The chance to visit the tramp’s younger sister without driving back to northern Germany and the decision to return to the second instalment of the Schubertiade caused some revision in travel plans for the weeks following the Verbier festival. And even then not everything worked to plan. To begin with the exit from Verbier was somewhat fraught. Despite the tramp’s forethought and being delivered to the WLW by our friends, we had our adventures. The friends were driving on to Munich and advised the fastest route. As they were in a fast German car, driven by a fast driving Frenchman, they were well ahead of us on the route and kept sending text messages advising of traffic and recommending getting on the “drive and ride” train to take us through the mountains. After following various misleading signs, the trampess was forced (good for improving her German, obviously) to enter the station which clearly was not the “drive and ride” one to get instructions to the one that was. Fortunately it was not far away. Also fortunately the WLW with its little Smart trailing behind just (and I do mean just) made the allowable dimensions for riding. Of course the tramp had to drive the WLW (and Smart) along the length of the train (which was not 100% straight) until he reached the WLW’s standing position. This was not as easy as it sounds: the wing mirrors (there are obviously no rear view mirrors in the WLW) are quite crucial to insuring that the vehicle is straight and that the Smart is coming along nicely (trailers do not always behave as they are told, the Smart’s trailer is no exception) and they were in serious danger of being knocked out of position more than once: the occasional vertical supports for the roof of the train (it was open like a cattle car – strange how it felt like a cattle car) did intrude on the width of the carriage which was already very tight. Having only a few inches on either side of the vehicle did not put the tramp in one of his best moods. It has to be said, though, that the tramp really did pass his HGV licence with flying colours and the WLW managed to take her position with only the occasional bump and with no displacement of the mirrors.
Would that the rest of the journey had gone so well! It was not long before the dashboard signalled engine failure 062 to the tramp. Being the chief technical expert, the trampess was asked what that meant. You can only imagine that the trampess’s response was swift but not reassuring (numbers 001-061 were unknown as well). The tramp was not amused. He pulled over, went through a few tests and miraculously the failure signal disappeared. Grumpily he pulled into traffic again. Shortly the engine failure signal came back on. At this point the trampess was deep in the manual searching frantically for what she knew would not be there, but without the search, the trampess’s life would not be worth living. The tramp was not assuaged; it was clear “we” did not know enough and if this happened while crossing the desert in north Africa we would be in big trouble. The trampess could not argue with the logic but was no more able to find the answer in the book than before. She did however come up with the 24 hour service number. The tramp pulled into a service station and called the number. It was an interesting conversation. Let us just say that it began with a series of questions which caused the tramp to erupt: “may I ask how many more irrelevant details of my life you would like for your data base before you actually intend to provide me with service? Do you actually know what enginge failure 062 is? Do you intend to tell me?” Dear reader, you know this conversation, you know that it often winds up in slammed down phones (how does one slam a mobile? Interesting thought). Fortunately, patience on both side was restored but, it did not mean the answer to the, one would have thought, straightforward question: what is engine failure 062. That would have to wait. She told the tramp that she would send out an engineer. He asked her to call back with the time. In the meantime, he tanked the WLW and the trampess made supper. It was eaten it what I would call, for want of a more original description, stony silence.
Just as the tramp had had enough and was going to drive off (being somewhat reassured by what his checks told him engine failure 062 was not), there was a banging on the door and in popped a friendly service engineer who told us to follow him. We had to wait briefly near a small railway station while he dashed back to his house (he had left the factory keys at home). Eventually we made it to the factory. The engineer hooked the WLW up to his computer and began hitting the keyboard. Eventually he returned to tell us that as it transpired, engine failure 062 was a signalling failure (yes, you got it in 1; it was telling the tramp that it couldn’t tell the tramp if everything was ok or not because it was having a little electronic failure – which since having been diagnosed has disappeared ). He said he couldn’t fix it (something about having it dealt with at the WLW’s annual checkup) but the vehicle was perfectly safe to drive. By now it was nearly midnight and the tramp asked if there was a reasonable place to stop back on the main road to Garmisch. He indicated that there was and gave us the name of the next service station with lay by area for trucks. Dear reader, we arrived there shortly and it was full of a serious number of unsavoury characters who looked like they were about to start taking the night’s supply of drugs. We drove through. After passing two more quiet lay bys, I begged the tramp to take the next one. He did and we both passed out, despite the traffic which continued through the night. The next day we made it to Garmisch in time for lunch.
Except that the tramp’s sister and husband don’t eat lunch, or for that matter breakfast. This was disconcerting to the tramp (and indeed your trampess) as not only do they eat all three, they have, as you know, been known to snack on nuts and chocolate to keep them going until lunch can be made. All this, while dropping kilos (it would have been rude to mention that the trampess was already a kilo lighter that the original target of 54.4). The tramp made the trampess promise that she would give no lectures on health or nutrition, but he did ask her to cook proper meals to which the relatives were invited. This she did and while they ate with relish, the tramp did not feel they had been converted. He was depressed that the sister who had recently had a hip operation was not yet walking – the lack of a physiotherapy regime troubled him deeply. It was good to make the visit but it was not one which cheered the soul. And so, when they left, we headed to Salzburg.
If Garmisch had a grey cloud over it for personal reasons, Salzburg had it for architectural and social ones. Apart from the very small, old centre (where the festival is held and where Mozart’s birthplace and the university are are), Salzburg could be located in the former DDR or maybe the grey, post-war housing estates of Glasgow. While the campsite overlooking the city was excellent, the drive to the festival was distinctly lacking in charm and the local supermarket had a depressing array of over-processed, over-sugared food and very little fresh produce; what there was, was in a very sorry state.
The festival was quite different. Our first event was the opening night of Otello – and spectacular it was – including the audience: black tie the rule, long gowns in the majority, photographers taking pictures of arriving dignitaries, champagne on every balcony and terrace (no one would dream of a glass of flat wine – none was to be seen!). Forewarned, the tramp and trampess, not wishing to let the locals down (particularly those who had gone to much trouble to secure us seats for sold out performances), had emerged from the WLW in BT and LG. The production was on the whole very successful: traditional in set and costume, good if not outstanding voices, but deeply moving performances and an outstanding performance by Ricardo Muti and the Vienna Philharmonic. Interesting then, that while the majority of the audience applauded enthusiastically, some significant minority felt the need to boo. Evidently, dressing so glamourously, gives one a sense of self-importance that results in such behaviour. In fact, the trampess has observed that dress seems to be a very strong indicator of audience behaviour: Schwarzenberg is formal in the evening (but not black tie) and informal at masterclasses. The audience is serious, knowledgeable, not easily won over to rapturous applause but fair. Verbier is casual, fun loving, and enthusiastic about everything (but the performances on the whole do merit the enthusiasm). Salzburg is seriously formal (some were even wearing black tie at an 11am concert at the Mozarteum – the chairman had warned the tramp that suit was required – though both he and the tramp removed jacket and tie back at his home for a most wonderful family lunch on the old farm he and his wife and 4 children have restored – a perfect antidote to the Salzburg we had come to know and dislike), knows it is the best music festival and that its audience undoubtedly has the best taste. If you can stay in your Buddha self, many performances are worth it (though the tramp did say that the concert on our last evening had glorious playing by the Vienna Philharmonic but the worst sung Kindertodenlieder he had ever heard – made sadder by the fact the young woman who sang it had a beautiful voice, just a very odd interpretation – and while he did not boo, he did not applaud).
We were not entirely unhappy when Tuesday came and it was time to push toward Zurich to pick up tramp son 1 who was arriving at the airport at 10pm to spend a long weekend in Bezau.
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