The chance to visit the tramp’s younger sister without driving back to northern Germany and the decision to return to the second instalment of the Schubertiade caused some revision in travel plans for the weeks following the Verbier festival. And even then not everything worked to plan. To begin with the exit from Verbier was somewhat fraught. Despite the tramp’s forethought and being delivered to the WLW by our friends, we had our adventures. The friends were driving on to Munich and advised the fastest route. As they were in a fast German car, driven by a fast driving Frenchman, they were well ahead of us on the route and kept sending text messages advising of traffic and recommending getting on the “drive and ride” train to take us through the mountains. After following various misleading signs, the trampess was forced (good for improving her German, obviously) to enter the station which clearly was not the “drive and ride” one to get instructions to the one that was. Fortunately it was not far away. Also fortunately the WLW with its little Smart trailing behind just (and I do mean just) made the allowable dimensions for riding. Of course the tramp had to drive the WLW (and Smart) along the length of the train (which was not 100% straight) until he reached the WLW’s standing position. This was not as easy as it sounds: the wing mirrors (there are obviously no rear view mirrors in the WLW) are quite crucial to insuring that the vehicle is straight and that the Smart is coming along nicely (trailers do not always behave as they are told, the Smart’s trailer is no exception) and they were in serious danger of being knocked out of position more than once: the occasional vertical supports for the roof of the train (it was open like a cattle car – strange how it felt like a cattle car) did intrude on the width of the carriage which was already very tight. Having only a few inches on either side of the vehicle did not put the tramp in one of his best moods. It has to be said, though, that the tramp really did pass his HGV licence with flying colours and the WLW managed to take her position with only the occasional bump and with no displacement of the mirrors.
Would that the rest of the journey had gone so well! It was not long before the dashboard signalled engine failure 062 to the tramp. Being the chief technical expert, the trampess was asked what that meant. You can only imagine that the trampess’s response was swift but not reassuring (numbers 001-061 were unknown as well). The tramp was not amused. He pulled over, went through a few tests and miraculously the failure signal disappeared. Grumpily he pulled into traffic again. Shortly the engine failure signal came back on. At this point the trampess was deep in the manual searching frantically for what she knew would not be there, but without the search, the trampess’s life would not be worth living. The tramp was not assuaged; it was clear “we” did not know enough and if this happened while crossing the desert in north Africa we would be in big trouble. The trampess could not argue with the logic but was no more able to find the answer in the book than before. She did however come up with the 24 hour service number. The tramp pulled into a service station and called the number. It was an interesting conversation. Let us just say that it began with a series of questions which caused the tramp to erupt: “may I ask how many more irrelevant details of my life you would like for your data base before you actually intend to provide me with service? Do you actually know what enginge failure 062 is? Do you intend to tell me?” Dear reader, you know this conversation, you know that it often winds up in slammed down phones (how does one slam a mobile? Interesting thought). Fortunately, patience on both side was restored but, it did not mean the answer to the, one would have thought, straightforward question: what is engine failure 062. That would have to wait. She told the tramp that she would send out an engineer. He asked her to call back with the time. In the meantime, he tanked the WLW and the trampess made supper. It was eaten it what I would call, for want of a more original description, stony silence.
Just as the tramp had had enough and was going to drive off (being somewhat reassured by what his checks told him engine failure 062 was not), there was a banging on the door and in popped a friendly service engineer who told us to follow him. We had to wait briefly near a small railway station while he dashed back to his house (he had left the factory keys at home). Eventually we made it to the factory. The engineer hooked the WLW up to his computer and began hitting the keyboard. Eventually he returned to tell us that as it transpired, engine failure 062 was a signalling failure (yes, you got it in 1; it was telling the tramp that it couldn’t tell the tramp if everything was ok or not because it was having a little electronic failure – which since having been diagnosed has disappeared ). He said he couldn’t fix it (something about having it dealt with at the WLW’s annual checkup) but the vehicle was perfectly safe to drive. By now it was nearly midnight and the tramp asked if there was a reasonable place to stop back on the main road to Garmisch. He indicated that there was and gave us the name of the next service station with lay by area for trucks. Dear reader, we arrived there shortly and it was full of a serious number of unsavoury characters who looked like they were about to start taking the night’s supply of drugs. We drove through. After passing two more quiet lay bys, I begged the tramp to take the next one. He did and we both passed out, despite the traffic which continued through the night. The next day we made it to Garmisch in time for lunch.
Except that the tramp’s sister and husband don’t eat lunch, or for that matter breakfast. This was disconcerting to the tramp (and indeed your trampess) as not only do they eat all three, they have, as you know, been known to snack on nuts and chocolate to keep them going until lunch can be made. All this, while dropping kilos (it would have been rude to mention that the trampess was already a kilo lighter that the original target of 54.4). The tramp made the trampess promise that she would give no lectures on health or nutrition, but he did ask her to cook proper meals to which the relatives were invited. This she did and while they ate with relish, the tramp did not feel they had been converted. He was depressed that the sister who had recently had a hip operation was not yet walking – the lack of a physiotherapy regime troubled him deeply. It was good to make the visit but it was not one which cheered the soul. And so, when they left, we headed to Salzburg.
If Garmisch had a grey cloud over it for personal reasons, Salzburg had it for architectural and social ones. Apart from the very small, old centre (where the festival is held and where Mozart’s birthplace and the university are are), Salzburg could be located in the former DDR or maybe the grey, post-war housing estates of Glasgow. While the campsite overlooking the city was excellent, the drive to the festival was distinctly lacking in charm and the local supermarket had a depressing array of over-processed, over-sugared food and very little fresh produce; what there was, was in a very sorry state.
The festival was quite different. Our first event was the opening night of Otello – and spectacular it was – including the audience: black tie the rule, long gowns in the majority, photographers taking pictures of arriving dignitaries, champagne on every balcony and terrace (no one would dream of a glass of flat wine – none was to be seen!). Forewarned, the tramp and trampess, not wishing to let the locals down (particularly those who had gone to much trouble to secure us seats for sold out performances), had emerged from the WLW in BT and LG. The production was on the whole very successful: traditional in set and costume, good if not outstanding voices, but deeply moving performances and an outstanding performance by Ricardo Muti and the Vienna Philharmonic. Interesting then, that while the majority of the audience applauded enthusiastically, some significant minority felt the need to boo. Evidently, dressing so glamourously, gives one a sense of self-importance that results in such behaviour. In fact, the trampess has observed that dress seems to be a very strong indicator of audience behaviour: Schwarzenberg is formal in the evening (but not black tie) and informal at masterclasses. The audience is serious, knowledgeable, not easily won over to rapturous applause but fair. Verbier is casual, fun loving, and enthusiastic about everything (but the performances on the whole do merit the enthusiasm). Salzburg is seriously formal (some were even wearing black tie at an 11am concert at the Mozarteum – the chairman had warned the tramp that suit was required – though both he and the tramp removed jacket and tie back at his home for a most wonderful family lunch on the old farm he and his wife and 4 children have restored – a perfect antidote to the Salzburg we had come to know and dislike), knows it is the best music festival and that its audience undoubtedly has the best taste. If you can stay in your Buddha self, many performances are worth it (though the tramp did say that the concert on our last evening had glorious playing by the Vienna Philharmonic but the worst sung Kindertodenlieder he had ever heard – made sadder by the fact the young woman who sang it had a beautiful voice, just a very odd interpretation – and while he did not boo, he did not applaud).
We were not entirely unhappy when Tuesday came and it was time to push toward Zurich to pick up tramp son 1 who was arriving at the airport at 10pm to spend a long weekend in Bezau.
Monday, 18 August 2008
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
VO2 Max, Music, Parties and Effortless Weight Loss
You would be excused for thinking that Verbier was nothing but sybaritic indulgence. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. To begin with, the tramp’s motive in having the WLW is not just to visit music festivals, but also to be in touch with nature in an active way without, of course, being trapped in the claustrophobic life (as he sees it, having grown up in one) of a village. The days therefore alternate between long (3 hour) workouts in a gym (one of the challenges being to find a good gym in the middle of nowhere – so far, while not always easy, this has not been a problem) and serious hiking. While the initial walk through downtown Verbier was not to the tramp’s liking, the hikes were. It is hard to imagine how different the hikes in Verbier are to those in Schwarzenberg. To begin with they are much higher: Verbier itself is 1300m and the walks can go to over 3000m – significantly higher than Kanisfluh and, of course, well above the tree line. Very little walking is under cover of trees or forests even at the beginning of the walk (except for the 20 minutes to Medran where one catches a cable car up before beginning serious ascents). Every day hiking day lasted at least 4 hours and more often 7 or 8. This demanded the usual hearty breakfast (porridge with flax seed for the trampess; eggs, flax seed bananas, knaeckerbrot with nut butter for the tramp), plus nuts and a little chocolate for a snack and then back to the WLW for a proper meal with a light supper rather sooner than might ordinarily be expected (after all, one could not go to bed late without prejudicing the next days big work out or walk). Despite huge breakfasts, snacks and late, but fulsome lunches, the trampess has noticed that the scale reports a continuing downward trend: one could consider this effortless weight loss. Not because there is no effort in climbing a mountain, I assure you there is, but because it is done for the sheer joy of being part of a spectacular landscape. It just happens that it burns calories in a way that only 10 hours in a gym could - and who, tell me who, wants to do that??!!
