Not long after tramp1 left to return to the cold and rainy weather of the Hague, it was time for the second session of the summer Schubertiade to begin. The tramp and I had originally planned to be in Italy by this time but had been persuaded by the friends who introduced us to the Schubertiade last year to return when they were. The first session had been so outstanding, the walking so wonderful and the weather, on the whole, so fine that it didn’t take much to do the trick: master classes with Peter Schreier, a few concerts by Goerne, Lott and Bostridge and we had decided to stay. Now the event was upon us and logistics loomed large: how could we maintain our compelling hiking and gym routines with Peter Schreier master classes every day from 10am – 2pm? (as it turned out he decided that 10am-1pm was adequate – it is amazing how much of a difference that hour made!), concerts in the evening, and the need to meet up with our friends? Our perfect schedule was being eroded, not to say downright destroyed, by one of the main purposes of our wandering life. But the challenge of life, as always, is to reconcile the irreconcilable.
The first week was not too taxing (since the master classes didn’t begin until the second) and even though lunches were often very late (I do call 4pm late) on hiking days, on gym days they were at a quite reasonable time (if one considers, and many let’s face it wouldn’t, 2pm reasonable). This meant, of course, that inviting our friends to lunch at the WLW (which we clearly had to do since the husband was desperate to inspect the WLW and the wife was more than a tad curious) would require the date to be a gym day. No one, not even the tramp, would reasonably expect other people to fit into our unreasonable schedule! As it transpired our friends were following a not totally dissimilar approach and often having late lunches or early suppers. We decided on 1pm on the day of the Felicity Lott concert (which was at 4pm). They could come dressed for the concert and we could all leave directly after lunch, and if we had supper with FL after the concert, an irresistible prospect, well, at least it wouldn’t finish at midnight!
The WLW can seat 4 at the (extendable) dining room table and the tramp, afraid that it would be impossible to eat al fresco (as we do every meal) if the weather was foul (which it is every third day), duly experimented with extending the table and swivelling the driver’s seat around. We have never had to do these things as social life in the WLW has been non-existent (though social life outside has been more than satisfactory). The tramp had no difficulty with the table. It extended quite easily and he was feeling quite confident. The driver’s seat on the other hand proved quite challenging, not to say impossible: the steering wheel kept getting in the way. The manual offered no solution. Clearly the steering wheel could not be removed without prejudicing the real purpose of the WLW. A quick call to the factory and the problem was solved (a bit like moving the goose, the fox and whatever the other animal was on a raft that only held two, it required several manoeuvres which were not obvious but which cumulatively worked). Of course, the ever sensitive tramp then became worried about the placement since it was clear that certain positions were better than others and at the same time the trampess had to be near the kitchen (without having to climb over one of the guests). By now you will have concluded that between the tramp’s great logistical brain and the trampess’s blondeness, even that worrisome problem was solved, and a placement agreed.
As it happened,God was on our side the day of the lunch, and the formidable due diligence exercised by the tramp the previous afternoon was not needed: the sun was glorious and al fresco dining was on the cards. Except of course for the problem of seating. While we have two wonderful, comfortable chairs which would clearly go to the guests and two stools comfortable enough for us (which have lids that convert them into side tables), it became clear to the tramp that the two stools would have to be used as side tables as there simply wasn’t enough room on the table for four place settings and food. It would be unthinkable to eliminate either. It was also clearly unacceptable, according to the tramp, to keep the food in the kitchen and have the trampess running in and out. What to do? The trampess broke off from her food preparation and dashed in to Frau Albrecht (she who solves all problems) and asked to borrow two chairs. Not a problem. The trampess carried two wooden chairs from the camper’s breakfast room to the WLW. A bit later Frau Albrecht turned up with two garden chairs with cushions – even better. The tramp returned the wooden chairs and the trampess continued to prepare lunch.
The tramp had approved the menu (tramp1’s favourite chicken dish, ratatouille, and lentils with garlic and ginger, with Stippmilch and rote Gruetze for pudding), but now he was beginning to panic: shouldn’t there be a first course? Our guests always had a big salad at their hotel before dinner; shouldn’t we have salad as a starter? And what plates would we use for each course? The tramp insisted that one could not have the salad on the dinner plate. The trampess, now moving into high gear (and not even dressed yet!), replied we would use small plates for salad, dinner plates for lunch, and porridge bowls for pudding, but we could not have separate forks for the salad unless we washed forks in between courses. Also, despite all efforts to find additional wine glasses the previous day (wine glasses could be found but none that matched the existing or, indeed, more importantly, could be stored safely in the WLW), none were found. The tramp agreed that the guests would have the 2 glasses we had and the trampess would use a second small water glass. The tramp set a perfect table - nearly there!
The guests arrived on time and as the trampess dressed the salad the tramp took them on a tour of the WLW. Now you might think that a tour of a vehicle 7.5m long and 2 1/2m wide could not possibly take very long, but you would be wrong. Two self-confessed anoraks and a willing female can get quite absorbed in the how it works and where are all the water tanks, and how much do they hold, and how long does that sustain life (all of which is part of the external tour) before one even moves inside to the wow, a real bathroom, my goodness what a big bed, good heavens is that the guest bedroom, satellite television, no kidding stage. Notwithstanding, the trampess didn’t quite manage to change for lunch (ratatouille is too dangerous when washing and ironing are a major undertaking and dressing while the external tour was on was cutting it a bit fine – one never knows how long even anoraks will take and it isn’t as though the bathroom/dressing room is more than a few inches from the kitchen or for that matter the front/only door. Eventually, we sat down outside with our splendid views of meadow, chickens ranging freely, mountains and brook. The two wine glasses and extra water glass were quickly removed from the table as the friends have a no wine before 7pm policy. Having seen the kitchen, the friends were astonished with the variety of dishes the trampess was able to produce for one meal (it is an art learning to cook on 3 small burners – the constraint being less on the side of 3 and more on the side of small – especially for more than 2 people since the pots are small to match the burners; part of the solution, of course, was to make the ratatouille the day before and the rote Gruetze in the morning - before going to the gym but critically after breakfast when that pot was needed). The tramp winked at the trampess – a thumbs up for her culinary efforts. The trampess always loves a good wink. – especially when the pre-prandial angst is high. It seems that the rote Gruetze was particularly successful (the wife volunteered that her husband would do almost anything for cooked berries and that probably he wouldn’t want to leave – ever) - especially rewarding since the thought of making a nemesis in the rather primitive oven is not one the trampess has entertained (although this does seem rather wimpish since she remembers a perfect chocolate cake made by sherpas over an open fire when trekking in the Himalayas)!
When seconds on pudding were being willing accepted, the Gamin was brought out. The Gamin? Dear reader, you will remember one of the first adventures with the WLW was in Cologne, where the WLW had to be de-coupled from the Smart and abandoned owing to an illegally parked BMW blocking a one way street after which the tramp spent HOURS studying and buying a hand held GPS system for climbing the mountains in all of Europe. The interest in such a device came from the fellow anorak (hereinafter referred to as FA) now sitting at our lunch table. Oohs and aahs and how long does the battery last, do you have a full colour screen etc followed. The tramp confessed that actually he hadn’t learned how to use it yet. FA offered to take it away for the night, study the difference between his (an earlier model) and install the grid (installing the grid is apparently very important because while you would think that the Greenwich meridian was the starting point for all cartography it isn’t. Most countries in Europe have their own systems and this can be a nightmare if one doesn’t overlay the maps which had been uploaded with “the” grid), and then give the tramp a quick lesson in usage over dinner a few nights hence. The tramp was, needless to say, extremely grateful for the offer and immediately handed over a sack full of equipment and manuals. Meanwhile the trampess put on the espresso. After coffee and the ritual dark chocolate we all tumbled happily (well in the case of the trampess after a quick change, too) into our cars and drove off to hear the wonderful Lott. Supper followed at the Adler (all the best hotels in Germany and Austria are either called Hirsch or Adler; both exist in Schwarzenberg and both have excellent restaurants. Funny how no one ever calls an hotel Fisch or Maus.) and this time the meal began with a glass of champagne. One waits, and one is rewarded.
