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

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

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

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

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

Hamburg, Factory, Aachen, Factory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hamburg, Luebeck or Bust! And . . . . the winner is . . . . Bust!

The tramp had to wait longer for the spare part than originally expected so Hamburg was delayed yet again. Just as the WLW was about to pull out of the factory and the trampess was saying her last goodbyes to the staff (we are all quite friendly now), the owner came over to find out where we were planning to stay in Hamburg. All the tramp’s careful research was rejected and a new campsite right on the harbour was suggested (much quieter and a very good location; the one in the Stellplatz guide while not a bad location sits under an U-bahn stop and is very noisy; quiet is good and harbour is even better). This change had one small consequence (which is never small but the trampess is improving) which was that the carefully debated navigation routes and entries on both navigation systems (one can never be too careful, but don’t ask me how we decide when they disagree – this is worse than being a parent) had to be re-entered. It is always more stressful to do this when the engine is running, the tramp is in the driver’s seat and the only place for the trampess is on her knees in front of the navi systems. Add a glaring sun to the mix and mistakes can happen. With relative calm, and a few deep breaths before and during, despite the prevailing conditions, the re-entries took place and the drive began. Sound having been restored, the navigation voice once more deigned to speak to us, making the trip much easier. Earphones on and Wagner on the iPod and the trip promised to be pleasant.

Sadly, on arrival in Hamburg (all three maps – from autobahn to big view of city to detailed city map – in full use with full commentary by your trampess and only an occasional comment from the tramp) at the preferred campsite which was really just a parking lot on the harbour – but conveniently located as promised - the tramps were unceremoniously chased away by the parking lot attendant: full – to the gills. I won’t mention that we passed it (with the tramp noting that these places all have gps addresses which get us within 3 meters of the destination so why didn’t we see the entrance in time???!!!) and had to make a u-turn (u-turns do not come naturally to a vehicle over 11m long) – meaning we drove a long way down the road before coming to a rather tight traffic circle where we could reverse direction (tension by this time was mounting in the cockpit) so that this rejection was doubly wounding (and time consuming).

Once more on her knees, this time in Friday night traffic (did I mention the trip took at least two hours longer than it should have owing to exceptional traffic entering the city?), the trampess re-entered the original destination. I will spare you, dear reader, the details of the journey from one campsite to the other but let’s just say that we did make it and it was relatively straight forward, though by now definitely past our supper time. As we entered the correct street (and from that vantage point saw nothing like a campsite even though the street was not so very long) the tramp re-iterated the gps location remark and decided to check out our destination on foot before committing the vehicle (one does not wish to be like a lobster in a trap – able to enter, not able to exit). Wise decision, as it was as described: under the U-bahn and very noisy. In the meantime, the tramp spotted a legal parking space (free even) behind a truck (safety in numbers) and the area being largely industrial would be quiet on the weekend. We circled the block and settled in for the night – indeed for the weekend. And while the view of the impounded by customs car lot we were next to was less than what we have become accustomed to, we were happy to call it home for the night.

Our patience and acceptance were rewarded the next day with sun. But instead of sightseeing we, of necessity, turned to finding a suitable supermarket. Not so easy in an industrial area (there were warehouses selling food to retailers but no retailers and even though the tramps eat large quantities of vegetables even we do not qualify, nor could we carry, a wholesale quantity of all that we needed). Nonetheless, after half an hour walking, and some good directions from the nearest petrol station, we arrived at a more than adequate supermarket, called Real – hopeful, no? Not, the tramp told me, an upmarket brand but the produce was actually very fresh with a huge organic selection. Your trampess was in vegan heaven. Of course the walk back to the WLW was also half an hour only this time the tramps were laden (running out of olive oil is a serious matter and one bottle will not do – not to mention the trampess’s tipple). Still, in good spirits, with the sun shining we arrived home and the trampess made lunch – 11:30 is a very early lunch but since the morning had been spent doing errands the afternoon had to be extended to allow for the purpose of being in Hamburg: to see Hamburg.

The tramp decided that such a nice day should not be spent inside a museum (along with churches always first on the trampess’s list) to which the trampess could only concur, so we set out to the harbour and the site of all the old warehouses (Speicherstadt). It has to be said when the Germans do urban renewal they don’t mess around. The old buildings are beautifully restored, the new ones are striking (more about which later) and the space for pedestrians (and bikes) is well thought out – as long as you remember that bikes are everywhere, silent and have their own lane – perish the thought that you should walk on red bricks when you should be walking on stone! There is a marvellous maritime museum, a stunning walk along the harbour with restaurants and cafes (all of which look remarkably un-German – no bier and bratwurst here). The number of cranes and building sites is unbelievable but there is enough already finished to understand just how fabulous this area will be, and indeed already is. We kept walking past the still-being-built-concert hall (the subject of much controversy as the original budget was 180m euros and is now expected to reach 500m euros), which can be visited for a small fee in a guided tour, (they have to bridge that 320m somehow) and as the tramp loves building sites as much as he loves harbours the tour was added to the to do list, and then carried on along the water until we reached the working harbour – and principal tourist area. After finally reaching our original (campsite) destination there and finding that Monday morning would be a good time to arrive, we returned to the boats offering tours of the harbour. What better to do on a sunny afternoon than take a boat around the second largest harbour in Europe (Rotterdam, in case you were wondering – please see the Turner painting in the Frick – it was big back then, as indeed was Hamburg, which in fact may be on the opposite wall). Swimming docks, shipyards, container ships coming and going, tugboats waiting for action – and we weren’t walking any more (not much more a trampess could want after about 8 miles non-stop – excluding the morning’s shopping). The long walk home was interrupted by a coffee in one of the cafes in the rather nicer part of the harbour and a determination to visit the concert hall and the maritime museum the next day.

