As mentioned, this is one explanation for your trampess’s long absence that is not entirely wrong. Year one of wandering, when the tramp swept her off her feet and into the WLW, there was no other home, though some were mooted – no doubt to make the trampess feel a little less like the Flying Dutchman and a little more like Eliza Bennet. It is always worth the effort. Both homes to be were being built so nothing was to happen until they were ready, months if not a year away. The tramps could go about their business knowing only that at a certain point cheques would have to be signed and furniture would have to come out of storage. Were that life were so simple. The second year both alternative homes became, well, glimmers in the tramp’s eyes but not real – in one way or another. The only thing to be done to ensure the possibility of a more permanent home (you know the kind, the ones that have an address attached to them) was to leave the WLW prematurely and solve the problems. In the one case, this meant an eyeball to eyeball encounter with the developers pointing out that the clear, unobstructed view on their model and simulated photographs neglected to reveal their intention to put very real heating, air-conditioning and other rather ugly service facilities on the top of the adjacent tower thus giving us a perfect, unobstructed view from every room of pure misery. Let us just say that resolving the problem and then finishing the apartment took some time (having lived abroad for so long I didn’t full appreciate what “decorator ready” meant. I think Nina Campbell would have expected floors and lighting but then most English houses suffer from rather different problems – decorator done but sadly, no hot water or heating). After camping out in a furnished flat to choose the alternative, finish it and move in, the last painting was hung just in time to catch the plane to tramp 3’s graduation on the west coast. For those of you who haven’t dealt with builders, it is always wise to have a very important family event by which time the building must be finished or cheques can no longer be written. Thankfully with 4 young tramps and a husband, your trampess has never been short of such events at critical moments.
After tramp 3’s moment in the sun – a wacky walk instead of pomp and circumstance - but I guess one has to expect that Silicon Valley will do it differently from Cambridge, the tramp and trampess abandoned children and headed very far east to make the Schubertiade once again. And the rest of that short summer was much as before – with the exception of visits from tramps 1, 2 and 3. Now it is one thing for a husband, tolerably confident of his relationship with his wife, to persuade her that being a gypsy would be an adventure; it is quite another thing for a young man to bring a girl friend into such circumstances – especially when the guest bed is the living/dining room and kitchen of the parent’s and when breakfast is generally speaking around 7 am (ie, well before noon). To be fair, tramp 1 came with his best friend since the age of 3 (financee was hard working and couldn’t leave the US)– they arrived in the middle of the night and knew that a big hike up the mountain would begin after an early breakfast. But despite being overworked and exhausted, they were bright eyed and eager to go – we made it in record time to Mount Fort where we ate a rather disgusting but stick to the ribs lunch in the strong sun and where strangely, we were bothered by a bee. The next day was an early start as they had to get from Verbier to Gstaad in time for lunch. After a huge breakfast to keep them going ,big hugs and they were off. The other tramp’s visits required perhaps less stamina but much more bravery.
Tramp 2’s arrival with his girl friend was a little more exciting since they came by train and bus stopping somewhere on the hill from le Chable to Verbier. Close but not quite walking distance with bags to the WLW. With the Smart only holding two (and so far we have not been successful in getting one of those cute little remote controls to drive it) and with tramp 2 and girl friend having more luggage than one might expect for a round the world back pack expedition the Smart was in a difficult position. In the end, the luggage was given car preference and the surplus humans just had to hike from the bus stop to the WLW – a foretaste of the hikes to come. As tramp 2 and GF were on the last leg of their round the world trip (tramp 2 deciding to take a year off work – his last day being one week before the crash, not that he knew the crash was coming – did I mention he was with Lehman in NYC? – with GF who had just graduated and decided to have a break while applying to grad school), they were at least used to living in hostels rather than 5 star hotels. The camper van they had hired in Australia and New Zealand were decidedly smaller than the tramp’s so they were, comparatively, feeling as though they had landed in the lap of luxury. In fact they had such a good time that they booked a second visit. Now tramp 2 and GF have been a long time pair, and after all had been on the road for a long time together, so one expected the visit to go well, but surprises are always possible especially when several people have to occupy a small space – and share a bathroom. None occurred and the second visit went as well as the first.