The following week was the challenging one: classes from morning to early afternoon and the occasional evening concert (perhaps more than occasional if the waitlist tickets came through) and the refusal to give up the hard physical exercise. The first thing that had to go, clearly, was a cooked lunch at any time a normal human being would call lunch time. At the same time, food was necessary. Not eating is no way to maintain the body or lose weight. And of course, one has to observe the rule: breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper (which in our case means no dinners after the evening concert – though clearly that rule was going to be broken with friends in town. Society corrupts and good society corrupts the most). Breakfasts became, if they were not already, very king like (no fish or game you understand but plenty of the rest). The tramp and trampess arrived at the morning master class fully sated and ready to learn vicariously through the students. At the 10 minute break, variously at 12 or 11:30, the tramp cried, “Nuts!” and the trampess dutifully reached into her bag and pulled out the morning’s ration. After silent munching, the tramp might make a few salient comments on the singing so far and Schreier’s approach to teaching before crying out again, “Chocolate??!” The trampess once again dived into the bag and pulled out pudding. When the class ended the tramps bolted for the door, jumped into the Smart and drove off – either to the mountains or to the gym. Often they did not arrive back until 4 or 5pm. At this point one could only hold on and have a proper meal at 6. Of course, it broke the rule of dining like a pauper but since dinner was followed by a concert and bed was inevitably 10 or 11, it did at least maintain the principle of not eating close to bedtime.
By the end of the week it was clear, though, that this was a very demanding schedule. The master classes were intense and even the evening concerts, which normally one would consider pure joy, were demanding since one needs to study and understand the text of the lieder (easier for the tramp than the trampess: Schwarzenberg is not Salzburg and the text provided in the programme was only in the original German. The trampess’s pocket dictionary does not extend to the poetic vocabulary of the average Schubert lied and while the better know cycles are well known to her, the lesser ones are not. I can assure you that most concerts this week were not well known cycles! With the exception of Pregardien singing Die Schoene Muellerin – an evening that was truly one of the most magnificent and shattered the tramp’s long held conviction that tenors could not sing lieder. Ian Bostridge helped in this regard, too). At the end of the week the tramp declared that perhaps one day a week should be a day of rest. A positively Biblical conclusion!
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Omnes viae Romam ducunt and the Others Lead to Baumgarten
After the departure of tramp1, the tramp concluded that his new breakfast regime (porridge, bananas, eggs, perhaps the odd knaeckerbrot with nut butter and green tea) was definitely giving him more energy and therefore more adventurous hikes were the order of the day. Maps were pulled out after supper and studied so that the next morning the tramp and trampess could set out on new, long hikes, some of which could start from or wind up in different villages, as long as our trusty Bregenzerkarte would bring us home on one of the local (and very superior) buses.
If I have not said it before, climbing up is wonderful cardio exercise (and as you will remember is the basis for effortless weight loss), walking down is stressful for the knees and cartilage and therefore to be avoided at all cost, so the tramp wished to discover walks with a minimum climb of 1000m and a lift at the top for the return journey. The trampess began studying the local bus schedules to discover which of the tramp’s newly discovered routes were achievable with local transport (after all it is one thing to hike for 5 hours in the mountains and quite another to have to walk along a main road for 17km to return home!).
Before wandering too far afield, the tramp decided that there was another route to Baumgarten which had not been explored. It was a fine day and the two tramps set out early. The tramp’s pace had improved and we arrived at a decision point that would take us up to the top of Baumgarten or on a longer path through a high valley north of Baumgarten and towards Schoenenbach. A check of the bus schedule indicated a bus returning from Schoenenbach to Bezau at around 4:15 and another at 5:15. With a good supply of nuts and chocolate in our back packs and our camels fully loaded with water, we decided to head for Schoenenbach (besides it has such a promising name). The walk through the valley was stupendous: the valley was long and narrow and the view through the mountains was ever changing and truly beautiful. We walked up for some distance, though not in the relentless way that walking to a summit means, so it was thoroughly pleasant and not at all demanding. An hour or two later the path took a turn down and it was clear that it was going to be a steep down for sometime. The weather had by now turned and was chilly and windy. The tramp decided we needed to stop: to tighten his shoe laces (always required for a descent) and to stoke up on nuts and chocolate. It was going to be a long and gruesome walk. Quite how long and gruesome we had yet to realise. Not that I mind walking though herds of cows (I am quite used to that, even when the occasional bull lows at me in a slightly menacing manner), but this particular herd was in land that was particularly mucky so dodging cows at the same time as avoiding wet cow pats was not a perfect rural experience. Nonetheless, we progressed only to discover that the path led across the valley and was going up the other ridge that defined it. This was more like it, though the path was rough and very steep. After a long climb up we went into a forest and began to descend again. It was there that we came across a long stretch of what I can only call quickmud: you know, the alpine equivalent of quicksand. Now the tramp was in the lead (it must be noted that the tramp is very sure footed and has very long legs so that particularly steep descending bits are his forte even though he hates them). As the trampess was negotiating a particularly sticky patch, the tramp cried out “photo opportunity” and shot the trampess trying very hard, and almost unsuccessfully to pull her right boot out of the mud. It did occur to me, that I could remove my foot from the shoe and walk home unshod (or appeal to the tramp to dig out the boot and then put it back on), but happily, without expletives, but with extreme effort on the part of my right leg and both hands, the mud released the right foot. The tramp took a few more photos of your trampess beaming as she trod through mud. Photos are forever, the memory (and the mud) fades, the lesson is always to smile. Eventually, beginning to wonder if we were still on the path, we saw signs confirming that we were indeed still on the path to Schoenenbach.
Signs do not always indicate proximity - I remember seeing signs, with no mileage, on the motorway not far out of central London indicating we were on the way to Edinburgh; one would have thought one was only 50 miles away – this dear reader was one such sign. More muddy fields, more soggy cow pats and the weather now definitely wet – a gentle but persistent drizzle. Eventually we began to descend for real and in the distance we saw a few barns, a small church and a couple of houses. This was downtown Schoenenbach. In another half hour we were in the centre of town just a stone’s throw from the bus stop. THE bus stop for THE bus (we could actually see Schoenenbach’s only bus parked behind a barn waiting to make its Saturday trip to Bezau – it only makes two trips a day, and then, only on Saturday and Sunday). You have heard of one horse towns; well Schoenenbach is a one bus, two days a week town. The queue at the bus stop built up quite quickly behind us. Evidently many come here to walk; few stay. Happily having arrived 20 minutes early we nabbed seats under the awning of a barn at the stop, which also meant that we managed to get seats on the bus for the entire one hour journey back (which of course required a change in Bizau). The tramp decided that the walk from Schoenenbach to Baumgarten would be quite a pleasant one, but that we would never, ever, do it the other way round as we had today.
If coming back from Schoenenbach is a twice in a weekend event, getting to Schoenenbach is even more problematic. Attempting to follow the tramp’s decision, we set out one morning to catch the early Saturday morning bus (there is one in the morning and one at lunchtime; obviously there are none in the afternoon as that is when the bus returns from Schoenenbach). AS we prepared to jump on the bus, the driver informed us that he did not go that far – only to Bizau. The schedule was wrong: only the lunchtime bus operated. A quick look at the map determined our course: another assault on Baumgarten only this time via Sonderdach – a route we had not yet taken. If you find all these village names confusing, let me assure you that the tramp, whose mother tongue is, after all, the local language, continues to confuse them. He does not get confused on maps though and Sonderdach is definitely not Schoenenbach and proved a very beautiful way to reach the top.