It was good that we did the harbour tour on Saturday – being on the top deck of a boat on a grey, rainy day is not fun. Neither, as it turns out, is waiting to see if there are returns for the concert hall tour (apparently it sells out as quickly as the Ring at Covent Garden – in a few minutes the tickets for one month, three months in advance, are sold out). The trampess, who can always find good coffee in a storm, found a student hangout which had soya cappuccinos (a small miracle in German where the word soja generally produces a screwed up expression and the German equivalent of “come again?”) and silent(!) videos made by Red Bull of extreme sports (worth the detour) on the wall. The return to the model of the concert hall (where there was a brief lecture, and a number of videos plus schematics of the building) resulted in no returns so the tramps set off for the nearby maritime museum in a splendidly redone old warehouse, situated on a canal, reached by going over an old iron bridge and with a marvellous piazza in front. Nine storeys of outstanding exhibitions left your tramps panting (texting accelerated – it is a long standing rule that everyone’s pace in a museum is different, the larger the museum therefore, the greater the distance between the tramps becomes - near the end as it was well past lunchtime and the tramp wondered if the chef would ever make it to the end; she did). The possibility of lunch out had been vetoed the previous day – the tramp declared his willingness to take the trampess out but not if it meant eating the only possible (and pathetic) choice on the menu that would satisfy our vegan eating habits. The one restaurant that looked a distinct possibility was Thai (a good solution in London) but the posted menu revealed not one vegetarian (we won’t even speak of the extremist vegan) option. So, in the full understand of what is meant by an army moves on its stomach, the tramps rumbled home and lunch was finally served at about 3pm. The rules of hiking should now be applied to cities: either eat a bigger breakfast or always have chocolate and nuts in the handbag.

Monday morning meant driving to Luebeck where the tramps were to see the finest example of Backsteingothik in the cathedral (no point in staying in Hamburg to go to the museum since museums are closed on Mondays), churches (unless closed for restoration) are always open. The tramp had given the trampess a gift of the navigation system manual in English, had located a Stellplatz (with full coordinates) in Luebeck and the trampess dutifully put the gps data into the first navigation system and the address into the second (reliable but slightly more old fashioned) . It wasn’t til well beyond Luebeck on the motor way that the trampess remarked that it looked like the tramps wouldn’t be walking to the cathedral. The tramp nearly jumped out of the driver’s seat and said that we would, the spot he had chosen was only a short walk from the centre. The trampess referred to the Stellplatz guide book and read the description. The tramp took the next exit from the autobahn and pulled off the road as soon as was safely possible. It was a grim tramp that repeated the words that have hung over our heads this spring: “we have to get better at this”. Another set of coordinates was entered. And that should have been that. But it wasn’t. the command: Wenn moeglich bitte wenden (if possible make a u-turn) was for once taken literally by the tramp. The trampess could not quite believe the manoeuvre the tramp was about to perform but said nothing (John Gray says men do not like to have their driving prowess questioned) so the trampess bit her tongue (knowing that even in a more benign state the tramp might have taken offense, but certainly in the current state such a suggestion might re-open discussion about the Oder-Neisse line). No one came to a screeching halt and the WLW proceeded in the opposite direction.

You might therefore expect, dear reader, that I was reporting on the delights of Luebeck, having had our spirits restored by our visit to the cathedral and our bodies by a coffee and perhaps one, little, delicious piece of Luebecker marzipan (my Polish grandmother’s favourite – when she was worried about becoming diabetic, which she never did, she allowed herself one small piece a month – you will not be surprised to know that she lived well into her nineties with that kind of discipline), but I am not, and we are not in Luebeck (nor did we ever get there)– we are in some truck factory forecourt waiting for the door of the garage (of the WLW) to be secured so that the German autobahn police who stopped us are content that our progress (now back to our factory not to either Luebeck or Hamburg) will not kill or maim anyone sharing the autobahn with us (they might have been less friendly if they had seen the tramp’s u-turn but luckily they did not – they only spotted us as we drove past a petrol station – our rear door, unbeknownst to us, badly ajar). They gave chase - not that it was hard to catch us given our top allowed speed of 80km/hr. So, suddenly in front of us was a car marked Polizei – looks more ferocious in German with that Z – blue flashing lights on top and a flashing red sign on the back window screen: Bitte folgen; which means, as you have no doubt guessed, Please follow. Polite notice but not really an invitation given the nature of the car signalling. When the tramp got out of the car he must have nearly fainted. Possibly not optimal behaviour for demonstrating complete awareness and control of the vehicle, but no one gets out of a tight spot better than the tramp (apologies to George Clooney). The gap between the garage door and the main frame of the car was more than enough for your trampess to squeeze through. Not exactly falling on the ground, but certainly not inspiring to anyone following!

It is only fair to add at this point that the trampess’s own desire to beg the tramp not to make a u-turn had nothing to do with foreseeing the incident which actually caused the accident (the bottom of our garage door catching the top of a small pillar in the lay-by where we had been contemplating our fate), so any thought that I was trying to prevent the disaster that ensued would have been badly misplaced. And even if I had told him to please not make the u-turn any notion that “I told you so” was applicable would also not have been and would only have added insult to injury. It was clear, the only thing for the trampess to do was to start cooking. So here we are, post lunch, waiting til we are pronounced safe enough to return to my favourite factory.