Tramp 3 turned up with his GF who happily is a most civilising influence on him (rugby players need civilising and it can’t happen too soon). We had only briefly met the GF at graduation so booking 11 days in the WLW was very brave. Her mother should be proud of her: she was cheerful at breakfast, hiked everywhere (in sweet little keds, I did offer to outfit her with proper hiking boots but she swore she was ok), and even, in the middle of a minor water crisis, went to the stream to bathe and wash her hair. As an inveterate photographer, she even photographed the two of them frolicking in the very rocky mini-waterfall. Perhaps not a purple heart but definitely in there way above Miss Congeniality.
And then the apartment in London fell through (the cheque had just been lodged with the tramps’ lawyers when the other side announced the receipt of a bid 40% higher than ours – this in a recession when no, I repeat no, houses in London were selling). A friend came to the rescue by responding to a frantic email, by introducing us to an agent who dealt with Albany (where he lives). Albany, for those of you who don’t know it, is quite the opposite of the modern new penthouse in Covent Garden the tramps had just lost. It is early 19th C, was built for gentlemen bachelors (yes no women allowed until very recently) – actors, politicians and other rogues were the usual inhabitants (Lord Byron, Gladstone, and Terrance Stamp were previous tenants, just to give an indication that the trampess does not exaggerate). My friend announced that a set was about to become available (do not think for one moment that such a place would call a flat a flat – such quirky places have their own vocabularies) and while it needed “some work” he thought it might just be the ticket. Result! And after only 3 emails!! The trampess was sent to England to check it out, report back, and secure the deal. The “small amount of work” required building permission (it is grade 1 listed which is the best – I mean the worst) despite being what most people would consider essential : hot water, a shower (can anyone tell me how people bathe in cold water; I mean I have heard of cold showers but cold baths?? only for injured rugby players, please), perhaps a bit of heating (double glazing NOT allowed and you know what those leaky sash window are liked), oh yes and a kitchen. While we were optimistic that the permissions would be forthcoming, there were moments when we were biting fingernails – the master bedroom really did depend on the removal of a lethal staircase to the top set (the servant’s quarters – just think Gosford Park and you have an idea) and the Westminster inspector needed to be convinced that the staircase was not original for it to be removed. Happily the 84 year old most elegant, consultant architect to Albany was not only sure it was not original, he declared it an abomination – in writing! (the trampess adores older, elegant men and none less than this one). Happily the day was won, Westminster approved, and English Heritage decided not to get involved.
The trip back to London involved dropping the trampess at Geneva airport and not picking her up from Toulouse (luckily she hitched a ride ) as the tramp drove on to Queille with tramp 3 and GF for the 25th wedding anniversary of one of the trampess’s oldest friends. Black tie of course – you can’t have a party in a castle and not have it be black tie. With email and mobile phones it was easy to hook up with my ride in London even before takeoff. Toulouse, it turned out, was not the closest airport but we made it in time to get something of a snack in Mirepoix before hitting the castle (I didn’t know it, but would find out later, hitting was a more apposite word than one might imagine – wait for this year’s tale). The tramp had negotiated water and electricity with the caretaker so all was well. GF had two (!) perfectly suitable dresses (it was a two night party) but tramp 3 had to make do with a black tie, white shirt and dark trousers. But it was warm and many jackets were removed so he blended in soon enough (as GF’s photos will testify).
More eventful was dropping tramp 3 and GF at Lyon airport, not for them but for the tramp. Following the signs, we found ourselves in the short term car park (just dropping off was not an option offered by the French – every tourist euro helps!). No problem. Well, yes, actually a very big problem as we went to leave there was a low hanging tube saying 2.5m maximum height (or something similar). We were ever so slightly taller than that, but there is no arguing with one of those big bars – not if you want to keep your satellite dishes. What to do? Since the trampess is the designated French speaker for all emergencies, she had to go into the airport and explain that the WLW had just entered a lobster trap (try explaining that in French!). Luckily, the chief controller was sympatique (I won’t mention how many little windows I had to go to before I found someone who could help) and he came out and stopped traffic for the tramp so that he could back out of the parking lot (it sounds easy but with the trailer behind and backing into a one way system, I can assure it is not, not to mention the barrier at the entrance and the stream of cars wanting in)!! Now, the tramps have been to car parks they couldn’t get into, but this was a first: in yes, out, no. Cartesian logic??