The hikes were as varied as one can imagine: along an aqueduct through fields, across marsh, over rocky terrain with wild flowers pushing through everywhere, across glacial ice, up steep granite and gravel slides that may well be wide pistes in the winter, along dirt roads that provided the perfect excitement for mountain cyclists, and along very narrow, tricky paths with big drops on one side that happily did not (or rather would have provided too much excitement for even the most experienced cyclists, and therefore were safe for tramps). The inclines varied as well: sometimes the gradient was pleasant, whether up or down hill, sometimes as unrelenting as Kanisfluh but with the psychological disadvantage of the view being so open, that there was no disguising just how long that upward path was. Further interest was provided by the fact that the maps were not always very accurate, and that the same names recurred in different locations. As your tramp and trampess became more knowledgeable, they were able to take a view of the maps, which enabled them to override these small, but troubling, inaccuracies. Dear reader, the hikes are magnificent and the trampess rued the days when gym was the order of the day (except of course for the shower which was most welcome) except that the first day at Biosport caused a breakthrough in the trampess’s understanding of the tramp’s strange loss of energy at Kanisfluh.
The trampess, as usual, began with an half hour workout on the treadmill at the usual rate of 10k/hr. Not feeling as perky as usual, I wondered how I would fare when increasing the speed to 12k. Just as your trampess was suffering these gloomy thoughts, the tramps reminded her that we were at a much higher altitude than in Bezau and that she should take that into account in training (he emphatically intoned that he would not being doing more than a 5 minute warm up – the tramp being well known to grab any excuse to avoid a hard cardio workout). Lightning struck! It is all about VO2 max and altitude. The tramp suffered from sleep apnoea that went undiagnosed for some time (ultimately restricting his lung capacity), he does not like cardio training, he does not like to run and he is not happy at altitude. The trampess works hard at cardio (though she loves it almost as much as the tramp), ran the marathon last year and is (at least at the altitudes she has been to) indifferent to altitude. Voila – the tramp simply needs to build his VO2 max to be able to sustain the effort for Kanisfluh! Breaking the news gently to the tramp over one of her best culinary efforts, the trampess explained her theory and, more to the point, the prescription for cure. The tramp was stunned. It was too logical, too inescapably logical. But after a deep sigh, he replied that climbing in Verbier was enough altitude training, he would be unduly stressed if he began long efforts on the treadmill as well. He is resigned to the trampess’s faster ascents and to the fact that at sea level, he may just have to step on the treadmill – or take up running.
The arrival of more friends for concerts inevitably meant parties: lunch parties before concerts, lunch parties after morning concerts, parties after evening concerts. The food was excellent, the wine and champagne abundant and the puddings too delicious to resist (happily, often raspberries, strawberries or a mixture, but occasionally something decadent and very chocolatey,). Mostly though, it was the company that made the event: serious music lovers and serious music makers. One evening in particular was memorable both for what it took to arrive and what was there once we did. The Smart, while a zippy little vehicle, has only one principal disadvantage: it only holds 2. The night after the Brendel concert, your tramp and trampess were invited to a party through the grace of French friends who had come for the concert of a young prodigy of whom they are patrons and who is studying with Brendel. Our friend decided that the sensible course was to leap into the Smart with the tramp and let the trampess come with his wife and driver (the wife had been there before and he was confident she would find the way). The tramp, always solicitous of the trampess, suggested they wait and allow us to follow but our French friend shares some similarities to the trampess in his eagerness to set out, so the men forged ahead and the women followed. Except, of course, they didn’t. We went too far and then returned but all the way back to where we had started (missing the turing a second time). After a few phone calls and some incredulous sputtering, we caught up to the tramp and friend. And then the trek began (the trampess was not in her walking shoes!). You might have thought, dear reader, that the cars had taken us to our destination, but you would have been wrong. They took us to the foothills: the driveway still had to be climbed. Some driveways in Verbier are very short; others, of which this was one, up in the hills above Verbier, are actually quite long. The trampess was delighted that instead of wearing the 4” Armani stilettos that she really, really wanted to wear, she wore the sensible little flatties that saw her up the hill without too much difficulty. The trek was worth it: a magnificent chalet, old beams, big rooms, books everywhere, a welcoming host and hostess and, of course, le tout Verbier, including Brendels (pere et fils) and other distinguished musicians. A magnificent dinner followed and eventually, and I do mean eventually, the tramp, trampess, and friends left – fortunately driven down by one of the many drivers assigned to taking weary party goers down to their cars!
The next day should have been a 7 hour hike to make up for the magnificence of the previous evening but it was not. The young prodigy was performing with Brendel fils in the church. Afterwards there was, as you have now come to expect, a splendid lunch party, with prodigy, patrons, a few musicians and a few locals, including our hosts from last night. Again, a long delicious lunch and then a gradual pulling away. Our French friends drove us down to Le Chable where we had moved the WLW and the Smart before breakfast (and then taken the cable car up) in order not to cause a major traffic jam in the afternoon when it came time to de-camp for Garmisch. The WLW can handle the alpine roads, but not at a speed the local Porsches (or even Volvos) appreciate. To be stuck behind the WLW with no possibility of passing on a long and winding road might by many be considered an invitation to an accident. The tramp does not like to issue such invitations.
The hikes were as varied as one can imagine: along an aqueduct through fields, across marsh, over rocky terrain with wild flowers pushing through everywhere, across glacial ice, up steep granite and gravel slides that may well be wide pistes in the winter, along dirt roads that provided the perfect excitement for mountain cyclists, and along very narrow, tricky paths with big drops on one side that happily did not (or rather would have provided too much excitement for even the most experienced cyclists, and therefore were safe for tramps). The inclines varied as well: sometimes the gradient was pleasant, whether up or down hill, sometimes as unrelenting as Kanisfluh but with the psychological disadvantage of the view being so open, that there was no disguising just how long that upward path was. Further interest was provided by the fact that the maps were not always very accurate, and that the same names recurred in different locations. As your tramp and trampess became more knowledgeable, they were able to take a view of the maps, which enabled them to override these small, but troubling, inaccuracies. Dear reader, the hikes are magnificent and the trampess rued the days when gym was the order of the day (except of course for the shower which was most welcome) except that the first day at Biosport caused a breakthrough in the trampess’s understanding of the tramp’s strange loss of energy at Kanisfluh.
The trampess, as usual, began with an half hour workout on the treadmill at the usual rate of 10k/hr. Not feeling as perky as usual, I wondered how I would fare when increasing the speed to 12k. Just as your trampess was suffering these gloomy thoughts, the tramps reminded her that we were at a much higher altitude than in Bezau and that she should take that into account in training (he emphatically intoned that he would not being doing more than a 5 minute warm up – the tramp being well known to grab any excuse to avoid a hard cardio workout). Lightning struck! It is all about VO2 max and altitude. The tramp suffered from sleep apnoea that went undiagnosed for some time (ultimately restricting his lung capacity), he does not like cardio training, he does not like to run and he is not happy at altitude. The trampess works hard at cardio (though she loves it almost as much as the tramp), ran the marathon last year and is (at least at the altitudes she has been to) indifferent to altitude. Voila – the tramp simply needs to build his VO2 max to be able to sustain the effort for Kanisfluh! Breaking the news gently to the tramp over one of her best culinary efforts, the trampess explained her theory and, more to the point, the prescription for cure. The tramp was stunned. It was too logical, too inescapably logical. But after a deep sigh, he replied that climbing in Verbier was enough altitude training, he would be unduly stressed if he began long efforts on the treadmill as well. He is resigned to the trampess’s faster ascents and to the fact that at sea level, he may just have to step on the treadmill – or take up running.
The arrival of more friends for concerts inevitably meant parties: lunch parties before concerts, lunch parties after morning concerts, parties after evening concerts. The food was excellent, the wine and champagne abundant and the puddings too delicious to resist (happily, often raspberries, strawberries or a mixture, but occasionally something decadent and very chocolatey,). Mostly though, it was the company that made the event: serious music lovers and serious music makers. One evening in particular was memorable both for what it took to arrive and what was there once we did. The Smart, while a zippy little vehicle, has only one principal disadvantage: it only holds 2. The night after the Brendel concert, your tramp and trampess were invited to a party through the grace of French friends who had come for the concert of a young prodigy of whom they are patrons and who is studying with Brendel. Our friend decided that the sensible course was to leap into the Smart with the tramp and let the trampess come with his wife and driver (the wife had been there before and he was confident she would find the way). The tramp, always solicitous of the trampess, suggested they wait and allow us to follow but our French friend shares some similarities to the trampess in his eagerness to set out, so the men forged ahead and the women followed. Except, of course, they didn’t. We went too far and then returned but all the way back to where we had started (missing the turing a second time). After a few phone calls and some incredulous sputtering, we caught up to the tramp and friend. And then the trek began (the trampess was not in her walking shoes!). You might have thought, dear reader, that the cars had taken us to our destination, but you would have been wrong. They took us to the foothills: the driveway still had to be climbed. Some driveways in Verbier are very short; others, of which this was one, up in the hills above Verbier, are actually quite long. The trampess was delighted that instead of wearing the 4” Armani stilettos that she really, really wanted to wear, she wore the sensible little flatties that saw her up the hill without too much difficulty. The trek was worth it: a magnificent chalet, old beams, big rooms, books everywhere, a welcoming host and hostess and, of course, le tout Verbier, including Brendels (pere et fils) and other distinguished musicians. A magnificent dinner followed and eventually, and I do mean eventually, the tramp, trampess, and friends left – fortunately driven down by one of the many drivers assigned to taking weary party goers down to their cars!