On the road again – well almost

You might have been excused – once again – for thinking that your trampess had fallen off the end of the world or alternatively found Nirvana. Both are close to the truth. Winter in Miami was a wonderful escape from the cold and grey of northern Europe, though even in paradise it is possible to encounter self-inflicted hell. In your trampess’s case, this comes in the form of early morning spinning class taught by demons who smile as they scream “another turn to the right” (meaning: increase the resistance) over pulsating music followed by “and keep the cadence” (meaning: don’t slow down just because you are going uphill) with a gleam that Faust would have recognised. I won’t mention the kinesis wall where strength training is further challenged by dynamic movements while standing on one leg – possibly doing squats at the same time. Because, obviously, that is part of what we expect to have to do to maintain muscle mass and little grey cells both. The private swimming lessons do count as self inflicted torture since changing from graceful, head above the water breast stroke (learned in one session from the tramp at the age of 29 no less) to head in the water crawl is, for someone who is blind and has avoided trying to figure out how to breathe in an alien element since last flunking beginner two swimming twice, nothing less than traumatic. But with the best swimming teacher in the world (apart from the tramp of course who overcame all those flunked courses at the Y in one easy lesson by de-constructing what I was doing wrong – a lot – and what inhibited success – blindness, solved with a snorkel and mask) and the conviction that every year one should learn something new, added to the challenge of a triathlon for my 65th birthday next year, it seemed a now or never opportunity. The first lesson was a masterclass in patience (his) and overcoming panic (mine). The second session was much better. The third was a triumph: believing Malcolm Gladwell’s theory of 10,000 hours your trampess set about putting in as many as possible between the 2nd and 3rd lesson (and her imminent departure from Miami). I can only say that MG is right and teacher was suitably knocked out (as were all the residents who watched me doing “my homework” every afternoon). As a reward I gave him Outliers as a thank you (two masochists deserve each other). The lesson went on (after all I had not done 10,000 hours yet so another one with instruction would only take me further to my goal of being ready for the over 90 Olympics when that day comes – according to my calculations 26 years should be enough to become accomplished in swimming, running and biking given my starting position in all three).

After almost 2 weeks in London (where miraculously despite infinite breakfasts, coffees, lunches, teas and dinners, I did not add weight to the sleek self I had managed to attain – it was the swimming that did it: one more hour a day on top of the existing programme made all the difference, curious that; probably means I was meant to be a farmer and do manual labour 7 hours a day), I find myself reunited with the tramp and back on the road. Well, almost - we are actually back in the factory! (a perfect setting for a birthday, no? - well, actually the spot where we park is quite lovely and the views of the fields are charming so even though we are on Industriestrasse it is much better than it sounds). I think we may head to Hamburg later today though which could be very romantic.

Meanwhile, the perils of the trampess continue unabated despite all the upgrades on the WLW! Nothing like being tied to the railroad track by Simon Legree but still – finding the loo won’t flush is mildly disturbing (it is a wonderful, normal looking loo but works by push button – many choices the excitement of which I won’t bore you with but when you push a button and nothing happens and it feels as though it hasn’t registered your finger well . . . ), then the internet went – one has learned to live without it for the odd hour so not hopeless or unduly distressing. But imagine going to turn the cooker on and no gas, no spark (actually no gas because no spark – an obviously sensible safety override but one that means that the handy old match cannot rescue the situation)! Well, as God was clearly looking over me when these various unplanned, unexpected and random disasters occurred, we were parked in front of the tramp’s sister’s house (it was deemed easier for me to cook and then carry over the food – no fighting for hob space – more about which later), so I merely carried pots into the house and put them on the fully functioning hob where we cooked side by side - our vegan approach meant adding a few more pots of greens to the evening meal – it is fair to say that our level of green vegetable consumption is held in awe here in sunny Germany, international influences notwithstanding - and in due course we all sat down to dinner together. Now ask yourself, if you can’t cook, can’t go to the loo and can’t get your emails, what is there? Working in the garden and learning to golf. My brother-in-law provide the latter diversion while the tramp, dumbfounded, spent hours, nay days, pouring over manuals on our generator etc. Even now he hasn’t quite been able to tell me why it all happened, but he keeps muttering, “we have to learn these things better . . .”

But worse was yet to come: as we were about to exit early one morning to go to the tramp’s sister’s for breakfast, we couldn't open the door. There is only one door so not being able to open it is rather disastrous. We tried everything: electrical, mechanical, manual. Nothing worked. (This has happened before, dear reader you may recall the day we spent in Mellau trapped inside while our neighbours tried everything to rescue us). I rang to say we would be late for breakfast and explained the difficulty. Naturally they asked if there was anything they could do (like help me out the window or something similar) but the tramp said no. Luckily the brother-in-law ignored the tramp and came rushing over and . . . yes, you guessed it, opened the door from the outside without a key! Somewhat overwhelming and shocking - and not good (the bad possibilities are endless: not being able to escape in an accident; burglars escaping but leaving us locked inside . . .). So we left, locked the door (hoping it wouldn't reverse the pattern and we’d find later that we couldn't get back in) and had breakfast. Needless to say a long email was sent to the factory and we returned the following Monday. In the meantime we read manuals as part of our anti-Alzheimer's programme.

I am taking a break from the current anti-Alzheimer’s programme the tramp has assigned me which is to understand the navigation system better (it is apparently very clever – and very highly rated; such I have found out from the English website rating it) - but it did a very weird thing to us yesterday which was to send us under a 4m bridge (we are 4m high so it was close) on a road that was forbidden to trucks (since it is a very clever system, it knows we are a truck and shouldn’t do such a mean thing – especially since the road was far too narrow to perform any kind of a u-turn in less than 20 manoeuvres and even then it is likely we would wind up in a ditch). On top of it the radio (yes the radio, not a phone hooked into the navi system) demanded a password! Why does anyone need a password to listen to a car radio??? A totally surreal experience. Luckily the tramp was right that the iPod works on its own so I could still get music – and no longer just country: one of the tramp’s many improvements was to have head phones connected to the iPod so we don’t have to listen to the ambient noise when listening to the iPod (the ambient noise in the WLW on an autobahn is significant so this makes a huge difference – it is actually possible to listen to classic music – and voice not just symphonies – through our superior head phones). So in an effort to understand the navi system, I can tell you that I am learning the most atrocious German words (how did they ever make them up???) in order to avoid such calamaties as losing the voice of the navi and the radio at the same time. I am sure an English manual is available (after all I read an English review of the system) but not on line. So my anti-A programme continues.

