Settle Down

 

A man is sitting in an hotel lounge seeking inspiration, he is staring out of the window at the ivy thrashing on the wall, he is being serenaded by some sort of lift music competing with the lilting updraft from the wood-burner as the passing gusts flirt with the chimneys. Nick, for it is he, arrived in Settle about 3 hours ago to stay for three nights at the Falcon Manor hotel, he is surrounded by tartan/plaid wallpaper in muted olives, ensconced candles, prints of various lemurs and a couple reading the Daily Mail (yes, it's that sort of hotel. 

So far he has eaten two of the four complimentary biscuits, a slice of treacle tart in the Folly Cafe (all profits go towards the upkeep of the adjoining museum so he had to) which has given him a sugar headache. He has climbed to the top of Castleberg Crag (assonantially probably the best crag in Settle), and has been to the Co-op to buy his supper of ciabatta and hummus, on the grounds that: 1) he can use it for lunch and : 2) he doesn't think he can justify a further intake of excess calories (apart from a pint later). 

Why is he in the Daily Mailesque lounge? It is because there is no seat in his room despite there being a dressing table, he could use the perspex stool from the 'Occitane'-ridden bathroom (including Verveine bath bomb which is weighing heavily on his desire list), or he could ask for a chair which would considerably impinge on the flow pattern of his room; consequently, the lounge, just opposite the bar by the way. 

On the table with him for light-reading, is the wine list, where a bottle of Picpoul is approaching three times the resto price in France. The house white has gone up a fiver since he moved tables away from the fire and radiator, as a smart-arse he will hand the old list into reception with the sneer of the pinchpenny know-it-all. Tomorrow he thinks he will do the walk around the caves that's listed in the local geology pamphlet purloined from the throwing-away box at Ashridge. It will give him a chance to use his new TWENTY POUND knee-bandage purchased from Settle Boots, purchased despite missing out on the points and the 10% discount that the Advantage card that isn't in his wallet, would have given him, purchased to replace the perfectly good knee-bandage in the top right-hand drawer of the tallboy in the BLOODY BACK BEDROOM, lying there smugly in all its unstretched glory, you wait you bastard I'm going to take you up and down something HORRID! I'll work you to within an inch of my life.

 Post ciabatta he explores the TV and then heads down to the bar for a pint, bloody typical hotel prices, he watches in horror as the barman rings up £4.40, there then ensues a discussion of London prices.

 Before bed, a revelation, he has only two days not the three he thought, there is a change of plan: Early train to Garsdale Head and Hell Gill, or, earlyish bus to Horton-in-Ribblesdale for a pothole plus Pen-y-ghent trip. 

 Day 2 The train leaves at 08.51, about the ten minutes after the cooked breakfast arrives, that'll be Pen-y-Ghent then.

The bus arrives at the correct time on the wrong side of the road and then departs, a small frisson of panic is assuaged by the hairy savant behind him, who assures him that on market day, "they do that, he has to turn round behind the town hall". He proves to be correct. 

The journey to Horton emulates the children's roller coaster at Southport Pleasure beach, as they approach the Pen-y-Ghent cafe (shut) lady in front asks Nick, 

"Is this going to Ingleton?"

 "Umm, no."

 So discombobulated by this interlocution is he, that he also eschews getting off at the right stop and goes to visit the Station. The walk back to the Crown (shut) is short, he consults the geology pamphlet:

"Go up here, then when it flattens out trespass over there to look at that, cross the impossible stream and continue trespassing until you find this."

 He consults the map:

"Walk past the point of trespass, the stream starts here, Brant's Gill Head, so you can cross the soggy field above to the gate while even managing to scare sheep two fields away!" 

This puts him on Horton Road which is (vaguely) familiar territory. The weather is (amazingly) sublime, a slight chill but not enough to justify the four layers, scarf and gloves some of which are hurriedly packed away, he is sure that when he gets further up towards the liminal snow line he will need them, he's wrong. 

Back to the pamphlet: 

"Go and look at this, it's super, sometimes - rarely, it has a waterfall!" 

 This is Hull Pot, a fissure that cuts across the path, it's super, and because of the recent shitty weather has - a waterfall! Normally the stream dives into an upstream sink and reappears as a spout halfway down the fissure, in itself this is enough, but because he has his appropriated booklet* he feels special, so special that he will send everyone he meets off to see Hull Pot in its rarity, he has become - The Expert!

The booklet advises that:

"Now you're here you might want to look at Hunt Pot with it's 60M scary drop into the abyss, and go over Pen-y-Ghent." 

Such is the renewed kudos of the worthy tome** that that's what he does! The day remains pleasant, the views open up, 208 steps are climbed, enough people are advised to look at Hull Pot, the top has a small chill and two signalmen who are on holiday visiting their mate in Blea Moor Signal Box. 

He continues downward offering advice to the cragfast on the scramble, 

"You're fine. Just don't fall off." 

"No, I'm only a quarter of the way up." 

"Looks easy this bit - it's not, you might die." 

"Don't hold on to that it looks loose."

"It gets worse from this point on."

"The weather's set to turn in twenty minutes, better get a move on."

"Are you going down the other way, well you must look at Hull Pot - if you survive!" 

He descends to Brackenbottom with a mixture of mounting apprehension tempered with inevitability, the bus leaves from the mystery point of West View at 14.35, at 14.05 he has a mile to go to the non-mystery point of the Crown Inn (still shut) which may not have a bus stop, with no knowledge of whether you can flag the bus down - there is a two hour gap to the next train if he misses the bus, there is 200 metres of descent on the deformed septuagenarian knees. 

He arrives at the Golden Lion (shut) and sets off down the road, at 14.35 he arrives at the Pen-y-Ghent cafe (guess) and spots a bus stop (hoorah). Less than 5 minutes later he spots a bus. At several points on the way back (it is the driver's last trip of the day) he gets air, this is a ride that can now transfer to Alton Towers. 

A stop in the Naked Man for coffee and a mediocre scone finds a couple of his ascent victims having a sandwich, they haven't seen Hull Pot! 

The bath bomb is disappointingly unbomblike, but still leaves Nick vaguely verbenaish, he will apparently not get a sore throat, asthma, angina or fluid retention, the latter probably just as well, after soaking for thirty minutes! Sadly the promised joint pain relief fails to materialise.

He settles with a glass of white to write his blog until two middle management ladies come to have a loud discussion about their fellow workers - most of them appear to be crap.

At dinner he meets Ian and Lynn over a salmon trio followed by a lamb chop, they discuss Ian's upcoming retirement, 

"If you're not dead after two years you'll be fine."

Bed.

* and ** Note that usefulness engenders promotion (apart from middle management in the aggregate industry apparently). 

Day 3

Eggs Florentine is not declared a success, the oil-slick of Hollandaise is big enough to drown a gannet, there is a somewhat bilious progress to the station to catch the train to Garsdale.

He has decided to visit Richard Deakins's most contentious swimming adventure - Hell Gill, to get there he will traipse four plus miles along the Pennine Bridleway. Having watched the welter of programs that feature scenic railway journeys Nick assumes that he is inured to the transit - ory beauties of rail travel, he's wrong, cor! 

The morning is gorgeous, there are a pair of Lapwing at the station, Black Grouse churr in the sedge, Curlew fly past burbling and a Dipper flies under one of the bridges.

He stops to chat to the lads building a wall around the new mobile tower, and then heads off into the limestone, admiring Yorkshire's magic tricks with water - now you see it, now you don't.