The next day should have been a 7 hour hike to make up for the magnificence of the previous evening but it was not. The young prodigy was performing with Brendel fils in the church. Afterwards there was, as you have now come to expect, a splendid lunch party, with prodigy, patrons, a few musicians and a few locals, including our hosts from last night. Again, a long delicious lunch and then a gradual pulling away. Our French friends drove us down to Le Chable where we had moved the WLW and the Smart before breakfast (and then taken the cable car up) in order not to cause a major traffic jam in the afternoon when it came time to de-camp for Garmisch. The WLW can handle the alpine roads, but not at a speed the local Porsches (or even Volvos) appreciate. To be stuck behind the WLW with no possibility of passing on a long and winding road might by many be considered an invitation to an accident. The tramp does not like to issue such invitations.
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Out of the Euro Zone and Above the Tree Line with Exceptional Wines and the Arduous Life of a Tramp
The drive to Verbier from Geneva where the tramp was waiting for the trampess’s return from London was quite straightforward but not exceptional. Our friends at the Verbier Festival were surprised by our arrival (for the second time since the trampess had warned them earlier that the WLW was planning to arrive in advance in order better to secure a spot in a friendly farmer’s field near to the village) and suggested that we park along the river in Le Chable below Verbier (apparently the village is too chic to allow such vehicles as the WLW to grace her streets) while they tried to secure a farm. The suggested spot looked a little too close to the main road to guarantee any sleep that night, but as luck was with the tramps there was a sign indicating a camp ground nearby.
We took the long, winding road through narrow village streets (one thinks of a lobster entering the trap: it is possible to enter but impossible to leave), slowing down at each bend to make sure the gate wasn’t falling behind us. Sure enough we found the site but with no one at reception we parked outside and hoped to find someone in the morning. We secured a nice space the next morning and managed to hook up to the electricity with the help of a very independent, experienced German camper of a certain age who had clearly stayed there before. The connection looked somewhat dubious (not as protected from the elements as one might expect) and of course the German plug did not fit the Swiss socket (the neighbour always travelled with spare adaptors and hooked us up telling the tramp that he could return it to her when we left – she seemed to be there for the summer for climbing and hang gliding!). Still no sign of Monsieur le proprieter. Never mind, with the top down on the Smart, and the wind in our hair, we drove up the long steep road to Verbier.
First impressions were not good: too many night spots, too many cheap restaurants, too much teenage bling. Not promising, but the festival attracted serious musicians and we were also visiting and meeting friends. The thought of driving almost half an hour up and down the torturous road was putting the tramp off – made all the worse by the fact that the cable car, which took only a few minutes, stopped at 5pm every day – just when the festival was going into full swing. How perverse are these Swiss??!!! Still, we armed ourselves with hiking maps, found the only two possibilities for a gym (both small and limited but ok) and headed downhill again. Later that evening Monsieur showed up – a small carafe of wine in hand to welcome us along with some helpful bits of information.
The next day we drove up to the gym and had a ferocious workout and an excellent shower (one appreciates these small things so much more now) and then met our friend who had arrived late the previous evening. Back to her chalet for lunch and 5 loads of wash in her washing machine! The joy of clean sheets and towels!! Talk focused on great hikes to take and the prospect of wonderful music. In the meantime an almost accidental text message to a friend in Israel resulted in his announcement that he would be arriving in Verbier later that afternoon for a concert the following day. It seems the world converges on music festivals. The opening concert, in the tent (the Verbier Festival still has no permanent home, a combination of objecting farmers and finance have variously stood in the way of a festival hall), was surprisingly good. James Levine was absent but Paavo Jarvi proved more than adequate in his place.
The next day, the local tourist office moved into high gear and we moved home, well not home so much (since it does follow us around) as its location: from down the mountain and across the river, the WLW moved to a farm in the village just below Verbier (and a steep but not unpleasant 20 minute hike to the festival tent – definitely precluding arriving in Manolo’s – although not precluding changing into them as long as the bag carrying them was big enough to hold the walking shoes necessary for the hike up). The views were stupendous, the farm quiet, and the farmer proudly hooked the WLW up to electricity (a few lengths of cable with Harrods’s bags wrapped around them to keep the rain out, a box over the top and a log to hold it down – occasionally, it has to be said, the trampess’s eagle eye on the controls of the fridge noticed that the WLW was unplugged. One doesn’t know whether a frisky horse or a forgetful farmer caused the problem, but it did mean vigilance on making sure the electricity was always available), and moved the fence to give us a patio. Two horses grazed in the field in front of us to complete the pastoral scene. We entertained friends to a cappuccino the next day in our garden and the wife is now worried, very, very worried. The tramp has found many soul mates; the trampess, a lot of sympathy, and some pressure not to sound too enthusiastic about the WLW lifestyle.
The next night we were invited back to the chalet of our friends for dinner – since neither of us were going to that night’s concert. As luck would have it, we were also invited by our now-in-town Israeli friend to a party at Chalet L Raphael after the evening concert. Although the tramp likes an early night, he thought we could do both, all things being equal. All things were not equal. While the dinner began early (and after some ironing of the tramp’s shirts from the efforts of the previous day and a quick shower), it was clearly going to be serious – not formal – but serious. The trampess was invited down to the host’s cellar pre-dinner to join in the selection of the wine (the tramp you will recall is allergic to all things fermented and thus takes no interest in cellars and their contents – the trampess however does!). The host and his old friend and colleague (who was also there with his wife) have put together an enviable collection. It was decided that tonight would be an Haut Brion night (it must be said that the trampess had no difficulty in supporting that decisions): we were to begin with 1990 for an aperitif and then move through 1982, 1970, 1961 and 1955 with, of course (let’s face it a night such as this demands a sweet wine to finish), a d’Yquem 1986 for pudding. When we got to dessert, our host tasted the d’Yquem and suggested that it really wasn’t up to scratch and that he would sacrifice himself and spare us, by drinking the bottle on his own. The trampess, as a long-standing friend, of course refused to let him make such a sacrifice alone. Friendship being what it is, the other six drinking members of the dinner felt compelled to join the sacrifice. The meal was a simple, but delicious, accompaniment to the wine.
It was, as you may have by now surmised, rather later than our normal bedtime, but the tramp agreed to drive to Chalet Raphael to at least say hello. Our hostess gave us directions with those never reassuring words: “You can’t miss it”. I needn’t tell you that at the end of the road where the chalet should have been there was nothing that remotely looked like there was a party inside. The tramp threw up his arms and drove on down to the WLW. The next day, when voice contact was finally made, it transpired that the text messages the trampess sent the previous day, had only just arrived. It seems that an English mobile in Switzerland sending to an Israeli mobile even in the same village, takes several hours to get through! We were invited to come by at 5pm and told we had missed a great party – dancing until 2 or 3am! (I can assure you, the tramp would never have made it and was probably glad that our hostess’s dyslexia caused her to eliminate one crucial turn in the directions). Come by at 5 we did, and were invited to a late lunch (never mind that we had already had one late lunch, the tramp thought this a perfect early supper!). We had a jolly time with our friend, his hosts and their other guests, including the late arrival of a young violinist who had given an apparently outstanding concert earlier that afternoon. Everyone rushed off (most leaving town), the hosts included but told our friend to have a party (!) in their absence and to enjoy himself until he, too, had to leave. No party, but the tramp and trampess returned after the evening concert for dinner a trois (yes, I know we had had supper before the concert, but a late dinner discussing the current state of the middle east and the up coming US elections with our well informed friend made the tramp hesitate not one iota in breaking all his evening rules! I won’t mention that the Asian kitchen staff cooked beautifully prepared light meals with lots of vegetables and made fresh fruit sorbets – a particular weakness of the tramp).
A tour of the chalet followed along with an invitation to come by in the morning for a work out, a Turkish bath, and lunch. Dear reader, the gym is clearly the best gym in Verbier, and one of the best, public or private, we have visited so far in our travels. The Turkish bath, a replica of the oldest public bath in Istanbul (where the trampess did have occasion to have an assisted bath some 30 years ago): marble walls and floors, a domed ceiling with stained glass, buckets of cold water to sprinkle over one to ease the stay in the steam. Outside, by the showers, stacks of towels and bathrobes, the finest shampoos, body scrubs and ointments, all waiting to be used – and who better to use them but a weary trampess? Well, certainly weary after a late night and a serious 2 hour session in the perfect gym – although it must be said that when trays of water appear and then, yes this is the finishing touch, one of the staff (not even Jeeves could have done better) appeared with two tall peachy coloured drinks and asked if perhaps a freshly made apricot smoothie would encourage the work out, the trampesss thought she was less in gym than in heaven! The tramp managed to drink his as well.
Did I mention that each meal was eaten in a different room? No? Well, they were. The evening meal in the study with a fire (it does get cold in the mountains, even in summer) and by candlelight. Lunch after the arduous work out (well one had to make up for 4 meals the previous day!) was on the terrace with the mountains as backdrop. Many of the trampess’s friends have asked HOW she manages to survive in the WLW. Dear reader, I can assure you that I could get used to this life!