We have had some wonderful excursions though, and I am catching up with my personal as yet un-ticked list of great things to see. The best so far has been Hildesheim where the wonderful bronze doors (which I remember from Dean Frisch, freshman year at Wellesley, art 101) are not at the moment on the cathedral because it is being refurbished/restored/cleaned for its 1,000th birthday (makes my modest 64 this month seem young really) in 2015. Luckily they are in the museum for Egyptian art so we saw them there. Spectacular. Definitely worth a detour. The column, commissioned by the same bishop Bernward, 7 years later – also in bronze, with stories from the life of Christ, was in another church and equally magnificent. I managed to persuade the tramp to visit the upper floors of the museum where we found some fabulous Egyptian objects plus a perfect facsimile of Sennefer’s tomb (mayor of Thebes as I am sure, dear reader, you know). We were the oldest people to crawl into it and I enjoyed sitting on the carpeted floor as the tramp read from the book he’d bought describing each of the tomb paintings. Setting an example for the youth of Germany, who did enter but didn't stay for long; meanwhile other older people bent down to peer in and were rather astonished to see two OAPs sitting on the floor but didn't enter despite the fact that it was obviously the sensible thing to do and the tramps are nothing if not sensible). On the ground floor there was an exhibit which we kept passing through which is one of those exhibits that one would only really find in Germany or Holland – called Duckomenta – yes every great painting or sculpture you can think of with at the very least a Donald Duck duckbill, and sometimes a complete face or body (think Man in the Golden Helmet, Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, Cleopatra, anything!!!) millions of them, everywhere. Crazy. We ate at the museum (tolerable pasta) and then drove on to Goslar – one of the villages that was spared bombing during WWII so filled with timbered and plastered houses from the 15th C. We arrived in a timely manner in the town square where the glockenspiel had miners instead of the usual mediaeval craftsmen (the wealth of the town came from the silver mines). The next day we drove to Hannover and went to the Sprengel museum (clearly you can get very rich making chocolate – I am very supportive of that) - a very smart, modern building with reputedly one of the most important modern art collections in Germany. It was here that the tramp declared modern art too depressing, too negative, too miserable. I can see him as an 11th C bishop in Hildesheim. Definitely making progress – who knows he might even believe in God before he is 80!!! That would send tramp 1 around the bend! Spirituality is one thing, God is quite another.

Which leads us from Kirche to Kueche (the Kinder having been done some time ago). He also declared, in light of the food offerings available in Germany (not much in the way of vegetables, salads that are primarily potato – well the list goes on), that I had done a good job of cultural indoctrination. I have decided (in my role as cultural dictator) that all Germans should be forced to live in Italy long enough to understand the joy of eating vegetables (especially green ones). In my favourite Roman restaurants (even before becoming vegan) I always lit on the anitpasto table and filled a plate full of lovely green things. A grilled fish to follow, some honest wine. What more could a girl want? I was looking at a health (they do have them) magazine at my younger sister-in-law’s and it had a recipe for rucola salad: hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes and two decorative rucola leaves! The good news is that both sisters grow fresh herbs and salad, and one makes her own jams and marmalades as well (all delicious). But I do my best and we did have a delicious ratatouille with quinoa for lunch yesterday. All the vegetables were bought in the organic market in Muenster (someone must be cooking them) - a decent selection given the time of year.

Our political life will take an upturn shortly as we have an invitation to drop by the one of the tramp’s former colleages again - where we will be guaranteed some serious discussion on the state of the world (meaning mostly the state of the Middle East). Our friend is no longer in the government but he still is actively involved in thinking about policy. Of course the last time we were there it was the European cup and lightening struck the lamppost in the street during the all important Germany v Argentina game. They lost their computers for 2 days (and telephone as well) but managed to restore the television and the game. Even foreign ministers like war on the football field! No such diversions this year so I guess we can concentrate on the real wars (I am amazed at the one in Libya is being called “kinetic military action” and a “time-limited, scope-limited military action.” The online parodies that I have seen are merciless: “Make love, not time-limited, scope-limited military actions!”).

So Hamburg tonight where I just might get a romantic dinner out (anniversary, birthday and Mother’s Day all rolled into one). Fingers crossed.

Charging Bulls and French Drivers

Last year you may recall that the tramps were invited to a magnificent 25th wedding anniversary black tie party in the foothills of the Pyrenees in France. It was a stunning affair – a multi generation party (indeed tramp 3 and GF joined in with gusto, GF having tucked into her back pack a few suitably glamourous cocktail dresses – as apparently the young now do). This year the invitation was extended again – this time the excuse was number 1 daughter’s 21st birthday, but really there is always an excuse if one looks hard enough). We decided to arrive early (our dear friends were happy to have us anytime and the tramp preferred to arrive ahead of the hoards and leave before them). One of the enticements was the fact that we could break the journey there with two stops along the way in Provence. Having reconfirmed that the invitations were for real we headed southwest.

First stop Egalieres. The village located on the grand override map and the address more or less accepted into the GPS system, the trampess felt reasonably confident of arrival comfortably (but not inhospitably) before lunch time. All was going according to plan, and the only possible, small snag was suggested by the last email from our hostess, suggesting that we might not be able to park where she thought owing to the fair that had come to town along with the bulls. The Bulls??? I have heard of, and always managed to avoid, the driving of the bulls in Pamplona but here, in sleepy Provence, raging bulls being chased through town??? With luck the chase would not last long, and since it was a morning affair, your trampess decided not to worry the tramp unnecessarily. After all it might be enough to put him off the journey and we were nearly there. More worrying was the fact that the GPS was taking us off the main road the trampess assumed would lead us to town and instead had the WLW cruising along farm roads through the countryside – picturesque but not necessarily auspicious, but given we were within 10km max of the village, the only thing to do was breathe deeply and hope for the best. I was not yet ready to challenge the voice. With no street signs but the fair ground in sight, we knew we were close. The voice wanted us to make a right turn to “reach our destination” but there were two small problems: 1. We were far too big to make a right turn in the best of circumstances and 2. There was a largish sign telling everyone to stay out of the street because of the bulls! Going straight ahead would have been the equivalent of entering a lobster trap (not something the tramp ever does unless he has personally surveyed the exit) and turning left led us out of town. We chose left and phoned. With no street signs, and only the GPS route number, I did my best to explain where we were. Imagine your trampess walking up and down the street (avoiding bulls, of course) looking for signs, cafes, anything that would help our host to locate us. Total blank. But he is a clever and enterprising man and nothing was going to stand in the way for very long. Stay put he said and I will find you and lead you back. We do that well and within a few minutes a familiar and smiling face appeared alongside the WLW>