On to the Schubertiade, again, and to Fischer-Dieskau’s totally magnificent master classes – plus a few concerts, many hikes and then back to London where the servant’s quarters of Albany had been transformed (let’s face it having a non-shared bathroom and a small kitchen plus underfloor heating and a washing machine and dryer is definitely a move up) but the main set was still waiting for permissions. Nothing to do but high tail it off to Miami for hard work in the gym, long walks on the beach and the arrival of tramps 1,2,3, and 4, who were slightly concerned that since their parents had become vegan, goose might not be on the menu for Christmas (didn’t I suggest we had wandered off to adopt some strange, alternative life style?). They were relieved that a dispensation from the rules extended to Christmas and two geese were cooked (it was of course the additional 2 GFs that did it).
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Friday, 10 September 2010
The Return of the Trampess and the Great Fall
You would certainly be excused for thinking that your trampess had given up on her life on the road, or that the tramp’s beloved WLW had died, or that they had both wandered off into some even stranger alternative life style, or fallen off a cliff, or seen Naples and died. The fact is that all of those are partially correct, if not quite in that order.
The orange grove in Pompeii was lovely – and the oranges free, edible, abundant and even for the trampess an easy pick. In the weeks the trampess was back in London, doing her London things, the tramp conquered Pompeii – every house, every corner of the old Roman city became familiar to him. He wandered in and out freely every day (such are the delights of being an OAP in the EU – culture becomes almost always free) and became friends with the guards at the back gate – this was to prove very useful when the trampess returned. Strictly speaking, if one exits the historical site and wants to return (after lunch for example), one has to pay again. As the tramp will tell you, no self respecting lover of Roman history could possible explore the ruins of Pompeii in either one morning or one afternoon no matter how early the rising or setting of the sun. the trampess, not quite an OAP yet, does not have the tramp’s free entry privileges so paying twice a day for the several days that the tramp’s personal, in depth guided tour required would clearly be over the top. But good friends that he became with the back door guards, meant that la senora came and went with the tramp at lunch time for no additional fiscal burden.
As the stay in Pompeii was about to come to an end, the trampess asked, if in her weeks away, the tramp had managed to visit Naples (together they used the local railway – that graffiti is an Italian word is obvious for to anyone who has visited the mezzogiorno - for little day trips to Capri to revisit the home of Axel Munthe in Anacapri and to Herculaneum, but never dear reader to Naples). He had not. It was clearly impossible to leave Pompeii without taking the short train ride to Naples, especially when the trampess realised that the Masaccio Crucifixion is in the Capo di Monte museum there. As it transpires that is not all that is in this museum, in a park that is an oasis in the middle of an otherwise unbelievable city. Never have I been told so many times (by, it must be added, so many sweet, charming people), to beware of robbers who would steal my watch – now if this had been the sort of watch that Kiri wears in advertisements in the Economist, I could quite understand the warning, but dear reader, the trampess’s watch cost less than $60 at Wal-Mart!! It is possible that perhaps the watch could pass for something a little more expensive if the other accessories were up to scratch, but wearing my scruffiest jeans, a hoodie and a t-shirt, no Hermes handbag, no Hermes scarf and not even a whiff of Chanel No 5, I was trying to blend into the background as best I knew how. Perhaps it was the blonde hair (real, not the unbelievable colour of blonde sported by the locals) and the extra foot in height that gave me an aura of wealth. More likely it is just that the robbers here are not as discerning as the ones on Earls Court Road (they know which Rolexes are worth tens of thousands not just thousands and certainly can only be bothered to steal the former). Somehow, despite our inability to blend in, we managed to see Naples without incident: we fainted from the sheer wonder of the first room in the museum (practically all Titians with the odd Raphael), admired the Pompeian mosaics from the archaeological museum, found an inconspicuous, local restaurant that treated us like long, lost friends (at the same time as respecting their valued local habitués), wandered through the streets (from one end to another changing from palazzi and cathedrals to tenements), found the train back to Pompeii (a trick in itself – we had no map), and returned to Pompeii with all our belongings, and ourselves, intact. Not without deep breathing and a ferocious air of invincibility (and it has to be said, the fact that the tramp is twice as tall as the average Neapolitan does help). So we saw Naples and didn’t, in the words of Gore Vidal, drop dead.