Hell Gill (Hell from the norse for stone - how dull) is, to be frank, a disappointment. It is a gorge about 3 metres wide and 25 metres deep, sadly unless you're in it, you can't see it. The farmer has, naturally, walled the cleft off to cut down on ovine suicide, so the scary depths are invisible. After 500 metres of trudging by the wall, the stream emerges via a small fall and pool before continuing to Hell Gill Force which is much more satisfactory. 

At this point there is much watch consultation (see yesterday), missing the 14.40 will mean a two hour wait at the station, one of the highest stations in England, it has a waiting room, which is heated, and toilets, neither of which offer two hours of entertainment, even for Captain Crapper!

It also has a statue of Ruswarp or "Settle's Bobby", a dog that signed the petition to stop the closure of the railway. Later he and his master went walking in Wales and disappeared, the dog was found eleven weeks later near the body of his master, and sufficiently recovered to attend the cremation, eye witnesses describe the heartfelt howl of the animal as the curtains closed, but then, have you ever tried to move a dog's bowl before they've finished? Poignantly, the statue yearns towards the memorial bench on the opposite platform. 

The other half of the circular route back is longer, he'd better get a move on. Crossing the road and starting on the bridle path he is met with a forty-centimetre-wide path that is barely keeping its head above water before rising into the sphagnum. He turns and legs it back the same way, the known quantity. He has experience of watching several forms of transport leave while he is ten minutes away, however there is normally a bar/mountain hut to assuage the angst. For once a mobile tower is a welcome sight. He arrives back at the station

five minutes before the train, de-muds the sticks in the gents, and returns to Settle. 

There is a trip back to the Olde Naked Man, this time for a chunky sarnie and coffee, back at the Falcon he peruses tonight's menu, it seems to be the same as last night's, but there was nothing else he wanted last night... Thank goodness for the sandwich. 

After a lengthy bath (one reason for its length being the height of its sides, its almost impossible to lever himself out of without turning over and kneeling), he repairs to the lounge to write this discovering now three aggregate gurus (there's possibly something pleasingly apposite about an increasing number of people who work in the aggregate industry) vying for shouting rights, there's also a couple dining in the corner of the lounge while working their way through the shots list.

Nick meanders into town for a pint in the Golden Lion and reasonable success with the cryptic crossword book, tomorrow he leaves back to the South, in the morning he will Settle Up.

Dolour

 A man is not standing anywhere, in fact he is descending, descending like calculus, where discernible changes could encompass an act of faith. an hour and a half ago the young folk told him it was 30 minutes to the bottom, this information coming the second time they passed him, skipping (sadly not a relative term) down the track.

Nick (for it is he) is plodding, he has the definitive plod, Dobbin returning from a hard day in front of the plough does not plod like Nick, rather he wends his merry way, confident of oats or hay, Nick is confident of sudden death, a broken ankle, missed supper, turning into a prune and, excruciating cramp (if none of the others apply; apart from the ankle) at three in the morning.

He is in San Vigilio, a small resort in the Dolomites that is TOO BLOODY LOW, as usual he has picked for his first walk something that Robert Falcon Scott may have baulked at (Cherry Goddard may be an apt simile). Up until half way down the descent he has had a decent time of things, the up was an horrendous debilitating slog ameliorated by nature's beauty, "Crikey! Look at them flars! Oh look an Eagl..., oh it's gone, maybe a buzzard, probably an eagle though." After 3.5 hours he hits the col, listens to the wheezing (and widdling)  of the mountain bikers and then sets off along the delightful path that contours along exposing him to Gentian (not an Alpine holiday without Gentian), there are others including Alpine Poppy, which he doesn't remember seeing before. Sadly, like the cloud no bigger than a man's hand on the horizon, he has realized that all that "up" engenders a similar down, though, as it turns out, only in height, the descent is a lot worse, a 1500 metre staircase of shattered limestone. The Dutch people he meets at the start of the descent, effectively question his sanity (it is only two thirds of the way down that he does), though to be fair they had completed the ascent and knew the drop-off points that an unfit elderly man might come across on the way down - and possibly several bounce-off points as well.

At the end of the day (there was a lovely waterfall just before, but he can't be arsed) Nick debauches onto the main road an hour from home, but still in time for the last bus - hosannah! It is the Feast of the Sacred Heart, there will be bonfires, they will be unobserved by certain parties.

So what's happening? Nick has gone on holiday, cutting a rapier's path between, rail strikes, Terminal chaos, engineering works, other commitments and committals and Covid. He has arrived in the sort of Hotel where the wine costs 25 quid a bottle, but they don't insist you drink it all at once (for Nick this is a nightmare dilemma). Arrival night was spent doing astronomy in the dark sky area, mainly in Italian and in low temperatures, Old Men were invited onto the set of rickety steps to view various galaxies and nebulae, providing them with a sparely lit view of the inside of their spectacles/retina, just about saw the Milky Way, not as good as the caravan.

This brings us to Day 2, the room is on the second floor, there are stairs and a lift, what shall he do to get to breakfast? The brief compression of the quadriceps femoris as he attempts the first step provides sufficient sensory input to propel him to the lift. He has decided on an easy day and is heading to Kronplatz, a small plateau made of schist, apparently sitting in the crumple zone between the African and Eurasian plates. The bus journey to the bottom of the cable car is one of those typical Alpine ones that would have the entire Arriva crew out for danger money in a jiffy, but to average Giovanni Publique is another of them borin' drives innit? Kronplatz has the aforementioned cable car or a path, the blessed relief provided by Ibuprofen points him in the direction of the path, and so he ascends, arriving at the top only ten minutes past the par time, though to be fair a degree of uncertainty regarding the function of his lower bowel may have provided increased (if you'll pardon the phrase) "motility". The top has two enormous resto's one of which is open, it also has an enormous bell, the Concordia, which, seeing that it is now Midday is sounding some sort of knell, or possibly opening time.

After an hour Kronplatz is done, Nick descends by cable car in order to catch the 13.05 bus, the lack of people at the bus stop causes suspicion, which is sadly confirmed by a perusal of the timetable, there is no 13.05. The choice is now to go to the pub, sit on one's arse or walk down a different route; let's see if the pub is open... the choice is now to sit on one's arse or walk down a different route. At this point he must have lost his presence of mind... the start of the route was fine, the next five miles of inclined tarmac not so much.

The spa. In order to bounce his muscles about, he went to the hotel spa, bubbled in the jacuzzi, concussed himself with the waterfall, tried swimming against the jets in the pool (not recommended without goggles, your eyelids start to fibrillate as you get closer to the jets), then suffered the angst of the English person in a spa in another language. The showers were open, the sauna had proscriptions against anything but towels, so do you wear your trunks in the shower and then doff them for the sauna, or not? There was no-one there, he freestyled, though today there was an Italian lady, in a bikini, this added to the confusion, not the bikini, the ethos.

Day the third dawns, at 9.00 am Nick joins the party off to Experience Nature, the weather forecast is predicting that most of the experiencing will be aquatic, it is however wrong - mercifully (incidentally as our narrator taps this, the following day it is heaving down). The party consists of the usual breakfast crew, who all firmly believe that Nick's Italian is super-par due to his mastery of "Buon Giorno" and "Buona Sera". The tour is led by David, the hotel manager, because of the forecast they have abandoned the idea of the Cinque Torre, in favour of the local national park, "Culos!" as we Italians say. The park is lovely, there is a red-backed shrike to spot, vanilla orchids to sniff and horseflies to swat, though potentially Nick's great age and reaction time may not be up to this, as a view in the mirror the next day attests. Lumpiness aside, they arrive at the restaurant/hut (exit through the gift shop) and order totally unnecessary huge lunches, apart from Marco who channels his inner Austrian and has a huge beer instead. Nick dives into Kaiserschmarm, a very large chopped pancake with jam, something he has always avoided as unnecessary, however tempted, still, "when in the Dolomites...".