After a few obligatory “wow’s” he decided to lead us the long way back to home. Very sensible. He also went slowly and made sure we were with him and that we could always move in tandem. Very sensible. We did at one point have to go through a bit of the village (unavoidable no doubt but not very sensible). We got separated by the church with our friend going ahead to clear the way. We had to wait until he’d finished his sweep. Many cars turned around faced with the choice of colliding with us or the church. Some pulled to the side and hoped for the best. But, dear reader, one magnificent French woman, in a car considerably larger than a deux chevaux stopped in the middle (!) of the road and held her ground, waving to us in a manner which said – there is plenty of room for you, pass me! Now, had we been in the Smart car, this would not have been a problem; we could have, even with her exquisite hogging of the road, shimmied through but in the WLW??? Where was her brain – five other cars had given way but she was insisting we had plenty of room. The tramp smiled. This was, he said, a job for the trampess. I exited the vehicle (given that the door is on the side, and steps have to extend first, you might have been excused for thinking that she would have realised even before I reached her that there was only one solution to the impasse and it wasn’t the WLW reversing). In my best French I told her it was impossible for us to pass. She insisted we could. I pointed out that we had a “longeur de 15m” which made passing quite impossible (I exaggerated our length by mistake, but clearly God wanted me to win this argument and was no doubt fuelling my speech with hyperbole). At this point, furious, she said we shouldn’t be here. I could only concur but pointed out that reversing was not an option. I suppose that it didn’t help that we had German licence plates and I spoke perfect French (at least in a dose that size). And perhaps, to be fair, she might have already been inconvenienced by the bulls. But later, when we were safely in the castle in the Pyrenees, I read, for the first time Peter Mayle’s book, and discovered that not moving in such a situation is a French blood sport – and I, a mere foreigner disinterested in the game, but interested in progress, had won against an obviously determined veteran! Of course, I had size on my side (and perhaps she suffered from a Napoleon complex).

After that, our arrival at a most beautiful villa with sumptuous lunch, swimming pool and tranquil gardens was the perfect antidote to the tramp’s visceral reaction to French encounters of the wrong sort.

The next day was remarkably without incident and totally delicious. St Remy being a nearby town, our host there decided it would be easier to come and collect us that have us try and find the way. At this point, the tramp was not inclined to do anything than accept graciously. And so we drove the short distance to one of Provence’s most charming villages – except that we did not go through the village: our destination was a villa on the outskirts. 600 year old olive trees from Spain had been added to the existing stock (carefully positioned to replicate the precise direction they faced in the old grove – apparently olive trees are hardy and can be transplanted at such a ripe old age but only if they are not rotated from their original solar position – i.e. the north facing side must remain north facing). While no taller than their younger neighbours, they were easy to pick out by their relatively enormous trunks. Vineyards, olive groves, a kitchen garden full of summer vegetables , ripe tomatoes and herbs – what more could one wish for? Lunch was as exquisite as one could imagine and came after either lolling in the sun (the tramp) or a vigourous swim (the trampess – who is only too aware of her inability to resist good food and therefore takes proactive measures to counter the excess calories she anticipated consuming). While expecting to be speaking French the entire time, the trampess was proved wrong: the sister of the French hostess lives in Scotland and all the children (of university age) and their friends were born and raised there. Lunch finished just about in tie for the tramps to be whisked back to the WLW in time for supper. It seems that the French do still take their meals very seriously, the competitive decline of French restaurants notwithstanding. The tramp could become a Francophile (at least at the micro level) and if that happens, who knows, perhaps Angela will even allow Nicholas to give her a hug.

The next day would bring the start of a culinary experience of quite a different kind and one that would see the trampess’s involvement at a much more active, if no less committed, level.

Things That Rumble and Shake in the Night, Doors That Won’t Open, and a Failing Internet (or the Rule of Three)

You know how sometimes nothing seems to go right? Well, that sometimes started last night and hasn’t stopped. Your trampess decided to crawl into bed with her Kindle and read until lights out. Here in the Austrian countryside (once all the cars go to bed), it is very quiet: the cows are in the barn, the goats are tucked up, children are in bed, and so are the farmers. All in all, very peaceful. There was the slight hum of the dishwasher, but your trampess knew that would not be for very long and in any event was not loud enough to keep anyone awake (despite not being a German dishwasher, which would definitely not keep one awake even if in the same room). All of a sudden the WLW started to shake (not good) and a large hum began – a very large hum, the sort of hum that takes over the brain and makes it very difficult to concentrate on even very riveting books. Still, the trampess decided not to panic; the tramp was in the living room and was no doubt doing something important. Several very long and painful minutes later (the humming was very penetrating and the trampess was trying very hard to use all her meditative skill to ignore it), she called out to the tramp – just by way of enquiring whether this would persist for much longer. No answer. Then the slamming of external compartment doors – the tramp was obviously outside dealing with complexities. Best not to appear critical and wait for some explanation – assuming, of course, one would be forthcoming. And no point going outside in one’s pyjamas to find out (not with an external temperature of 2C) and the almost certain likelihood on encountering a grumpy tramp.