Still, we were eager to find new routes that took us up but allowed us to ride down. The trampess (what good is it to be blonde if you can’t come up with simple but effective suggestions) suggested that looking at the Bregenzerkarte might reveal just such routes: it lists all the bergbahns one can use with the card. Lo and behold this investigation revealed a route to Baumgarten from Moos (near Andelsbuch) with two chair lifts from the top. Moos is, of course, another tiny village on the other side of Baumgarten from Bezau and from which has a large car park, including for caravans. This it transpires is the base from which most of the hang gliders we see hovering over Baumgarten start from and land. The chair lift is very active on the way up and very empty on the way down – most hang gliders occupy one side and their equipment (packed into a large rucksack) the other – and of course they go up in the chair and fly down (also not hard on the knees or ligaments but without the benefit of the cardio workout that your tramps get).
The day was glorious and the route simply splendid and quite, quite different from the paths leading from Bezau. The path skirted farms and meadows but was at the edge of a forest. We passed a farm where the farmer had finished mowing and was burning the odd bit of bracken (have I mentioned how beautiful the farms are? Since we are on the Kaesestrasse, you can assume that all farms are dairy farms. This means that there are cows and meadows. The meadows go to the edge of the forests: the cows are let loose on the steep pastures and the lower pastures are mown throughout the summer to make hay for the winter months when the cows are stabled. It makes for a very luscious countryside). The first smell that felt like fall. The path was steep and narrow but pleasant to walk on. It crossed under the chair lift so often the peace of the countryside was interrupted with shrieks of childish laughter from above. Some would even call “Halo” down to us – probably wondering what crazy people we were to be climbing up when a perfectly good (well, actually as we found out on the way down, serviceable is probably a more appropriate word – these lifts are possibly as old as I am) lift would take us to the top. After awhile the path pulled away from the course of the lift and silence returned. The views were magnificent but, of course, completely different since we were now on the Bodensee side of Baumgarten. One could have been climbing a completely different mountain. About halfway up we were overtaken (!) by an extremely fit man of a certain age (probably not quite as old as we, but certainly not in his thirties!) carrying his hang glider on his back. As I mentioned earlier, these are not small like rucksacks, even though they are in that form, so carrying one must be quite a load. Clearly he was the iron man of hang gliding. It reminded me of the old days (not, you understand that I ever did it) of skiing when skiers put their (much lighter) skis on their backs and climbed the mountain they were going to ski down. Clearly the iron man approached hang gliding in that fashion. One would definitely feel one had earned the right to fly after that!
By the end of three and a half hours (and 12:30 by the clock) we had reached the top of Baumgarten. It turns out that the lifts there have a rather longer mid day break than the lifts on the other side: from 11:45 until 1:15. We could hear the lift operator inside the station but breaks are breaks and the fact that demand was building up (several older and rather infirm walkers – one suspects from the other lift to this one – certainly not from Moos – arrived after we did) did not make the lift service commence any earlier, though the operator did come out to open the gate and offer seats on the benches adjacent his hut. We could have walked along the ridge and across to the other side and taken the usual bergbahn down but then our car would have to be retrieved from Moos – a rather long walk from Bezau! So with the usual nuts and chocolate to keep hunger from the door, we waited until 1:15. I always liked chair lifts better than T-bars when skiing but I have to say that running off a chairlift while carrying a back pack can be challenging (at least for the trampess – the tramp, needless to say, is a champion at this sort of thing), so even though I had explicit directions to run to the right while the tramp would run to the left and then come to get me, I must confess that the chair did bump my delicate bottom as I ran off. Even with the help of the lift operator who tried to slow it down. Oh well sometimes blondes really are blondes. But at least we have proved, that while all roads lead to Rome, many in the greater Bezau area lead to Baumgarten, which has the great advantage of being good to the ligaments, even if occasionally bad for the bottom!
If I have not said it before, climbing up is wonderful cardio exercise (and as you will remember is the basis for effortless weight loss), walking down is stressful for the knees and cartilage and therefore to be avoided at all cost, so the tramp wished to discover walks with a minimum climb of 1000m and a lift at the top for the return journey. The trampess began studying the local bus schedules to discover which of the tramp’s newly discovered routes were achievable with local transport (after all it is one thing to hike for 5 hours in the mountains and quite another to have to walk along a main road for 17km to return home!).
Before wandering too far afield, the tramp decided that there was another route to Baumgarten which had not been explored. It was a fine day and the two tramps set out early. The tramp’s pace had improved and we arrived at a decision point that would take us up to the top of Baumgarten or on a longer path through a high valley north of Baumgarten and towards Schoenenbach. A check of the bus schedule indicated a bus returning from Schoenenbach to Bezau at around 4:15 and another at 5:15. With a good supply of nuts and chocolate in our back packs and our camels fully loaded with water, we decided to head for Schoenenbach (besides it has such a promising name). The walk through the valley was stupendous: the valley was long and narrow and the view through the mountains was ever changing and truly beautiful. We walked up for some distance, though not in the relentless way that walking to a summit means, so it was thoroughly pleasant and not at all demanding. An hour or two later the path took a turn down and it was clear that it was going to be a steep down for sometime. The weather had by now turned and was chilly and windy. The tramp decided we needed to stop: to tighten his shoe laces (always required for a descent) and to stoke up on nuts and chocolate. It was going to be a long and gruesome walk. Quite how long and gruesome we had yet to realise. Not that I mind walking though herds of cows (I am quite used to that, even when the occasional bull lows at me in a slightly menacing manner), but this particular herd was in land that was particularly mucky so dodging cows at the same time as avoiding wet cow pats was not a perfect rural experience. Nonetheless, we progressed only to discover that the path led across the valley and was going up the other ridge that defined it. This was more like it, though the path was rough and very steep. After a long climb up we went into a forest and began to descend again. It was there that we came across a long stretch of what I can only call quickmud: you know, the alpine equivalent of quicksand. Now the tramp was in the lead (it must be noted that the tramp is very sure footed and has very long legs so that particularly steep descending bits are his forte even though he hates them). As the trampess was negotiating a particularly sticky patch, the tramp cried out “photo opportunity” and shot the trampess trying very hard, and almost unsuccessfully to pull her right boot out of the mud. It did occur to me, that I could remove my foot from the shoe and walk home unshod (or appeal to the tramp to dig out the boot and then put it back on), but happily, without expletives, but with extreme effort on the part of my right leg and both hands, the mud released the right foot. The tramp took a few more photos of your trampess beaming as she trod through mud. Photos are forever, the memory (and the mud) fades, the lesson is always to smile. Eventually, beginning to wonder if we were still on the path, we saw signs confirming that we were indeed still on the path to Schoenenbach.
Signs do not always indicate proximity - I remember seeing signs, with no mileage, on the motorway not far out of central London indicating we were on the way to Edinburgh; one would have thought one was only 50 miles away – this dear reader was one such sign. More muddy fields, more soggy cow pats and the weather now definitely wet – a gentle but persistent drizzle. Eventually we began to descend for real and in the distance we saw a few barns, a small church and a couple of houses. This was downtown Schoenenbach. In another half hour we were in the centre of town just a stone’s throw from the bus stop. THE bus stop for THE bus (we could actually see Schoenenbach’s only bus parked behind a barn waiting to make its Saturday trip to Bezau – it only makes two trips a day, and then, only on Saturday and Sunday). You have heard of one horse towns; well Schoenenbach is a one bus, two days a week town. The queue at the bus stop built up quite quickly behind us. Evidently many come here to walk; few stay. Happily having arrived 20 minutes early we nabbed seats under the awning of a barn at the stop, which also meant that we managed to get seats on the bus for the entire one hour journey back (which of course required a change in Bizau). The tramp decided that the walk from Schoenenbach to Baumgarten would be quite a pleasant one, but that we would never, ever, do it the other way round as we had today.
If coming back from Schoenenbach is a twice in a weekend event, getting to Schoenenbach is even more problematic. Attempting to follow the tramp’s decision, we set out one morning to catch the early Saturday morning bus (there is one in the morning and one at lunchtime; obviously there are none in the afternoon as that is when the bus returns from Schoenenbach). AS we prepared to jump on the bus, the driver informed us that he did not go that far – only to Bizau. The schedule was wrong: only the lunchtime bus operated. A quick look at the map determined our course: another assault on Baumgarten only this time via Sonderdach – a route we had not yet taken. If you find all these village names confusing, let me assure you that the tramp, whose mother tongue is, after all, the local language, continues to confuse them. He does not get confused on maps though and Sonderdach is definitely not Schoenenbach and proved a very beautiful way to reach the top.
