: dirndls, aprons and funnel hats), would probably invoke censure and I might find myself like Hester Prynne wearing a letter (though which one I am not sure) through Bezau for the rest of my stay. But the carpets could not be ignored: first there was the trek through the WLW by the wonderful mechanics outside Vicenza; and then there was the gravel imported on our shoes (exacerbated by the rain) and our visitor’s the previous evening.
I tried sweeping with the small, rather too flexible, hand brush. It helped a little and had the virtue of causing no attention gathering noise (nor disturbance it must be said to the campers near us – we are 8 altogether in this little camp site). I knew the carpets could be lifted (after all sometimes the way to reach the innards of the WLW is through its floor rather than from underneath), so I decided to see if I could manage the kitchen floor as it had the least complex outline and probably the most gravel. It worked. I rolled it up, held it parallel to the ground and then unrolled it at the door (as the door is three steps up from the ground, so there is space to shake it without it touching the ground and defeating the whole purpose of the exercise). While not a perfect cleaning, it was a dramatic improvement (sweeping little pieces of gravel without a stiff brush is an exercise in patience, not my strongest virtue). Emboldened, I decided to go for the more complex bathroom carpet. While folding in the tricky bits was not easy, I cannot claim that it was challenging. The result again was most satisfactory. Nothing could stop me: I moved on to the living/dining room where the cut of the carpet around table and chairs was definitely one requiring mindful folding, but your trampess was not to be outdone by a mere carpet and once again we were close to godliness in the room where we break bread together (or more accurately knaekerbrot since the tramp cannot eat yeast). I must confess (you have already realised that it is part of my religion) that I could not face the driving cabin. First, the tramp was sitting in the navigator’s seat (and I would have hated to disturb him from his work) and second, who knows if I ever would have got the carpet back in its rightful place. The vacuum cleaner cannot be made completely redundant, but the cockpit will have to wait for a working day to join its fellow carpets in what should be Sunday splendour.
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