The noise (hum was really a very kind word for what had now gone on long enough to give anyone a migraine who was that way inclined – luckily your trampess is not that way inclined) continued and much pacing was heard (well, it is hard to do a lot of pacing in a confined space, but your tramp was doing as much as humanely possible) as well as the door opening and closing with subsequent slamming of outside compartments. Still no word. Finally, the tramp put his head into the bedroom, and the trampess (with perhaps a touch of concern in her voice – always a mistake – she did try to control it) enquired when the misery might end. The tramp made some comment to the tune of the hydraulics adjusting themselves and did I think he was having fun. And then, as an almost throwaway line he said, “This could go on all night,” and disappeared. 45 minutes was bad enough (I had contemplated wrapping myself in a duvet, going to the car and driving to one of the very empty hotels in the village, but that seemed like desertion and behaviour unbecoming a devoted wife, not to mention clearly not in keeping with the vows of for better or for worse, no question which this was) but all night could prove a real challenge., I mean one could run a marathon in less time. Wrapping a pillow around my head seemed a little less extreme than either running into the mountains or repairing to an hotel. After a few minutes of unsuccessful mediation the circuit board sprang to mind. I climbed out of bed, hoping that I had latched on to a solution for stopping the noise, if not curing the problem (11pm put any external help way beyond the pale: German engineering is world class, but German engineers do sleep and no solution would be found from the local Austrian farmers), and went to put it to the tramp, surrounded by manuals and on his computer. I suggested that perhaps if one pulled out the appropriate circuit breaker (after all they are so well labelled if one speaks German, and the tramp is German, so surely he would know which was the appropriate one) then the noise would stop. By this time your trampess was worried not only for the tramps’ good night sleep but the neighbours as well, and believe me no one wants the Austrian police to show up in the night trying to enforce noise abatement legislation (especially if one can do absolutely nothing about it!). The tramp looked up, clearly appreciative of the trampess’s effort to help, and not remotely dismissive of the suggestion, replied in a rather low voice, “I already tried that.” And so the trampess went back to bed, wrapped a pillow around her head and concentrated on pretending she was somewhere else in the universe. Remind me to reread Thomas Aquinas. Miraculously, a few minutes later the noise, as precipitously as it started, abated. As it was well past the trampess’s bedtime, sleep came fast on the heels of silence.

The next morning, the tramp was sitting at his computer when the trampess rose. Clearly the silence was not necessarily the result of the tramp’s intervention. But thinking he looked slightly better than the previous night, your trampess ventured a timid what-was-that-all-about sort of question. The tramp smiled (not one of his joyous, exuberant, whole heart on the face sort of smiles you understand, but a smile nonetheless), and said, “the compressor, I think we have pneumatic problems.” He went on to explain that the WLW periodically self adjusts and balances itself (in order to remain perfectly level – this is a German machine – Vorsprung durch Technik und so weiter – level must mean level, not almost level, or quite level or level enough). This self levelling is, obviously useful and not to be sneered at since it means the interior doesn’t feel like a listing boat even if one is parked on a rocky, uneven field. Naturally, it is a very sophisticated, self-regulating suspension system that can achieve such perfection. Why did it go wrong? Perhaps it was unhappy to be sitting around for so long without exercise. Perhaps it noticed the stakes in the field and tape (electrified no doubt) connecting them, that had gone up the previous day around it, on one side less than a foot away – no doubt indicating that soon the local cows would move from the lower field to the field the tramps have their backside in (a bit like Pooh in Rabbit’s kitchen when he got stuck). Perhaps it didn’t like the thought of cows rubbing their backside on its nice shiny walls. No one knows what is in the mind of a self-adjusting suspension system but it clearly was not a happy SASS. The tramp it seems did not control it so much as listen to it die (at least that is my interpretation of “ich glaube der Kompressor gestorben ist” that was part of a longer conversation with the beloved factory where we stayed so long to make sure everything was under control, so to speak, or so it seemed at the time).

Now when the tramp stays up late, the dining room table is not always, how shall I put it, quite as tidy as the way the trampess left it. Sometimes, the tramp will have snacks and forget about plates (well, they do mean that the dishwasher gets used more frequently and the tramp is on a campaign to improve – ie lengthen the time between washing cycles – it is not the trampess’s view that making the cloth placemats dirty is a way to save water since the washing machine probably uses even more , but when the trampess is not around . . . ).

It clearly was one of those nights when extra nourishment came in the form of knaeckerbrot without the benefit of a plate underneath. Obviously the tramp had had a hard night so the trampess just removed the placemat and went to the door to shake the crumbs for the little birds that can often be seen in the morning before the cats start stalking. But the door wouldn’t open. The door always opens from the inside unless the mechanical bolt is thrown in addition to the electronic locking device. The bolt was not thrown. Your trampess tried again. She tried pressing the button on the handle – this turned on the red light signalling the electronic lock was on. She tried again to open the door. Dear reader, the door stayed shut. She turned to the tramp and explained she couldn’t open the door. The tramp’s eyes rolled, but he came over. He tried. The door did not move. Not only was the Kompressor gestorben, the tramps were trapped in their own home. There is only one door, and the windows are very high off the ground. Luckily, the trampess pointed out, the tramps had gone food shopping yesterday so they could survive for several days until help came. In addition, in extremis, the trampess could be lowered through a window and escape (the daily uphill hikes had paid off in that respect) which would at least mean food could be purchased and passed in at a later date should it come to that. And after all getting back in would surely be easier. Also, it did occur to the trampess that perhaps, just perhaps, the keys, used on the outside, might open the door. After breakfast (never begin difficult tasks on an empty stomach), the key theory was tried (the trampess did not have to prove her agility in exiting through the window – the neighbour was called and the keys tossed down – Rapunzel did come to mind though), but the door remained shut. The lock seemed to be as stubborn as the compressor.

In the meantime, between phone calls, and sitting at our respective computers, the tramp looked at me with a pained expression and asked if I was online. Full signal I said confidently but offered to confirm by opening an article in yesterday’s NYTimes. Ha! And Ha! again - total abject failure with the usual cryptic note saying that the server had not been found (how do you lose a server? This is one of the 21st C’s greatest mysteries). Luckily, restarting the wifi and then restarting my computer – thrice (!) did finally result in a successful connection. But to be locked indoors, unable to move (I mean literally unable to drive), with no communication via the internet, and with less than a week before departure (and two days of driving to get to the airport) could make even the most optimistic trampess feel just a touch of pessimism.