Still, we were eager to find new routes that took us up but allowed us to ride down. The trampess (what good is it to be blonde if you can’t come up with simple but effective suggestions) suggested that looking at the Bregenzerkarte might reveal just such routes: it lists all the bergbahns one can use with the card. Lo and behold this investigation revealed a route to Baumgarten from Moos (near Andelsbuch) with two chair lifts from the top. Moos is, of course, another tiny village on the other side of Baumgarten from Bezau and from which has a large car park, including for caravans. This it transpires is the base from which most of the hang gliders we see hovering over Baumgarten start from and land. The chair lift is very active on the way up and very empty on the way down – most hang gliders occupy one side and their equipment (packed into a large rucksack) the other – and of course they go up in the chair and fly down (also not hard on the knees or ligaments but without the benefit of the cardio workout that your tramps get).
The day was glorious and the route simply splendid and quite, quite different from the paths leading from Bezau. The path skirted farms and meadows but was at the edge of a forest. We passed a farm where the farmer had finished mowing and was burning the odd bit of bracken (have I mentioned how beautiful the farms are? Since we are on the Kaesestrasse, you can assume that all farms are dairy farms. This means that there are cows and meadows. The meadows go to the edge of the forests: the cows are let loose on the steep pastures and the lower pastures are mown throughout the summer to make hay for the winter months when the cows are stabled. It makes for a very luscious countryside). The first smell that felt like fall. The path was steep and narrow but pleasant to walk on. It crossed under the chair lift so often the peace of the countryside was interrupted with shrieks of childish laughter from above. Some would even call “Halo” down to us – probably wondering what crazy people we were to be climbing up when a perfectly good (well, actually as we found out on the way down, serviceable is probably a more appropriate word – these lifts are possibly as old as I am) lift would take us to the top. After awhile the path pulled away from the course of the lift and silence returned. The views were magnificent but, of course, completely different since we were now on the Bodensee side of Baumgarten. One could have been climbing a completely different mountain. About halfway up we were overtaken (!) by an extremely fit man of a certain age (probably not quite as old as we, but certainly not in his thirties!) carrying his hang glider on his back. As I mentioned earlier, these are not small like rucksacks, even though they are in that form, so carrying one must be quite a load. Clearly he was the iron man of hang gliding. It reminded me of the old days (not, you understand that I ever did it) of skiing when skiers put their (much lighter) skis on their backs and climbed the mountain they were going to ski down. Clearly the iron man approached hang gliding in that fashion. One would definitely feel one had earned the right to fly after that!
By the end of three and a half hours (and 12:30 by the clock) we had reached the top of Baumgarten. It turns out that the lifts there have a rather longer mid day break than the lifts on the other side: from 11:45 until 1:15. We could hear the lift operator inside the station but breaks are breaks and the fact that demand was building up (several older and rather infirm walkers – one suspects from the other lift to this one – certainly not from Moos – arrived after we did) did not make the lift service commence any earlier, though the operator did come out to open the gate and offer seats on the benches adjacent his hut. We could have walked along the ridge and across to the other side and taken the usual bergbahn down but then our car would have to be retrieved from Moos – a rather long walk from Bezau! So with the usual nuts and chocolate to keep hunger from the door, we waited until 1:15. I always liked chair lifts better than T-bars when skiing but I have to say that running off a chairlift while carrying a back pack can be challenging (at least for the trampess – the tramp, needless to say, is a champion at this sort of thing), so even though I had explicit directions to run to the right while the tramp would run to the left and then come to get me, I must confess that the chair did bump my delicate bottom as I ran off. Even with the help of the lift operator who tried to slow it down. Oh well sometimes blondes really are blondes. But at least we have proved, that while all roads lead to Rome, many in the greater Bezau area lead to Baumgarten, which has the great advantage of being good to the ligaments, even if occasionally bad for the bottom!
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Culinary Rewards from the Famed Abbess of the Middle Ages
Tramp1, who when he isn’t studying or working out in the gym, likes to eat. A lot. He requested one of the trampess’s specialities before he left and expressed interest in going to the Schwanen in Bizau where you will remember we failed to get in the day after he arrived owing to the fact that it was their “rest day”. The tramp decided that he and tramp1 would go to the gym together on Sunday while your trampess was upholding the family honour by attending church (have I mentioned that the church in Bezau is large enough to hold the entire population of the village plus a large number of visitors staying in the local hotels? No, well it is, and most of the village is there every Sunday and in what my 7th grade Southern Baptist history teacher used to call “Sunday go to meeting” finery). This way by the time they came back from the gym, lunch presumably would be ready. As it happened, the trampess was happy to fall in with these plans – indeed she almost succumbed to a cappuccino at the Post Hotel (the oldest and grandest in Bezau) as the outside terrace is so welcoming but decided to have the cappuccino in the WLW while contemplating cooking. It was a good plan and lunch (the requested ginger garlic chicken) was ready just as the exhausted iron pumpers returned.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and conversing over the usual miseries: world politics, European politics, and US politics. Then things became serious when the tramp announced he didn’t think there would be time to go to the Schwanen for lunch given tramp1’s flight time from Zurich – especially since the plan was for him to go by Landesbus. Tramp1 almost hyperventilated, but the trampess saved the day by suggesting that if we were at the Schwanen by noon, the 2:36 bus would be easy to make (it stops in front of the Schwanen) and tramp1 would make his plane. The Schwanen was duly telephoned and it was established that they opened at 11:30 for lunch (after all hikers who are up at the crack of dawn might be down the mountain and starving by that time and the Schwanen is nothing if not accommodating!). It was agreed that tramp1 would pack his rucksack that night and the tramp would put tramp1’s computer into his rucksack so that all tramp1’s luggage (so to speak) would be on our backs for the morning hike.
The next day was beautiful and we set out early (after the usual hearty breakfast of course). Instead of going on the fast route to Bizau, the tramp decided on a longer and more scenic one. Tramp1 was nervous – a good hike was one thing, missing lunch quite another, but the tramp, having first felt that lunch was impossible, felt quite confident that he was reading the maps correctly and that we would arrive in plenty of time. The trampess, while trusting the tramp’s reading of the map completely, was concerned that the route we were intending to take might have been the one which ended on the wrong side of a cliff last year. The tramp assured her this was not the case, and your three intrepid tramps set out. As it happened, the tramp was of course right and we arrived in plenty of time (just before noon) at the Schwanen. Now, if it has not been mentioned before, the area around Schwarzenberg (which includes Bizau) is heavily influenced by Hildegard von Bingen. You will, of course, remember the beloved Hildegard (tenth child of a noble family and therefore tithed to the Church): her sacred music is heard almost every Sunday at some church in England (and one would assume throughout Germany where she lived – in fact, had your tramps known of the importance of Hildegard, they would have undoubtedly stopped at the abbey where she lived on the Rhein when they were making their first delicate excursions) and her visionary writings were given the papal imprimatur. But importantly, for the Schwanen, she was also very interested in herbs, herbal medicines and the importance of eating correctly (she suffered from migraines and perhaps her interest was driven by a desire for a remedy). One can only imagine that the abbey that Hildegard became abbess of was, under her leadership, the Canyon Ranch of the 12th Century. Anyone who lived to 81 in the 12th century must have understood a thing or two about longevity! The menu at the Schwanen was developed under her guidance (well under the guidance of her philosophy) and so we began with the drinks that fit our needs (the descriptions are very fulsome and cover fatigue, depression, the need to relax, the need to be energised and so forth): the tramp and tramp1 had a rather magnificent raspberry concoction; the trampess a sour cherry one (and was reminded that her great aunt, a devout Presbyterian and therefore teetotaller, used to make all manner of vegetable or fruit drinks as cocktails before dinner, with varying degrees of success). Galgant (vaguely corklike in appearance and potent – a favourite of Hildegard) and fennel are always on the table in small bottles to be taken, rather like snuff, but eaten not inhaled, in small doses before (perhaps even during) the meal. The drinks were pure nectar. After much discussion (and translation of the menu for tramp1), we ordered. And while nothing at the Schwanen comes quickly (this is a serious restaurant in the middle of nowhere) it is all wonderful. Tramp1 would have probably been willing to miss his airplane for this lunch. As it happened, there was time for pudding without prejudice to the flight. Tramp1 exclaimed when he saw Kaiserschmarr’n on the dessert menu. He had last had it in Austria many years ago and decided not only was it fit for the Kaiser, it was definitely HIS best pudding. The tramp who is also partial to a good Kaiserschmarr’n suggested that they order one between them (it is a very large portion that the Schwanen produce!). Tramp1 however is allergic to wheat and declared that sadly he would never be eating it again. The tramp couldn’t believe there was any flour in the famed pudding and the waiter was duly summoned. The trampess was, of course, reasonably certain there was flour in it but demurred to the waiter. Miracle of miracles (well perhaps not given Hildegard’s unerring influence), the Kaiserschmarr’n at the Schwanen is made with Dinkel (spelt to you and me) and not wheat and so the pudding was ordered. The trampess had the totally irresistible Basilikummousse with cooked berries (which might sound outrageously awful but, trust me, is sublime).