The afternoon is spent in quiet contemplation aka digesting, and navigating the traumas of the spa, in the evening he will navigate a Campari spritz (one should probably not drink the recommendation of the local bar fly) a large piece of venison and the first quarter of book number 2, a previously unread John Buchan which is surprisingly funny (obviously from his pre-Calvinist era).

Day 4 -Deluge.  The gentle thud of Alpine rain hammering on the balcony rouses Nick from the arms of Morpheus, "Hmm, raining, I can think of nothing better than taking one of the bikes and seeing if my waterproofs are." In the basement he finds the bikes, amazingly for hotel bikes, they are palatable, so he plumps for Sexy (Number 6) a nine-speed Trek with a sufficient height discrepancy between his crotch and the crossbar that will enable him to a) mount and b) pedal. Katerina at reception provides him with two maps and a lock, after a quick estimate of his physical well-being she revises the route to avoid the steep bit,

"Where I live is very steep!"

Mumbled Ladin for, "Please yourself!" "In that case go down here."

It was very steep, He takes Sexy for an amble up it.

After that it was a gentle climb through the forest for the next 10km, absolutely delightful apart from the incessant downpour. At one point Sexy and he ford the stream to investigate a campsite, actually for possible toilets, the toilet block wasn't, so they ford it back again. The bridge was 50m further on. Towards the end Nick is drawn to the sound of a game bird wobbling away in the new larch forest, failing to spot it, he makes a video to playback the unmistakeable lekking call of the Capercaillie for David. David listens twice and identifies a goat - what an idiot.

On to the rifugio at Pederu where Nick is assailed by the unmistakable babble of American Citizens on vacation, it was Backroads Cycling who had bussed the whole tribe to the top of the road so they could coast down, he attempts to steer one or two to the delights of the off-road descent, the first was determined to go as fast as possible, the others ignore him - so a cappuccino is ordered and a drying session commenced. By this time (having got as far from the hotel as possible by road) the sun comes out, the weather turns balmy, so he also turns and coasts back down the uphill route. Realising that this meant arriving back in the village almost before he'd left,  he elects for another drying session with the plus of nibbling a protein bar (this, in itself is a minor miracle, normally such delicacies are eaten in times of boredom, times of crisis, times and in-between meals).

"Aha!" Thinks he, "I can go and look at that waterfall!"

200 metres up the track to the fall, the noteable lack of the sound of any roaring cascade, the continual uphill nature of the path, he can't be arsed.

Whizz. Zoom. Kaboo..., "Fancy a walk up this one Sexy? Thought so." Kablammo, "Oh we're back"

As the afternoon precedes and various articles of clothing dry out, the peace and quiet of our, now recumbent, hero are occasionally disturbed by small bits of grit bouncing across the parquet as the backsides of his clothes dry out, yes, it was the sort of mountain bike that doesn't have mudguards, the sort of bike favoured by young people and mid-life crisisers, a social-media mountain bike.

It is Ladin night, there is orange juice with Campari, various charcuterie, dumplings and slow-cooked unidentifiable meat, perhaps pork; for pudding, hot berries and ice cream. John Buchan continues, tomorrow...

Is Day 5. Slightly against Nick's better judgement he joins the nature hike, there are children, one of whom can spot a Crested Tit hiding behind a sequoia, I mean there are no sequoia but you get my drift. At the car park several miles up in the mountains, as the minibus pulls up, an ancient gentleman emerges clad in a tabard carrying the sort of shoulder bag used by bus conductors for a century, he shifts from foot to foot before being noticed, and then collects the nominal car parking fee. The team mosey off up the forest track, spotting Nutcrackers, a corvid Nick has not familiarised himself with, and watching other birds fly off before identification apart from, "something with wings - not a bat.". After an hour or so they arrive at the rifugio and then continue towards the summit, after 500m they stop to explore the panorama. Then they turn round eschewing the cross on the top a mere 30 minutes away, dudgeon ensues from one member of the party, slightly ameliorated with a half of weiss, it is at this point that David imparts a hugely important piece of information: German Scientists have determined that the best isotonic sports drink in the World is ... a non-alcoholic weiss beer, this means that he is halfway through the second best isotonic sports drink in the world!

Vaguely refreshed they descend the same way, but with less nature. Nick and Marco have English improvement lessons culminating in trying to explain why a Bearded Tit is a Bearded Tit. The journey home is accompanied by thunder, and the heavens open five minutes after the return to the hotel - a bike ride is obviously in the offing! Instead Nick showers and vegetates. At dinner, there are Swedes, allowing him to talk, the floodgates open, they have been coming to this hotel for 25 years, mainly for ski, however, it's still a recommendation. Marco gives Nick a glass of his novelty rose to taste.

As the previous day was the penultimate, this means that today is the last day. An early breakfast sees Nick on the 8.30 bus to Pederu, as he gets off the bus he cannot find his 'kerchief, his suntan lotion, or indeed, his hat. He therefore elects for the most treey of the two routes and starts up the zig-zag road to the plateau, i.e. he climbs Snowdon before reaching a, comparatively flat bit, where he is greeted by cowbells and the gentle flapping of the flag on the first rifugio - it's too early, he finds the path that bypasses the road and heads off along it, there is a paucity of trees, so he flits from shade to shade like a portly ninja.  Eventually the next rifugio appears amongst the knell of cow bells -  still too early. Halfway to the next one he spies Marmot spying on him, for those of you who don't know Marmot, imagine a guinea-pig with a tail, dressed in an oversize onesie. The next rifugio appears, it's lunchtime, it's shut! 

The next half hour is spent looking for the path, Nick can find number 27 which he doesn't want, he can find a path that doesn't exist, but he cannot find that path that's right there on the map... unless it's that one -it is! As he breasts the first rise there is a thud of rodential feet as the Marmot who has been ambling along the same path becomes aware of a human being - surprise all round! the path turns the corner and contours down along the cliff before eventually disgorging him on a track, where the map says turn right. A delightful ramble through the woods brings him to a hut standing in magnificent isolation, seeing as he is looking for a continuation of the track, magnificent isolation is something he doesn't want, a hut by the side of the thoroughfare would be much better appreciated. After another half-an-hour of off-piste exploration he admits defeat, and retraces, 200m beyond the junction he finds the right turn, "BUMS!". At the bottom of  he purchases a beer, and then, rather than wait for the bus decides on the bosky walk to the next stop, sadly this turns into a bosky power walk as the distance to arrival-of-next-bus ratio trends towards the negative.

At the hotel, he will pack, eat supper, sleep, eat breakfast, and depart - he is sad.

Flaming Hawk's Beard

Alpenrose/Rosa Alpina

Fragrant Orchid

Out of focus Gentian

THE END

Cross country shenanigans

 A man is sitting beside a large G, his Salt ‘n’ Pepper “do” is motionless in the non-breeze, he stares blankly across the concourse at the continually enlarging queue to the bagdrop. His reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Carole and Paul. Yes, it is Nick and he has characteristically stupidly allowed himself to be inveigled into a cross country skiing holiday in Norway. As it turns out they are queue-jumped by the staff who then told them how to use the self-service baggage drop thus saving - no time.

After two hours, with a cereal bar and the world's smallest bottle of water, they arrive in Oslo airport where they are due to sit for two and a half hours waiting for a coach to their holiday destination, actually they are waiting for a flight from Toulouse so that the French holidaymakers can travel on the same coach. 