By this time, the tramp’s iPhone (which inconveniently cuts off conversations after it thinks he has talked long enough) and been engaged in numerous calls to the WLW’s home base. The neighbour’s tool kit was passed through the window. The tramp, luckily very skilled with all manner of tools (summers spent on the factory floor as a boy), set to work dismantling the door handle – while talking on the phone in very technical German (at this point your trampess was well beyond her comprehension level and eavesdropping ceased). Still the door remained shut. Finally the neighbour was called back – could she please bang against the door (I think, but I am not sure, this was to help eject pins in the handle). No luck. Then finally a cool draft – I turned around and the tramp was triumphant. The door handle was something else again – cover removed, wires dangling, pins on the steps (would I lose another night’s sleep having to do guard duty?). The trampess was asked to go outside and shut the door – with force. Usually, the trampess is asked not to use so much force on doors so this wasa pleasant change from the norm - until I realised I might be locked out – who knows for how long! (Had I put on a fleece? Was it 3C? was I crazy??). I could hear the tramp babbling away on the phone inside, possibly on another very long conversation. But at least the sun was coming out – and I knew the neighbour would give me shelter if necessary, possibly even a coffee. Life was beginning to look almost rosy: the noise hadn’t gone on all night, the tramps were back on the internet, the door was unlocked (perhaps permanently), and clearly, pessimism is unacceptable on a sunny day in the Alps. Besides, it is well known that problems come in threes (though why it should be so is less well known) and clearly the tramps had had their three. The next report will be triumphant I am sure.

Verbier foxes, wild blueberries, stranger alternative life styles and the inevitable crustless pie

I have failed to mention the excuse for not writing as the fall into a stranger, alternative life style. And, indeed, while the tramps have shifted to what tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4 do consider a somewhat crazy way of living, it cannot be said to have prevented the putting of fingers to keyboard, but it has resulted in change, and a failure to reduce the stock of tinned sardines in the WLW’s pantry (if only tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4 had visited this year that problem might have disappeared). Like the former President, who lost a truly amazing amount of weight for his daughter’s wedding (even more than she had demanded), the trampess read the China Study (but, trend setter that she is, even at a remote distance from anywhere where trends are being set, a year before the President – or at least before he took action). Half way through the book, she looked at the tramp and suggested that they might have to become vegan. Now, it should be said that the tramp in recent years has not been a big meat eater, much prefers fish, is allergic to cheese, and on the whole (despite being of large and tall frame) thinks most people eat too much, including himself (though again, it must be said that he is not overweight) and therefore is always imploring the trampess to serve less meat and altogether less food. Notwithstanding, he let out a small gasp followed by a rather louder “What? You’re not serious???” The trampess declared she was, and like most discussions of this nature, it was agreed that she would send a summary (it is surely a comment on modern living that two people sitting less than a foot away from each other – in fact our feet often collide under the dinner table – send emails to each other with long attachments ) of the book that was causing her to reassess rather basic life style issues that would inevitably affect us both. The summary took some time, not the least because I was only half way through the book when I suggested a change might be in the offing. The tramp was not holding his breath for the summary, but when it came he did exhale deeply, looked up and said the change should occur immediately. He then set out to re-write the summary (it should be obvious by now that the tramp has a very logical and structured mind and finds many books not written in the best way to deliver maximum clarity and impact) of a better book with the same content. It is that summary, reviewed and re-written, again and again, that was sent to tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4, as a reason for the tramps new approach to food.

While the tramp has never been overly interested in food (unlike the trampess who grew up in a family who did) and the trampess would often eat her most extravagant meals with girl friends (destroying any stereotypes waiters had of skinny women pushing salad leaves around plates) or even on her own (the few times the trampess had to go to Paris on business, and not very pleasant business at that, she consoled herself with lunch, on her own but with a good book, at Arpege where on one occasion she had the menu de degustation and on the second – having so impressed the maitre d’ with her enthusiasm and capacity the previous week – the carte blanche – not on the menu but giving the chef carte blanche to produce the meal. I seem to recall that it came to 12 or 13 courses and remarkably, since the chef had gone vegetarian (turbot was allowed) – highly unusual for a restaurant of such calibre – everyone thought he was crazy – was very light). So it somewhat surprised the trampess, when the tramp said, “but this cannot be hairshirt vegan – I mean the food still has to be good.” Continuing in this vain (obviously somewhat worried) he suggested that many great cuisines of the world did not depend on meat: Indian, Chinese, Lebanese and Italian all offered a large variety of meat free dishes and would the trampess please get to work on become a master in each of these. He did admit that the tramps already ate a diet which was heavily Italian influenced, but it would be good, wouldn’t it to add the others?

Not long after, the trampess was observed, by an Indian friend (and a renowned cook), at a Thanksgiving lunch, not to be eating turkey. When the reason was explained, she suggested that the trampess should come to her for a day and learn the techniques of the oldest vegan cuisine in the world. Was this a gift from the gods? A clear indication that the decision was inspired? You make your own judgement, dear reader, but it was clear to the trampess this was an opportunity not to be foregone. And so the trampess put herself on a train to the distant reaches of the home counties and set out to learn the secrets of Indian cuisine from one who had to learn it from her cook (transplanted Indians sometimes discover that things they took for granted – in this case endless perfect meals – have to be learned once they are removed from the support staff of the subcontinent). She refused to let the trampess take notes during the cooking asserting with imperial majesty that her book was extremely clearly and thoroughly written, I would be given a copy, and I was just to watch (and occasionally stir or flip). After the cooking was done (over much chatting and comparing of techniques) the meal was eaten – sublime. Clearly, there is no sacrifice in eating a meatless, fishless, dairyless diet, if one can eat like this. And so the tramps now do. Which leads us to the crustless blueberry pie.