And so the tramps leapt onto tramp1’s bus (well perhaps leapt is an exaggeration given the deeply satisfying and filling lunch) as it went through Bezau on the way to Bregenz where the young tramp would transfer to a train. Kisses and hugs and computers were exchanged in haste as the bus pulled into Bezau and tramp1 was on his way. All in all a totally satisfying visit - even the discussions between Genghis Khan and Mao had been friendly. It seems both young and old had mellowed.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and conversing over the usual miseries: world politics, European politics, and US politics. Then things became serious when the tramp announced he didn’t think there would be time to go to the Schwanen for lunch given tramp1’s flight time from Zurich – especially since the plan was for him to go by Landesbus. Tramp1 almost hyperventilated, but the trampess saved the day by suggesting that if we were at the Schwanen by noon, the 2:36 bus would be easy to make (it stops in front of the Schwanen) and tramp1 would make his plane. The Schwanen was duly telephoned and it was established that they opened at 11:30 for lunch (after all hikers who are up at the crack of dawn might be down the mountain and starving by that time and the Schwanen is nothing if not accommodating!). It was agreed that tramp1 would pack his rucksack that night and the tramp would put tramp1’s computer into his rucksack so that all tramp1’s luggage (so to speak) would be on our backs for the morning hike.
The next day was beautiful and we set out early (after the usual hearty breakfast of course). Instead of going on the fast route to Bizau, the tramp decided on a longer and more scenic one. Tramp1 was nervous – a good hike was one thing, missing lunch quite another, but the tramp, having first felt that lunch was impossible, felt quite confident that he was reading the maps correctly and that we would arrive in plenty of time. The trampess, while trusting the tramp’s reading of the map completely, was concerned that the route we were intending to take might have been the one which ended on the wrong side of a cliff last year. The tramp assured her this was not the case, and your three intrepid tramps set out. As it happened, the tramp was of course right and we arrived in plenty of time (just before noon) at the Schwanen. Now, if it has not been mentioned before, the area around Schwarzenberg (which includes Bizau) is heavily influenced by Hildegard von Bingen. You will, of course, remember the beloved Hildegard (tenth child of a noble family and therefore tithed to the Church): her sacred music is heard almost every Sunday at some church in England (and one would assume throughout Germany where she lived – in fact, had your tramps known of the importance of Hildegard, they would have undoubtedly stopped at the abbey where she lived on the Rhein when they were making their first delicate excursions) and her visionary writings were given the papal imprimatur. But importantly, for the Schwanen, she was also very interested in herbs, herbal medicines and the importance of eating correctly (she suffered from migraines and perhaps her interest was driven by a desire for a remedy). One can only imagine that the abbey that Hildegard became abbess of was, under her leadership, the Canyon Ranch of the 12th Century. Anyone who lived to 81 in the 12th century must have understood a thing or two about longevity! The menu at the Schwanen was developed under her guidance (well under the guidance of her philosophy) and so we began with the drinks that fit our needs (the descriptions are very fulsome and cover fatigue, depression, the need to relax, the need to be energised and so forth): the tramp and tramp1 had a rather magnificent raspberry concoction; the trampess a sour cherry one (and was reminded that her great aunt, a devout Presbyterian and therefore teetotaller, used to make all manner of vegetable or fruit drinks as cocktails before dinner, with varying degrees of success). Galgant (vaguely corklike in appearance and potent – a favourite of Hildegard) and fennel are always on the table in small bottles to be taken, rather like snuff, but eaten not inhaled, in small doses before (perhaps even during) the meal. The drinks were pure nectar. After much discussion (and translation of the menu for tramp1), we ordered. And while nothing at the Schwanen comes quickly (this is a serious restaurant in the middle of nowhere) it is all wonderful. Tramp1 would have probably been willing to miss his airplane for this lunch. As it happened, there was time for pudding without prejudice to the flight. Tramp1 exclaimed when he saw Kaiserschmarr’n on the dessert menu. He had last had it in Austria many years ago and decided not only was it fit for the Kaiser, it was definitely HIS best pudding. The tramp who is also partial to a good Kaiserschmarr’n suggested that they order one between them (it is a very large portion that the Schwanen produce!). Tramp1 however is allergic to wheat and declared that sadly he would never be eating it again. The tramp couldn’t believe there was any flour in the famed pudding and the waiter was duly summoned. The trampess was, of course, reasonably certain there was flour in it but demurred to the waiter. Miracle of miracles (well perhaps not given Hildegard’s unerring influence), the Kaiserschmarr’n at the Schwanen is made with Dinkel (spelt to you and me) and not wheat and so the pudding was ordered. The trampess had the totally irresistible Basilikummousse with cooked berries (which might sound outrageously awful but, trust me, is sublime).
And so the tramps leapt onto tramp1’s bus (well perhaps leapt is an exaggeration given the deeply satisfying and filling lunch) as it went through Bezau on the way to Bregenz where the young tramp would transfer to a train. Kisses and hugs and computers were exchanged in haste as the bus pulled into Bezau and tramp1 was on his way. All in all a totally satisfying visit - even the discussions between Genghis Khan and Mao had been friendly. It seems both young and old had mellowed.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Kanisfluh Conquered and a New Source of Energy for the Tramp
The drive to Zurich airport went unbelievably well, though it must be said that there was an emergency exit in Winterthur to ensure that if tramp1 arrived with an empty stomach, he would be fed. Like the tramp, tramp1 suffers from numerous food allergies; unlike the tramp, he eats a tremendous amount (something about being young, athletic and working out regularly in the gym) so the concern on the tramp’s part that the combination of a cheap flight (no food) and great hunger required serious attention on the part of the trampess was not ill-founded. Sadly, the supermarkets along the way all seemed to be on the wrong side of the highway. Whenever we exited to a near, but small village, the food shops seemed to be hidden (the tramp concluded that in these places no one eats). Winterthur was the last option before the stores would all be closed. Luckily, we stumbled (as only a WLW can) across a small shopping centre which had both a Co-op and a Migros – the trampess was spoilt for choice and sneaking in 10 minutes before closing time (my mother at this point would have thanked St Anthony), did a major shop. The tramp devised a new rule: one should never travel on an empty refrigerator. The trampess concurred – though she did somewhat timidly point out that the supermarket in Salzburg was not a fertile shopping ground.
Having reached the airport, the question remained where to go. Airport car parks are not on the whole the sort of place the WLW can find appropriate accommodation: the height of the ceilings is inadequate to the WLW’s stature. There did seem to be an almost completely empty car park adjacent to a BP station just near the terminals. Not being put off by the no entry sign at the only place one could see to enter, the tramp drove the WLW in and parked parallel to and near a stack of huge metal beams. It made us look, well if not small, in proportion. I prepared supper and we ate.