Two and a half hours in the coach brings them to the hotel sited on a plateau overlooking Ringabu, the Venabu Fjellhotell. Nick is pleasantly surprised, the journey up until that point has been characterised by a distinct lack of snow, something he is familiar with from numerous other skiing holidays, the apotheosis of which was the San Siciaro trip where, after being bussed to the only two slopes open in the region, one could ascend on the drag lift through green fields on a hastily built causeway of snow, the bend on the lift was a transition to ski mats, causing wild decelleration and a pasture littered with people in various stages of lying down.

Nick is given the key to his single room, number 46, It is rustic with rustic charm, the bathroom, an afterthought is also rustic, if he puts his mind to it he could have a shower while seated on the toilet, possibly the world's most comprehensive bidet.

Then downstairs to the ski room to try boots and pick skis. After that, there is mooching about until dinner, on this occasion lamb shank. Dinner engenders a new set of problems, there are two tables, neither of which cater for the percieved menage-a-trois that their party compromises, fortunately there is a volunteer, Jean, leaving them with John and Maryanne, and Belinda and Matthew, during the week there will be other visitors to the table but the menage will be unable to work out whether this was choice or duty. The wine list is scanned and dismissed as even, the usually profligate, Carole decides that £40 is too much for a bottle of wine. The dinner conversation centres around, "Have you done this before?" and avoids, "Umm, who's going out with whom?" Later in the week, as Nick and Paul emerge from the sauna both dressed in floral shorts, people will look at Carole with a modicum of sympathy. Later in the week, after viewing Nick's flamboyant skiing attire, Jean will archly suggest that, "You do like your colours Nick..." After dinner there is a small amount more chat, and then the 5 o’clock in the morning start that day kicks in.

Sunday (the first skiing day).

Breakfast is large, varied, comprehensive. Faced with a large choice of fish products early on a Sunday morning, most people opt for a variety of breads with more adventurous looking at the cheese selection, including Prym a combination of Norwegian brown cheese (a vaguely lactic fudge) and cream, in fact cream features extensively in the Norwegian comestible canon it would seem, vis, Dill Sauce - chopped dill and whipped cream, Mustard Sauce - a desultory amount of mustard and whipped cream etc, etc. Then to the ski room for for a quick lesson on waxing, skis that is, and an explanation of how difficult is it is to get the waxing right in this sort of weather (AKA Not our fault governor). At this point it becomes clear that all beginners, including the Nick's group have no need for this lesson as they are all on the more-forgiving fish-scale (which quicly degenerates into "fish-tail", something cars do on slippery surfaces, yes I know it seems to make sense but it doesn't) skis, all apart from - Nick (and Jean). This will mean that most of the morning is spent watching the group disappear up hills, whilst Nick (and Jean) moonwalk in place.

After this it is outside for a quick warmup, during which Nick manages to pop both his back and also to pull a muscle on his inner thigh. That then follows the sorting, unlike Hogwarts there is no hat, instead there is, "Who has never been on cross-country skis in their entire life so far?" Nick watches in amazement as the majority of the party decamp towards Stephan the hapless instructor, including two people that he knows for a fact have definitely been on cross-country skis before, in fact at the same time that he was on them! Magnanimously he opts for Ursula in order to keep Stefan's numbers down, as we shall see, this was a MISTAKE. The morning continues, there is jogging (!), then there is hesitant jogging (standing on the landing foot to simulate "the glide") (as far as Nick is concerned this is still jogging - and unecessary), then there is the same with skis on. It is at this point that memory comes flooding back, just like a dribble of adrenalin, the memory that cross-country skiing is such, that large amounts of fear, aka terror, can be engendered by encountering the crest of a one meter downhill slope, the sort of slope that will propel you at at least 3km per hour, and deposit you in a contradictory (given the air temperature) funk, or perhaps just a heap, at its base. However, at this moment, that's not a problem, as Nick (and Jean) are unable to ascend the giddy heights in the first place.

A short loop ... a digression - here we are in the land of cross-country skiing, the most efficient way of moving across snow, the short 1.5 km loop takes two hours, and burns off a teaspoonful of Prym (about 800 calories), efficient my bruised bottom! 

A short loop later, and it's time for lunch, this is sort of like breakfast, but with soup, a greater variety of dried meats, plus various hot choices and, pudding. This extra 2000 calories Nick will fail to burn off in the 30 minutes he spends attempting to reattain the vertical, aka practice, that afternoon. In truth this is one of his problems, for the vertical is not where he should be... imagine sitting in a crowded room at coffee time, a comely lass both catches, and gives you the eye, this is such an unusual occurence that the spasm it causes debauches your cup of hot coffee down your trousers! Obviously you can't whip them off, so you adopt a standing position so that the hot material has the least contact with your legs (ahh my friend, the days of skin-tight jeans are long gone, the only skinny that will be in contact with your body is that latte, currently cooling on your relaxed-fit, hidden-elasticated waist, jumbo cords), in other words, knees slightly bent, leaning marginally forwards, so as not to tempt both fate and gravity. This is how you should ski, Nick however, adopts the ramrod straight, bolt upright posture of the true Brit, upon being advised to lean forward he will, counterbalancing any disturbance of his centre of gravity by a rearward thrust of his arse, any "bending of the knees" is for Continental types".

The evening meal is halibut, redoubtedly cooked in butter with some sort of cream sauce, to assuage the pangs of the days "skiing" an £8.00 can of beer is bought, it doesn't work. Nick will later ask

"Why do Norwegian fishermen fish?" 

"Just for the halibut!"  Nearly worth it.

Monday (the second "skiing" day).

After a breakfast (once more sans fish, there's only so far a Brit will give the nod to Scandinavia, though, to be fair, even if there were kippers Nick would eschew them - nice for breakfast but during the day there are more repeats than ITV2) a new blend of waxes are tried on Nick's (and Jean's) skis, this will include clister, fiendishly sticky stuff to stick wax to the skis, I'm hoping it's spelled this way, as clyster is an enema, though the effect of both varieties is a loosening of the bowels. 

The morning continues well, they ski round to the other hotel, from which there is a long descent, Nick is at the back only followed by Trish (who has been here 14 times but has yet to decide where her favourite place to fall is, consequently she tries a few new spots every day). As he approaches the pack, he sees Ursula frantically telling him to go left, "Ho Hum this'll hurt." springs unbidden into his noggin. There is one moment of triumph - he falls forward, this is sadly short-lived as he also falls onto his right pole which ends up across his skinniest bit, his ribs, this hurts - a lot. Ursula spends the rest of the day enquiring after his health, and giving him sharp glances every time he coughs, little does she know that he has already deliberately coughed into a patch of snow to see if it goes pink, it doesn't.

 As the morning wears painfully on, Nick becomes aware of another phenomenon; Jean, who is immediately in front of him, keeps receding into the distance. He monitors her style, from the back all he can see is a slight fluttering of feet, like ducks paddling, or ballerinas advancing across the stage en point, whatever she is doing, it is wrong but maddeningly better than his segue of long gliding strides followed by twenty seconds of panting ("not really tired just letting my torn abductors rest for a mo"). The morning continues with Nick spying the rest of the group waiting at the next turn off, and the next, and the next. If this wasn't dispiriting enough, Trish overtakes him.

Lunch.

The afternoon is spent doing a downhill lesson. This is actually all about control, and stopping, it is a debacle. At one point, tired of only suffering minor injury, Nick lands flat on his back and the impact reportedly detaches his sternum from the rest of his ribs (the pre-seatbelt flail chest), just to check, he does it again, he was right - it does hurt like f+* - Billyo. In fact, along with this mornings rib injury, this will mean he can no longer sleep on his side, as gravity, his nemesis of the week, will compress his ribs into the bruised cartilage of his sternum. Rooms 45 and 47 will therefore be treated to some sort of pharyngeal concert every night, probably more Stravinsky than Chopin. He retires hurt.