Nor, returning to why my absence has been so long, have the tramps fallen out of love with tramping, though they have been challenged on other fronts. In fact, the tramp declared the first two years so successful that he hoped the trampess didn’t feel it was too crazy or too extravagant that he traded in the old (if two years be old) WLW for a rather more convenient (and at the same time more luxurious one). The trampess, not having been born yesterday, could see this coming but when she first saw WLW marquee II, she nearly fainted: 4m high, 11m long and 2.55m wide (before the living room slides out – you may well ask), but with numerous conveniences that, in theory, and one suspects, in practice do simplify life. For one, the Smart the tramps use for darting to concerts, parties and food shopping no longer has to travel in solitary confinement on a trailer behind the WLW. It now has its own, very smart garage with an hydraulically controlled ramp. This makes reversing (as for example down long winding roads in Sermonetta) much less troublesome. The water (ah, the many water sagas of the old WLW) is so, well, normal: no pump to turn on and off, no horrid mistakes as a result, and as for the removal of water, while still not the sweetest of jobs, a lot less troublesome – long hoses and a pumping system which speeds the process – why one can off load most discreetly – even, as experience as shown, into the waste pipe in the garage of a normal house (not that many of my friends . . . ). Did I mention the dishwasher and washing machine? The tramp thinks of everything! Or the built in wifi? no more searches for internet cafes with free wifi – I am still getting Italian spam no doubt from our Venetian sojourn. Perhaps another time I will mention that turning on the television resulted in complete failure and required further instructions from the lovely team in Bohmte who built this lovely machine. I may also then tell you that it came complete with 6 full ringbinders of instructions which would take years for your trampess to read given the most interesting (how to operate the washer/dryer for example) were in German only! Or I might even reveal how many times the wifi didn’t work, didn’t believe our password or our server name or countless other minor details which interrupted an otherwise perfect service. Let me instead switch to the falling off a cliff excuse for no longer being present.
The tramps once more find themselves at the Schubertiade, not in the beloved campground of Bezau (our new height and length has made entry impossible) but in the garden of the manager of our favourite sporting goods store. The store is in Bezau but the garden is in Mellau. Mellau, you might remember, is the base for the assault of Kanisfluh. And handy it is that our location has changed: the ancient lift which serviced Baumgarten is closed this summer for much need restoration (in fact I suspect replacement is more correct) so hikes there while as beautiful as ever would become rather longer since a 3 hour hike up would necessitate a 3 hour hike down. Perhaps good for effortless weight loss (more about that later, too – let’s just say that London takes its toll) but less good for the joints (not that I have anything to complain about in that area but the tramp is known for being much more sensitive to physical conditions than the trampess). The tramp had been practicing his assault on Kanisfluh while the trampess returned to London for a week of work and pleasure. While quite fit after fewer hikes in Verbier that had been hoped for, the tramp was eager to begin a serious daily hiking regime in Mellau. So when the trampess arrived in Mellau (two trains, two planes, three trains and two buses and two days from her start in Glyndebourne) she found the position most agreeable and the tramp ready for takeoff. A new path up had been discovered and while somewhat steeper, narrower and very rocky it nonetheless offered several advantages over the old route: the arrival at the top is just under the lift station and the narrow path is somehow friendly and less daunting though no less exhausting. The trampess approved. Paths were alternated from day to day and the combination of music and hiking became, once more part of daily life. Now you may remember that Kanisfluh is very steep and that the trampess and tramp 1 reached the top in fog only to realise, as they were shaking from the cold and eating from a tin of sardines, that when the fog lifted they were sitting on the edge of a cliff, which if they had leaned backwards might have resulting in a long, very long, roll down to Mellau.