Just as the trampess was sipping the last drops of her wine, a police car drove up. I smiled at the tramp, put the bottle in the refrigerator, and suggested that he deal with it. The tramp, who oozed more charm than I have ever seen anyone use on the police force of any nation, smiled and explained that we were waiting for tramp1 and that we were too big to enter the normal car park. The police, equally charming, explained there was no problem but there was another delivery of metal beams and if we wouldn’t mind parking on the side they would be most grateful. The tramp assured them it would be no problem at all and moved just as a large lorry load of beams arrived. We relaxed in the full knowledge that we were now under the unassailable protection of the Zurich police. How safe can one feel! Just under two hours later tramp1 texted to let us know we had landed; the tramp instructed him to come out to the pavement and text when he was there. We drove through the airport once more, stopped, tramp1 jumped in, and off we drove to Bezau. The tramp, his good mood restored, and it being late at night with no traffic on the roads, made unusually good time. We drove into the parking lot of the football pitch (not wishing to cause havoc in the campsite at such a late hour), and turned in before midnight, warning tramp1 that we normally rose at 6:30 and tomorrow would be no exception since we needed to establish ourselves in the campsite as early as possible in order to have a good hike – and not waste tramp1’s precious time off work. Tramp1 assured us that graduate school had trained him for 5 hour nights, so 6 ½ would be a lie in. On that happy note we all collapsed.
Tramp1 was as good as his word and was happy to wake up the next morning when the trampess announced porridge and eggs were cooking (all the young tramps are quite adept at cooking but are very pleased to have the trampess cook for them – in fact it is a well known threat, repeated in a poem the young tramps wrote for her most recent, significant birthday, issued by the trampess if she is really, really desperate – how often can that be?? – to suggest that one or more of the young’s tramps has just had his last meal cooked by her). Tramp1 downed a huge bowl of porridge with a banana, two eggs, several knaeckerbrot with various nut butters and anything else he spotted on the table. Not impressed with the tramp’s two eggs with flax seed and the same knaeckerbrot and nut butter, he proceeded to lecture the tramp on the importance of slow release carbohydrates if he wanted to sustain major physical exertion. The trampess, of course, always eats porridge for breakfast and is never hungry before time, and as it is well know, does not run out of energy. She listened in amusement to the son propounding her own theories on breakfast (to which the tramp had heretofore not given much credence). The tramp promised to try out the theory the next day but maintained that porridge had never been enough in the past. Tramp1 suggested that there was no need to replace the eggs with porridge, the porridge was to be a supplement! The tramp smiled.
Breakfast over, the three intrepid tramps set out on an easy hike (the tramp did not wish to plunge his first son into the deep end on day 1!) to Bizau over marshland. The plan was to have lunch at the Schwanen and then walk home over the hill route. Tragically, the Schwanen has its day of rest on Wednesday so the tramps hoofed it home quickly in the hopes that the trampess would whip up a quick lunch. She did of course. As tramp1 was clearly in top hiking form, the next day, the tramp determined the hike would be to the more challenging Baumgarten. The tramp fuelled himself at breakfast according to tramp1’s suggestion and we all set out. Tramp1 was predictably every bit as fast as the trampess, and indeed, quite obviously faster but as the hike was not overly steep he was content to keep her pace and wait for the tramp to catch up. The plan was to reach the summit at around 1pm when the bergbahn service back down to Bezau resumes and get home for a reasonably timed lunch. The climb went according to plan but there was an unnaturally long queue at the bergstation: there was a problem with the lift and no one was quite certain how long it would take to repair! The tramp was not keen to walk down: he neither wanted to arrive home for an early dinner instead of a late lunch, nor did he fancy the assault on the knees the long march down would mean. Happily, the buzzer went, just as panic was beginning to set in and a few nuts had been eaten, indicating a gondola on its way. It was not long before the tramps were at the front of the queue. The next meal could still be classified as lunch – only just. The good news was that the tramp declared the addition of porridge (with a banana of course) to his breakfast had made a difference. The trampess’s pots were just big enough to cope with the demand for four boiled eggs and a mountain of porridge. The tramp did declare, nonetheless, that he would cry off hiking the next day and go to the gym but the trampess and tramp1 were welcome to climb Kanisfluh. The trampess was thrilled – with young tramp1 as pacesetter, she was quite confident that no matter what the weather conditions the next day (and they did not look promising) she and tramp1 would arrive at the summit. Hurrah! Tramp1 was only concerned that we would take enough food to sustain us (tramp1 worries a lot about getting enough food).
The next morning was suitably grey, foreshadowing rain. The tramp was concerned about tramp1’s inadequate clothing as far as attacking Kanisfluh was concerned but the trampess (being blonde) pointed out the obvious solution: tramp1 would take the tramp’s backpack instead of his own and he would have a ready kit for all weather. That settled, the trampess and tramp1 ate a very sustaining breakfast and headed to the bus stop. They arrived in Mellau town centre just as the rain came. Out came the ponchos. Protected against the elements, they headed to the bergstation where the path to Kanisfluh began. They both knew the obvious: when you are climbing a mountain it is inevitably an uphill journey. The way may be briefly disguised but in the end it is only a disguise, and only brief. Tramp1 declared that he far preferred the sort of unrelenting climb that he was about to undertake since at least one knew one was making progress! Ah, the wondrous optimistic outlook of youth! The trampess was delighted and so the climb began. Partly through the first major assent, it became clear that the forest was protecting your intrepid heroes from the rain and the ponchos were making them very sweaty. It was decided to remove ponchos, shake them, turn them inside out, and return them to the bottom of the backpacks.
That done, the pace quickened. We found ourselves, having started at 10 am precisely, at the edge of the glacial basin (where the tramp gave up the first time and declared the path to the bergbahn was the only way) at 11:30. This was record time (at least in the trampess’s experience and also it must be said compared to the estimated time posted on the first signpost) and meant that if we kept the pace we would be at the summit (note the sense that we were actually climbing a mountain implied in the word summit) by 2pm. As we crossed the glacial basin we came across a large group of teenagers – in the usual swaggering and slow, group walk. Tramp1 turned on the speed and overtook them just before a small bridge. In order to do the same, the trampess wound up hoofing it through marshy ground (yuck – the boots were very miserable – but totally waterproof and luckily nothing splashed in over the top so the trampess’s feet remained dry) and practically leaping onto the bridge in front of some rather amazed young German boys (who never expect to be overtaken by a speeding OAP!). Tramp1 kept the pace for some time (we were taking no chances of being bogged down by a group on a long, narrow trail upward!). It did not take long to lose them completely – most likely they were not following us to the top. Surprisingly the walk across the glacial valley was not as muddy as expected, nor as full of cow dung as the one time the tramp and trampess had proceeded a bit further in the direction of the summit. That walk had been muddy but gentle and the trampess had hoped that horrendously vertical was not going to be the descriptive most appropriate for the next hour. However, the first rule of mountains (namely that they are always an upward experience) shortly became evident. Any thought the trampess might have had that the summit was a gentle climb from the glacial valley soon disappeared. If the first 1 ½ hours were unrelenting, so were the last! Only this time the path was not just steep, but very rocky, not well marked and, oh yes, visibility was very low – the clouds were with us, we were in them, and quite often tramp1 disappeared in the mist. At a crucial point, the trampess had to call out his name to determine the way forward (at least the way tramp1 had chosen to go forward!)- the path went both right and left (if the path was marked the marking was too far ahead to see with the visibility so low) – it would have been bad to arrive at two different peaks : it does not look good for a mother to lose her son on a mountain (never mind that he was in the lead)! Happily, he was within earshot and merely answering told me which way to turn.