While at the Verbier Festival this year – scene of much happy hiking with tramps 1. 2, and 3 with GF’s the previous year – the hiking was much reduced due to the compelling master classes (voice, acting, piano and chamber music). After the festival, the tramp decided that vertical assaults were much needed and should be taken very seriously if the rather delicious post concert dinners were not to turn the tramps into unfit specimens. The trampess, still holding her edge on the speed to summit, often took different, more demanding, routes in order to slow her down. These often proved to be challenging (when the path stopped) or difficult (very steep or with large trees fallen across the path, often both) but as the trampess’s path would intersect occasionally with the tramp’s they could keep track of each other’s position and have a fair idea of when they might meet at the upper lift station for the trip down (keeping solidly to the view that hiking up is good for the heart and hiking down is bad for the knees – the opposite approach to that taken by most people their age). Often, there were amusing encounters or surprises: three blondes passing each other on a non trail each hoping to get to one they knew – addressing each other in perfect French (as by now you would expect) until one of us let out a word in English and we discovered to our amusement that 2 were native English speakers and the 3rd (with a name like Asrid you might guess) was Swedish. We laughed and switched languages, wished each other well and continued our search. And another time, sure that I was miles ahead, I received a text (this makes hiking on different paths so much less anxiety making) saying the tramp had reached chez Dany and would wait on a bench overlooking the valley). How mortifying! The next sign said 20 minutes to the restaurant but happily your trampess made it in 10. It must have been the sight of all the blueberries which had waylaid her.

Ah the blueberries. One of the trampess’s fondest culinary memories was of the blueberry pie made by a Swiss friend of the trampess’s parents. A most outstanding cook (imagine, unsurrendered feminists, a woman who made fresh croissants for her husband every morning????!!! Indeed, she made them for the tramp and the trampess their first morning at the parent’s house after their wedding – obviously setting me an example I was not quite destined to follow to the letter, but one which made an impression nonetheless – would he ever, I mean ever, even thought of divorce? Clearly not.) who would leave me divine dinners whenever I went to babysit her daughter. (I never said no to their requests for babysitting). On one of these occasions, she mentioned a blueberry pie in the oven and very sweetly said, if I didn’t mind, please be sure to leave some for her husband (now, dear reader, it is true, as you might have already surmised by the recently recounted lunches in France, that as a teenager I was capable of eating quite a lot, but having been raised by a mother who believed overeating was not a good thing and thus severely controlled portions, I had a remarkably un-Catholic ability to show restraint, well, at least some of the time). A very large portion of the pie was left and I was asked back again. So, in Verbier, after tasting one berry, just to make sure it was a wild blueberry (obviously significantly smaller than its cultivated counterpart), I thought that on the next hike a container might be a good thing. After all blueberries on the morning porridge would be quite tasty. And I did recall a rather tasty blueberry pie that tramp 1 and I made in Maine one summer when a brave girl friend and I (11 children between us – not all of them our own) decided to entertain the troops one afternoon by taking them blueberry picking (on a farm). Such was the enthusiasm of little fingers that that night in the face of a bucket of blueberries, I looked at tramp 1 and suggested the best way to get rid of a good proportion was to make a pie. He was on kitchen duty with me and agreed that the benefit of a pie was far greater than the work involved.

As it happened, after supper the night I discovered the Verbier berries, while sending out emails, I had occasion to thank a friend for giving me a lift back to the WLW after a late supper following the previous evening’s concert. I mentioned my hike and the wild blueberries and how I planned to take a container the next day and use the time difference between my walk and the tramp’s to good advantage. An idea which the tramp, it will not surprise you to learn, heartily endorsed. A reply came screeching back begging me not to eat the blueberries (as I have eaten wild, golden raspberries in Nepal and any number of wild blackberries in Wiltshire, I was really a bit startled by this virtual command). He went on to explain that the foxes (I must confess I had no idea I was trespassing on fox territory) in Verbier were know to carry a terrible virus which could be transmitted to humans via their urine (oh happy thought!) and since blueberries are low hanging fruit (so to speak, I can assure you that they take a very long time to pick, more about which later), no one, but no one in Verbier any longer eats wild blueberries, which I suppose goes some way to explaining their abundance. He then went on to say, as if this were the wildest thought imaginable, that the virus was destroyed in cooking (but not by washing). I relayed this to the tramp, who said he didn’t see a problem, surely I could think of some way to cook blueberries – a pie perchance?

I will not mention that, with backpack and Nordic sticks, picking anything close to the ground is a precarious venture (unless, of course, one removes them – but with various patches of blueberries some distance apart on a continuous upward path, taking off and putting on all the gear seemed rather tiresome so your trampess chose to cope with added weight and the possibility of being thrown off balance). Nor will I mention that the blueberries were in a particularly steep patch. Nor do you really need to know that picking blueberries is a one at a time operation, and remember these are much smaller (think fraises du bois). What is worth thinking about is just how much fruit cooks down in a pie and therefore the pre-cooked volume that is necessary to achieve the final volume. After over a half hour of picking (and the realisation that if I dropped the container at any time before the lid was firmly on, suicide was probably the only honourable option) I realised I still had a long way to go to have enough for the innards of a pie. It was probably at that point that I thought a pie would not be vegan (after all I only use real butter in my pie crusts – anything else is – well just not up to standard, we won’t even talk about transfats in non butter substitutes), so perhaps a compote would do. After another half hour, I decided a compote would definitely do. I sped up the mountain texting the tramp that I would be there shortly and he could grab a table at Ruinettes (lunch out was to be my reward). When I arrived, the tramp smiled, said I had made it in time to catch the last lift down, and after all I was a much better cook than . . . It’s hard to turn a man down in the face of such flattery, so the blueberries (safely in their container) and I joined the tramp on the lift back to town from where we hiked back to the WLW and the trampess once more found herself in the kitchen. That evening it was proved that a blueberry pie without the crust is almost as good.