Tough Love, Good Music and Fine Friends

The second half of the Schubertiade began for us with – yes you guessed it – early morning master classes, voice only. Only a day’s drive from Verbier, but like crossing the Continental Divide culturally. The class has 5 students, all sopranos, of which 1 was Austrian, 2 German, 1 Texan (a former blues and R&R singer – let’s not call Austria culturally prejudiced!) and 1 Japanese. The master is Edith Mathis and she is a master (even with only half a voice – she is in her 70’s - you can see that she had the musical fluidity of Schwarzkopf), though she looks like a rather old-fashioned school teacher (slim, very erect, neatly but not remarkably dressed, no make-up – not a glamorous Kiri - and with glasses on a cord and pencil in hand). The students all dressed well, do not drink on stage (every 3 seconds in Verbier the students were guzzling water as if their vocal chords need lubrication from the outside not the inside!), have prepared (music and text) their pieces (our young Verbier singers were struggling with both text and music and constantly checked the score – not good)– copies of which are given to the master and the pianist (who is very good); they work solidly for the 1/2hr+ they are on stage every day, no giggling, joking or horsing around or playing for sympathy from the audience (not that they would get it from this very serious audience, all of whom have paid to attend and all of whom have arrived before class begins). At the end of their work session, EM summarises the important points and then hands back their copies of the score with her notes written on them to help them remember her comments.

The tramp is missing a baritone in the group (he gets tired of sopranos, and baritones, let’s face it, are easy listening) but is very impressed at the quality of the voices (not a shrill soprano in the group), their hard work, and EM’s obvious mastery. The fun is in the mastery, not in fooling around on stage. They clearly are enjoying the work and benefiting from it. No doubt at Verbier they would find the regime here very tough love but your trampess predicts that at the end of the week there will be 5 very happy, much improved voices throwing bouquets at Fr Mathis. Clearly the audience, which is largely ancient (I think we bring the average age down but there are a few young people in the crowd and the room is filled) approves. The only difficulty with these classes is their start time, which interferes with our morning hikes. The second day, the tramp got up early and hiked before breakfast so he could get in his exercise and we’d still make the 10am class. Your trampess woke a bit later (it is well known that sleep is very restorative to the body and very important, and one should not be artificially awakened if at all possible – please refer to the Stanford sleep guru and to Canyon Ranch if you need independent evidence and do not take your trampess’s word for it) and started preparing lunch so that when we got home at 1:15 we could eat. A timely and well-fed tramp is a happy tramp (and one whose natural instinct to wake a sleeping body as early as 5:30am is more naturally disposed to letting a sleeping trampess lie when he knows it might result in a later, bigger benefit – it has taken a number of years to reach this level of understanding, do not despair if you do not achieve the same results immediately).

On Sunday with no classes, your trampess had a nice long hike - though she pegged it as our host relayed that there would be a mass at 11am on the mountain for the mountain rescue service of which he is a stalwart member. Naturally, as the Catholic in the family your trampess had to be there (and this being Austria, where even the village churches hold hundreds and are full, it pays to attend just to assure the natives one is part of the community). It was enchanting – I sat on my little Mamut inflatable cushion (they had run out of pews – and I thought that the few seats left should be for the truly elderly or infirm). One horn and one trumpet for music (beautifully played), the priest even had a microphone, and afterwards there were sausages and rolls for everyone (it looked a little like the multiplication of the loaves and fishes!) – your trampess left at this point (hot dogs and white rolls not being my idea of a healthy meal – not to mention the hungry tramp left behind!) to make a greener lunch for the home team. The tramp had hiked up the short way direct to the bergbahn so missed the mass (as he intended!) and was down by noon.
The next evening English friends came to dinner and it seems I must have been only 10 minutes behind them on the trail up the mountain – they had hiked right past where I sat for mass some few minutes later. They wondered what was going on (mass hadn’t started yet so it was not completely obvious just what kind of gathering it was – what with everyone in hiking clothes and a table of food and drink set up) but didn’t stay to find out. My three course vegan dinner ended with a Rote Grueze (one of the tramp’s favourites – and as it transpired one of our guest’s favourites as well). Your trampess may be making some converts to the plant food diet – remarkably none of our guests seem to be disappointed in the lack of animal protein on their plate (of course they are all terribly polite and wouldn’t say, “so where’s the meat?” but invitations are readily accepted for a second time, plates are cleaned and faces are smiling) and many remark how much better they feel after a lighter but filling meal. Having solved most of the problems of the world (which at the moment seem to be rather many), we arranged to meet again for dinner before a late evening concert later in the week at a restaurant in Schwarzenberg. While trying to keep to a vegan diet in a Swiss restaurant was nigh on impossible (unless one stuck to plain pasta or boiled potatoes with carrots – yuck! What do they think? That just because I don’t eat meat I have no taste??), it transpires that the Austrians are much more inventive (it must be that old Gemuetlichkeit). So when we turned up at the Adler in Schwarzenberg, we were even asked if we were vegetarian or vegan! Wonderful things started to appear (especially, it has to be said, for your trampess as being her father’s daughter she is a real mushroom eater – and Pfifferlinge are in season) and even the tramp agreed (reluctantly as he likes to keep the trampess in the kitchen) that we ate well without going off-piste.

By the end of the week, your trampess was officially master classed out. Although if Fischer-Dieskau had not cancelled due to infirmity she would have managed to find a second wind for a second week (perhaps including baritones!). The concerts were a pleasure, and I can say conclusively that the tramps will go to any concert by Pregardien or Bostridge. Pregardien’s Erlkoenig was the best we have ever heard (it is not my favourite poem but I have to admit that he was outstanding so I had to love it despite myself). Bostridge’s Winterreise was simply the best ever. Werner Guera on the other hand, whom we heard for the first time, did not add anything to the understanding of die Schoene Muellerin. He has a nice enough voice and seems to be a rather sweet person but reading every word of the rant of der Jaeger does rather diminish the impact of the song (not to mention the music stand often obscuring his face – and therefore expression). What is it with these guys (Quasthoff has been doing it, too, lately) that they don’t even know the words of DSM which, let’s face it, must be entry level Schubert for a lieder singer??? Pregardien gave a much more diverse, obscure and demanding programme and he had no music stand for the text. Is your trampess just turning into a grumpy old woman or is it not unacceptable to give a lieder concert standing behind a music stand????

Master classes finished, the tramps could follow their usual routine of morning hikes – though with the tramp feeling stronger and more energetic the one day up, one day off has been modified and now the pattern is one day up, one day a valley walk (less demanding than 1,000 vertical metres). Your trampess did persuade her tramp though to hike from Mellau to Bizau to the famous Schwanen restaurant – you may remember the famous Schwanen (very well reviewed in the Gault-Millau) as the cook is the keeper of the culinary art of Hildegard von Bingen (the famous 11/12th century abbess, composer of sacred music – still played in the Farm Street Church and no doubt others – and herbal expert, not to mention saint who lived to her nineties – 3 lifetimes in those days, so definitely a woman to be reckoned with as is, indeed, her latter day Austrian acolyte). She may be versed in ancient arts but Antonia does have a very up to date website on which your trampess discovered that she offers special fasting days (imagine going to a restaurant to fast! – well it is also a hotel so perhaps the concept is not quite as outrageous as stone soup) and of course detox days which invariable focus on – yes, you guessed it – a vegetable diet heavy on nutrient rich but calorie light foods. Just the ticket. Your trampess emailed a request for a vegetable meal, received a positive reply, made a reservation and soon the tramps were hiking over the mountain and through the woods . . .

In order to look reasonable for lunch (though one can show up in smart restaurants in full hiking gear) your trampess wore a rather fetching (but informal) pale grey knit dress (scoop neck, sleeveless and a long balloon skirt with big belt) but what to do on the feet???? Solution came in the form of the famous five finger running shoes – a lighter Mary Jane style in pink and pale grey. What could be chicer? (the same outfit in Verbier met with mixed reception – everyone liked the dress and some thought the shoes so crazy as to be adorable; others, well, let’s just say I had to flash Manolo’s at the next concert to redeem myself). While the running shoes weren’t quite as good on the stony paths as the hiking version, they saw your trampess through and after the 1 ½ hour walk, she and the tramp were ready for a culinary treat. We were not disappointed! Course after course arrived and all delicious (though again it must be said that the tramp’s unfortunate allergy to mushrooms left him slightly disadvantaged but then Antonia took pity on him and gave him seconds to make sure he had had enough to eat! One could get used to Austrian hospitality – or perhaps our Antonia is also aspiring to sainthood). The tramps did go off-piste ever so slightly when it came to pudding (the only real piste choice being sorbet which is about as sugar intense as it comes, short of eating pure sugar). The tramp found a pineapple crumble irresistible and the trampess could not say no to an elderberry compote with Himmelschuesseleis (I mean, offered ice cream made of the keys to heaven, could you?). Luckily we had the reverse hike to reach home so the major meal and minor breach of the no sugar, no dairy rule proved to have no damaging effect on the scale the next morning. Perfection.

Diner sur l’Herbe, an English Speaking, But Still Clueless Navigatrix and the Wet Charm of Austria

Obviously the tramps could not leave Verbier without a farewell party for their new best friends and extreme sport fanatics, so it was decided to have a picnic at the WLW. Smart phones were consulted for weather forecasts and a date was set. The trampess had a contingency indoor seating plan just in case the weather tripped us up at the last minute, though even that became dicey since at the last minute, numbers increased – one goddaughter down but another one added plus the very best friend ever of one of the interns (such people cannot be left uninvited just because there are not enough seats in the WLW – the trampess doubled her prayers for good weather). And of course there were the princesses. Now it is your trampess’s experience that large dogs (in this specific case, golden retrievers) are much more biddable than small ones (for example Scottish terriers of which the trampess has had significant experience) but they do take up space and the thought of two large, wet, golden retrievers trying to be comfortable in the tramps’ bathroom (the only place there would be room other than the tramps’ bed – and remember the tramp is German and was raised with outdoor living gun dogs, not house dogs, so one doesn’t even contemplate the possible reaction he might have to two large wet dogs in his bed!) was not one that gave the trampess great comfort when she contemplated the possibility of a mid-dinner, sudden thunderstorm, such as the one that happened the night before. After all in the mountains, anything can happen.