We took the long, winding road through narrow village streets (one thinks of a lobster entering the trap: it is possible to enter but impossible to leave), slowing down at each bend to make sure the gate wasn’t falling behind us. Sure enough we found the site but with no one at reception we parked outside and hoped to find someone in the morning. We secured a nice space the next morning and managed to hook up to the electricity with the help of a very independent, experienced German camper of a certain age who had clearly stayed there before. The connection looked somewhat dubious (not as protected from the elements as one might expect) and of course the German plug did not fit the Swiss socket (the neighbour always travelled with spare adaptors and hooked us up telling the tramp that he could return it to her when we left – she seemed to be there for the summer for climbing and hang gliding!). Still no sign of Monsieur le proprieter. Never mind, with the top down on the Smart, and the wind in our hair, we drove up the long steep road to Verbier.
First impressions were not good: too many night spots, too many cheap restaurants, too much teenage bling. Not promising, but the festival attracted serious musicians and we were also visiting and meeting friends. The thought of driving almost half an hour up and down the torturous road was putting the tramp off – made all the worse by the fact that the cable car, which took only a few minutes, stopped at 5pm every day – just when the festival was going into full swing. How perverse are these Swiss??!!! Still, we armed ourselves with hiking maps, found the only two possibilities for a gym (both small and limited but ok) and headed downhill again. Later that evening Monsieur showed up – a small carafe of wine in hand to welcome us along with some helpful bits of information.
The next day we drove up to the gym and had a ferocious workout and an excellent shower (one appreciates these small things so much more now) and then met our friend who had arrived late the previous evening. Back to her chalet for lunch and 5 loads of wash in her washing machine! The joy of clean sheets and towels!! Talk focused on great hikes to take and the prospect of wonderful music. In the meantime an almost accidental text message to a friend in Israel resulted in his announcement that he would be arriving in Verbier later that afternoon for a concert the following day. It seems the world converges on music festivals. The opening concert, in the tent (the Verbier Festival still has no permanent home, a combination of objecting farmers and finance have variously stood in the way of a festival hall), was surprisingly good. James Levine was absent but Paavo Jarvi proved more than adequate in his place.
The next day, the local tourist office moved into high gear and we moved home, well not home so much (since it does follow us around) as its location: from down the mountain and across the river, the WLW moved to a farm in the village just below Verbier (and a steep but not unpleasant 20 minute hike to the festival tent – definitely precluding arriving in Manolo’s – although not precluding changing into them as long as the bag carrying them was big enough to hold the walking shoes necessary for the hike up). The views were stupendous, the farm quiet, and the farmer proudly hooked the WLW up to electricity (a few lengths of cable with Harrods’s bags wrapped around them to keep the rain out, a box over the top and a log to hold it down – occasionally, it has to be said, the trampess’s eagle eye on the controls of the fridge noticed that the WLW was unplugged. One doesn’t know whether a frisky horse or a forgetful farmer caused the problem, but it did mean vigilance on making sure the electricity was always available), and moved the fence to give us a patio. Two horses grazed in the field in front of us to complete the pastoral scene. We entertained friends to a cappuccino the next day in our garden and the wife is now worried, very, very worried. The tramp has found many soul mates; the trampess, a lot of sympathy, and some pressure not to sound too enthusiastic about the WLW lifestyle.
The next night we were invited back to the chalet of our friends for dinner – since neither of us were going to that night’s concert. As luck would have it, we were also invited by our now-in-town Israeli friend to a party at Chalet L Raphael after the evening concert. Although the tramp likes an early night, he thought we could do both, all things being equal. All things were not equal. While the dinner began early (and after some ironing of the tramp’s shirts from the efforts of the previous day and a quick shower), it was clearly going to be serious – not formal – but serious. The trampess was invited down to the host’s cellar pre-dinner to join in the selection of the wine (the tramp you will recall is allergic to all things fermented and thus takes no interest in cellars and their contents – the trampess however does!). The host and his old friend and colleague (who was also there with his wife) have put together an enviable collection. It was decided that tonight would be an Haut Brion night (it must be said that the trampess had no difficulty in supporting that decisions): we were to begin with 1990 for an aperitif and then move through 1982, 1970, 1961 and 1955 with, of course (let’s face it a night such as this demands a sweet wine to finish), a d’Yquem 1986 for pudding. When we got to dessert, our host tasted the d’Yquem and suggested that it really wasn’t up to scratch and that he would sacrifice himself and spare us, by drinking the bottle on his own. The trampess, as a long-standing friend, of course refused to let him make such a sacrifice alone. Friendship being what it is, the other six drinking members of the dinner felt compelled to join the sacrifice. The meal was a simple, but delicious, accompaniment to the wine.
It was, as you may have by now surmised, rather later than our normal bedtime, but the tramp agreed to drive to Chalet Raphael to at least say hello. Our hostess gave us directions with those never reassuring words: “You can’t miss it”. I needn’t tell you that at the end of the road where the chalet should have been there was nothing that remotely looked like there was a party inside. The tramp threw up his arms and drove on down to the WLW. The next day, when voice contact was finally made, it transpired that the text messages the trampess sent the previous day, had only just arrived. It seems that an English mobile in Switzerland sending to an Israeli mobile even in the same village, takes several hours to get through! We were invited to come by at 5pm and told we had missed a great party – dancing until 2 or 3am! (I can assure you, the tramp would never have made it and was probably glad that our hostess’s dyslexia caused her to eliminate one crucial turn in the directions). Come by at 5 we did, and were invited to a late lunch (never mind that we had already had one late lunch, the tramp thought this a perfect early supper!). We had a jolly time with our friend, his hosts and their other guests, including the late arrival of a young violinist who had given an apparently outstanding concert earlier that afternoon. Everyone rushed off (most leaving town), the hosts included but told our friend to have a party (!) in their absence and to enjoy himself until he, too, had to leave. No party, but the tramp and trampess returned after the evening concert for dinner a trois (yes, I know we had had supper before the concert, but a late dinner discussing the current state of the middle east and the up coming US elections with our well informed friend made the tramp hesitate not one iota in breaking all his evening rules! I won’t mention that the Asian kitchen staff cooked beautifully prepared light meals with lots of vegetables and made fresh fruit sorbets – a particular weakness of the tramp).
A tour of the chalet followed along with an invitation to come by in the morning for a work out, a Turkish bath, and lunch. Dear reader, the gym is clearly the best gym in Verbier, and one of the best, public or private, we have visited so far in our travels. The Turkish bath, a replica of the oldest public bath in Istanbul (where the trampess did have occasion to have an assisted bath some 30 years ago): marble walls and floors, a domed ceiling with stained glass, buckets of cold water to sprinkle over one to ease the stay in the steam. Outside, by the showers, stacks of towels and bathrobes, the finest shampoos, body scrubs and ointments, all waiting to be used – and who better to use them but a weary trampess? Well, certainly weary after a late night and a serious 2 hour session in the perfect gym – although it must be said that when trays of water appear and then, yes this is the finishing touch, one of the staff (not even Jeeves could have done better) appeared with two tall peachy coloured drinks and asked if perhaps a freshly made apricot smoothie would encourage the work out, the trampesss thought she was less in gym than in heaven! The tramp managed to drink his as well.
Did I mention that each meal was eaten in a different room? No? Well, they were. The evening meal in the study with a fire (it does get cold in the mountains, even in summer) and by candlelight. Lunch after the arduous work out (well one had to make up for 4 meals the previous day!) was on the terrace with the mountains as backdrop. Many of the trampess’s friends have asked HOW she manages to survive in the WLW. Dear reader, I can assure you that I could get used to this life!
Sunday, 3 August 2008
The 54th Parallel cont.
While the tramp and trampess are prepared for bad weather (and indeed embrace it), they are not averse to fine weather and fine weather blessed Austria for several days before the trampess’s return to London. On one of those days, a hike, that was only intended to be a short 2 or 3 hours before lunch, turned into a 7 hour hike: through the village of Bezau up to the Baumgarten and along the ridge, across another valley to another ridge which was the jumping off point for hang gliders. It was a glorious day, the way was long and steep but not quite in the relentless uphill way that characterised Kanisfluh. The views across valleys were truly gorgeous and while we have cows near us in the valley, it seems that the old habit of moving the cows up to higher pastures remains. Indeed, it might explain why many farmhouses below are empty: the farmers and the cows are all high up in the mountains. As the walk had not been planned to be so long, only emergency rations (which the trampess always keeps in her rucksack – a Girl Scout’s habits die hard) were available: a banana, nuts, dates, and very dark chocolate – and of course a camel back full of water in each rucksack. After 4 hours we stopped just at the point where the road took a sharp turn and we could look almost 360 degrees around us. There was a small barn with a bench outside, slightly dirty and slightly rickety, but a perfect place to rest, eat nuts and a little chocolate, enjoy the view and gather forces for the next upward thrust. Unlike Kanisfluh, this hike did not sap the tramp’s energy and he was more than willing to go on, even with such slim pickings for lunch. Odd, very odd.
The top of Baumgarten offers exceptional views – all the way to Lake Constance in one direction and into an endless chain of mountains in the other – the atmospheric perspective always makes me think I am in a Breughel painting. Along the ridge the wild flowers were in abundance – every colour imaginable covering the ground, and floating above them butterflies of every description: not just the usual pale yellow ones, or the easily recognised Monarchs, but light bright blue ones such as I have never seen. And more cows (it is hard to imagine the cows walking up the narrow paths that lead to the top of Baumgarten, but there is much evidence along the way that that is exactly how they did get here)!