In the hotel he discovers the Gutsy Girls, a women's only adventure holiday group, in the middle of the group there sits Jo, who has broken her wrist that very day, he offers sympathy and shares his cocodamol.

The evening meal is Moose - Moose! What is moose like? Well imagine you're eating slices of an animal that dwells in the Taiga, the semi-tundra forest of Northern Europe, that ekes out its winter existence by eating roots and twigs for 5 months of sub-zero temperatures, and its summer standing up to its shoulders in bog trying to put on enough fat to withstand the gathering darkness. That's what Nick's was like anyway.

Following the meal, we have a talk by Lars, the now-retired hotel manager, it is about the area, the hotel, the stave church in Ringebu, photography, the genetics of the local reindeer herd, glaciation and, finally, art. In his retired state Lars has been spending the hotel's money on a collection of local artists, these paintings are dotted around the hotel, particularly exciting is the picture of a lady with a black-eye and bruised wrist, and one of her sister, who may be angry with her somewhat louche husband, or may be demonstrating the size of the fish she needs for Sunday. Lars is in his 80's, the talk goes on way past bedtime.

Tuesday (a dark depression sets in at Venabu).

After several attempts to get out of bed in a manner that doesn't cause panting and the, so loved by action novels of the 70's, "rictus of pain" Nick decides he will bunk off for the day, at 20p per minute those who know Nick well, will realise the moment of this decision! He therefore spends the morning, ruminating on an unused breakfast, and a Norwegian Scandi-noir, both have the potential for indigestion. 

The morning party returns, so it only seems natural to join them for lunch, there's quite a lot of moose on the menu, but then, there's quite a lot of moose, the thing about moose is that you get an awful lot of buck for your bang. It is at this point that Nick seems to have lost his presence of mind, for he is persuaded to go out for a small ski with Carole and Paul in the afternoon, it is only mildly excruciating. How excruciating it actually is he discusses with Paul in the sauna that afternoon, as he thought there is some discomfort, mainly caused by the fact that Carole can ski better than the both of them!

For light relief in the evening, Nick and Carole scroll through the latest offering from the dating site, he is sent a dozen possibles a day. It is as he thought: big-breasted blonde wanting to explore the arcane regions of the Kama Sutra, with own French Maids outfit and chalet in the Alps - unsuitable. Retiring mouse into cats and needlepoint - perfect! He goes to bed - another concert ensues.

Wednesday - the free day.

For a mere small fortune Nick has opted to spend the morning on a snowshoe trip led by a redoubtable Nord called Bengte. She will take the group off to a waterfall via one of the Summer farms in the area. Like other high regions there are Winter farms where the cattle are interned for the Winter, usually under the main house to provide free central heating, and Summer farms where the cattle are on high pasture and (in this case) looked after by the farmer's wife, who births calves and makes cheese and butter (which used to be dumped in a special tub in the nearest river as a refridgerator) and, presumably cuts the tails off retinally-challenged mice. 

The party wades through snow to the top of the fall and then descends to the foot, past some stonebound troll children who have been out playing too long and have been surprised by dawn, to the foot of the frozen 10 metre fall, it is deemed spectacular. They then ascend, in some cases rather more slowly, and head back for lunch. Due to late running, some of the way back is on piste, Nick becomes aware of two things; every footfall he does picks up a ball of snow, which gets ever larger (memories of life's footwear journey through the 70's pings, as every step takes him further from the ground and renders him less stable), the other thing, and possibly a somewhat gratifying thing, is that Peter has a stress-related cough, which has now come to the fore, this means that Nick isn't the only one struggling, and also provides a useful reference for how far away everyone else has got. 

The afternoon is listless, but the evening is a Taste of Norway Night, and there you were thinking every night was a Taste of Norway night. They are led through a selection of canapes, one of which is, unsurprisingly, smoked moose, to a main of trout (in butter), and a pudding with cloudberries.

Thursday - a change of scene.

After a somewhat humiliating chat with Ursula, Nick has opted to downgrade his optimism to Beginners Group standard, fortunately a lot of the Beginners Group have upgraded to Intermediate. This means that he is now with Carole and Paul, under the auspices of redoubtable Scot, Stephan.

 Stephan has found favour in Nick's eyes following his lucid and lengthy condemnation of Yoga, favouring a history of about 50 years compared to the several thousand espoused by advocates and charlatans. 

He spends the morning following Joe (a 75 year old in cancer remission) and Ann (just a 75 year old, in fact 75 that week, as attested to by cake and cocktails). At the start, there is so much wax on his skis that nothing happens, and he is sent back to try again. As the day continues so does his speed compared to the rest of the group, on one downhill he has to bail out to avoid rear-ending Ann, who can sucessfully brake (he can't). Lesson learnt, on the next downhill he gives Joe a hundred metre start, and manages to come to a halt two metres away. They return to the Hotel passing the supermarket (Kiwi - don't ask me!) for lunch.

After lunch they return to the supermarket for a mooch, and a fit of depression over the price of things, though reindeer skins appear to be a bargain. The uphill return from the supermarket is slow, painfully slow, as in slow and painful. After something cooked in butter an early bed is declared.

Friday - Expedition Day

"So if I've got this right this should be a nice gentle glide down to the crossroads, if I've got it wrong it'll be an icy, scary express ride!"

The crossroads features five adrenalin-soaked bodies in various states of sprawl.

The expedition is a seven kilometre loop taking about three hours, as you can see the standard of skiing is much improved. At one point Paul runs at low speed into the back of a stationary Nick, after a pause for re-attaining the vertical, Carole is soundly blamed for the incident, having drifted to a halt and then remained in the same place, oblivious to the laws of cross-country physics, that state that " the geographical position at the end of your schuss  may be superceded by the heavier skier behind you, hence, an extra couple of metres  at the end of the inertial glissade should be added to prevent: 1. Marital Discord. 2. Ally-based Grumbling."

Later, after a hot-juice break on the verandah of someone's hut, which some of them end up swimming to, Stephan points to a slope and announces the "perfect place to practice snow-ploughing", Nick's adrenaline levels reach a new high, along with his heart rate. Snowploughing is duly practiced. At the start of every run Nick remembers that, contrary to his normal concentration practise, the tongue should remain in the mouth if he wishes to keep sibilants as part of his diction. They continue, a party of six year olds come past mainly on the clockwise track, as they watch the mites barrel down the recently-ascended slope with impunity, a mild depression sets in on some of the party.

Eventually the hotel is espied and lunch is consumed, not many go out in the afternoon. Ski's and boots are handed in, it is over (although six weeks later Nick will still only be able to sleep on one side).

Saturday - going home

The sun has barely crested the horizon before, breakfast-sated, they are loaded onto the coach for a three and a half hour sit in Oslo airport. The duty-free is perused and left, Nick being tempted by a kilo of Fazer liquorice, but being aware that his blood pressure pills are probably not that heavyweight. 

For variety, on the way back they get the world's smallest bottle of water and a packet of crisps! There is some doubt at Border Control as to whether Paul will be allowed back into the country as the autopilot won't read his passport, and the single Border Control Officer is being chatted up by someone blagging his way in (or something). But he arrives to see Nick meeting a very nice man with his name scrawled on a piece of paper. They part. The lift doesn't work, but the motorway is clear! That night the neighbours are treated to Nick's Scandinavian slant on snoring.

Two worl... What?

