A man is standing at a railway station, his grey hair has been tinted orange by the sodium glare of the station lights, his face is drawn, an unhealthy pallor still visible in the eldritch arc of the lamps, it is 4.15 in the morning and Nick (for it is he) has alighted from the night bus to get the redeye to Stansted airport. Being a Bank Holiday Weekend the neighbours downstairs naturally had a party, winding up at about 2.30 am, this, combined with pre-trip anxiety has left the poor chap feeling like the elbows of a favourite jumper, but no matter, he is here, the train has promised to go, he will get to the airport on time.
With almost no planning (for me) I had decided to go to Austria and venture into (and onto) the Dachstein Alp for a week, stopping in Mountain Huts (actually more like a fleapit hotel with dormitories), my luggage contained a borrowed map and guide book, the former being distinctly more useful than the latter, I had a carefully thought out strategy vis, “Entschuldigen, ich spreche keine Deutch, sprechen Sie Englisch, bitte?” and I had the times of the train to Hallstatt, a lakeside village at the bottom of the Alp. Furthermore I had joined the Alpine Club, entitling me to cheaper lodging and the chance of a calorie controlled (on the high side, normally) meal every night.
The plane took off, it landed, no-one died. Salzburg was wet but not as wet as the West of Austria which had succumbed to floods the week before. The train took me to Hallstatt station which was on the opposite shore of the lake to Hallstatt, and so I stood, surrounded by Japanese people having their photo’s taken with a passing dog, and standing in the way taking photo’s of the town across the lake, when I wanted to. I trundled my case through the village (pop 951) and arrived at my guest house where I had a little lie down before venturing into town and doing it, this didn’t take long, so I found a suitable hostelry on the lakeside and sat. A sign in the window advertised “Sturm” for 2.2 euro for the ¼ litre. “Ein Sturm bitte?” It arrived, it was delicious, it was lightly fermented grape juice and tasted like sherbet complete with the fizz, the French do it too but the name escapes me for the moment, and, actually, I think it was fermented “everything we’ve got left after the pressing” but hey, who cares, I had another by which time my café was shut and the non-pizza restaurant was open. I entered, was installed on a throne on a raised balcony and handed the English menu, I decide my accent needed work. I had potato soup and venison, washed down with a pint of homebrew beer (v.nice if not a little opaque), I almost fell asleep in the venison. I began my journey back and gradually became aware of my nether regions - there is much in this journal concerned with the scatological, for those of you with a sensitive disposition perhaps I will precede and end the offending paragraphs with the term SCAT, thus- SCAT – no bollocks to it caveat emptor and all that - became aware of my nether regions, those of you who know the Captain well, and, in fact, know the derivation of the moniker “Captain” well know that my capacity for output far exceeds my capacity for input, or so it seems, though there is something against this contained in most physics text books, suffice it to say that I always think that I have been cursed with a semi-colon. In fact, became aware of an increasing pressure in my nether regions, I picked up the pace, consulted a map board, and decided on the shortcut back to the Gasthof. Fifteen minutes later I became aware that the map board was not to scale and so turned to retrace my steps, slowing now and again as I was overtaken by waves of peristalsis and clenching everything possible, occasionally accompanied by various bubblings and gurglings, borborygmi for the medically minded. My entrance to the Gasthof was swift, nod of sweat-streaked, gritted-teeth head, up stairs, my catharsis swifter, my relief enormous. I went to bed 8.30 pm Austrian time, 7.30 British time.
The next day I paused for true Continental breakfast as opposed to the Continental breakfast you get in Britain and France, in fact, I’m sure this confection of miserliness should be called French Breakfast, and then packed my pack for the fourth time, being forced to jettison my book before heading off into the mountain. As I started a passing Teuton remarked, “Schoner tag.” I grunted and moved on eliciting looks of scorn, the translation came from my language centre about 4 hours later, he had been right it was a beautiful day.
After ten minutes I was forced to find a quiet backwater and change into my shorts, it was going to be hot, my two litres of water became remarkably less of a burden. The road ascended up the hanging valley of the Walbach pausing at the top to cross the stream via a bridge that was about 70 metres above it on one side and 90 on the other. Having a low parapet it was the sort of bridge that one kept moving over, having a little rest and a brisk reinforcing chat before returning to look at the view. It was the sort of bridge where you can feel your, previously stable, spectacles inching down your nose to throw themselves into the void, know that the buttons on the pocket containing your wallet are springing open and that your wallet is going to burst forth in a gravity-defying leap. The sort of bridge where, if you have them, your gold fillings screw themselves out of your molars, fall into the road and tantalisingly balance on the lip of the bridge ‘til you are within a handsbreadth of them, when they fall twinkling in a golden counterpoint to the rushing silver below. If this ever happens to you, do not scream in anguish, the rapid intake of breath across the now-exposed nerves has been known to poleaxe lesser men, and falling down on bridges with low parapets is to be avoided. But I digress, I continued up the stream on a forestry road before taking a path that cut all the corners off said road, and followed a minor diversion to the Walbach Urspring where the river suddenly appears out of the ground before going to commit suicide under the bridge.
After this the ascent proper began, so I stopped and fitted anti-blister patches to various bits of my feet, stuck a Swizzles lolly in me gob, and then got down to the serious business of going up. After a couple of hours I was overtaken by two boys of about ten and twelve and, ignominiously, by their grandfather, of about seventy three. Soon after the trees became dwarves and the high mountain began to show itself, bare limestone breaking through the rain-lush vegetation and the surroundings of the path littered with alpine flowers, cor, it was dead pretty!
I progressed and from the leaden state of my legs decided I would stop at the first hut instead of continuing to the second, and so it was that I came to the Weissburger Haus. I tried my German, and got, “a little” in reply. After a beer I staggered to the dorm and checked out the facilities, in the men’s washroom there was a large sign above the basin, “Nutzwasser” it said, “Oh well, when in Rome….” I emerged five minutes later, refreshed though decidedly non-competitive. As I contemplated my next beer, two other travellers emerged from the scrub, one wearing no trousers, with his shirt tucked through his underpants, he had clearly been nowhere near the Nutzwasser.
Evening and without a book I was forced to stare into space (or my beer glass) for some hours before going to bed. I was woken at 3.00 in the morning by Herr Underpants vigorously shaking my thigh, it was rather like being set upon by a randy alsatian.
“Was I snoring?”
“Yes. Sleep on your side please!”My German wasn’t up to questioning the logic of this order let alone explain the difference between the conscious and unconscious mind, consequently I lay awake until 5.00 trying to sleep on my side.