Our course changed abruptly once the tramp spotted numbers of hang gliders rising in the air: he decided we had to find where they were launching themselves. It did not take us long, and what looked like a very long walk down a steep hill and across a valley and then up the opposite hill in fact took only a quarter of an hour. Soon we were amongst mostly young people (but not all!! Please take note – perhaps for the next significant birthday, the trampess will challenge herself to hang gliding) with enormous pack backs that slowly but surely transformed into hang gliders – much of the structure of the back pack becoming the harness. Quite extraordinary to watch. But the magic was watching them lay out the sail on hillside, step into the harness, and then, literally, step off the cliff and, against all expectation (mine anyway) instead of going down, lifting off! Splendid, truly splendid! The mystery to me remains how to steer and even more importantly how to come down to earth slowly – I can quite imagine my first hang gliding lesson turning from an hour into a week because I wouldn’t know how to land. If you think I jest, let me assure you that I am probably the only person you know who crashed into a hay bale when skiing because I couldn’t figure out how to get off the t-bar (everyone said it was obvious and I couldn’t fail to do it . . . ). The good news is that the second time I took a t-bar I did get off earlier (though to be fair I often tried to go up with someone who was clearly experienced and then in my best German or French would ask if they could possibly take the bar at the as I was a novice; on the whole this worked quite well). So before I launch myself as a human butterfly, I will get very explicit instructions on how to land (even better I will find a teacher to fly in tandem with).
But I digress, the walk went on along the ridge and eventually down through forest and valley until we found our way back in time for an extremely late lunch On days like this, the tramp has barely had time to wash the lunch dishes before it is time to consider making supper – after all one cannot simply push supper later or one would never get to bed!
It would have been too strenuous to follow such a day with another day of hiking so a couple of hours in the gym constituted our physical activity. With the thought of a 10k charity run in London on the Sunday following my return, your trampess put extra effort into the tread mill – deciding both to lengthen the time and increase the speed (after all I am running with two friends both of whom have a target of breaking an hour) – given the altitude compared with London, a half an hour seemed a reasonable time before shifting to weights.
Lest you think, dear Reader, that being in Austria has turned the tramp and trampess into Arnie aspirants, let me assure you that the evenings have been filled with music: the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg has proved even more excellent than last year. The Schubertiade Schlusskoncert of Alfred Brendel was without a doubt the most extraordinarily moving piano concert either the tramp or trampess have ever heard (and that includes Barenboim’s recent, stunning recital of all the Beethoven sonatas), but it was a bad choice to have good seats: being in the third row, we could both see and hear the noises (one could not call it singing) that Brendel makes while playing. In an ordinary musician, it would be enough to cause one to leave at the interval; with Brendel one closed one’s eyes, and with Buddha like concentration tried not to hear the accompaniment. Next time (as there will be a next time – another Schlusskoncert in Verbier), we will make sure to have seats at the back of the church. But Brendel was not the only creator of musical magic: Tony Pappano’s piano accompaniment for Ian Bostridge was a revelation, and while Bostridge was not the light hearted wanderer who grew out of his innocence of Fischer-Dieskau or Hermann Prey, he was magnificent in the darker songs.
The last week of the Schubertiade, walks were sacrificed to attend Matthias Goerne’s masterclasses: 4 full hours a day with only a few minutes at noon for a break (the mental exhaustion of these classes was comparable to the physical exhaustion of mountain climbing and the tramp and trampess ran to the balcony in the 10 minute break to wolf down roast chicken, raw carrots and a few of the usual trusty nuts) – but what an amazing experience: 4 singers at quite different stages of development, all receiving very serious attention from a master lieder singer. Of the four, one, a young man who looked younger than number 4 tramp son (who is 19) but is probably a few years older, had one of the most beautiful voices the tramp and trampess have ever heard, but was very shy with almost no stage presence and seemed to resist the master’s comments. One felt he had potential but . . .; the second was young, handsome and confident and not much older, a nice voice, but perhaps too ambitious in his choice of songs; the third, a tenor with a pleasant enough voice but no understanding of the content of what he was singing (this must be the most damning comment one can make about a lieder singer); the fourth, a soprano who was already so far developed one wondered why she was not on stage already. An interesting mixture. Dear Reader when I tell you that I wept when the youngest sang Staendchen, so beautiful was his voice, you will know how thrilling it was to see that after initial resistance on that first day, he threw himself into what was clearly a difficult transition from shy, introspective, gangly non-presence into a quite commanding one for the performance on the 5th day. He worked amazingly hard and Goerne put an amazing amount of physical, emotional and intellectual effort into getting him there. With the others Goerne also made the effort, but it was not so visibly reciprocated. It was a fascinating study in musicianship and psychology. If this makes the Schwarzenberg Schubertiade (please note, it is not called festival!) sound serious, it is, but not grim. The programme is well conceived, the musicians are world class; the audience is sober and soberly dressed; they come, they listen to the music, and leave. The applause can be enthusiastic (indeed, Brendel received a standing ovation as did Jonas Kaufmann – whom I forgot to mention but who was magnificent - disproving the long held belief that opera singers do not make the transition to lied well) but never wild. It isn’t a party but it is worth the annual pilgrimage.
And so the time to depart for London came. The trampess left on the Bregenz bus for Friedrichshafen, as usual having left the tramp a very large stew to hold him over (well for a few days anyway) until the trampess could return to the WLW’s kitchen again. Oh yes, and she did leave having comfortably achieved the target weight of 54.4kg! ah, those glorious mountains!
The top of Baumgarten offers exceptional views – all the way to Lake Constance in one direction and into an endless chain of mountains in the other – the atmospheric perspective always makes me think I am in a Breughel painting. Along the ridge the wild flowers were in abundance – every colour imaginable covering the ground, and floating above them butterflies of every description: not just the usual pale yellow ones, or the easily recognised Monarchs, but light bright blue ones such as I have never seen. And more cows (it is hard to imagine the cows walking up the narrow paths that lead to the top of Baumgarten, but there is much evidence along the way that that is exactly how they did get here)!
Our course changed abruptly once the tramp spotted numbers of hang gliders rising in the air: he decided we had to find where they were launching themselves. It did not take us long, and what looked like a very long walk down a steep hill and across a valley and then up the opposite hill in fact took only a quarter of an hour. Soon we were amongst mostly young people (but not all!! Please take note – perhaps for the next significant birthday, the trampess will challenge herself to hang gliding) with enormous pack backs that slowly but surely transformed into hang gliders – much of the structure of the back pack becoming the harness. Quite extraordinary to watch. But the magic was watching them lay out the sail on hillside, step into the harness, and then, literally, step off the cliff and, against all expectation (mine anyway) instead of going down, lifting off! Splendid, truly splendid! The mystery to me remains how to steer and even more importantly how to come down to earth slowly – I can quite imagine my first hang gliding lesson turning from an hour into a week because I wouldn’t know how to land. If you think I jest, let me assure you that I am probably the only person you know who crashed into a hay bale when skiing because I couldn’t figure out how to get off the t-bar (everyone said it was obvious and I couldn’t fail to do it . . . ). The good news is that the second time I took a t-bar I did get off earlier (though to be fair I often tried to go up with someone who was clearly experienced and then in my best German or French would ask if they could possibly take the bar at the as I was a novice; on the whole this worked quite well). So before I launch myself as a human butterfly, I will get very explicit instructions on how to land (even better I will find a teacher to fly in tandem with).
But I digress, the walk went on along the ridge and eventually down through forest and valley until we found our way back in time for an extremely late lunch On days like this, the tramp has barely had time to wash the lunch dishes before it is time to consider making supper – after all one cannot simply push supper later or one would never get to bed!
It would have been too strenuous to follow such a day with another day of hiking so a couple of hours in the gym constituted our physical activity. With the thought of a 10k charity run in London on the Sunday following my return, your trampess put extra effort into the tread mill – deciding both to lengthen the time and increase the speed (after all I am running with two friends both of whom have a target of breaking an hour) – given the altitude compared with London, a half an hour seemed a reasonable time before shifting to weights.
Lest you think, dear Reader, that being in Austria has turned the tramp and trampess into Arnie aspirants, let me assure you that the evenings have been filled with music: the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg has proved even more excellent than last year. The Schubertiade Schlusskoncert of Alfred Brendel was without a doubt the most extraordinarily moving piano concert either the tramp or trampess have ever heard (and that includes Barenboim’s recent, stunning recital of all the Beethoven sonatas), but it was a bad choice to have good seats: being in the third row, we could both see and hear the noises (one could not call it singing) that Brendel makes while playing. In an ordinary musician, it would be enough to cause one to leave at the interval; with Brendel one closed one’s eyes, and with Buddha like concentration tried not to hear the accompaniment. Next time (as there will be a next time – another Schlusskoncert in Verbier), we will make sure to have seats at the back of the church. But Brendel was not the only creator of musical magic: Tony Pappano’s piano accompaniment for Ian Bostridge was a revelation, and while Bostridge was not the light hearted wanderer who grew out of his innocence of Fischer-Dieskau or Hermann Prey, he was magnificent in the darker songs.