It is the last full day so Nick decides to treat himself and hire one of the Hotel's ebikes for a modest 15€. Igor is summoned to demo the bike which he duly does. Nick decides to head back up to the fateful Hochfelln and from thence via forestry to Maria Eck (named after the Yorkshire version of West Side Story). He starts, one kilometre up the hill he stops, the bike will go no further, he dismounts ruefully, an admission of failing vitality, to push, it won't do that either. He inspects and finds the back brake stuck to the back wheel, it is nonadjustable, fortunately his, and the bike's, considerable weight overcome the friction so that five minutes later, the receptionist heads off to find Igor. Over the next ten minutes Nick learns a few, somewhat terse Hungarian phrases, without knowing what they mean, he instinctively grasps the sort of situation where one might use them.

Brakes freed, he sets off up the wrong hill, has a chat with a fellow cyclist who puts him on the right hill, and warns of fallen trees on his chosen path. Two thirds of the way up the right hill, and he comes to a halt, not a grinding halt, that was the previous time, just a halt, the bike seems to refuse to respond to the gears. Giving up he turns once more, turns, and determines to trace his steps back to Rothmoosalm, it is less of a hill, perhaps that's the problem. After the turn (and christening the bike Hugh) there is a new rattle, at the first up, the chain jumps off the rear sprocket, some oily fingers and twenty metres later, it does it again - "Igor!".

While Igor soundly abuses Hugh, the receptionist drops the hire charge. Hugh's rear wheel is mounted in a slot to adjust the tension on the chain, it has moved, releasing the chain, Igor moves it back. At this point Nick decides not to question Igor on his opinion of Viktor Orban, but mentally posits that had Bosch ebikes been a feature in 1940, that Hungary may have shifted in a different direction.

He departs again, and is stymied at the first hill, the gears once again not responding, after a faff, and by serendipity, he discovers that the gears will only shift if you stop pedalling, so finally turns Hugh and sets off for Rothelmoos (Maria Eck has lost its shimmer, there's always next time).
"Lets see - Turbo 35km, Sport 40km, Tour 50km, Eco 71km - should be ok."
Instead of going the same way to Rothelmoos, he does the extension up the hill to Eschelmoos, it is a long steep hill, necessitating lots of Sport and indeed Turbo, at the top-
"Lets see - Turbo 20km, Sport 22km, Tour 35km, Eco 40km - yikes!"
The way down the other side of the valley is in Eco mode, pushing some charge back in the battery, at Rothelmoos Nick stops for a beer and a plate of ham and bread - he is also in Eco mode.

Back down the Wappachtal and then around lake for variety, on the way back he stops at the Lumberjack Museum, and is mildly disappointed to find that it's a collection of buildings to walk round, by this time he was hoping for some sort of audio-visual with seats and a saline drip. He finally returns the bike to the hotel_
"Lets see - Turbo 1km, Sport 1km, Tour 1km, Eco 4km - Blimey!"

After his shower he searches for his specs - missing! Turns the pack upside -down, rummages inside, searches under the bed clothes, under the bed, the desk, in the wardrobe, in the pack again, not helped by the fact that he only has his sunglasses in the nocturnal gloom. Analysis: In the museum hoping to be inside he changed from sunglasses to the truant correctives, and then reversed the process on leaving. Two supermarkets where things (never you mind - they're already gone) were put in the pack, then the hotel.
"Could you ring the Lumberjack Museum and ask if ..."
They're shut, he takes Ziggy for a spin there, the rush of adrenalin obscuring the complaints from his overheated joints - nothing. He finds young Englisch sprechen in the supermarkets - nichts. The evening is spent explaining.

Day does its best to dawn, some of the night has been spent Braille packing, some sleeping, before facing breakfast whilst looking like a Hollywood roue from the 60's, he has one last go at the pack; empty. Slides hands down each side of the back panel, inside the pack and outside, and is both miffed and thrilled as the case pops onto the floor, freed from being caught under the flap at the top of the pack, won't bloody fall out when you turn the thing upside down and shake it, oh no, not for you the joys of gravity, you bloody selfish bast~'&@*.
 "Yeah thought so." - he thinks, "Roue to twit in five seconds."

As punishment, and to occupy two and a half hours he does a stroll from the "10 Best Hikes" leaflet, there is a lot of up, some along and a lot of down, apart from the along, it all hurts, actually the along hurts too but in a different way. Still the flowers, the trees, the Alpine Squirrels (black Red Squirrels) the two thirds of a crushed slow worm and the back half of a legged lizard - "Ahh Nature!".

At the airport the flight is delayed by an hour, he has been here before - a week ago.

I said DON'T mention it!

WARNING CONTAINS POTENTIAL STEREOTYPING.


It is possibly morning, the rising of the sun makes no difference to the intensity of light in the Batcave, however Nick rises, submits to a shower and shave, dons boots and breakfast, then shoulders his pre-packed (umm) pack. The bus is at the station as is Trish, John and Sheila - and Nicole about 30, from the North German coast, therefore unused to heat and sun, two metres tall! The lady driving the bus whisks them up to Steinbach and throws them out. After a half hour stroll the cable carers peel off and the summiteers carry on, the temperature is hovering about 25. After about 100 metres of ascent, with Trish asking every person coming the other way if they've been to the top, they haven't, she eventually strikes unlucky as one replies that the way is shut, "A, how you say, avalanche". They crest the bend and look up, about 50 metres up, white balls of snow cover the obvious ascent route, there is however a knob with a cross on it in view so they decide that that might do as an alternative, for photographic purposes. A very jolly German gentleman lifts the potentially electrified fence for them, and even more obligingly takes the necessary photos. As they leave to cable car up Trish decides the fence isn't electrified - it is. The ascent and the tour of the top are accompanied by a litany of, "I think we could have done it." despite there having been another small avalanche in the meantime. Slowly a look of dawning horror comes over Nick's chiselled visage as he realises that this means they will now be descending the mountain on foot, rather than ascending.
The map is consulted, ignored, consulted, "We could've..." John and Sheila swing into view and are persuaded to descend with them, this is a fillip, as it will slow things down.

"Now Sheila what do think of doin' dat?"
"O Jesus no!"
"Roight, we'll be goin' down here then."

Nick, with the map is trying to steer to the bus stop as he reckons the timings are right, sadly the path that leads there, is a snow field that disappears around a blind bend, potentially to  ... Doom! So they turn to the alternative which puts them yet another valley away from a) The Bus Stop, and b) The town. At the bottom of the (first) steep descent they watch a marmot family playing, and then proceed past the Thorau Alm:
John "Will we go in, Sheila do you want to go in for a drink? Nick?"
Scenting prey the Alm Frau vocally touts her wares.
John "No we won't go in. Sheila? Nick? Nick do you fancy a drink?"
Alm Frau after a brief listen plays her trump card, one of her two beautiful dirndl clad maidens chimes,
"We have cake!"
John "Do you have beer?"
"Yes we have beer."
John "Sheila, Nick, do you fancy a drink. Nick? Nick!"

They stop for beer, coffee, water and cake. Both the dirndl maidens are on holiday from being an air handling plant order processor or a tax advisors assistant. Their holiday consists of serving beer and cake to passing walkers, and apparently acting as the refreshment Lorelei of the mountain.

"You look like you've got a bit of Irish in you, have you Irish parents?"
The maiden blushes and her co-worker laughs.
"Why are you laughin' now?"
"Someone asked me the same question two days ago."

After John finishes his second beer, they set off, the path turns into a road and continues downhill at about 1 in 5 for a mile or two, Nick's already well-turned calf now resembles the best Chippendale. Finally back to town, a sluice (the salt content of Ruhpolding's run-off must be enormous) and dinner, with too much relief drink. Nick returns to his tomb-like room and, appropriately, sleeps the sleep of the dead.