Luckily, the trampess’s prayers were answered and the weather was divine. The only real issue was how, with three burners and four pots (of a not very large size), 8 people of whom 5 were under 30 (meaning, have big appetites – especially if they hiked up the mountain to get to dinner) were going to be fed. Hot potting of course! And in the Italian tradition, (or Mediterranean at least since the dish in question was more Lebanese than Italian) food that is as good at room temperature as hot. Solution: a large bowl of tabbouleh, a very large (read gigantic) salad (not for you trampess two lettuce leafs pushed across the plate for half an hour in the pretence of eating a “light” meal) full of tomatoes, avocados and other wonderful fruits and greens, a massive ratatouille (a safer bet than one of the trampess’s hot vegetable curries), quinoa to feed the starving masses, and – to please the tramp – curried spinach. The guests brought one marvellous Middle Eastern dish (sweet potatoes, chick peas, aubergine, tomatoes, lots of garlic and rich spices – happily accommodating the vegan life-style they were visiting) which reminded the trampess of her one trip to Morocco where the social high poiont was going to an amazing fancy dress birthday party – a veritable banquet with mountain drummers in the courtyard to greet us and exotically beautiful transvestite belly dancers as the post-dinner entertainment and your trampess dressed as the gypsy she was late to become! The young perfectly trained guests also brought one large perfectly ripe pineapple which the one male intern turned into a piece of art as he peeled and carved out the “eyes” – it seemed almost a shame to eat it, but eat it we did – after finishing everything else! And it wasn’t just the young who were tucking into seconds and thirds! Our perfect guests also brought blankets – the grass is not exactly ideal for sitting on (Manet couldn’t have been serious!) and the tramps have no picnic rugs, but we did use our outside tables as buffet tables for the food and wine – not quite as glam as Glyndebourne in the old days but a tolerable approximation and of course very practical. The tramp declared the event such a success that he feels a small marquee is in order so that we can do an after concert party next year! An amusing thought given the constraints of the kitchen. After concert parties are normally as small as forty (!!!) and as large as 100 (!!!). Clearly your trampess will have to transform herself into Strega Nonna after all. As most of the guests were adept at all things digital – cameras and social media, photos were selected, tagged and on facebook before the dishes had been washed. If the tramp sons were quick enough they could have taken inspiration for their dinners from ours – after all they are 6 hours behind! And the Moroccan dish recipe was on my computer before the next meal was ready. Virtual vellum was used for the thank you notes in both directions. One only needs a little imagination. Even the copperplate handwriting that my grandfather mastered after hours of practice is eminently doable.

Soon, however, it was time to become road worthy again – emptying and refilling of water tanks of all sorts, final washing of clothes just before the refill, and critically a quick study of the navigation system to see if improvements could be made to preclude any small tiffs that might be precipitated by a strange direction from the Voice. You may recall that on the trip from Austria to Switzerland, the Voice seemed to think we were not on a motorway (so giving us directions for every single non-existent roundabouts) and at the same time (paradoxically) kept trying to persuade us to take the next exit. Eventually the trampess turned her off. The tramp, however, was not impressed. This time, before setting out, the trampess decided, while the tramp was up to his eyeballs in water tasks, to play with the navigation system. There is no doubt that relaxed play produces better results than panic stricken, last minute efforts (especially when the trampess is on her knees and the tramp is already revving the engine). And if the play goes terribly wrong, the default action is to turn the system off, take a deep breath and start again. Win-win really.

So with that attitude, the trampess sat with her 100+ page manual (in English) trying to make sense out of the instructions on the screen (in German). Happily, in her attempts to set a predisposition for motorways, she stumbled on language choice (this seemed too good to be true – many attempts had been tried before to get the Voice to speak in English but none worked and the manual seemed to imply that the voice once chosen was decidedly monolingual). Miraculously, your trampess followed her instincts and persisted in button punching and lo and behold Marlene turned into Victoria! Major victory!! At least the screen now was in English (the dictionary could be cast aside) and the voice (while somewhat dubious in pronouncing French and German street names could at least be understood by your trampess without constant referral to a small dictionary that never had the rather specific vocabulary of a navigation system). Thus empowered, your trampess knew no limits – the route was chosen, it was compared with the next best route (as selected by the brain behind the Voice), and a street by street, corner by corner display became available (it does occur to your trampess to ask if this is really what one wants – how about major turns – onto highways, exits from them and next highway chosen rather than the 35 small manoeuvres it takes to get onto the first major road???). It became apparent, however, after scrolling down the first 50 decision points, that Victoria did not prove more knowledgeable than Marlene when it came to the route we were on (she still tried to tell us to take the second exit at the roundabout when we were on a highway with no roundabout in sight) but at least I could explain to the tramp that this seemed to be a fault of the software and that I had written to the navigation helpline to obtain – help (this was after a futile attempt to speak to the helpline in Switerland – they may be good bankers but their helplines, with the exception of the Nespresso order desk, are dire). As at this writing, no answer has been forthcoming – your trampess intends to add this to the tramp’s snagging list when we return to the factory in October. Happily, the trampess having explained her triumphs and her singular failures, the tramp made no complaints. The moral of the story, is of course, that proactive efforts seem to take the sting out, even if the problem is not exactly solved.

Our departure from Verbier was somewhat later than expected (post supper rather than post lunch) but we had always planned to spend one night on the road. Happily, your map marking trampess, knowing that the route between Verbier and Mellau is taken frequently, had marked several quiet motorway petrol stations on the map as suitable for one night stops. The tramp agreed to press on to Gruyere (a bit farther than he might have been inclined to otherwise) as the trampess had double starred a rest stop there. For those of you who ever make the same journey and need to sleep en route, I can assure you that Gruyere is the perfect stop – particularly for RVs. Not only was the petrol station a reasonable distance from the road, the car park was beneath and behind it and the RV car park was further beneath and behind the normal car park and right on the lake – so beautiful view and no sound of passing vehicles in the night. Your trampess was picking up points like a rock star. After a refreshing night’s sleep, and a hearty breakfast, the WLW rolled onto the highway and towards Mellau arriving in time for a late lunch – and it has to be said pouring, and I do mean pouring, rain. But pouring rain on arrival day is not a bad thing (except for the stabilisation process – the tramp puts wooden bases underneath the hydraulically operated legs to prevent damage to the grass – this is not best done in the rain; and stabilisation is important – one doesn’t like, for example, water collecting in the kitchen sink on the opposite side from the drain) – it gives one a chance to go grocery shopping and to organise the next stage of gypsy life, which in this case meant more master classes and concerts – at least for the first week – and the joy of seeing old friends from London who make the pilgrimage to the Schubertiade every year. And indeed, when the satellite dish was up, the first message was in! A dinner, a hike and a concert were soon in the diary. A promise of delicious things to come.

London, Schwarzenberg, Verbier,: Long Gown, Short Dress or Hiking Shorts? Where Am I?

Tramp son 1 departed for the US in his sandals, and shortly after the tramps headed to London for the trampess’s 35th (I never lie) reunion from business school and events both informal and very formal (a certain heir to the throne was being awarded an honourary degree by the school and your trampess, a former long-serving governor and honouree herself, was invited to the ceremony, which not too surprisingly – security reasons no doubt – took place in St James’s Palace instead of the school; none of the guests objected to a change in protocol!). As luck would have it, with most of her clothes in storage, and only a winter evening dress in the cupboard, the trampess had no choice but to nip around the corner and acquire a new gown for the occasion. In contradistinction to this extravagence, we walked to the Palace (well, said the tramp, it is only just down the road and we have plenty of time) – can you imagine just how funny it is to see someone skipping through Mayfair with her below-floor-length gown hitched up to reveal walking shoes (you can’t possibly walk even 200m in the 5 inch stilettos that are de rigueur nowadays so the Tod’s had to do until a strategic switch was made at the cloak room in the Palace) while clutching a bag carrying the evening shoes, a hand bag, and a stole wrapped around the bare shoulders (not exactly a picture of calm elegance). I won’t mention that the wind was awful and that it was threatening rain (so much for having the hair done that morning – not a normal event in the trampess’s life but I thought it was the least I could do on the occasion – the new dress really did demand better than the usual quick brush).

Notwithstanding the modus transportandi the evening was splendid: lots of champagne, the best vegan food in town (HRH does take his food seriously and he is big on organic, so one did not expect a few carrots slung on a plate with boiled potatoes – standard European restaurant solution to the v word - and one was not disappointed), a very good speech by Himself, and a wonderful concert by Danielle de Niese afterward (she of the sexiest Cleopatra on the operatic stage fame). The evening was the end of a long weekend: class dinners, a panel on Corporate Greed Vs. Public Good: What Part Should Business Schools Play? (your trampess was one of the 4 panel members so a bit of preparation required for that!), plus the global summit. After all that heavy lifting it was a relief just to try and squeeze in seeing friends, re-organising the flat (the tramp applied all the WLW rules – rebuilt the bed, re-organised the kitchen and bathroom and generally had the staff at Muji greeting him with open arms on a daily basis) and making it to theatre and museum must-see-exhibitions.

At the end of 3 weeks the tramp was eager to get back to the mountains – London, he proclaimed, is just too fattening! (Many people have said many things about London before, but that is one I doubt you will have heard until now!) Luckily the tramps had a full week of hiking before the first concert at the Schubertiade – the lifts were working and there was no excuse for missing a quick bolt up the mountains and getting back into shape. And happily, the cows in Mellau, while frequently on the narrow path the trampess climbed, were altogether friendlier and more subservient than the cows in Bezau, so weight-loss was un-traumatic. The concerts, were quite, quite wonderful: Mark Padmore’s Schwanengegang was outstanding and Ian Bostridge’s Winterreise was the best the tramp has ever heard (given his devotion to Fischer-Dieskau, this is quite a statement) – he is, as the tramp calls him, the urban guerrilla lieder singer, so no concert by him is remotely similar to anyone else’s – his is not just a pretty voice, it is a voice with a brain, and an unusual one at that. It is impossible to take your eyes off of him for one second during the entire performance (including in between songs) – he is totally mesmorising (did I mention he did his doctorate in witchcraft? No really, and from Oxford. And if that weren’t enough the TLS said it was an influential work in the study of the pre-Enlightenment, "achieving that rarest of feats in the scholarly world: taking a well-worn subject and ensuring that it will never be looked at in quite the same way again." I won’t even mention that before university, when he was in school he developed a unified theory of gravity and electromagnetism but then became disillusioned with physics and read history at Oxford and Cambridge where he received a first. Somehow he managed to take up music, and if you are still with me, it will not surprise you to know that when he first gave a solo concert he won the Royal Philharmonic’s Debut Award). He is also the only Don Ottavio I have ever seen who is not remotely a wimp but is more attractive than Don Giovanni could ever be.