The last week of the Schubertiade, walks were sacrificed to attend Matthias Goerne’s masterclasses: 4 full hours a day with only a few minutes at noon for a break (the mental exhaustion of these classes was comparable to the physical exhaustion of mountain climbing and the tramp and trampess ran to the balcony in the 10 minute break to wolf down roast chicken, raw carrots and a few of the usual trusty nuts) – but what an amazing experience: 4 singers at quite different stages of development, all receiving very serious attention from a master lieder singer. Of the four, one, a young man who looked younger than number 4 tramp son (who is 19) but is probably a few years older, had one of the most beautiful voices the tramp and trampess have ever heard, but was very shy with almost no stage presence and seemed to resist the master’s comments. One felt he had potential but . . .; the second was young, handsome and confident and not much older, a nice voice, but perhaps too ambitious in his choice of songs; the third, a tenor with a pleasant enough voice but no understanding of the content of what he was singing (this must be the most damning comment one can make about a lieder singer); the fourth, a soprano who was already so far developed one wondered why she was not on stage already. An interesting mixture. Dear Reader when I tell you that I wept when the youngest sang Staendchen, so beautiful was his voice, you will know how thrilling it was to see that after initial resistance on that first day, he threw himself into what was clearly a difficult transition from shy, introspective, gangly non-presence into a quite commanding one for the performance on the 5th day. He worked amazingly hard and Goerne put an amazing amount of physical, emotional and intellectual effort into getting him there. With the others Goerne also made the effort, but it was not so visibly reciprocated. It was a fascinating study in musicianship and psychology. If this makes the Schwarzenberg Schubertiade (please note, it is not called festival!) sound serious, it is, but not grim. The programme is well conceived, the musicians are world class; the audience is sober and soberly dressed; they come, they listen to the music, and leave. The applause can be enthusiastic (indeed, Brendel received a standing ovation as did Jonas Kaufmann – whom I forgot to mention but who was magnificent - disproving the long held belief that opera singers do not make the transition to lied well) but never wild. It isn’t a party but it is worth the annual pilgrimage.
And so the time to depart for London came. The trampess left on the Bregenz bus for Friedrichshafen, as usual having left the tramp a very large stew to hold him over (well for a few days anyway) until the trampess could return to the WLW’s kitchen again. Oh yes, and she did leave having comfortably achieved the target weight of 54.4kg! ah, those glorious mountains!
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Wandern, Stark Wandern, Nordic Walking and 54/40 or Fight
The first few days in Bezau were retraces of former hikes and the addition of a Nordic walking lesson courtesy of the village. It seems that in order to increase tourism, all the villages in the Bregenz region have small, beautifully appointed information offices which provide you with everything you could want to entice you to stay: maps of the region, free bus passes (if you stay longer than 3 days) which include not just local buses but hour long journeys (!) to the major railway station, gondola passes, and free entry to the local swimming pool (which is adjacent to the now famous football pitch near our campsite). They also provide guided walks through the mountains (both easy walks where the main interest is looking at wild flowers or rather more strenuous walks up serious, vertical inclines). We showed up one morning and found, no doubt because it is early in the season and it was raining, that we were the only two for the hike. The small, wiry guide offered to turn the walk into a Nordic walk. (Public walks can become private lessons if one is the only member of the public to show up – wuenderbar!) He even had Nordic walking sticks for us – in the correct length (when you consider the tramp is nearly 6 ½ feet tall it is no foregone conclusion that any equipment will be the right size for him). The tramp was keen for us to become “Nordic walkers”, but being of a precise nature, felt we should have proper instruction (he had bought adjustable sticks earlier which we had yet to try out). This was our chance. In the rain (a little rain in Bezau cannot be allowed to put one off one’s stride so to speak or one would never get out of bed – the alpine weather being what it is), we set out. Soon we were in full swing. All limbs working at a good clip, tiring at first but invigorating – the arms working much harder than normal. I feel the shoulders as exposed in evening gowns will benefit!
My efforts at mastering the walk were interrupted by a return (on my part) to London. In the meantime, the tramp continued to use his sticks to conquer the mountains of the region. On my return he announced he had been doing 5 and 6 hour hikes and that he quite liked this new life. It should be noted that the tramp was looking particularly slim and fit! So after a splendid, welcome home dinner at the Schwann (a very modern, excellent, and extremely health conscious restaurant in Bizau), the tramp announced that the next day we would climb to Kanisfluh. Having no idea what this meant, except that Kanisfluh was obviously the name of some local peak, I could only reply, “Splendid!”
The next day I understood what Kanisfluh meant. Most walk (if such a word is appropriate under the circumstances) to the top from the top of the berg station, but the tramp eschews such easy routes and deems the gondolas only suitable for the return journey (ie downhill). We were to begin from the very bottom in the valley. Now, it must be said that the tramp and I have a different pace (not to be confused with travelling to the beat of a different drum which would be truly catastrophic); possibly this is metabolic, possibly it has to due with size (the tramp being almost a foot taller than the trampess), possibly it is temperamental, but it does exist and indeed, the aforementioned, noble instructor noticed the difference and casually said that each person had to find his own pace. Your trampess recorded this advice. We set out, from the village of Mellau, in the valley, not from the berg station (we are not wimps after all). Soon the trampess was noticeably ahead of the tramp, but stopped frequently to allow the tramp to catch up. Dear reader, the first two hours were unrelenting: 45 to 60 degree vertical inclines, absolutely no breaks. We reached a little hut that seemed to be something of a marker on the way up. A sign gave us two alternative paths up but then one was closed owing to a bridge being out and not yet replaced (wading through waterfalls was not on our agenda so we followed the other option). The path was steep but very narrow – an indication of the narrowness was that often ,as your trampess put her downhill stick in the ground it didn’t find ground (it was at this point that slipping was viewed as not an option – not that one would fall off – but one might slip a very long way. The pain of the fall being not nearly as daunting as the thought of having to retrace the upward climb).
Finally, we reached a glacial valley. We found a bench (so thoughtful, these Austrians, there are benches everywhere – well, when there is room), sat down and pulled our lunch out of the rucksack. Did I mention, that the tramp and I had to switch rucksacks – the large one, in the end, didn’t fit him properly but was fine for your small boned, but reasonably tall trampess. As it is more spacious, the trampess had all the food and water (this has its benefits as you shall discover later) – each rucksack having to take anoraks, ponchos, a fleece and gaiters – so no room in the tramp’s for fuel. The wander sign behind us indicated 2 ½ hours to reach our destination – the first part across a glacial valley but around the corner there was obviously more vertical to come. The tramp announced, despite lunch, he had no more energy and we would just have to walk down to the berg station and return to the WLW. He was disappointed and baffled (after all in my absence he had done 6 and 7 hour hikes, fuelled by roast chicken from the local supermarket) but could only think that the pace with which we reached nearly 2000 meters was too fast. We would have to try again at a more reasonable pace.
The next morning, the scale revealed that the tramp’s insistence on starting from Mellau had very positive benefits – well negative to be precise in terms of the kilos on the scale I stood on – I broke through the 55kg barrier for the first time since the Marathon. It suddenly occurred to me that I could reach the elusive goal of 3.5 kg in the foreseeable future. Indeed, it made me recall the American history lessons of my youth and some war we fought (1812 maybe?) that was all about not conceding territory below a certain latitude; the war cry became: 54 40 or fight! Your trampess has seized the slogan – 54.4kg before the next trip to London or else! I suddenly feel quite confident.
My efforts at mastering the walk were interrupted by a return (on my part) to London. In the meantime, the tramp continued to use his sticks to conquer the mountains of the region. On my return he announced he had been doing 5 and 6 hour hikes and that he quite liked this new life. It should be noted that the tramp was looking particularly slim and fit! So after a splendid, welcome home dinner at the Schwann (a very modern, excellent, and extremely health conscious restaurant in Bizau), the tramp announced that the next day we would climb to Kanisfluh. Having no idea what this meant, except that Kanisfluh was obviously the name of some local peak, I could only reply, “Splendid!”
The next day I understood what Kanisfluh meant. Most walk (if such a word is appropriate under the circumstances) to the top from the top of the berg station, but the tramp eschews such easy routes and deems the gondolas only suitable for the return journey (ie downhill). We were to begin from the very bottom in the valley. Now, it must be said that the tramp and I have a different pace (not to be confused with travelling to the beat of a different drum which would be truly catastrophic); possibly this is metabolic, possibly it has to due with size (the tramp being almost a foot taller than the trampess), possibly it is temperamental, but it does exist and indeed, the aforementioned, noble instructor noticed the difference and casually said that each person had to find his own pace. Your trampess recorded this advice. We set out, from the village of Mellau, in the valley, not from the berg station (we are not wimps after all). Soon the trampess was noticeably ahead of the tramp, but stopped frequently to allow the tramp to catch up. Dear reader, the first two hours were unrelenting: 45 to 60 degree vertical inclines, absolutely no breaks. We reached a little hut that seemed to be something of a marker on the way up. A sign gave us two alternative paths up but then one was closed owing to a bridge being out and not yet replaced (wading through waterfalls was not on our agenda so we followed the other option). The path was steep but very narrow – an indication of the narrowness was that often ,as your trampess put her downhill stick in the ground it didn’t find ground (it was at this point that slipping was viewed as not an option – not that one would fall off – but one might slip a very long way. The pain of the fall being not nearly as daunting as the thought of having to retrace the upward climb).