As the tramps were about to head out for a quick hike up to the lift station (the snow has been early this year and a hike to the very top has been ruled out by the tramp who did it once before the snow and has declared that it would definitely be limb if not life threatening at this point), the tramp, proud of having provided the trampess with a washing machine, suggested that it might be time to use it and if a wash were put on before the hike up it might just be ready for drying by the time the tramps returned. It then occurred to the tramp to suggest to the trampess that since she is always faster perhaps it would be expedient for her to zoom to the top and come down to ensure that the dryer could be used and the sheets could go back on the bed before the tramps headed out to their evening concert. Thinking this was the perfect excuse for a new personal best, the trampess headed up. Everything was going well, until, daydreaming a bit, she realised she had lost the trail. Aaarrrggghh this could cost time! A quick check told me the path was off to the right, but then that seemed not to be turning in the right direction. Aaarrrggghhh again, precious moments slipping. Once more look and it appeared the path could be rejoined by a bit of up hill, off piste climbing. Not a daunting task with my Nordic sticks though the ground was mushy and there were several deep indentations (cows perhaps) so care was the operative word, not speed, not that speed in such conditions was even possible. As your trampess was traversing the very uphill, but relatively short, ground there appeared to be a banging from the cable car overhead. Somehow, looking up, I managed not to look down (an oxymoron I know but think of it as a timing error) and stepped into a rather deep mushy hole. Result? A rather splendid double backward somersault with sticks. I have no idea what it looked like from above but from my perspective it was amazing – I had visions of making it all the way down to Mellau (trees allowing) with increasing momentum and a fine covering of mud all over. How I managed to keep the sticks from damaging me or being damaged I have no idea; the big but soft backpack no doubt cushioned my back and protected my neck. When I picked myself up, somewhat lower, than ideal, I did at least see a clear way back to the trail (every cloud etc) and proceeded to head in that direction. It was a shame that I had run out of water as I was feeling slightly dehydrated but being quite near the top, your trampess realised that fainting would have been an unnecessary complication. While I did not set a new PB I did arrive at the lift in the same time as the last effort. Clearly there is room for improvement and not losing the trail should clinch the deal. I joyfully (truly) jumped into the cabin to go down when the attendant (a charming young Austrian) came over and asked if I was the one who had taken a tumble (surely I wasn’t that muddy??) – clearly my little incidente had been seen by passengers overhead and they had reported it on landing. I laughed and admitted it was I. He smiled and waved me on no doubt happy that he didn’t have to mount a rescue operation! The clothes went into dry mode and your trampess managed to remove all her muddy clothing before the tramp returned. All was going well, and my klutziness might never have been discovered had he not noticed my iPhone case was muddy. Did the trampess perchance have a fall? The look on his face when I described my dazzling manoeuvre was not to be believed. (I am thinking of petitioning the Olympic committee to include double backward downhill somersaults with Nordic sticks in the next gymnastics competition – it is clear I am a natural.)
The orange grove in Pompeii was lovely – and the oranges free, edible, abundant and even for the trampess an easy pick. In the weeks the trampess was back in London, doing her London things, the tramp conquered Pompeii – every house, every corner of the old Roman city became familiar to him. He wandered in and out freely every day (such are the delights of being an OAP in the EU – culture becomes almost always free) and became friends with the guards at the back gate – this was to prove very useful when the trampess returned. Strictly speaking, if one exits the historical site and wants to return (after lunch for example), one has to pay again. As the tramp will tell you, no self respecting lover of Roman history could possible explore the ruins of Pompeii in either one morning or one afternoon no matter how early the rising or setting of the sun. the trampess, not quite an OAP yet, does not have the tramp’s free entry privileges so paying twice a day for the several days that the tramp’s personal, in depth guided tour required would clearly be over the top. But good friends that he became with the back door guards, meant that la senora came and went with the tramp at lunch time for no additional fiscal burden.