But with die Winterreise behind us, the tramp was eager to get to the higher altitudes of Verbier – and longer, tougher hikes. It has to be said though that Verbier has its own little temptations: master classes the entire day (does one hike at 6 am before Alfred Brendel’s 8am master class???), concerts where there are friends to meet over drinks and nibbles in the 40 minute intervals, and post-concert dinners in friends’ and patrons’ chalets afterward. A bit more like London and a bit less like Schwarzenberg (where the music is serious and the socialising is not). But arriving almost 2 weeks before the first concert (even allowing for a side trip to Geneva and the Belle Rive festival) meant that once again, the tramps could get in some serious hikes before the serious music (and eating) began. And serious they were, too. The tramp, in one of his many trips to Muji, found some sweet little insulated canteens – perfect for packing a hot lunch he said (made by you-know-who). Thus has a new cooking routine emerged: bulk cooking (as bulk as one can achieve with a small kitchen and not exactly family sized pots) on the non-hiking, rest day with reheating on the hiking day and rapid filling of canteens thus allowing a post-breakfast bolt up the mountain, frequent texting as lunch time approaches (it is to be remembered that the tramp and the trampess do not hike at the same speed and indeed, often do not follow the same trails to a given destination) and agreement on the rendez-vous point for lunch. Occasionally, your trampess finds she is sufficiently far ahead that a strategic stop at the friendly Chez Dany for a coffee and a refill of the camel makes the waiting time at the top less, um, tiresome. There are lovely benches along many of the higher paths so it is possible to have lunch with a view before heading upward (or sometimes in the tramp’s case back down the lift leaving the trampess to add a few hundred more vertical meters to her climb to another, higher, lift station). The tramp is very proud of the lunches – he has declared there is absolutely no reason to eat in a restaurant in Switzerland again (something to do with the disbelief that anyone could want just vegetables combined with the fact that the variety of fresh vegetables is very limited - the secret to the succulence of the trampess’s curries is that there are very good organic frozen vegetables in the supermarket as well as occasional, fresh, organic peppers for ratatouille – a bit of variety from Indian to Mediterranean is also welcome). The tramp’s insistence on hiking, hiking, hiking did pay off and the trampess’s dresses were all loose at the beginning of the festival. London is definitely behind us!

And a good thing too! The classes (no time for hiking) and the socialising (too much time for eating) began with a vengeance from day one where the trampess was expected to show up at two after concert parties (luckily too many people had accepted the first and she was let off the hook and only had to eat once for God and country that night!). Not to mention that the newly invigorated British Friends had a lunch which, even though it was not in the WLW (the tramp is thinking though that with the aid of a small marquee your trampess could host a dinner party for 20 or more – the tramp doesn’t quite understand the volune limits of the trampess’s pots and pans – he must think they are like the magic pasta pot where Strega Nonna’s pasta just keeps coming - I love the Italian version of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice – does he really think I am a witch??? Is IB’s influence colouring his judgement???), found the trampess and a dear friend chefs for the day (the hostess had just arrived with two babies from abroad and it was more than enough that she lent her kitchen). Then there was the post-Kiri te Kanawa master class lunch which thankfully we didn’t have to cook (just organise) but which nonetheless was a full blown meal with wine and pudding (that required another full day hike to work off!). Add a few working lunches and you can see where this is all heading . . . But we did add another routine to our day: hiking up and back to the master classes (and taking our little Muji pots with us) – normally with full back packs so we could even do the shopping on the way down (and I am sure the extra weight of the back packs burns more calories). 40 minutes is not the same as 3-5 hours but it is definitely better than nothing and seemed to do the trick.

The best, for me however, was yet to come. On the last day of the festival, at the post-concert dinner in the chalet where we had cooked for 20, your trampess met a most interesting woman: a Canadian lawyer specialising in strategic environmental issues (for example of the kind that arise when rivers/lakes are shared by neighbouring countries who don’t always have the same pollution standards) who consults to the UN, NATO etc and who by the by, as one does, plays the cello (she comes from a musical family and all of them seem to play or sing). Of course, she is also a hard-core fitness fanatic and insists that her interns join her for 3 hours of physical exercise every morning before work! (This could limit the pool of interns she gets!) We agreed to meet for a hike later in the week and had such a good time that she invited me to join her 20 year old interns for one of their morning work outs – which took the whole day (it was a Saturday – obviously she doesn’t give them days off from the physical activities even if they don’t have office hours). I took the cable car down to le Chable (hiking up to Verbier first, of course): we hiked, swam in the lake (spring fed so absolutely freezing – not as bad as the ocean in Maine but you get the picture) - only 1km but still, returned to do some power yoga and then had lunch. The swim included her two golden retrievers (who swam close to us – I thought with my swimming lessons this year in Miami that I would have inspired more confidence but perhaps they were worried that I was not used to cold water) and of course we changed into our dry clothes on the side of the lake, (no changing rooms but then I had the joy of being assured of the water’s purity – she is an environmentalists after all and checks these sorts of things) a towel held up for modesty – although if the fishermen on the side of the lake had binoculars no modesty would have existed – as it is I am not sure it really did but then I doubt we would recognise each other again from that distance. Lunch of course wound up taking hours (not because of overindulgence – only a salad) just because the interns were all interesting and the conversation went on.

Refusing to pay the outrageous charge for the cable car up hill (and the strength of the Swiss franc of course makes it much worse), your trampess hiked back up – making it just in time to make supper for the tramp (who decided these extreme activities were too much for him, though he had been invited!). Having passed test one, I was approved as tough enough to join them on a guide-led glacier trek near Chamonix. I drove as there were 7 of us including the guide and his car only held 5, but the little Smart, like the little engine that could, dutifully climbed the long tortuous road over the mountain and we arrived at our destination in good time. One great advantage of a Smart becomes obvious when one reaches a tourist trap with overcrowded car parks: it is possible to squeeze into a non-space space. And there were millions of tourists in Chamonix all wanting to go up to the glacier (ugh). Happily that is precisely all they wanted to do: go up, walk into the exhibition area inside the glacier, and buy souvenirs and junk food (we brought our own food – those little Muji canteens are getting a workout, too). Meanwhile, once out of the train taking us to the glacier, our team walked confidently past the “defense d’entrer” sign (this being France there was no one there to stop us); hiked across the rocks (tricky) and made it to the edge of the glacier where we put on our crampons and learned how to walk on ice (with your feet not too close together). As we moved farther and farther onto the glacier we then roped up and learned to belay down a crevasse and hike back up – with the aid of the trusty ice axe we had been carrying (conveniently behind our necks -!- wedged into place by our backpacks). I thought that was going to be the most challenging part of the day but later, with crampons off and ice picks returned to the precarious position just mentioned, we did ladders and ropes – i.e. climbed the sheer rock face up ladders (some ropes to help when reaching a ledge) then along very narrow ledges to another set of ladders. Repeated several times till we had reached the place were lesser souls walked down 350 steps to the glacier. Quite a day and one which allows me to say without excessive exaggeration , it would appear I have conquered my fear of heights. (I admit that facing a rock wall is different from coming down it facing out – as some did to get to the glacier– but I did look behind me several times just to check progress and convince myself that giving up mid-way would be a very bad idea). After riding the train back down to Chamonix, we all repaired to one of the local cafés to recover. Being the health fanatic that I am, my choice of restoratives was a citron presse (your trampess would have been very glad of a glass of red wine to fortify herself at that point but with a long, tortuous road home to negotiate, thought better of it).

You might have expected a little break, a day of rest perhaps, after all that hyper-activity. Guess again! Two of my nieces (one working for Medecins sans Frontieres in Geneva, the other for the Peace Corps somewhere in the depths of the Bulgarian countryside) plus one boyfriend arrived in Verbier almost immediately after the glacier adventure– so massive cooking effort plus me as lead guide on the hiking. The younger one, despite being incredibly fit (perhaps she has no car in deepest Bulgaria) decided to call me Drill Sergeant Aunt P. (I take this as a compliment – not everyone would). Her older sister having just finished a 30 day hot yoga challenge is no slouch either, but her boyfriend, who runs a night club in Geneva, had not subjected himself to quite the same rigourous preparation for their hiking holiday and seemed to suffer under DSAP’s uphill pace (or maybe it was just the uphill).

The last night they were here, after the morning hike, I indulgently allowed a spectator sport to enter the programme: the annual Hippique which took over from the Festival and by the end of the week (which it was) the show jumping was impressive. It was also a rather festive event and (remarkably given this is Switzerland) free – though replete with opportunities to spend money on food, wine etc (all the local restaurants setting up little tents adjacent to the main event). A totally different crowd from the Verbier Festival. The tramp, having been a keen rider when he was growing up, enjoyed it enormously and was very kind in explaining what the riders were doing wrong when they missed a jump. (your trampess did not grow up on the backside of a horse and her Girl Scout riding badge was over her dead body and at the demand of the rest of the troop). The tramp, tough love to the core, says it is always the rider’s fault when the horse misses a jump. Apparently, he told me, some years ago, show jumping used to be quite boring because the Germans always won (something about thinking they had to control the horse’s approach to the jump – the other countries’ riders concentrated on staying on the horse in the least intrusive way possible and letting the horse do its thing, which allegedly was jumping; of course, sometimes jumping is not what it wants to do – especially as the jumps became higher over the course of the event, too much like hard work at the end of an already trying day); once everyone noticed the Germans were winning with boring consistency, the others decided maybe switching to a German style of riding might produce some gold medals. And voila, now everyone is riding German style and the competitions are less boring! I might not have taken this story at face value if it weren’t for the fact that a) you have to admit it is totally believable, b) I have too many English friends who have sent their seriously competitive children to Germany to improve their riding and c) the tramp’s father’s lawyer (with whom he and his father rode) won two gold medals in the Olympics for dressage (I know, dressage is not show jumping but it is about control). I will leave you to draw your own lessons from this little parable – it is quite possible to wind up missing the jump if one is not careful!