In celebration of being alive Nick decides to take a bike and do the Rothelmoos Alm circuit, sadly Ziggy is spoken for so he takes number 11 and names it, appropriately, Legolas. The start of the ride is through pasture waiting to be cut for hay, sporting lots of flowers, it then turns to a road by a stream, before turning into a forestry track, before turning into the ascent to Everest Basecamp. He stops to talk to some Germans who advise an e bike, before returning to the Anapurna trail, which tops out with the view of a waterfall. He ties Legolas steaming to a tree and rubs his trembling flanks with some hay. They continue, now on the flat, before bursting into the arena of the alm, there are mountains, an alm house selling beer (this opens up a whole new prospect for alms houses), and cows all over the place, COWS ALL OVER THE PLACE!

Cows missed, he stops for a pause, comes to a decision and pedals randomly up a road, not the best at decision-making he turns round, remeets the Germans for a chat about beer, then makes another decision and goes to the alm house for a beer.
"Ein Weisbier bitte."
"Any food?"
"Weisbier is food."
They chat, "Your English is very good."
"My boyfriend is Australian."
At this point he must have lost his presence of mind, as he should have said, "Despite that your English is very good." Sadly, he didn't realise this until the evening, he was probably tired.

The descent from the alm is put on a slight hiatus while he cycles to tell the Germans as they return from the other alm house that indeed the alm house that he has just vacated does indeed sell beer.
"Is it cold beer?"
"Yup."
"Good, they, " cursory reverse nod, "Only have warm beer."
Then down the Wappach valley next to the tumbling stream,  the path wiggles a bit, but is still down and coastable, at the bottom, across the road from the roadworks there is the Weitsee, surrounded by a blue haze of plants. The recommended onward path dips into the lake and re-emerges on the other side, at the moment the path is occupied by a couple with a newborn, when the water gets chest high - or head high for Nick, the newborn is held aloft, like a cup. Nick admires their elan, and continues to approach by going around to the other side, passing the naked man and bethonged lady,
"Gruss Teg!"
"Surprised mumble"
He continues until the road dips into the lake, and then returns via a different route across back to the main road. Suddenly Auntie Nelly comes to mind, somewhat confused he looks about and discovers himself in a decline filled with strangely familiar plants, fleshy leaves with little white bells falling from a central stalk, it is Lily of the Valley, in - a valley. Now he is heading homeward down a forestry path that presumably parallels the main road. It does but occasionally it throws in dark blue bells of gentian (usually higher)
and insectivorous butterwort (the same). Suddenly he finds himself riding beside Forchaussee, a lake that trends from a light turquoise to dark black-blue, it is as clear as crystal, the bodies of dead trees loom up from the bottom and large trout plane the surface.
More coasting, until home, then back for more risky spaing, this time the toes remain intact and the sauna is sullied by his taut buttocks.
In the evening he chats to Steve, his next door table person, over wine, about university, there is much anguish and wringing of hands, in the morning there will be ringing in ears.

The next day may have dawned, as it is Nick gets up and has breakfast, then declares a rest day, he sets of for the other lift in Ruhpolding, the Rauschbergerbahn. It takes about an hour and a half to get there by foot, including a last one in three hill just to get you into the spirit of things. As it is low season the lift timetable is a little ramshackle but present. Nick ascends the Rauschberg, with a family, an elderly couple (that's his seat gone) and a young woman with an Akita, there is some concern from most people as to how this small wolf may react as the ascent begins. Actually it yawns and lies down.

As Nick leaves the lift the first thing he hears are Blackcock in a lek, sadly he can't see them, and the territory is more suited to abseiling than birdwatching. After perusing the map he elects to walk around and along to the highest peak, there's a few small snowfields in the way but nothing too exercising, the track dwindles to a path between low pine, the ground punctuated by roots and rocks, it contours around the shoulder of the mountain and then turns back and up. Another religious lightning attractor sits on the top, there is a small fence and - nothing. A small path continues, but it becomes obvious that it has only been walked the other way, after the first few pinous face swipes he turns and retreats.

On the way back he meets various Germans, who talk about snow and the avalanche on the Hochfelln, they think they wouldn't have wanted to do it, Nick nods sagely. He also comes across a field of wild crocus, his favourite thing to find on the mountain in early season, there being the usual paucity of willing maidens, which would otherwise be his favourite.

The return takes him to the Windbeutel, where he has to stop for the famous Windbeutel Lohengrin

Choux bun filled with cream and fruit, and whatever on a sliding scale up to 14 euro. The cafe is famous for it's buns, so far there are three coaches parked outside it, it is the German equivalent of Harry Ramsdens 30 years ago. His bun is number 2,874,852!

He returns to the hotel to catch up on a spot of digestion before dinner.

Don't mention the war!

A man is sitting in a crowded airport, no breeze is ruffling his grizzled hair and no gate information is forthcoming from the board, apart from "Gate information will be available at ----" this is a number that keeps adding 5 minutes, in Nick's mind (Yes it is he) this is probably "a bad thing", finally a gate number comes up, this is one away from the end of the airport, where screams of anguish/anger cannot be heard in the main concourse, another "bad thing"; he has been here before, in Denver.
The view from the window of the gate reveals no plane, after 30 mins someone enquires as to what's happening and is told that the plane has arrived empty and is being cleaned and catered, this fails to explain the stream of passengers in plain sight travelling in the opposite direction. Finally an hour late he boards the plane and they join the queue for the runway. Two hours later and he boards Dino's bus to travel to Ruhpolding in Bavaria, former home of Eva Braun apparently, not that it's worth mentioning. The transfer is mercifully short, though his heart goes out to those travelling to Seefeld, from Salzburg, on a Saturday night; he has been here before, umm, in Saltzburg.
Amazingly the hotel is still serving dinner, he gets into the spirit of things and orders ( vegetarians look away now) suckling pig leg with cabbage, and beer. At the next table a German Hausfrau practises her English on him, the next day she will tell him that the man she is with is not her husband, just a good friend, so she may have been practising her wiles, though eating is something she no longer needs the practise with, she is an adept.
The room, a crepuscular but adequate single, features a novelty bathroom;- the shower occupies one corner with the doors shut, otherwise it is just a wall (and ceiling) feature. There are two mains plugs, a shaver socket and a hairdryer, to Nick (still him) this seems to be an excess of electricity in a damp environment. He beds but fails to sleep due to an overindulgence of the junior porcine variety.
The next day dawns, along with a buffet breakfast of modestly gargantuan proportions, he eschews the smoked salmon and bottle of Sekt - for now. The rep, Stephanie, drags them round town trying to elicit money for trips while dispensing what Tui determine to be the appropriate amount of information, she does tell them where to find the best cake in Germany though, fortunately this is in Ruhpolding, watch this space.
After the "orientation" he returns to the Hotel, is informed of the single status of matronly lady (contradiction?), and retires to the camera obscura to don the appropriate gear for the plus 25 degrees C temperatures expected, i.e not a lot apart from sun tan lotion (fortunately he has brought two lots with him, sadly an oversight rather than planning). Then he is off, up the Unternberg (1425m from 625m) without using the chairlift. The map is, of course, wrong, he has been here before - in Chamonix, this time it's not too bad, it's just that a forestry road that doesn't appear on the map appears to be the way up, there is however a bypass route that traipses up a piste with minor excursions into the forest for a bit of photo-respite.