Finally, we reached a glacial valley. We found a bench (so thoughtful, these Austrians, there are benches everywhere – well, when there is room), sat down and pulled our lunch out of the rucksack. Did I mention, that the tramp and I had to switch rucksacks – the large one, in the end, didn’t fit him properly but was fine for your small boned, but reasonably tall trampess. As it is more spacious, the trampess had all the food and water (this has its benefits as you shall discover later) – each rucksack having to take anoraks, ponchos, a fleece and gaiters – so no room in the tramp’s for fuel. The wander sign behind us indicated 2 ½ hours to reach our destination – the first part across a glacial valley but around the corner there was obviously more vertical to come. The tramp announced, despite lunch, he had no more energy and we would just have to walk down to the berg station and return to the WLW. He was disappointed and baffled (after all in my absence he had done 6 and 7 hour hikes, fuelled by roast chicken from the local supermarket) but could only think that the pace with which we reached nearly 2000 meters was too fast. We would have to try again at a more reasonable pace.
The next morning, the scale revealed that the tramp’s insistence on starting from Mellau had very positive benefits – well negative to be precise in terms of the kilos on the scale I stood on – I broke through the 55kg barrier for the first time since the Marathon. It suddenly occurred to me that I could reach the elusive goal of 3.5 kg in the foreseeable future. Indeed, it made me recall the American history lessons of my youth and some war we fought (1812 maybe?) that was all about not conceding territory below a certain latitude; the war cry became: 54 40 or fight! Your trampess has seized the slogan – 54.4kg before the next trip to London or else! I suddenly feel quite confident.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Cleanliness, Godliness, the Art of Mindful Vacuuming and a Return to Simplicity
While it would be good for the carpets to be vacuumed everyday, the strain on the knees and the soul might be too great, so it was deemed by the tramp that once every three days would be sufficient to keep us up to German standards of cleanliness and, by extension, godliness. That was of course before reaching our one star camp ground in Bezau.
The arrival in Bezau was as expected: as soon as we were within a few kilometres, it began to pour. This is normal; this is why we have serious rain ponchos to cover us both for hiking and for attending the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg (the reason for coming to Bezau). The landscape is stunning and nothing seems to have changed since Julie Andrews won Christopher Plummers’ heart. The fields are mown, the cows roam freely in the fields, the chickens walk about close to the barn, easily scared by the arrival of trampers passing. And the campsite is the spare field next to the farmhouse but gravelled over for the greater comfort of the WLW.
The view is splendid: a rushing river (noisier but not trafficked by passing cargo or tourist boats like the Mosel), fields and mountains. One could (and indeed one has) have a worse view at breakfast. The entry into the camping ground passes a small football pitch (for the local school children) perfectly groomed and maintained, with dugouts for each team, dressing rooms etc - definitely as good as any English public school facility (albeit only one pitch – but then this is a village and it probably takes the complete town with no end of season injuries to mount a full match). Unfortunately, on the eve of our arrival a match was on and all the locals had driven (shocking really in a land of bicycles – but it is the end of season, so perhaps a few participants from other villages had to be brought in – and while it is possible to ride bikes from one village to another, if the village is in the wrong direction, ie over a local mountain, one might have to be a Tour de France cyclist to make the journey, let alone arrive fresh for the competition). Suffice it to say that with cars parked on both sides of the road (a big word for such a small by way) the WLW, which is both long (especially with its little Smart trailing behind) and wide, faced a challenge. Now the tramp is a most excellent driver and has already demonstrated his skill rather more than he would probably like on some very narrow winding roads (with the occasional precipitous drop on the side), and it seemed that he somehow managed the turn, the curve and the second turn into the campsite that had been waiting expectantly for us all day (no doubt the first time anyone had reserved a Stellplatz for a month). These turns and curves, you understand, being somewhat less in total length than the total length of the WLW and its hanging load. With a little beetle hanging over the road on one side and an estate car not so strategically parked on the other, it was slightly more of a challenge than even the tramp could manage and inspection afterward revealed a small scrape in the paintwork of the latter. The tramp being a good and honest soul left a note. It was not until after the tramp was in his pyjamas, however, that the knock came on the door. Luckily your trampess was still dressed, if unable to cope, in German, with the possible ensuing drama. The tramp, always willing to rescue a damsel in distress, especially if the distress, as in this case, was of his making, greeted the visitor, asked him to come in and said he would return – which he did, fully dressed. After some time, and with German composure and Austrian charm, the issue was resolved.
The next morning, a gorgeous sunny day, being a Sunday, the trampess resolved to go to church. The tramp assured her of four things: every village has a church; it will be easy to find (the spire rises above the farm houses); this being Austria, it will be Catholic; and finally church bells will ring to announce the time of the Mass. Three of these were true. The fourth was not: the bells rang at the end of Mass. Even though your trampess set out in good time by Mosel standards (where Mass was a very civilised 10:30), it was not good enough: it is clear that the Austrians do not alter their time of activity from weekday to weekend. I arrived at 9:30 just as the 8:45 (tell me that any church except in Bezau begins at 45 past the hour!) Mass was ending. Of course, this being a village, it is the only Mass of the day. This much at least did not surprise me.
The only solution was to apply myself to godliness in other ways. But vacuuming on a Sunday morning, where strict observation to the Law was obvious (the women were wearing formal dress: dirndls, aprons and funnel hats), would probably invoke censure and I might find myself like Hester Prynne wearing a letter (though which one I am not sure) through Bezau for the rest of my stay. But the carpets could not be ignored: first there was the trek through the WLW by the wonderful mechanics outside Vicenza; and then there was the gravel imported on our shoes (exacerbated by the rain) and our visitor’s the previous evening.
I tried sweeping with the small, rather too flexible, hand brush. It helped a little and had the virtue of causing no attention gathering noise (nor disturbance it must be said to the campers near us – we are 8 altogether in this little camp site). I knew the carpets could be lifted (after all sometimes the way to reach the innards of the WLW is through its floor rather than from underneath), so I decided to see if I could manage the kitchen floor as it had the least complex outline and probably the most gravel. It worked. I rolled it up, held it parallel to the ground and then unrolled it at the door (as the door is three steps up from the ground, so there is space to shake it without it touching the ground and defeating the whole purpose of the exercise). While not a perfect cleaning, it was a dramatic improvement (sweeping little pieces of gravel without a stiff brush is an exercise in patience, not my strongest virtue). Emboldened, I decided to go for the more complex bathroom carpet. While folding in the tricky bits was not easy, I cannot claim that it was challenging. The result again was most satisfactory. Nothing could stop me: I moved on to the living/dining room where the cut of the carpet around table and chairs was definitely one requiring mindful folding, but your trampess was not to be outdone by a mere carpet and once again we were close to godliness in the room where we break bread together (or more accurately knaekerbrot since the tramp cannot eat yeast). I must confess (you have already realised that it is part of my religion) that I could not face the driving cabin. First, the tramp was sitting in the navigator’s seat (and I would have hated to disturb him from his work) and second, who knows if I ever would have got the carpet back in its rightful place. The vacuum cleaner cannot be made completely redundant, but the cockpit will have to wait for a working day to join its fellow carpets in what should be Sunday splendour.
The arrival in Bezau was as expected: as soon as we were within a few kilometres, it began to pour. This is normal; this is why we have serious rain ponchos to cover us both for hiking and for attending the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg (the reason for coming to Bezau). The landscape is stunning and nothing seems to have changed since Julie Andrews won Christopher Plummers’ heart. The fields are mown, the cows roam freely in the fields, the chickens walk about close to the barn, easily scared by the arrival of trampers passing. And the campsite is the spare field next to the farmhouse but gravelled over for the greater comfort of the WLW.
The view is splendid: a rushing river (noisier but not trafficked by passing cargo or tourist boats like the Mosel), fields and mountains. One could (and indeed one has) have a worse view at breakfast. The entry into the camping ground passes a small football pitch (for the local school children) perfectly groomed and maintained, with dugouts for each team, dressing rooms etc - definitely as good as any English public school facility (albeit only one pitch – but then this is a village and it probably takes the complete town with no end of season injuries to mount a full match). Unfortunately, on the eve of our arrival a match was on and all the locals had driven (shocking really in a land of bicycles – but it is the end of season, so perhaps a few participants from other villages had to be brought in – and while it is possible to ride bikes from one village to another, if the village is in the wrong direction, ie over a local mountain, one might have to be a Tour de France cyclist to make the journey, let alone arrive fresh for the competition). Suffice it to say that with cars parked on both sides of the road (a big word for such a small by way) the WLW, which is both long (especially with its little Smart trailing behind) and wide, faced a challenge. Now the tramp is a most excellent driver and has already demonstrated his skill rather more than he would probably like on some very narrow winding roads (with the occasional precipitous drop on the side), and it seemed that he somehow managed the turn, the curve and the second turn into the campsite that had been waiting expectantly for us all day (no doubt the first time anyone had reserved a Stellplatz for a month). These turns and curves, you understand, being somewhat less in total length than the total length of the WLW and its hanging load. With a little beetle hanging over the road on one side and an estate car not so strategically parked on the other, it was slightly more of a challenge than even the tramp could manage and inspection afterward revealed a small scrape in the paintwork of the latter. The tramp being a good and honest soul left a note. It was not until after the tramp was in his pyjamas, however, that the knock came on the door. Luckily your trampess was still dressed, if unable to cope, in German, with the possible ensuing drama. The tramp, always willing to rescue a damsel in distress, especially if the distress, as in this case, was of his making, greeted the visitor, asked him to come in and said he would return – which he did, fully dressed. After some time, and with German composure and Austrian charm, the issue was resolved.