Still Alive, Two Weddings (No Funeral), and Kanisfluh Once Again

You might be excused for thinking that since your trampess has been silent for so long she finally met her fate on the ends of a raging bull’s horns. And no doubt the tramp sons would have thought the same if email communication had stopped as well. Tramp son 1 after a few pointed expletives simply said one encounter was bad, but two? Couldn’t I just avoid cows??? (Easier said than done as you will have noted). Reactions from the other tramp sons were various but all admitted that even though the tramp’s advice was probably correct (whack that ox with your hiking stick), all admitted that they wouldn’t have tried it considering the risk involved if the tramp wasn’t right – indeed, my sentiments precisely. Your trampess’s most ardent, blog-following niece gave quite another perspective: “forced to do military maneuvers through cow patties, under fencing only to be brutally rebuffed once again by a pack of roaming cows being extremely protective of their calves. NEVER! I honestly have trouble picturing the exact interaction and honestly, I have trouble seeing how your reasoning skills from the boardroom did not translate into speaking (at least in body language) with that bull that you were a reasonable, sensible, sensitive and loving mother yourself and that the hostility was misplaced.” Now I know that many of my friends (and famous sportsmen and adventurers) have translated their outdoor challenges into hot tips for leadership (the latest being The Mountain Within by my friend Herta von Stiegel), and this might make one reasonably think that such lessons are reversible, but tell me anyone who has translated their ability to swing a boardroom vote into a technique for fighting off a mad bull! Of course it is possible that they have done it in there own lives but didn’t really feel that the market for such a book was sufficient to warrant writing it, and if being a good mother was my trump card even fewer would be in the position to . . . and face it, I had the calves licking my legs and even that wasn’t enough to convince the bull I was a good mother! But my bull adventures are over – at least for the moment.
Fortunately, we moved on to the hills near Zurich where tramp son 1 joined us for his cousin’s wedding in a small village there. We arrived on Friday, and while the bride and groom and immediate family were in town for the civil ceremony (which must precede the religious one by law in this part of the world) your trampess sat in the hotel lobby watching the Royal Wedding (in German – until she finally found a station that allowed the English to dominate with only the odd comment in German). By the time the local wedding party returned the Big Wedding was over and my full attention went to the smaller but rather wonderful Austrian (yes I know Zurich is not in Austria but the bride’s family is Austrian and the service was definitely very Austrian and everyone wore Tracht, well your trampess didn’t - despite threats on her part, after all she had worn a sari at her son’s wedding – because, as the tramp pointed out, his family is northern German and northern Germans are neither Bavarians nor Austrians and they do not wear Tracht!) wedding. A small dinner with the family that evening and then the full monty the next day: a small church beautifully decorated by the bride and her friends, a moving service, champagne in the garden, afternoon tea on a boat on the lake, a concert on mountain horns (those long alpine horns that are longer than most people are tall) in the garden of the hotel overlooking the lake, and finally a very big dinner and much dancing. Oh yes and art work (we each were given part of a wooden jigsaw puzzle and paints – and allowed to paint what ever we wanted – at the end of the evening it was put together and framed!). The bride and groom had mounted a world map on the wall and located all their guests – the farthest afield being the US (tramp son 1) and Australia with a smattering from all over Europe – including the UK. Considering a total complement of 45 this was quite an accomplishment. All languages were spoken at all tables (we had German, Italian, English – of both the Scottish and Sri Lankan variety at ours). The bride and groom introduced every guest before the dinner began (that meant several glasses of wine before the serious eating began – by which time we were all in a good mood). Paper lanterns with candles were launched into the night sky by each guest – quite a beautiful ending to the day – and a glorious vision over the lake. (Health and safety seems not to be quite so dominant in the country!)

The next day tramp son 1, true to form, decided it would be good to have a run before supper. Your trampess feeling the excesses of the day before would be best served by being run off (the puddings were irresistible) decided to join him. And a good thing, too. Our talents to this end were highly diverse but complementary: tramp son 1 is fast but is not blessed with an excellent sense of direction; your trampess is not fast but knows how to find her way home. It worked splendidly: the trampess would set the general direction (it began badly as the first half mile was up hill) and tramp son would run ahead, then turn back, jog alongside his puffing mother, explain the fork in the road ahead and say which he was taking; your trampess would run along following his chosen path; they would again meet up and make further decisions about which way to go. Eventually reaching a war memorial (normally set on high ground), the trampess pointed out her take on their position; tramp son said he hadn’t a clue but was happy to follow her lead – and soon, almost two hours after setting out, they were heading down hill back to the WLW. Your trampess would have given up in the first half hour if a) she would have forgiven herself afterward, b) she thought tramp son 1 might have made it back on his own before nightfall and c) it wasn’t clear that some flat running was eventually going to be possible – as well as a nice downhill at the end.

The next morning the tramps moved from their parking spot (did I mention it was next to a dairy and that the cows walked past every morning and evening on their way to and from pasture???) and headed back to Austria. With tramp son 1 staying on for two weeks (spring break and his students hadn’t handed in their final exams/papers yet so he was free to spend time with us – sadly not the lovely wife who was sitting exams herself and had to miss the wedding and the hiking holiday – though tramp son had enquired first as to the quality of the internet connection before he came – since he had serious work to do and could not be left satelliteless as it were), it was clear that the previous assault on Kanisfluh could be attempted again – this time perhaps with better weather conditions.

The tramp decided he was not yet ready for such a long hike but tramp son 1 was game for the adventure. Your trampess made a large bean soup the day before so that the tramp would not be left without lunch and so that there would be something for the hikers to eat on their early afternoon return. Your trampess decided to hike in her five finger barefoot shoes but kept the leather boots in her back pack in case the downhill trek proved too much for the light foot approach. The tramp had warned us that the lifts down were not yet working in Mellau but that there was a winding road behind the lift station which would bring us down a less steep route than the one we would be taking up (always thinking of our knees!). If we were too exhausted even for that, we could of course call him and he would collect us and bring us down from there.

The hike up took about 3 hours (clearly tramp son 1 could have done it in 2 ½ possibly less but being a gentleman he waited for me to catch up and when we were on less steep ground our speeds were not so very different – and there is a goodly portion where one walks across a meadow and along a slow incline before the final assault). Given the time of year, and the fact that no lifts were running, we were astonished at the number of people we found at the top (later we were told that there is a car park near the top on the far side and that many people do the short hike up from there – did they, I wonder, appreciate just how hard we had worked to get to the top??) But never mind getting to the top, this time getting down was much more of a challenge. Tramp son’s hiking boots had seen good service all around South America, and God alone knows where else (I guess Kanisfluh and Verbier last year as well at a minimum) and he was clearly suffering – despite first aid in the form of band-aids, one heel was definitely worse for the wear so that when we got to the non-functioning lift station (which also meant non-functioning restaurant, so not even the possibility of a pick me up espresso) he really had reached the end. And while I was still in my five fingers, my little feet were feeling rather warm. It was unanimously decided to make the emergency call home. The tramp said he would find out how to reach us but could we please start hiking – uphill in order to go down (I know, I know, and it was several kilometres uphill before the road started down) – and oh yes the sign said 10 km to Mellau (yes, 10 km – or another 2 hours walking! After the 5 hrs we had already done!). Well I told tramp son 1 not to wait for me but to just steam ahead since it would require two trips to take us down (a Smart only having 2 seats and even though it is a Smart it can’t drive itself). Over an hour later, tramp son 1 well out of sight, and your trampess wondering if she was climbing another mountain and needed a new plan to paraglide down to Mellau, the Smart finally came into sight. Assuming the tramp had driven tramp son 1 down and was now picking her up she smiled and got in the car. But no, tramp son was still walking – the road, it seems, was appalling – long, winding, and well, almost unpassable. We would all have to go together. Once the tramps caught up with number one son, he suggested that your trampess sit between his legs – after all he said, Mum is light and does not have a very big bum (at moments like these a compliment is an unexpected bonus!). Notwithstanding the absolute truth of what he said, it became clear that it was better to drive with the roof down (praise be for the cabriolet) and me on his lap. I held on to the front of the roof for dear life (with the bumps we were taking, despite the tramp’s extremely cautious driving, not to mention the usual hairpin turns, your trampess could have been decapitated by a sudden stop, in the meantime the son was taking some brutal bumps on his thighs). Happily we made it to the bottom without encountering another car, and particularly not a police car. A few stares from the few folk we passed but nothing more serious.

Tramp son’s shoes were inspected – it appeared that the lining was completely worn – not unlike the wearer’s ankles which were quite bloody – all the compeeds having slipped. Boots were consigned to the rubbish – an excuse to purchase five fingers on his return to the US. Oh yes, and bean soup never tasted so good.

Once Again into the Breach

Now you might have thought, given the encounter of the previous day, unmitigated by a refreshing shower (the neighbours were enjoying the evening and at a certain point, even your trampess gives up, makes dinner and crawls into bed where at least a movie will take her mind off the bull – though she did reject the tramp’s helpful suggestion of Apocalypto as the night’s entertainment; those of you who have seen it will perhaps understand why something a little more subdued – Middlemarch or Prairie Home Companion – was the order of the evening), the tramp would have offered the trampess a quiet day in the WLW – but it was beautiful, and on the principle of working off the excesses, he encouraged the trampess to take the car to Bezau and climb Baumgarten on her own. It may not surprise you, dear reader, to know that at the point where a decision was to be made to go up (and perhaps have to face down the bull again) or to go on a long hike through the forest to the middle station, your trampess (call her a coward if you will) decided on the latter course.