Soon a few hikers coming down crossed our path (all, it must be said, older than the trampess; not one tramp1’s age – tramp1 found this vaguely unsettling – where were all the fit, adventurous youth?). We did not speak to them apart from the obligatory “Gruess Gott”, but we felt we could not be far from the top now. It was beginning to get chilly and the thought of adding a layer or two did cross our minds, but we were sweating (not that a trampess ever sweats, you understand) and the sheer energy of climbing was keeping us warm. – or at least focused. One lone hiker came down and as he had passed us earlier, I felt we really must be close now. I asked him how much further and he replied less than a minute (this should give you, dear reader, an inkling of the visibility!) but didn’t I have more clothes? It was he said, very, very cold and windy at the top. How could the weather be so much worse so soon? Is the summit such a micro-climate?? I declared I did and would be ok. He announced he had done the climb in 3 hours flat and was obviously quite pleased with himself. I looked at my watch – if he was right about our being a minute away (give or take 5), tramp1 and I would make it in 3 hours flat as well!
He was right on all counts. We could barely unzip our backpacks fast enough. Tramp1 put on every layer of clothes the tramp had in the pack and then looked up and asked if there were any gloves. There weren’t – the tramp’s hands are kept warm by the gloves he uses with his Nordic walking sticks – not a look the young tramp thought appropriate for his age. His fingers were so cold he could barely open the sardine tin, but by this time in need of food, he managed. Everything we brought was demolished -even the chocolate bar which it seems had suffered by not being eaten on the Baumgarten trip; to say that it did not melt in the mouth is a very poor description of the crumbling collapse that occurred (clearly Lindt does not expect a bar of chocolate to suffer so many dramatic climatic changes in such a short period – this bar had past its prime, notwithstanding a best before date some years hence!). Just as we were convincing ourselves that lunch was hitting the spot and more impressively actually being eaten at lunch time, tramp1 let out an expletive. I would not dream of repeating his exact words, but I followed his eyes as he directed his gaze over his shoulder. The winds had blown away the clouds and we had a clear view behind us. Dear reader, we were sitting on the edge of , if not a cliff, an extremely steep incline (let us say between 85-90 degrees) all the way down to Mellau (approximately 1350m vertical distance). Reclining to rest our weary bones, while not something we had even for a moment contemplated, might have resulted in our premature arrival in town without the aid of the bergbahn – and perhaps without our immortal souls remaining in our all too mortal bodies. To say that your formerly-afraid-of-heights-but-now-happilly-not trampess gulped is the grossest of understatements, but perhaps the ambition of hang gliding (given that fainting might have produced the same result as reclining) is not entirely out of the question; we continued our lunch (without even considering moving forward – though we were careful in rising to our feet afterward), texted the tramp to let him know of our success and then prepared to descend.
If the way up had been challenging, the return journey was worse. This is of course known to all real mountain climbers, but the trampess is discovering these laws for herself, sometimes all too painfully. The large, flat surfaced, rocks which were difficult to get purchase on on the way up were much more terrifying on the way down. And while it wasn’t raining, it was very moist – the ground between the rocks was pure mud. The first time the trampess slipped, she let out an expletive (she is her son’s mother after all). Tramp1 did not hear, and so did not come to the aid of the fallen trampess. Luckily, the Nordic sticks didn’t become detached or wind up in an awkward place, and in the end did prove helpful in returning the trampess to a vertical position, though not for long. After the first fall, it would have been unseemly to swear again, so your trampess reverted to laughing. Tramp1 heard this time (and subsequent ones) and checked to make sure he was not going to have to carry his mother down a mountain – especially since he, too, while not actually falling, was doing his fair share of sliding (and if the truth be told, issuing expletives). Even at the trampess’s delicate weight, the thought of managing her, her backpack and his own was daunting even to tramp1! Happily he did not have to. Once the peak was descended, the final stroll to bergbahn seemed just that.
Back in Mellau, he tramps rewarded themselves with hot drinks and water on the terrace of the hotel which overlooked the bus stop. With only one bus per hour and no desire to walk back, despite the fact that it was now full sunshine, it seemed the sensible way to kill 45 minutes.
Having reached the airport, the question remained where to go. Airport car parks are not on the whole the sort of place the WLW can find appropriate accommodation: the height of the ceilings is inadequate to the WLW’s stature. There did seem to be an almost completely empty car park adjacent to a BP station just near the terminals. Not being put off by the no entry sign at the only place one could see to enter, the tramp drove the WLW in and parked parallel to and near a stack of huge metal beams. It made us look, well if not small, in proportion. I prepared supper and we ate.
Just as the trampess was sipping the last drops of her wine, a police car drove up. I smiled at the tramp, put the bottle in the refrigerator, and suggested that he deal with it. The tramp, who oozed more charm than I have ever seen anyone use on the police force of any nation, smiled and explained that we were waiting for tramp1 and that we were too big to enter the normal car park. The police, equally charming, explained there was no problem but there was another delivery of metal beams and if we wouldn’t mind parking on the side they would be most grateful. The tramp assured them it would be no problem at all and moved just as a large lorry load of beams arrived. We relaxed in the full knowledge that we were now under the unassailable protection of the Zurich police. How safe can one feel! Just under two hours later tramp1 texted to let us know we had landed; the tramp instructed him to come out to the pavement and text when he was there. We drove through the airport once more, stopped, tramp1 jumped in, and off we drove to Bezau. The tramp, his good mood restored, and it being late at night with no traffic on the roads, made unusually good time. We drove into the parking lot of the football pitch (not wishing to cause havoc in the campsite at such a late hour), and turned in before midnight, warning tramp1 that we normally rose at 6:30 and tomorrow would be no exception since we needed to establish ourselves in the campsite as early as possible in order to have a good hike – and not waste tramp1’s precious time off work. Tramp1 assured us that graduate school had trained him for 5 hour nights, so 6 ½ would be a lie in. On that happy note we all collapsed.
Tramp1 was as good as his word and was happy to wake up the next morning when the trampess announced porridge and eggs were cooking (all the young tramps are quite adept at cooking but are very pleased to have the trampess cook for them – in fact it is a well known threat, repeated in a poem the young tramps wrote for her most recent, significant birthday, issued by the trampess if she is really, really desperate – how often can that be?? – to suggest that one or more of the young’s tramps has just had his last meal cooked by her). Tramp1 downed a huge bowl of porridge with a banana, two eggs, several knaeckerbrot with various nut butters and anything else he spotted on the table. Not impressed with the tramp’s two eggs with flax seed and the same knaeckerbrot and nut butter, he proceeded to lecture the tramp on the importance of slow release carbohydrates if he wanted to sustain major physical exertion. The trampess, of course, always eats porridge for breakfast and is never hungry before time, and as it is well know, does not run out of energy. She listened in amusement to the son propounding her own theories on breakfast (to which the tramp had heretofore not given much credence). The tramp promised to try out the theory the next day but maintained that porridge had never been enough in the past. Tramp1 suggested that there was no need to replace the eggs with porridge, the porridge was to be a supplement! The tramp smiled.
Breakfast over, the three intrepid tramps set out on an easy hike (the tramp did not wish to plunge his first son into the deep end on day 1!) to Bizau over marshland. The plan was to have lunch at the Schwanen and then walk home over the hill route. Tragically, the Schwanen has its day of rest on Wednesday so the tramps hoofed it home quickly in the hopes that the trampess would whip up a quick lunch. She did of course. As tramp1 was clearly in top hiking form, the next day, the tramp determined the hike would be to the more challenging Baumgarten. The tramp fuelled himself at breakfast according to tramp1’s suggestion and we all set out. Tramp1 was predictably every bit as fast as the trampess, and indeed, quite obviously faster but as the hike was not overly steep he was content to keep her pace and wait for the tramp to catch up. The plan was to reach the summit at around 1pm when the bergbahn service back down to Bezau resumes and get home for a reasonably timed lunch. The climb went according to plan but there was an unnaturally long queue at the bergstation: there was a problem with the lift and no one was quite certain how long it would take to repair! The tramp was not keen to walk down: he neither wanted to arrive home for an early dinner instead of a late lunch, nor did he fancy the assault on the knees the long march down would mean. Happily, the buzzer went, just as panic was beginning to set in and a few nuts had been eaten, indicating a gondola on its way. It was not long before the tramps were at the front of the queue. The next meal could still be classified as lunch – only just. The good news was that the tramp declared the addition of porridge (with a banana of course) to his breakfast had made a difference. The trampess’s pots were just big enough to cope with the demand for four boiled eggs and a mountain of porridge. The tramp did declare, nonetheless, that he would cry off hiking the next day and go to the gym but the trampess and tramp1 were welcome to climb Kanisfluh. The trampess was thrilled – with young tramp1 as pacesetter, she was quite confident that no matter what the weather conditions the next day (and they did not look promising) she and tramp1 would arrive at the summit. Hurrah! Tramp1 was only concerned that we would take enough food to sustain us (tramp1 worries a lot about getting enough food).