As the stay in Pompeii was about to come to an end, the trampess asked, if in her weeks away, the tramp had managed to visit Naples (together they used the local railway – that graffiti is an Italian word is obvious for to anyone who has visited the mezzogiorno - for little day trips to Capri to revisit the home of Axel Munthe in Anacapri and to Herculaneum, but never dear reader to Naples). He had not. It was clearly impossible to leave Pompeii without taking the short train ride to Naples, especially when the trampess realised that the Masaccio Crucifixion is in the Capo di Monte museum there. As it transpires that is not all that is in this museum, in a park that is an oasis in the middle of an otherwise unbelievable city. Never have I been told so many times (by, it must be added, so many sweet, charming people), to beware of robbers who would steal my watch – now if this had been the sort of watch that Kiri wears in advertisements in the Economist, I could quite understand the warning, but dear reader, the trampess’s watch cost less than $60 at Wal-Mart!! It is possible that perhaps the watch could pass for something a little more expensive if the other accessories were up to scratch, but wearing my scruffiest jeans, a hoodie and a t-shirt, no Hermes handbag, no Hermes scarf and not even a whiff of Chanel No 5, I was trying to blend into the background as best I knew how. Perhaps it was the blonde hair (real, not the unbelievable colour of blonde sported by the locals) and the extra foot in height that gave me an aura of wealth. More likely it is just that the robbers here are not as discerning as the ones on Earls Court Road (they know which Rolexes are worth tens of thousands not just thousands and certainly can only be bothered to steal the former). Somehow, despite our inability to blend in, we managed to see Naples without incident: we fainted from the sheer wonder of the first room in the museum (practically all Titians with the odd Raphael), admired the Pompeian mosaics from the archaeological museum, found an inconspicuous, local restaurant that treated us like long, lost friends (at the same time as respecting their valued local habitués), wandered through the streets (from one end to another changing from palazzi and cathedrals to tenements), found the train back to Pompeii (a trick in itself – we had no map), and returned to Pompeii with all our belongings, and ourselves, intact. Not without deep breathing and a ferocious air of invincibility (and it has to be said, the fact that the tramp is twice as tall as the average Neapolitan does help). So we saw Naples and didn’t, in the words of Gore Vidal, drop dead.
Nor, returning to why my absence has been so long, have the tramps fallen out of love with tramping, though they have been challenged on other fronts. In fact, the tramp declared the first two years so successful that he hoped the trampess didn’t feel it was too crazy or too extravagant that he traded in the old (if two years be old) WLW for a rather more convenient (and at the same time more luxurious one). The trampess, not having been born yesterday, could see this coming but when she first saw WLW marquee II, she nearly fainted: 4m high, 11m long and 2.55m wide (before the living room slides out – you may well ask), but with numerous conveniences that, in theory, and one suspects, in practice do simplify life. For one, the Smart the tramps use for darting to concerts, parties and food shopping no longer has to travel in solitary confinement on a trailer behind the WLW. It now has its own, very smart garage with an hydraulically controlled ramp. This makes reversing (as for example down long winding roads in Sermonetta) much less troublesome. The water (ah, the many water sagas of the old WLW) is so, well, normal: no pump to turn on and off, no horrid mistakes as a result, and as for the removal of water, while still not the sweetest of jobs, a lot less troublesome – long hoses and a pumping system which speeds the process – why one can off load most discreetly – even, as experience as shown, into the waste pipe in the garage of a normal house (not that many of my friends . . . ). Did I mention the dishwasher and washing machine? The tramp thinks of everything! Or the built in wifi? no more searches for internet cafes with free wifi – I am still getting Italian spam no doubt from our Venetian sojourn. Perhaps another time I will mention that turning on the television resulted in complete failure and required further instructions from the lovely team in Bohmte who built this lovely machine. I may also then tell you that it came complete with 6 full ringbinders of instructions which would take years for your trampess to read given the most interesting (how to operate the washer/dryer for example) were in German only! Or I might even reveal how many times the wifi didn’t work, didn’t believe our password or our server name or countless other minor details which interrupted an otherwise perfect service. Let me instead switch to the falling off a cliff excuse for no longer being present.