Not that it made much difference. Another gate, another herd huddled near it. What is it with these cows? Are they feeling timid in their first weeks at altitude? Have they no fortitude? Must they huddle and gang up on happy-go-lucky hikers who suddenly feel a little less happy and a lot less lucky? At least this herd was definitely female. Huddled near the gate but female. The choice however was similar: uphill or muddy, steep downhill? Uphill seemed the safer way but as I moved cautiously around the southern ends of a number of cows, the uphill choice became less attractive: one cow, standing perpendicular to the path, was munching on the uphill grass. Did I dare pass between her and sustenance? Could I get a foothold and go above her? I thought better of it, retraced my steps – gingerly - and proceeded to walk in the very mushy downhill grass. As I emerged up onto the path once safely past the cows with mud on the five fingers and looking slightly fed-up and probably a bit dishevelled, I spied another couple coming toward me. I smiled and gave my usual friendly Austrian greeting. I admit to turning and watching as they arrived at the same dilemma I had faced only minutes before. Obviously bigger, braver, and male, the husband (though it has to be said not with the macho authority I had been hoping for) pushed the cows gently to the side as his wife followed behind. It can be done – and they did it. I must remember to be braver. But at least I had no ill encounter, made it to the lift on time and without having to explain my appearance.

Still, it is somewhat worrisome to think that every time one reaches a gate designed to keep cows in the appropriate fields, one is going to meet a huddle which could turn unfriendly. Being at the bottom of a bovine scrum is not my idea of a wonderful hiking holiday. So, I decided to take up the topic of how to deal with what was turning into a daily occurrence with the tramp at dinner. What, I asked the tramp, should I have done – both the previous day, and today (though I was less worried about today since my evasive tactics seemed to work adequately). Clearly, the tramp said with great authority (after all, he did grow up in the country and knows a lot about horses which are, all said and done, large, four legged and easily spooked), you should have used your sticks and just whacked the bull (oh and by the way, it couldn’t have possibly been a bull – no farmer would allow an un-castrated male to roam in open pasture; the tramp can say that, but up close and personal that creature was very bullish – and strong as an ox doesn’t make me feel more secure when it’s his 500 kilo to my 50 at less than a meter apart! testosterone or no; which makes me realise where the expression “testy” must come from – that creature was definitely testy). He would have moved along the path and you would have been free to go. And then he smiled. So, your trampess is a wimp – face it, a wimp. The only consolation was that her decidedly not wimpish (and much larger) sons, all said that in such close quarters, while the theory of whacking the bull/ox was undoubtedly sound, the risk was simply too high to do anything but avoid confrontation. So I can whack if there is a straight run to the gate but not if I am trapped between cows, bulls and rocks. Tramp son 4, on reading my woeful tale, did ask if he had ever told me his grizzly bear story. Grizzly bear story???!!!!! Grizzly bear story??!!! These are the sort of things that mothers find out, happily, when it is too late to worry. I have the courage to listen but am still waiting to hear the tale.

The following day, with no reason to fear (after all a clear strategy: chase him off with your sticks; and de-classification of the level of threat: an ox not a bull), your trampess set out to the upper station (one could not admit fear in the face of such expert counselling and besides, the tramp was taking the road to the middle station). As she approached the higher climbs, your trampess did wonder if there would be the smell of fear on her (be brave, remember your favourite things, smile, you made it through the previous close encounters, surely it will only get better, why didn’t you bring perfume?, will flowers help or will they only want to eat them – and as a consequence me??). But as she approached the gate (that gate) there were no cows; she breathed a sigh of relief and walked on. Ha! Did you think that sense of security would last??? Did Captain Hook leap out of his skin whenever he heard the tick-tock of the crocodile? Did your trampess make a similar leap when she heard the cow bells’ ding-dong thinking one of those bells might be on him???? Well, this time at least there were only four of them; and praise to the Almighty, all of them cows; but we were on a path wide enough for one person, or one cow (and only because they have such small feet). Were they all huddled together? Did they look at me??? Did I gently tap them on??? Yes to all of those, and the front two were persuaded to move (one small step for the trampess’s confidence), but as the third stood firmly in place, the first turned around (unbelievably doubling up with her sister in a space two Austrians would find difficult to share) and started sniffing my backpack. Now this is getting ridiculous. I carry no food, only water, what could possibly be interesting about my backpack? I pushed her off, and decided that I would simply climb into the weeds (hoping that poison ivy was not one of the plants in the undergrowth) and push forward til I was beyond the path occupying cows. By now these cows must think I am crazy: climbing above them, slipping, cursing, and waving my sticks – what a sight. But the sight of one still alive trampess. This time, I did not lose my stride and I arrived at the bergbahn in good time.

The tramp is beginning to wonder if someone has cast a cow attraction spell on me. He recommended that for the next hike, I should take his path to the middle station and then follow a gentle path up to the top – not the more challenging – and particularly if you take into account bovine encounters – path I normally take. His path, he said, was not muddy (particularly delightful as it had thunderstormed all night and I knew my path was guaranteed to require a full shower and not one of the usual commando ones) and there were no, underscore, no cows. He was right about the mud. Of course, as I turned the path near a farm house and greeted the farmer’s wife, what should I encounter but their entire herd coming home for the evening!!! No cows, he promised me no cows, and there were 20 or more heading straight toward me! I stood straight, walked to the right of the happily wide path (well we are in Austria not England and I expect the cows to know which side of the road they should be walking on), stick in hand to nudge any animal that took too familiar an interest. A few gentle taps with the stick and I was past them all. Hurrah! I met the tramp back at the car and just looked at him. No mud I said. He smiled. A herd of cows I said. He fainted.

The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls

The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls

Not that your trampess has extraordinary adventures just for your benefit, or because ordinary life doesn’t provide enough entertainment, but sometimes it just happens, and lately it seems to be happening more than enough. Your trampess has just come back from being gored by a bull (well, let me clarify, he had his head down and shoved his horns toward me several times. We did touch but I used my hands to good effect so the horns never penetrated my flesh).

Your trampess has always been quite content passing through fields of cattle in the mountains – after all they are basically domestic creatures and used to being man handled. Even my earliest encounter with a cow at close quarters, when I was about 3, my great Aunt Ethel was considerably older, and the cow was somewhere in between, was only a cause for much amusement on my Aunt Ethel’s side, the result of which is that I remember it with laughter even now (she asked me if I would like to milk a cow; being 3, happy around animals and curious, I, of course, replied in the affirmative. She showed me what to do; I grabbed the cows teats and squeezed; nothing happened; Aunt Ethel let out the most adorable peel of laughter and took over the milking; I watched in wonder).

The recent encounter that has led your trampess to committing it to paper was not of the same kind. The tramp was having a short hike to the middle station but recommended that the trampess head up to the top of Baumgarten on her own. It was such a lovely day and a pity to let it go to waste, besides after 3 weeks of decadence in London it was important to get the old hind side up a mountain for as long and as frequently as possible in order to keep evening gown fit. So, five fingers on the feet and backpack on the back, off your trampess set. Apart from meeting too many trucks, cars and tractors on the way (while a hiking route the path also provides access for farmers to the higher barns and occasionally one meets the odd vehicle – today’s encounters were excessive). Once above WildMoosAlpe, the path was once again clear, and all the tree felling that had been the bane of my existence in April was now over. That did not mean peace though.

I walked along the path, on the part of the walk where I usually gain speed (this was good as I had begun to worry that I would not make the last bergbahn down for the day – suddenly I was back in control and confident that the Tramp would not be worried that his dinner would be unduly late owing to the Trampess taking 2 hours instead of 5 minutes to make it to the car!). But things turned rather more eventful than planned as your trampess reached a previously non-existent gate with a lot of cows huddled near it on the other side. Not good, but not necessarily bad. I opened the gate, let myself in, and shut it again and proceeded to go along the mountain side of the herd (the other side was fenced with barbed wire, a sleep incline down, and all things considered probably the less wise option).

As I was in the middle of the herd working my way to the far side, trying to keep to the path, one ornery bull decided he didn’t much like me in the midst of his cows – and perhaps more importantly, calves. He turned and gave me a threatening look. Not best pleased but trying my best not to look intimidated by a creature several times my weight, with hooves and horns, and not more than a foot away, I more or less told him to move on and tried to shoo him away (with my superior Nordic walking sticks – not that I hit him or poked him – this was just meant to be a gentle indication of the way he should move). He nudged me (I admit I took it personally) and then lowered his head, in that way that bulls do, and pushed his horns toward me. Aarrggghhh, your trampess has crossed paths with many a cow and young bull, one time dressed in bright red and significantly pregnant, but without fear, and never arousing more than faint curiosity, but this was quite different! I pushed him away sucking in my tummy (the idea of being impaled on a bull’s horns as a kind of bucolic martyrdom is not my idea of an elegant death). He tried again. I tried to scramble up the hill. No dice: too steep, too soft, no footholds, no roots to grab, no rocks, nothing.

Finally I decided on a different tact: to retreat, walk along the outside of the barbed wire (on the downward slope) and then find a place, farther along, where I could crawl under (not fun with the ground full of mud and soft cow pats but the backpack would protect me from the barbed wire as long as I didn’t get stuck). Of course as I started my marine training belly crawl, the cows all decided they were interested and started coming my way. As it turned out, this was not an easy manoeuvre what with being up hill and under barbed wire, so your trampess was not setting world records on making the distance quickly. Once again, a change of plan: to retreat to the gate and try again the conventional way since the cows were no longer in a huddle there and the chance of passing easily was – how shall I say, more likely to be normal.

Well blow me if as I was half way through the herd one calf didn’t start licking my leg and the bloody bull didn’t start taking an unseemly interest again. So a few more times with the head down and the horns in my direction and a few more times my pushing him away (feeling just a touch vulnerable at this point what with cows on all sides of me). Nothing was working. He was determined; your trampess was trapped. Escape was the only answer: to try to get up the hill once more was the only way. Of course, the past is always the best predictor of the future and your trampess kept slipping down (one does not need to mention that her language was not the purest at this point) but finally got a small foothold, just enough to throw herself in the direction of a strong root which she grabbed to advantage and hoisted herself up with.