At the first top there are people paragliding down the piste while trying to avoid the forest, a sort of exact opposite to what Nick has been doing on the way up, however the outcomes of failure would be remarkably different, while Nick would be in a bit of a tizz the paragliders wouldn't be in a bit of an anything, though possibly in bits.
At the summit summit he pauses for an Almdudler (it's a fizzy drink) before descending the chairlift, it is the slowest chairlift that he has ever encountered, he thought he'd been here before, in Ortisei, but he hadn't. At the bottom he chats to a couple from the North East before joining them for a bus trip back to the hotel. He is moderately relieved to see that his dining place has been moved. Showers and then goes off to see the rep to isolate the cake cafe on the town map.
They chat about mutual places and then she decides to introduce him to Trish, a voluble Irish lady who likes doing peaks, and who is desperate to get up the Hochfelln, a peak that Nick has thought about because it features a cable car, in order to get there one can charter a bus for 2 euros pp, providing there is more than one p, Nick will be the plus one. He chats to Trish in between shoveling a variety of German comestibles into his gob, including those white logs that purport to be asparagus, don't taste like asparagus, but are found to have been asparagus next time you go for a pee. He comes to the conclusion that she might be trying to kill him, either with a deft avalanche, or possibly by exhaustion, he has been here before - in several places.
This night he is kept awake by thoughts of impending death, and the worry of which bike to use from the hotel's stable. Some readers may know of Nick's making an acquaintance with the railway track in Seefeld from a height of a metre and a half due to a problem with his drum brakes.
A new day, another breakfast, a consultation of various bits of info plus a webcam shot from the top of Hochfelln have allayed his fears a bit, when Trish mutually confesses to "poor knees" on the way down there is a palpable sense of relief, Nick acknowledges the problem with a sympathetic moue and an extended digit resting on the cable car.
He peruses the stable and decides that number 12 will fit the bill, he decides to call it Ziggy having translated twelve as einzieg drei, sadly it's zwolfe, but Ziggy remains. He also decides that he will go and see if the Smugglers Trail, closed by snow damage three weeks ago has been opened, he consults the guide to the 10 Best Mountain Bike Trails in Ruhpolding at Eggl Bridge (all routes start at Eggl Bridge). "Follow the trail on the right of the river downstream for several kilometres of gentle inclines". Several one in five hills later ("gentle inclines" vary from country to country) he consults the map when he spots that the river has become the railway line, that shouldn't be there. There is much internalised cursing, he decides he will visit the Tourist Information Centre to lecture them on the difference between "Downstream" and "Upstream" and to offer to rewrite the English description. At this point Nick must have lost his presence of mind for he now proceeds down the wrong track three times while heading in the right general direction, including a brief sojourn on the right track that he decided was wrong. Sadly he can no longer blame the instructions it is all down to him, he has been here before in...
As the valley draws in the snow damage becomes obvious, fortunately a plough has been put through so the track is clear but a little churned up in places. After 3+ hours of trying to get here the water runs out as he sees the start of the path. He ties Ziggy to a tree and starts up to the Staubfall.
At the first bend he indulges in improvised carpentry and produces a stick, he would like to think that he ascends Gandalf-like through the forest, sadly it's a short sweaty fat bloke with a stick.

Thirty minutes of zigzagging through the trees brings him to the fall. There is a little damage to the path, some of the posts are bent on exposed corners and there is some undermining of the fence what stops you falling orf but this poses no problem. The fall is meltwater, so in two weeks it will be gone, and the crux point under the fall is protected by a small roof, beyond this bend, in Austria, two men are repairing the fence, so not shut at all.
The journey back is bittersweet, it takes 45 minutes of mainly coasting. In Ruhpolding he braves a Supermarket and entertains the entire shopping public of the town by failing to comprehend the numbers the till woman is spouting, he has been caught out by German efficiency and the fact that the bottle has a deposit on it, if he could he would plead electrolyte deprivation, instead he extends his change, lets the woman peck through it like a fussy hen, and heads off to the hotel.
It is relatively early, his thighs and knees are quite warm, he visits the spa, it is his! Within two minutes his health and safety instincts are aroused, the tiles combined with damp feet feel, he imagines, like the floors in the Fyffees packing plant. A visit to the jacuzzi result in a slip off the entry step to jam a toe into the bottom jet. The shower in the sauna area has three preset programs the first of which turns on a green light and mists you with menthol, quite lovely unless you're staring at the green light. Thoroughly spa-ed he heads to dinner, there is Lumberjack Cordon Bleu, upon asking as to what this might be, the waitress exhibits a startle reaction, followed by blank incomprehension, reading the German side of the menu doesn't help. Nick opts, it is apparently ham and cheese (Cordon bleu innit) wrapped in some sort of white meat, possibly veal, possibly not, it is served with a red kidney bean chilli, he has nearly been here before - in Eger, the pork chop with a banana sprinkled with curry powder is indelibly etched on his memory, more so the vegetarian option of grilled Portobello mushroom with the same banana, served to a Muslim guest at the same table.
After dinner he mooches around town, meeting a returning guest, they chat about what they will do tomorrow. The conversation finishes with, "If you can get up that I'll buy you a drink!" A steely resolve settles over Nick's normally placid demeanour.

Round the Horn.

Day 3.

I woke to find a view of mountains.
"Oh bugger! Now I'll have to go up something."
My research outside Erpfendorf TI had left me with a cunning plan, I would buy the Mountain Kart combiticket, a unique way to attempt suicide twice on the same mountain. Basically a ticket up the gondola, a go down on the mountain cart, and another go on the gondola, so that if you wanted to you could kart down again.
On the way up my heart headed bootwards, I had seen the kart track, with man in kart heading downwards, if the window had been open I'm sure I could have heard the creak of his knuckles on the brakes. At the top I started off to do the round route encompassing the top of the Kitzbuhel Horn, there was a choice of two paths (it's a circuit), I elected for the sharp "up" as opposed to the shallow down, I don't like down and a sharp down would have been hell. I stared up the ascent, my heart now pressing heavily on my big toe. Off we go!
Some hundreds of meters later the path leveled under a cliff, actually between a cliff, and turned the curve of the mountain by means of a hole in the intervening spur, I had caught up with the German Ladies Walking Group by this time, they were doing a complex photo shoot:
"Heidi unt Berthe"
"Heidi unt Kathi"
"Heidi unt Lucie"
"Lucie unt Kathi"
"Alles keine Berthe"
You get the drift. With breath-holding there was room to pass, I did, and got onto the tarmac road that leads up to the radio mast and the top. Lurking behind the shoulder of the mountain was the rest of the Alps, with snow, even Gross Glockner was cloudless.

Some Alps

I summitted, then left to continue round, the path was sod and soil with the odd  bit of ski slope, my attention was drawn by a couple who had obviously found something, it was a marmot

A marmot, the small thing in the middle,
no the other small thing.

 (see previous postings for an idea of the rarity of this event). Suitably impressed I continued  round the corner and down the slope like a sprightly nonagenarian. I was overtaken by one of those men who have hydraulic rams in place of their joints, and sport an absolute faith in the underfoot ( I have none, due to experience ) he was "accompanied" by his wife, who after she stopped to shed layers, got out her phone and made a call. Several hundred meters away the Bergmeister came to a grinding halt, after a few seconds his head drooped and he started kicking the tussocks, now he was in "trouble", I felt better.
Eventually I returned to the start, now it was Kart time.
"Sign that and watch the video." I always enjoy expert advice.
"Helmet!"
"Oh yeah."
Searching amongst the karts for the right size I opt for an "L", the only size I could opt for, so much for the video.
"Can I leave my bag here?"
"Are you coming back up?"
"Umm.  Yes."
"Put it under the table."
After my initial trepidation I discovered that I was having tremendous fun, gravity is wonderful, providing you have wheels ... and brakes. Seven kilometres later I rolled to a halt at the bottom of the gondola. I went back up and had beer!