The next morning, a gorgeous sunny day, being a Sunday, the trampess resolved to go to church. The tramp assured her of four things: every village has a church; it will be easy to find (the spire rises above the farm houses); this being Austria, it will be Catholic; and finally church bells will ring to announce the time of the Mass. Three of these were true. The fourth was not: the bells rang at the end of Mass. Even though your trampess set out in good time by Mosel standards (where Mass was a very civilised 10:30), it was not good enough: it is clear that the Austrians do not alter their time of activity from weekday to weekend. I arrived at 9:30 just as the 8:45 (tell me that any church except in Bezau begins at 45 past the hour!) Mass was ending. Of course, this being a village, it is the only Mass of the day. This much at least did not surprise me.
The only solution was to apply myself to godliness in other ways. But vacuuming on a Sunday morning, where strict observation to the Law was obvious (the women were wearing formal dress: dirndls, aprons and funnel hats), would probably invoke censure and I might find myself like Hester Prynne wearing a letter (though which one I am not sure) through Bezau for the rest of my stay. But the carpets could not be ignored: first there was the trek through the WLW by the wonderful mechanics outside Vicenza; and then there was the gravel imported on our shoes (exacerbated by the rain) and our visitor’s the previous evening.
I tried sweeping with the small, rather too flexible, hand brush. It helped a little and had the virtue of causing no attention gathering noise (nor disturbance it must be said to the campers near us – we are 8 altogether in this little camp site). I knew the carpets could be lifted (after all sometimes the way to reach the innards of the WLW is through its floor rather than from underneath), so I decided to see if I could manage the kitchen floor as it had the least complex outline and probably the most gravel. It worked. I rolled it up, held it parallel to the ground and then unrolled it at the door (as the door is three steps up from the ground, so there is space to shake it without it touching the ground and defeating the whole purpose of the exercise). While not a perfect cleaning, it was a dramatic improvement (sweeping little pieces of gravel without a stiff brush is an exercise in patience, not my strongest virtue). Emboldened, I decided to go for the more complex bathroom carpet. While folding in the tricky bits was not easy, I cannot claim that it was challenging. The result again was most satisfactory. Nothing could stop me: I moved on to the living/dining room where the cut of the carpet around table and chairs was definitely one requiring mindful folding, but your trampess was not to be outdone by a mere carpet and once again we were close to godliness in the room where we break bread together (or more accurately knaekerbrot since the tramp cannot eat yeast). I must confess (you have already realised that it is part of my religion) that I could not face the driving cabin. First, the tramp was sitting in the navigator’s seat (and I would have hated to disturb him from his work) and second, who knows if I ever would have got the carpet back in its rightful place. The vacuum cleaner cannot be made completely redundant, but the cockpit will have to wait for a working day to join its fellow carpets in what should be Sunday splendour.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Satellite-Navigation, Blondes, an Unerring Sense of Direction, and a less than Perfect Sense of Distance
It is a commonly held assumption that the arrival of satellite-navigation systems have made maps redundant in much the same way that buggy whips were made redundant with the arrival of the motor car. Dear reader, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. The corollary of this is that not all sat-nav systems are created equal. Nor, interestingly, do two different systems when used from the same starting point follow the same course to a designated destination. The tone of voice can also be remarkably different. The Smart, while on the whole more accurate, speaks with a very perfunctory German accent. The WLW’s voice is more charming (and she speaks in English – amongst other languages – she is accomplished in this respect) but often gives instructions much too late (an even greater crime when one considers the size of the WLW and the need to prepare for exits from the motor way in a more timely manner than most ordinary vehicles). The WLW ‘s voice also underestimates her size and comprehends neither that the WLW cannot go under low bridges, down narrow streets nor over bridges that have a modest weight limit (for her size the WLW is trim – a mere 7.5t, but sadly too big for less robust bridges – one soon discovers how many have a weight limit of 3.5t).
It is true that both vehicles have map displays and often these are helpful when the Voice can’t count exits at a roundabout (a frequent cause of tension between the navigator, your trampess, and the driver, the tramp: “but she said the second exit!” “Yes but she wants you to go over the river, I said take the third!”). This is a modest mistake, no doubt caused by the local road regulation bureau (or whatever it may be called – it is hard to imagine an appropriate name, the ones I would use would probably be considered abusive and certainly not suitable for the eyes or ears of children) failing to add road improvements to the information it provides the sat-nav operators for upgrading their software.
Some mis-directions are more serious and can result in severe frustration and rather more heated exchange between driver and navigator – of the kind that one can only imagine existed in pre-sat-nav days when it was frequently said that women could not read maps (while statistically this is true, let us put on record right now that I was a Girl Scout until I was 18 – I know, I know, decidedly uncool – and map reading was one of the skills we had to master). One small example serves to illustrate just how tiresome this can be. Outside Padua, in full sail, the WLW came upon an enormous roundabout leading, inter alia, to and from the motorway, to various industrial sites, the centre of town, and Ikea. The wonderful voice had us going around in large circles, exiting but then always returning to the roundabout, each time giving us the same absolutely clear instruction which was inevitably leading us back yet again to the same roundabout. She was very determined to keep us in this permanent loop – one could only feel like “the man who never returned - he must live forever ‘neath the streets of Boston”. The only solution was to look at a real map (which of course your trampess was madly doing the minute she realise the Voice was not being helpful) and determine that we wanted to exit on the road 180 degrees opposite to the exit she wished us to take. Miraculously, when we took that road she was totally content and allowed us to stay on it until the next, correct instruction. What was she thinking??!!
I will not even mention that the Smart asked us if we wanted to choose “destination and return” and then not only refused to take us back, but had not even the decency to record our starting point! Luckily, knowing the whimsical nature of the Voice, your trampess had written it down at the outset. Strangely though, perhaps having felt slighted, while she accepted the new (old) destination, she told us we had reached it when we were not even on the right street. Now this may be all right in Italy where the trampess can speak the local language (though the looks one received from the locals as one descends three steps from the living room have to be seen to be believed) but what happens when we are in Jordan?? I faint with horror at the thought. Nor will I mention that she also took us to a different motorway entrance from the one where we left the WLW in the rest station. (Was this a fit of jealousy? did she think we could survive without the WLW, was she tired of her trailer?) Again, happily (after a short prayer to St Anthony – the adored and very reliable, local saint), I remembered where we had got off the motorway; we drove back to that exit and found the mother ship. I admit that this was a bit scary – had I not remembered our exit we might still be circling Padua, the food in the back of the Smart starting to smell, and hob and bed far away.
It is true that both vehicles have map displays and often these are helpful when the Voice can’t count exits at a roundabout (a frequent cause of tension between the navigator, your trampess, and the driver, the tramp: “but she said the second exit!” “Yes but she wants you to go over the river, I said take the third!”). This is a modest mistake, no doubt caused by the local road regulation bureau (or whatever it may be called – it is hard to imagine an appropriate name, the ones I would use would probably be considered abusive and certainly not suitable for the eyes or ears of children) failing to add road improvements to the information it provides the sat-nav operators for upgrading their software.
Some mis-directions are more serious and can result in severe frustration and rather more heated exchange between driver and navigator – of the kind that one can only imagine existed in pre-sat-nav days when it was frequently said that women could not read maps (while statistically this is true, let us put on record right now that I was a Girl Scout until I was 18 – I know, I know, decidedly uncool – and map reading was one of the skills we had to master). One small example serves to illustrate just how tiresome this can be. Outside Padua, in full sail, the WLW came upon an enormous roundabout leading, inter alia, to and from the motorway, to various industrial sites, the centre of town, and Ikea. The wonderful voice had us going around in large circles, exiting but then always returning to the roundabout, each time giving us the same absolutely clear instruction which was inevitably leading us back yet again to the same roundabout. She was very determined to keep us in this permanent loop – one could only feel like “the man who never returned - he must live forever ‘neath the streets of Boston”. The only solution was to look at a real map (which of course your trampess was madly doing the minute she realise the Voice was not being helpful) and determine that we wanted to exit on the road 180 degrees opposite to the exit she wished us to take. Miraculously, when we took that road she was totally content and allowed us to stay on it until the next, correct instruction. What was she thinking??!!
I will not even mention that the Smart asked us if we wanted to choose “destination and return” and then not only refused to take us back, but had not even the decency to record our starting point! Luckily, knowing the whimsical nature of the Voice, your trampess had written it down at the outset. Strangely though, perhaps having felt slighted, while she accepted the new (old) destination, she told us we had reached it when we were not even on the right street. Now this may be all right in Italy where the trampess can speak the local language (though the looks one received from the locals as one descends three steps from the living room have to be seen to be believed) but what happens when we are in Jordan?? I faint with horror at the thought. Nor will I mention that she also took us to a different motorway entrance from the one where we left the WLW in the rest station. (Was this a fit of jealousy? did she think we could survive without the WLW, was she tired of her trailer?) Again, happily (after a short prayer to St Anthony – the adored and very reliable, local saint), I remembered where we had got off the motorway; we drove back to that exit and found the mother ship. I admit that this was a bit scary – had I not remembered our exit we might still be circling Padua, the food in the back of the Smart starting to smell, and hob and bed far away.
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