Safe at last, I managed to walk along the very steep pasture until I was in well in advance of the herd (no chances this time that the curious would block my forward movement) and then I ran back down to the path. By now I had lost considerable and valuable time and realised I had to hoof it to make the bergbahn. Adrenalin was on my side of course, and as I got to just beneath the station (not quite at full VO2 max) I could see the bb was in place and ready to depart; I saw a man just about to enter and waved frantically with my sticks. Luckily he saw me and screamed down if anyone was behind me. I said I was alone and steamed ahead. They waited – hurrah!!! I was of course rather muddy and dishevelled, so explained I had had an encounter with a bull which had slowed me up. Much laughter. But hey, your trampess is alive and here to tell the tale. I was a bit of a sight in the supermarket (shopping for supper could not be put off until your trampess had been home and changed – stores close early here; Austria is still a God-fearing country and the stores close at night and are never open on Sunday) and my seat in the Smart car is now on the disgraceful side. I did wash most of the mud and cow dung off my legs and shoes with the outdoor hose, but I have to wait for a shower until the tramp can off load the dirty water tank (which he is loathe to do while the neighbours are all having drinks in the afternoon sun!). Your trampess will wait, but she is not holding her breath!

Five Finger Barefoot Hiking Shoes – or How To Make Friends in the Alps

Since your trampess does not write of her adventures at home (now split between London and Miami Beach as those who remember the tramp’s “simplification” of their life into 3 parts from one, the third being nomadic), you are unaware of the revolution that has gone on in the trampess’s choice of footwear. This is, I hasten to add, not a foot revolution that affects the finer shoes in life, which the trampess remains as much addicted to as any red blooded American or European female. No, no I speak of functional footwear (the kind that goes with wicking hiking clothes, or the latest running shorts). And just as there has been a revolution in athletic wear (merino wool notwithstanding), so has there been in footwear. It all comes down to Kenyans and barefoot running. It seems that it is unnatural for man (or any running animal) to run on anything but the forefront of the foot. But running shoes, which are bigger and bulkier than ever, have been building support and additional cushioning for the heels. Why? To reduce the impact of full weight landing on the heels which happens as runners try to increase speed by lengthening their stride. While all this additional shoe protects the heel, it doesn’t change the way the muscles and the joints work when the body lands heel first which is both hard on the joints and puts more strain on the small muscles (in front of the shin) instead of letting the big muscles of the calf and thigh absorb the landing. Result: shin splints and bad knees. The solution: run barefoot (try it, you can’t possibly run on your heels, you naturally run on the balls of your feet). Of course, running barefoot if you have delicate feet or don’t want to risk the dirt, broken glass and God only knows what else might be lurking on the ground, is not a very happy prospect. The solution? Five finger barefoot running shoes. And if you are hiking, five finger barefoot trekking shoes. Obvious, no?

Well, not really, but having seen the trainers at Canyon Ranch tripping around in their, it has to be said, very strange looking shoes precipitated the trampess’s curiosity and she attended the Running 101 class which explained the anatomy of running, and also put forward the case for barefoot running. After the trampess wrote up her notes and emailed them to the tramp (who was of course sitting only a few yards away such is the way communication in a modern family works), it was agreed that they would drive to south Miami in search of these miracle shoes. (It is possible to order them online but the fit is crucial and until one knows one’s size and has experimented a bit with the strange feel of multiple cloven feet, it is probably wiser to find a shop where one can try them on). The tramps came away with two pairs each (it’s a long drive and there is no point in making it twice): one for running and gym activities and one for hiking. It is important (very important) to learn to run again – slowly, by which I mean 100 yards jogging, 100 yards walking and eventually build up to sustained running. The trampess followed these instructions carefully on her first run (a morning run along the boardwalk with several other running enthusiasts and the trainer – your trampess and the trainer being the only five finger wearers in the group). Her second run was on New Year’s Day early in the morning (the tramps do not stay up on New Year’s eve and the tramp sons met up with friends who were in town for the Orange Bowl so no need for the trampess to celebrate en famille and break her early to bed routine). Not surprisingly, to the tramp sons, your trampess was the only one to turn up. So she and the trainer went together – in their barefoot shoes. The trainer, knowing that the trampess is not a wimp and had run a marathon not that long ago, decided to up the pace a bit. The trampess, not wishing to appear wimpish, gave it her all. (Tramp son 1 later pointed out, as only a Yale educated lawyer can, that 100% is not the same as 80% which is what the trainer had asked for). It was a wonderful bit of interval training for the first half hour but as we neared the end I felt a pain in my left foot. Not horrendous but definitely in the not very pleasant category. I mentioned this and we jogged slowly back. It seems I had strained the tendon. Not good. It would have healed more quickly if I had followed tramp son 4’s advice to RICE immediately (rest, ice, compress, elevate) – as all good rugby players know. Not being a good rugby player (or a rugby player at all), I thought a little ice and a little rest would be enough. Sigh, will mothers never learn to trust the wise advice of their children? Back to short intervals and a long build up!

Meanwhile back in the alps, the five finger barefoot trekking shoes do not require such careful breaking in, and your trampess assaulted her first mountain with ease, though the tramp insisted that she carry her very heavy, leather hiking boots in her backpack just in case. On the principle that the heavier the backpack is, the more calories one is likely to burn carrying it, the trampess agreed. Besides before the first hike she had not established empirically that the hiking shoes did not need a breaking in period (though the thought of changing shoes every 100 yards didn’t seem a plausible proposition and since hiking is not running it is hard to imagine what the breaking in would look like other than that). I continue to carry them just in case: coming down might be harder than going up (going uphill is a natural forefoot action, going down hill is definitely not); there could be snow at the top and the combination of socks and heavy shoes might be welcome etc etc, but so far, none of those has proved to be the case so I rely on burning extra calories as sufficient reason (of course you might argue that I am not carrying extra weight – if I were wearing the shoes I would simply be carrying the weight on my feet not on my back, but I think the fact that both shoes are on the back while one foot is always resting on the ground means that the weight of at least one shoe is extra). Psychologically of course, there is no doubt that the extra weight in the backpack surely means extra weight is being carried and is no doubt the cause of the trampess’s improving slenderness.

What I have not yet mentioned is the reaction of the natives to five finger barefoot shoes and how wearing them has improved my German and increased the number of my hiking acquaintances. (Nor have I mentioned the excitement of trying to get each toe into a separate compartment – it’s a little like trying to get babies feet into over the ankle shoes: it was always my experience that they curled up their toes and you just couldn’t get their feet into the shoes! One had to be very fast or very clever to outwit the babe. These are a little the same: one has the advantage of wanting to put the shoe on, but not necessarily the cooperation of each toe. Still after about 5 minutes of hiking the toes spread out into the shoes as though they had always wanted to be in that sort of a shoe and not any other).

People do stare; sometimes they even jump in astonishment (this usually happens in the lift down the mountain when they are idly staring at the ground and suddenly notice 10 grey toes staring at them); most ask, any shyness overcome by extreme curiosity. The universal question is (after all any shoe that dares call itself barefoot – an oxymoron if there ever was one – has to be very light: stretchy technical fabric on top, a light rubber sole with noughts and crosses on the bottom with a bit of rubber curling over up and over each toe – useful if one trips – not that one would in shoes which must be not unlike moccasins that the Indians wore – in fact I often imagine myself now in a James Fennimore Cooper novel as I hike through the woods up a mountain): but what about stones? Don’t you feel the stones? Well, as I explain in my best German, one does feel them but not in a bad way just in a sort of I know you are there but it doesn’t hurt way. Unless of course, unwittingly, one steps on a rather pointed stone just in the middle of one’s arch. (You can hear my vocabulary increasing already, can’t you?) Not pleasant but worthy of no more than a mild expletive. Of course, it is not enough to explain that stones are not the problem one might think, one has to explain why one is wearing just ostensibly crazy shoes.

The two most exciting encounters occurred at the two opposite ends of the age spectrum. On the first occasion as I was racing to make it to the lift on time (the tramp and I thought we could starting at the same time wind up on the same lift down with him going to the middle station and me to the top – while I am faster I am not that much faster – but I try at least to be only one lift, ie 30 minutes, behind) and just as I over took a mother and two children (having given a polite Gruess Gott! as I passed) I was called – plaintively even – to come back. The mother begged me to show and explain my shoes to her astonished children (who perhaps thought I was the devil or some equally forbidding modern monster). What could I do? One cannot leave children in the dark. I missed the lift (and had an espresso as a reward while waiting for the next one) but had a most engaging conversation with two very curious children. The second occasion was waiting for the lift. An older couple were occupying the bench while also waiting. The woman looked down at my shoes and exclaimed the usual, what kind of shoes are those???? As I started talking she reached down and touched my toes (not typical Germanic behaviour – I mean one expects people who speak German to behave with a certain – uh – formality which does not include touching another person’s toes!). I laughed and explained that the rubber of the soles (which I showed her – also not done in some cultures but we had clearly broken all taboos here) curves over the top of the toes no doubt to protect from stubbing in case of a stumble. By this time others arrived (the lift was due) and the whole group was now engaged in lively five finger shoe conversation (and my vocabulary increased yet again geometrically!).

The only totally po-faced encounter occurred when your trampess was walking past one of the high pasture farmers. He looked at my feet; I repeated my now oft used refrain “Funf Finger Barfuss wandern Schue” and he replied, “ja wie Tiere” and went on working. So there you have it, I am simply walking like the average animal – which is, as the five finger barefoot shoe website will tell you, exactly how I should be. Never underestimate a simple farmer’s ability to cut through to the core of a matter!

A Sleeper in Cologne and at Long Last – the Alps!