The next morning was suitably grey, foreshadowing rain. The tramp was concerned about tramp1’s inadequate clothing as far as attacking Kanisfluh was concerned but the trampess (being blonde) pointed out the obvious solution: tramp1 would take the tramp’s backpack instead of his own and he would have a ready kit for all weather. That settled, the trampess and tramp1 ate a very sustaining breakfast and headed to the bus stop. They arrived in Mellau town centre just as the rain came. Out came the ponchos. Protected against the elements, they headed to the bergstation where the path to Kanisfluh began. They both knew the obvious: when you are climbing a mountain it is inevitably an uphill journey. The way may be briefly disguised but in the end it is only a disguise, and only brief. Tramp1 declared that he far preferred the sort of unrelenting climb that he was about to undertake since at least one knew one was making progress! Ah, the wondrous optimistic outlook of youth! The trampess was delighted and so the climb began. Partly through the first major assent, it became clear that the forest was protecting your intrepid heroes from the rain and the ponchos were making them very sweaty. It was decided to remove ponchos, shake them, turn them inside out, and return them to the bottom of the backpacks.
That done, the pace quickened. We found ourselves, having started at 10 am precisely, at the edge of the glacial basin (where the tramp gave up the first time and declared the path to the bergbahn was the only way) at 11:30. This was record time (at least in the trampess’s experience and also it must be said compared to the estimated time posted on the first signpost) and meant that if we kept the pace we would be at the summit (note the sense that we were actually climbing a mountain implied in the word summit) by 2pm. As we crossed the glacial basin we came across a large group of teenagers – in the usual swaggering and slow, group walk. Tramp1 turned on the speed and overtook them just before a small bridge. In order to do the same, the trampess wound up hoofing it through marshy ground (yuck – the boots were very miserable – but totally waterproof and luckily nothing splashed in over the top so the trampess’s feet remained dry) and practically leaping onto the bridge in front of some rather amazed young German boys (who never expect to be overtaken by a speeding OAP!). Tramp1 kept the pace for some time (we were taking no chances of being bogged down by a group on a long, narrow trail upward!). It did not take long to lose them completely – most likely they were not following us to the top. Surprisingly the walk across the glacial valley was not as muddy as expected, nor as full of cow dung as the one time the tramp and trampess had proceeded a bit further in the direction of the summit. That walk had been muddy but gentle and the trampess had hoped that horrendously vertical was not going to be the descriptive most appropriate for the next hour. However, the first rule of mountains (namely that they are always an upward experience) shortly became evident. Any thought the trampess might have had that the summit was a gentle climb from the glacial valley soon disappeared. If the first 1 ½ hours were unrelenting, so were the last! Only this time the path was not just steep, but very rocky, not well marked and, oh yes, visibility was very low – the clouds were with us, we were in them, and quite often tramp1 disappeared in the mist. At a crucial point, the trampess had to call out his name to determine the way forward (at least the way tramp1 had chosen to go forward!)- the path went both right and left (if the path was marked the marking was too far ahead to see with the visibility so low) – it would have been bad to arrive at two different peaks : it does not look good for a mother to lose her son on a mountain (never mind that he was in the lead)! Happily, he was within earshot and merely answering told me which way to turn.
Soon a few hikers coming down crossed our path (all, it must be said, older than the trampess; not one tramp1’s age – tramp1 found this vaguely unsettling – where were all the fit, adventurous youth?). We did not speak to them apart from the obligatory “Gruess Gott”, but we felt we could not be far from the top now. It was beginning to get chilly and the thought of adding a layer or two did cross our minds, but we were sweating (not that a trampess ever sweats, you understand) and the sheer energy of climbing was keeping us warm. – or at least focused. One lone hiker came down and as he had passed us earlier, I felt we really must be close now. I asked him how much further and he replied less than a minute (this should give you, dear reader, an inkling of the visibility!) but didn’t I have more clothes? It was he said, very, very cold and windy at the top. How could the weather be so much worse so soon? Is the summit such a micro-climate?? I declared I did and would be ok. He announced he had done the climb in 3 hours flat and was obviously quite pleased with himself. I looked at my watch – if he was right about our being a minute away (give or take 5), tramp1 and I would make it in 3 hours flat as well!
He was right on all counts. We could barely unzip our backpacks fast enough. Tramp1 put on every layer of clothes the tramp had in the pack and then looked up and asked if there were any gloves. There weren’t – the tramp’s hands are kept warm by the gloves he uses with his Nordic walking sticks – not a look the young tramp thought appropriate for his age. His fingers were so cold he could barely open the sardine tin, but by this time in need of food, he managed. Everything we brought was demolished -even the chocolate bar which it seems had suffered by not being eaten on the Baumgarten trip; to say that it did not melt in the mouth is a very poor description of the crumbling collapse that occurred (clearly Lindt does not expect a bar of chocolate to suffer so many dramatic climatic changes in such a short period – this bar had past its prime, notwithstanding a best before date some years hence!). Just as we were convincing ourselves that lunch was hitting the spot and more impressively actually being eaten at lunch time, tramp1 let out an expletive. I would not dream of repeating his exact words, but I followed his eyes as he directed his gaze over his shoulder. The winds had blown away the clouds and we had a clear view behind us. Dear reader, we were sitting on the edge of , if not a cliff, an extremely steep incline (let us say between 85-90 degrees) all the way down to Mellau (approximately 1350m vertical distance). Reclining to rest our weary bones, while not something we had even for a moment contemplated, might have resulted in our premature arrival in town without the aid of the bergbahn – and perhaps without our immortal souls remaining in our all too mortal bodies. To say that your formerly-afraid-of-heights-but-now-happilly-not trampess gulped is the grossest of understatements, but perhaps the ambition of hang gliding (given that fainting might have produced the same result as reclining) is not entirely out of the question; we continued our lunch (without even considering moving forward – though we were careful in rising to our feet afterward), texted the tramp to let him know of our success and then prepared to descend.
If the way up had been challenging, the return journey was worse. This is of course known to all real mountain climbers, but the trampess is discovering these laws for herself, sometimes all too painfully. The large, flat surfaced, rocks which were difficult to get purchase on on the way up were much more terrifying on the way down. And while it wasn’t raining, it was very moist – the ground between the rocks was pure mud. The first time the trampess slipped, she let out an expletive (she is her son’s mother after all). Tramp1 did not hear, and so did not come to the aid of the fallen trampess. Luckily, the Nordic sticks didn’t become detached or wind up in an awkward place, and in the end did prove helpful in returning the trampess to a vertical position, though not for long. After the first fall, it would have been unseemly to swear again, so your trampess reverted to laughing. Tramp1 heard this time (and subsequent ones) and checked to make sure he was not going to have to carry his mother down a mountain – especially since he, too, while not actually falling, was doing his fair share of sliding (and if the truth be told, issuing expletives). Even at the trampess’s delicate weight, the thought of managing her, her backpack and his own was daunting even to tramp1! Happily he did not have to. Once the peak was descended, the final stroll to bergbahn seemed just that.
Back in Mellau, he tramps rewarded themselves with hot drinks and water on the terrace of the hotel which overlooked the bus stop. With only one bus per hour and no desire to walk back, despite the fact that it was now full sunshine, it seemed the sensible way to kill 45 minutes.
Monday, 18 August 2008
The Long Road Back to Bezau – Over Garmisch, Salzburg and Zurich
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.
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.
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!
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