The tramps once more find themselves at the Schubertiade, not in the beloved campground of Bezau (our new height and length has made entry impossible) but in the garden of the manager of our favourite sporting goods store. The store is in Bezau but the garden is in Mellau. Mellau, you might remember, is the base for the assault of Kanisfluh. And handy it is that our location has changed: the ancient lift which serviced Baumgarten is closed this summer for much need restoration (in fact I suspect replacement is more correct) so hikes there while as beautiful as ever would become rather longer since a 3 hour hike up would necessitate a 3 hour hike down. Perhaps good for effortless weight loss (more about that later, too – let’s just say that London takes its toll) but less good for the joints (not that I have anything to complain about in that area but the tramp is known for being much more sensitive to physical conditions than the trampess). The tramp had been practicing his assault on Kanisfluh while the trampess returned to London for a week of work and pleasure. While quite fit after fewer hikes in Verbier that had been hoped for, the tramp was eager to begin a serious daily hiking regime in Mellau. So when the trampess arrived in Mellau (two trains, two planes, three trains and two buses and two days from her start in Glyndebourne) she found the position most agreeable and the tramp ready for takeoff. A new path up had been discovered and while somewhat steeper, narrower and very rocky it nonetheless offered several advantages over the old route: the arrival at the top is just under the lift station and the narrow path is somehow friendly and less daunting though no less exhausting. The trampess approved. Paths were alternated from day to day and the combination of music and hiking became, once more part of daily life. Now you may remember that Kanisfluh is very steep and that the trampess and tramp 1 reached the top in fog only to realise, as they were shaking from the cold and eating from a tin of sardines, that when the fog lifted they were sitting on the edge of a cliff, which if they had leaned backwards might have resulting in a long, very long, roll down to Mellau.
As the tramps were about to head out for a quick hike up to the lift station (the snow has been early this year and a hike to the very top has been ruled out by the tramp who did it once before the snow and has declared that it would definitely be limb if not life threatening at this point), the tramp, proud of having provided the trampess with a washing machine, suggested that it might be time to use it and if a wash were put on before the hike up it might just be ready for drying by the time the tramps returned. It then occurred to the tramp to suggest to the trampess that since she is always faster perhaps it would be expedient for her to zoom to the top and come down to ensure that the dryer could be used and the sheets could go back on the bed before the tramps headed out to their evening concert. Thinking this was the perfect excuse for a new personal best, the trampess headed up. Everything was going well, until, daydreaming a bit, she realised she had lost the trail. Aaarrrggghh this could cost time! A quick check told me the path was off to the right, but then that seemed not to be turning in the right direction. Aaarrrggghhh again, precious moments slipping. Once more look and it appeared the path could be rejoined by a bit of up hill, off piste climbing. Not a daunting task with my Nordic sticks though the ground was mushy and there were several deep indentations (cows perhaps) so care was the operative word, not speed, not that speed in such conditions was even possible. As your trampess was traversing the very uphill, but relatively short, ground there appeared to be a banging from the cable car overhead. Somehow, looking up, I managed not to look down (an oxymoron I know but think of it as a timing error) and stepped into a rather deep mushy hole. Result? A rather splendid double backward somersault with sticks. I have no idea what it looked like from above but from my perspective it was amazing – I had visions of making it all the way down to Mellau (trees allowing) with increasing momentum and a fine covering of mud all over. How I managed to keep the sticks from damaging me or being damaged I have no idea; the big but soft backpack no doubt cushioned my back and protected my neck. When I picked myself up, somewhat lower, than ideal, I did at least see a clear way back to the trail (every cloud etc) and proceeded to head in that direction. It was a shame that I had run out of water as I was feeling slightly dehydrated but being quite near the top, your trampess realised that fainting would have been an unnecessary complication. While I did not set a new PB I did arrive at the lift in the same time as the last effort. Clearly there is room for improvement and not losing the trail should clinch the deal. I joyfully (truly) jumped into the cabin to go down when the attendant (a charming young Austrian) came over and asked if I was the one who had taken a tumble (surely I wasn’t that muddy??) – clearly my little incidente had been seen by passengers overhead and they had reported it on landing. I laughed and admitted it was I. He smiled and waved me on no doubt happy that he didn’t have to mount a rescue operation! The clothes went into dry mode and your trampess managed to remove all her muddy clothing before the tramp returned. All was going well, and my klutziness might never have been discovered had he not noticed my iPhone case was muddy. Did the trampess perchance have a fall? The look on his face when I described my dazzling manoeuvre was not to be believed. (I am thinking of petitioning the Olympic committee to include double backward downhill somersaults with Nordic sticks in the next gymnastics competition – it is clear I am a natural.)
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