The original plan was to go back to the Ludwig Museum (outstanding building, important German expressionist paintings) but your trampess read in her guide book that it was only recently that the collections of the Ludwig family and Ferdinand Franz Wallraf had been separated that that each was now in its own museum. The Wallraf-Richartz-Musuem (Richartz having funded the first building) was in a new building finished in 2001. If the Ludwig Museum merits a visit the WRM merits a dedicated journey - quite possibly the best museum of its kind your trampess has ever been to. The tramps spent a full 4 hours in the museum (with a break for lunch) – while the trampess has a higher tolerance, the tramp’s normal preferred time span in a museum is 1 hour on the basis of maximum concentration, maximum benefit, and no visual fatigue. He is more than willing to return, but unlikely to stay much longer. Four hours is a statement. The hanging is superb, the explanations are interesting and on different levels (both historical and technical), the paintings are clean and well lit, the composition of each room is well conceived, the path through each floor is clear and the sequence of floors makes sense (well it is Germany – but after the gross disappointment of Hamburg . . .). Oh, and by the way every room is a different colour selected perfectly to match the period and the paintings in the room.

The tramps spent 2 hours on the first floor alone and began to wonder if they would have time to see the whole collection. On the other hand if the rest was anything like the first floor there was no question that they would stay til closing time (or later if the guards didn’t forcibly throw us out). Instead of being numbered (though they are that as well), the rooms are each titled, and while at first blush the titles may seem a little more like advertising headlines, they are in fact very apposite and enticing. The first floor (there are three) covers the Middle Ages (we spent 2 hours there!) and begins with The Invention of Art and proceeds onward. For example, the 4th gallery is Beauty as Style and has a number of crucifixions (with sub-headings such as Multimedia in the Middle Ages, and the Lead and the Extras – explaining how a great number of people, not necessarily from the period, come to surround the crucifixion, and what they represent). And on to the Baroque floor and then the 19th century floor.

The tramp was sent at the end of his 4 hours to the museum shop to find suitable gifts for the young children of the family we stay with in Austria (a really good museum almost always has a really good gift shop and this on was no exception), while the trampess dashed down to the special exhibition in the basement: Alexandre Cabanel – The Tradition of Beauty – with exhibition architecture by Christian Lacroix. What, one has to ask oneself, is exhibition architecture and what is a dress designer doing in a serious museum? Cabanel, it turns out, was the Alma Tadema of France – sumptuous paintings in a pre-Raphaelite style of ancient myths and contemporary heroes and great beauties from all ages (including, of course, Cleopatra). I raced through knowing that the tramp would be chomping at the bit. As I was about to dash out, the guard grabbed me (not the normal sort of behaviour from a museum guard, but then this is no ordinary museum) and told me I had missed a room. OMG how could I (I had hoped he hadn’t timed my whiz ‘round as he surely would have thought me the Philistine of Philistines, not realising I was beginning my fifth hour)??? I thanked him and dutifully went in the direction he pointed. I am still not sure why Lacroix was necessary (maybe he helped fund the exhibition?) but what was clear was that this was every bit as fantastic in every way as the rest of the museum, basement exhibition or no. What is impressive about the whole WRM is the total quality of content, description, and display. As the tramp related over supper that night, he looked (but really looked) at every single painting. Have you ever said that about any museum?? So it was not totally surprising that the tramp, proud of the presents he had found, also asked, somewhat sheepishly, since he is opposed to buying any books any more (as opposed to books on Kindle which he has the trampess order with abandon) if it was, please, all right to buy the catalogue - explaining that it had every picture and every wall text (all of which are in both German and perfect, literate English). Since it is not the trampess that has banned book buying, it was pretty easy to say yes especially since he wanted the English version. So all in all a stunning experience. And so stunning that there was no time for much else – some shopping was squeezed in (Cologne is an easy place to spend money and it was good that our shopping time was severely curtailed by our cultural dedication) before heading back to the WLW.

The next morning after an early breakfast, the WLW headed in total confidence torward Mellau. If there is one village we know how to reach without 5 maps, both GPS systems geared up, and the trampess on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it is Mellau. So with Parsifal in our headphones we set off. (Please note the perfect choice of music for the pre-Easter rush to the mountains.) The arrival was as easy and happy as anticipated. Presents were pulled out the bag from the WRM for the children (which they immediately – and most satisfyingly – began to play with) and a bottle of wine was handed over to our friends; another was opened and the prospect of long days in the mountains and no more struggles with maps or GPS systems or unplanned factory visits lay before us. Of course, nothing but nothing ever goes as smoothly as one hopes and the first small obstacle thrown in our path (others were to follow) was that the local lift does not begin to operate until the 1st of June. But happily, the new lift (which last summer was closed for much needed refurbishment) in Bezau is already zooming up and down the mountain (what determines the different opening dates for the spring season of two villages approximately 2 miles apart? Do they have different ski seasons as well??? Did they simply agree that the new lift in Bezau was so expensive that it should have a clear 2 months of revenue before neighbouring villages with higher peaks started to compete in the supply of lifts????). While the lift was running in Bezau it was not yet the official spring season – so a trip from the top of Baumgarten down to the parking lot (my daily hike is to the top station) is 10 euros!!! From the middle station, the cost is a mere (!) 5 euros (the tramp’s preferred hike). Since a season ticket is 40 euros and goes until October, this is clearly hiking robbery! A family of about 10 (from grandparents to grandchildren) were a little stunned when they got on at the middle station and said they wanted to ride to the top, but were told they had to ride down to the bottom to buy full tickets for the journey (so much for encouraging exercise in the great outdoors! Or maybe it is designed to encourage exercise – hike up, hike down, attain total fatigue and maximum calorie outlay.) Luckily extravagance was mitigated by a 10 point ticket (effectively giving a 20% discount) and a long weekend in Zurich for a family wedding! But not before a few adventures.

Hamburg, Factory, Aachen, Factory

Do you notice a pattern here? Is it the just-when-I-thought-things-couldn’t-get any-worse,-they-did pattern? If that’s what you read into today’s chapter heading, you are right. But every cloud has a silver lining – or at least is counterbalanced by something that goes right for a change. And I shall continue to hold onto that thought. No matter what. Really.

The factory near Luebeck did a fine job (the garage door was shut with only a small gap – not enough to allow the Smart to escape or anyone else to enter) and at a reasonable price – cash of course but still reasonable. The trampess handed over all her funds to the tramp and he returned with change. Since plastic is so prevalent, funds are only kept for small treats like a coffee on the hoof or alternatively emergencies. This was clearly in the latter, and rather more expensive than a coffee, category. Still, we headed back towards the mother factory aiming to get there before dinner or at least before bedtime. As we passed the exit to Hamburg the tramp suggested that maybe we should actually spend the night there, go the next day to the Kunsthalle, and then drive on, after all the new door would not be ready for some time (did I mention the tramp offered to let me go back to London while we waited for it? A noble gesture since he intends to wait at the factory) – probably 2 weeks – and the back was secure enough to allow us to park with garage door against the wall in the harbour parking place we didn’t get into only a few days ago. It seemed a sensible suggestion so once more the trampess found herself on her knees changing the destination on the navigation system as the tramp took the next exit and reversed direction. This time all went well, there was plenty of space, we parked just as the tramp wished and awaited the next day.

It was grey and miserable – the perfect day for a museum. The museum, naturally enough, was a very long hike away (much closer to our former, free parking place, but the harbour was more scenic and on a weekday an altogether better place to be). After walking past a very modern building and across what looked like a truncated pyramid we arrived at what should have been, according to my EyeWitness guide, the main entrance to the Kunsthalle. There were people inside, the carved letters over the portal said Kunsthalle, but the door did not budge. A kindly face appeared at the window next to the door; the young man pointed to the modern, rather bureaucratic building we had just passed (no signs, no banners, no seals) and indicated we should go there. We did. It was indeed the new main entrance to the Kunsthalle. We bought tickets (reduced price for seniors on Fridays – it was not Friday - including Kaffee und Kuechen but otherwise no concessions; clearly the Austrians are not yet worried about too many sweets in the diet!). Then we were directed to the basement and told this was the way to cross over to the main building. They didn’t mention that we would be walking through major building/installation works on the way. Once there the logistics of getting to the galleries we were particularly interested in were just as tortured. And every time we needed to alter course, we had to walk through the café and pass the Kuechen! Not so pleasant for those trying to enjoy their treat, and rather crazy from out point of view (did they seriously think I would let the tramp have cake in the middle of the morning???). Furthermore, the paintings were badly hung and badly organised – jewels were hard to find and no special attention was drawn to them. The trampess often had to call an impatient tramp’s attention to something hidden and wonderful. What was the director thinking? Does he/she exit? Does he want people to enjoy the museum? More is the pity because there were many gems in the collection, including many wonderful German paintings (Lovis Corinth in particular but also the Maxes Beckmann and Liebermann other members of the underrated Berlin Secessionist school) as well as rather better know examples of French and Italian painters – this could be an outstanding museum but sadly it is not. More money should have been spent on re-organising and displaying the existing works than on building an expensive, but not beautiful, modern building (the truncated pyramid which covered the cross over between the buildings was solid, ugly and had nothing of the inspiration – or light - of the IMPei pyramids at the Louvre) to display works of questionable interest. The paintings were worth the visit, but the experience was not uplifting, sadly matching the grey, rainy day.

The long walk back to the harbour included a walk through the old part of Hamburg, including the Rathausplatz. Here the blend of old and new architecture works extraordinarily well and the tramp stopped several times to photograph particularly well-conceived modern insertions into the gothic setting. But our attempt to enter the major cathedral was frustrated by closure for a christening so we proceeded back to the harbour and a late lunch. Eager to move on before dusk, we set sail once again in the direction of the mother lode. And there we stayed for 3 more days. Happily the repair went much better than expected, and we have a fully functioning, if somewhat less than beautiful, garage door. The Smart is no longer locked in with no hope of escape and the tramps can go back on the road, fully equipped with all pistons firing, so to speak. And not just all pistons, but the battery as well. It seems all our electrical problems (have I mentioned needing to turn on the generator to make a cup of coffee? Or flush the loo? clearly superior German engineering did not intend that this should not happen) were due to the fact that the battery was not fully charged and the generator not fully connected. The combination was lethal. The tramp’s detailed recording of data had paid off – it was clear that he was not daft, something was wrong. Battery replaced, generator fully hooked up, we really are road worthy! On to Aachen!

