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.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
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
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
Monday, 8 December 2008
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
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
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
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.
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.
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