With more attention to navigation systems (GPS coordinates and address), destinations, and multiple maps, the tramps set off. It has to be said that the trampess was now in a state of total trepidation since the tramp expects serious navigation from her – just when she thought the navi systems had taken over! As we approached Aachen, the tramp decided that the stellplatz he had chosen was perhaps not so ideal but we could happily park in the car park of the Real supermarket we just spotted (end of trauma for trampess – at least for awhile). Other trucks were doing the same so it seemed safe enough. The tramp wisely unloaded the Smart so as not to be wedged in and unable to release her. After a major visit to the Real to stock up on provisions, the tramps had lunch and then drove into Aachen (one of those multi-fold Falk plans on the trampess’s lap to ensure our perfect arrival – it has to be said that the voice was rather better at guiding us in but the trampess tried to keep up and generally was not surprised when we reached our destination). We headed straight to the cathedral built for Charlemagne (or Karl der Grosse if you are German, as the locals obviously are) where his throne stands (you will, of course, remember that he was crowned emperor in 800 at which time Aachen became the capital of the Holy Roman Empire) and his remains lie in a golden coffer behind the altar (a simple stone cube, faced in sheet gold in 1020 thanks to the magnanimity of Heinrich II). The old Karl was a man of the world and lived to a great old age (I won’t mention the 3 wives – he outlived the first two - or the several mistresses). As a great traveller, he had seen much and had his own ideas of how to build a church. His model was the Byzantine octagon, and the size was modest, the decoration simple. Not a showy emperor (where have we gone wrong??). The cathedral has since been expanded to include a high gothic nave with stained glass windows, a tower and a dome over the original church. The octagonal area with two levels of arches remains the principal seating for the congregation, but the decoration is now dark but glittering mosaics modelled on San Vitale in Ravenna. It is, dear reader, quite stunning. A small, simple jewel. Of course, with the luck the tramps have been having, you would not be remotely surprised to find that the best parts (the Ambo, the shrine with K der G’s remains and the Schatzkammer with the Lotharkreuz and sarcophagus of Proserpina – thought to be the original sarcophagus of KdG until his canonisation when the remains were transferred to the gold shrine) were closed except by guided tours the last one of which had only just departed (it being a half day). We were encouraged to return.

Of course, we did but as the first tour was at 11 and the Couven museum opened at 10, that took priority: a small but rather interesting museum perfectly illustrating the life of an upper middleclass merchant of the 18th century. An apothecary was on the ground floor and contained instruments, weights and measures, and jars. The rest of the building was the home – full of the interests and status symbols of the day: much porcelain imported from China, some fine examples of the first German porcelain by the man who discovered the process (and later, if I am not mistaken, founded the Meissen factory), stunning tiles not just from Holland but from the Middle East and southern Europe as well; numerous paintings of varying degrees of quality and one room of Biedermeier furniture. My very favourite thing of all was a magnificent pagoda chandelier, delicate, colourful and quite unlike anything I had every seen. A small thing, but totally appropriate for a house of the haute bourgeoisie, it was warm inside! (given the cold and rainy day outside, this was a more than a small blessing). From there it was a short walk to the first tour of the cathedral, which meant it was in German (one a day at 2:30, is in English). Trust the trampess’s luck – again - (normally quite good but clearly the tramps are not on a lucky streak) this particular guide spoke the fastest and most complex German she has ever heard; it reminded her of the time she heard Henry Kissinger give an after dinner speech to a small group following a conference on economics and world politics. He had been told, he said, to speak for about 20 minutes on the state of the world and how he saw the next 25 years unfolding (would anyone else be asked to do so much in so little time?). He paused, and then said, “For those of you who know might native tongue, that is about 2 sentences.” It turned out to be more. The tramp, of course, had no difficulty with our German guide, but the trampess had to rely on her eyes, her college memory, and her previous day’s reading. Notwithstanding the impediments, the tour was more than worth it. And KdG’s throne, like his church, was simple – but convincingly royal.

Rushing on to the Schatzkammer on her own (the tramp is rather less interested in chalices and reliquaries), leaving the him to go to a bookstore he had discovered and which did a particularly good number in maps, the trampess was left to explore the treasury. To their credit, the holy fathers of the cathedral were modest in their attributions: many of the relics were “said to be”; these numbered: the hunting horn made from an elephant’s tusk of KdG, his sabre, a piece of Christ’s belt (!), a piece of the rope used in His flagellation (!!), and the bones of many saints. There were also more believable relics and treasures: Margaret of York’s crown, a rather important Cornish chest, and, of course, the promised Lothar cross and Proserpina’s sarcophagus. All beautifully, simply but dramatically displayed (Hamburg take note).

After lunch in a reasonable Thai restaurant (not the Blue Elephant but tolerable – and with an unusually sullen Thai waitress – the trampess had thought this an oxymoron but was sadly proved wrong), the tramps proceeded to the Rathaus which was originally connected to the cathedral and all part of the original Pfalz. The top floor comprised a huge mediaeval hall with paintings and frescoes of KdG’s many triumphs. Downstairs was rather more grand, in the ornate sense of the word, and included two huge, full length portraits of Napoleon and Josephine (not exactly heroes in Germany so one has to ask . . .). After a brief walk around town (a longer one had been taken that morning before anything was open), the tramps went back to the WLW and prepared for take off – the tramp’s goal was Cologne.

And a worthy goal it was, too. But sadly, one which was not achieved, owing to a not so brief encounter with another vehicle after the first intersection from our ever so convenient parking place. As was now SOP the trampess was armed with multiple maps (exiting Aachen, big picture motorway maps, and multiple maps for entering Cologne – her only fear, since the bus parking place we had found in Cologne before moving on to Aachen can only be entered from one direction – approaching from the other direction requires a u-turn that the WLW simply cannot make – and besides u-turns are out of favour at the moment for reasons that do not require stating). The departure was dead simple: exit car park, proceed to intersection (a few hundred metres down the road), turn left and immediately move into the right lane for entering the motorway 200 metres down the road. After that, a clear way to Cologne via motorway and then anxiety for the trampess as to whether she and the voice would agree on the approach post motorway. (I believe I left out any mention of our visit to St. Augustin – wonderful in all respects – and Cologne, before Aachen – visit wonderful, navigation disastrous; no doubt the anxieties of trying to keep up with a very large WLW heading down increasing narrower streets – think of a lobster trap – or a small but speedy Smart while trying to reach off road sites was more than slightly stressful and as such pushed the memory into deep, distant, please-don’t remind-me,-just-memorise-every-street-in-central-Cologne,-know-where-you-are-at-all-times-and-save-your-marriage mode).

The tramp, it must said at the outset, is an outstandingly good driver (after all he did have to drive a 40 tonne articulated lorry in reverse around a corner and then proceed 200 metres, still in reverse, along the road without losing control of the rear 20 tonnes as one small part of getting his HGV licence in Germany), so you must assume, and particularly since such a large vehicle as the WLW cannot speedily turn left, that the tramp looked in all directions once he had a left turn green light before turning into the intersection and moving into the right lane (which is almost inevitable even if going straight since the WLW cannot possible move straight away into the left lane even if she wanted to – she is trim but simply too large, a traditionally built WLW you might say). So the sudden crunch caused by an encounter with a small VW Polo on his right flank slightly behind the front of our beloved WLW (who by this time could be excused for feeling a bit battered) was, to say the least, startling. She was not in any of the tramp’s mirrors or tv cameras (there are 6) and whether she was trying to overtake us on the right or simply sneaking through the left hand turn light herself before it turned red, may never be known.

What is known is that her front bumper and our front wheel cover were interlocked in such a way that for either vehicle to move forward would cause considerably more damage to both. Normally, one would exit the vehicle, exchange insurance details and move on. A bit difficult in the tramp’s case since the only door was blocked by her car, (it should be clear from this that any collisions should only take place on the left side, anything else is just too complicated). Jumping out of the window was perhaps possible, though very awkward and even then probably only with a rope, but re-entering would not be. Plus there was the complication of how to move on without further damage. iPhones and cameras came out. The trampess hung suspended out the front side window and photographed the entwined bumper. She was then instructed by the tramp to photograph the view from the driver’s side (another out of the window effort) back to the intersection to show that the angle of entry from the intersection made his intentions (we won’t even mention the perfect signalling) transparent to anyone who cared to look. Police were summoned but did not appear for over an hour. Meanwhile the intersection was well and truly blocked – at least for large vehicles; cars drove along the central island to pass on the main road and on the side road cars and some very skilled trucks could pass on the right entry slip road that we were not completely blocking (the skill of truck drivers is not to be underestimated and to say that an inch is as good as a mile when applied to a very long vehicle significantly understates what such a manoeuvre requires – as well as a large intake of breath on the trampess’s part). With neither party willing to admit guilt, and with the problem of the interlocking, neither of us moved.

An off-duty policeman was the first on the scene. Not of the same polite nature (perhaps owing the great inconvenience being caused to other drivers, him included) he merely screamed at us all to pull up and off to the side of the road to clear the intersection. The tramp politely asked if he would mind photographing the vehicles from the front (something which you, dear reader, understand was impossible for us, trapped as we were inside the WLW) and then we would happily try to disengage. Not a chance. He drove off as quickly as possible muttering as he went. Various discussions continued between the tramp and the other driver, all suitably polite (the politeness of Germans is vastly underrated: had this been in Italy, I can assure you, as I have witnessed such things in the past, jackets would be off and fists in the air). Conversation with a bus driver trapped behind us on the other hand was less so. When the local, on-duty policeman eventually arrived, he took photos from the front (of his own volition), guided the vehicles out of their locked position, and politely (by now, you would expect no less) fined both drivers 35 euros for blocking the intersection which both (of course) accepted with good grace. As it transpires the damage was not as great as it might have been, but nonetheless required immediate attention. Another day, another factory. Let’s just say that the next factory was in a rather obscure location and the way out was no longer onto the motorway as expected. The trampess’s worst nightmare (well, let us be frank, what she had expected to be her worst nightmare, the worst having already happened) was realised, and the entry into Cologne was completely different from the agreed route. God, having been off duty for awhile, finally came back into the picture on the trampess’s side, granted her His blessing by making the route to the bus parking place relatively straight forward, not without some, ah, discussion, but without difficult and certainly without a u-turn.