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!

A Good Day to Dry Hard

Day 3.

It rained, quite a lot. I went to the gorge on the bus, after I found the start, I found the notice board, there was the 45 minute route, the 2.5 hour route and the 4.5 hour route. At this point etc., for I went on the 4.5 hour route. The Gorge itself was lovely, tastefully engineered as you can see,

but, ironically, a little low on the water front. At the top I found some sort of encampment featuring a giant wooden foot and a couple of slack lines, it took me five seconds to realise that slacklining was not my forte. I continued along the wet path, discovering at one point that walking didn't appear to be my forte either. However I eventually arrived at the Jagersteig, my predetermined make or break point, peering into the crepuscular dark of the forest, I determined it might be drier than, say, rolling in the stream behind me. My new cheap waterproof coat was proving to be 50% correct, though to be fair this could have been a storm flap problem (like it didn't work or somesuch). I pulled together the reserve of Red Riding Hood and moved up into the Grimm darkness.
The path did the usual series of soaring v's, before contouring round to a col and dumping me in the mountain pastures or alms. Fortunately it dumped me on an access road so that I didn't have to do that much skating. I descended the road to the Angeralm which made its presence felt with a weathercock poking over the top of the hill, normally, this being lunchtime, it would be full of jolly Austrians washing down plates of hot carbohydrate with lashings of cold beer, instead it just dripped, sullenly. From there a connecting path to the Huberalm, only 22 metres of descent, waht could go wrong, surprisingly nothing. As the alm focused through the continuing rain, I could see a cow, if Milka made rain-sodden chocolate, this was their cow. Closer still and I could see a blonde in the door of the alm who had probably sized me up as a dead loss (she could have waved hot chocolate at me, that would have worked), I could also see a variety of strange objects under the eaves,

Alright lads, don't get up.

one of which appeared to be a sheep-shaped log (actually a mule-shaped log, but that's mule as a sort of sheep, and I didn't want to confuse you.) As you can see there was an entire petting zoo hiding from the rain. Now when sheep stand their ground you realise that the weather is .. inclement, millenia of prey animal reactions gone at a stroke. The raising of the heads that you can see in the picture was more from interest than a flight reaction, basically they are saying, "What on earth are you doing out in this?" I didn't have a good answer, passed within three inches (7cm) of the cow, which gave me a look that spoke volumes. Such eloquence could not be denied, I consulted the map, called off the descent through the woods, and, once again, added a couple of miles to the journey by taking the forest track, I arrived at the bottom 15 minutes after the bus had left it, as I stepped into the square at Erpfendorf the rain stopped, the next bus was in just over an hour. I strolled through the town and a minute later had discovered nothing open but the Tourist Information, which wasn't really open, I decided to walk to the Kneippenage (I have explained Kneippe before) and did what sensible people do there - had lunch. I then returned and perused the leaflets outside the, now shut, TI., learned a few things, and got on the mercifully on-time bus.
Later I made a discovery, there's an awful lot you can hang from a radiator with the right tools, even unstealable coat hangers can be pressed into service! The evening was supposed to be a barbecue, it wasn't.

Trembling in Tyrol

Once again a late decision finds me back in Austria, this time at the Hotel Park in Sankt Johann in Tyrol. The flight was uneventful but did flag up a small warning, the cloud on the horizon no bigger than a man's fist, actually a cloud covering most of Austria. When combined with "Those on the right hand side of the plane should get a good view of the Alps" you may gather that the weather was      changing. Another of Martin Schumaker's cousins was driving the, somewhat bijou, minibus, but we arrived without capsizing.
The evening was spent digesting pork, mulched with red wine; and pussyfooting round the new bathroom trying not to break the shower doors with either the toilet (L) or the washbasin (R). Sleeping was tricky until I muffled the road with earplugs, this later proved not to be unnecessary as I muffled the road with red wine.

Day one.
Rep's orientation, usual stuff, "This is where we have the Tyrolean evening - eight euro. I love working in St Johann so why not go on the daytrip to Salzburg, or Krimml Falls, or Berchtesgarden where you can have your photo taken standing next to Hitler, 43 euros." And then he said "if you go down the river for 20 minutes you get to Kirchdorf and 40 minutes will get you to Erpfendorf where there's a lovely gorge walk."
So it was that my ears having been pricked, I set off for the gorge. After an hour I was on the outskirts of Kirchdorf, where I gave up and struck off up the hillside under the Kirchdorf chair before contouring round passing the most amazing golden fungi. Now in Austria there's always a little game to play, the sign says X 45 minutes, so you (ahem) clock your watch and try and get there in less, normally I'm still hale enough to do this, but was discomfited by the sign which said "St Johann 45 min" pointing through some gloopy woodland, which I negotiated with only one wet foot, emerging 15 minutes later next to a sign that said, "St Johann 45 min". The evening was spent  meeting the other tables, and then it was time for the rep's quiz, my first question, "Lewis, how long does it take to get to Kirchdorf?"
"About 40 minutes."
My second question,
"Why did you say 20?"
"I never said that."
Vociferous round of approbation from all who heard him say that.
"Oh! Umm do you want to do the quiz?"
The seven of us did, checking any answers that involved numbers, much ear mufflers were drunk.

Day 2.

A Gedankenzaun

A man is standing three quarters of the way up a small mountain, sweat is pouring off his grey hair, and his adrenal gland is dying of thirst, his glasses mist up on an irregular basis, and he still can't decide if this is a good or bad thing. To his right there is steep mixed woodland, to his left there is NOTHING, empty space, the void (actually about 200 metres of void), a lovely view across the valley to the Kitzbuhler Horn, an uninterrupted view, none of that boring old ground or anything, if it is interrupted it is by things with wings. I was three-quarters of the way up the Neiderkaiser, a ridge that separates St Johann from the Wildekaiser. The cloudy weather had sent me away from the Kitzbuhler alp, which of course, was now waving to me from across the valley, so I had picked out this relatively easy ridge walk, it was just that, instead of zig-zagging up the slope, the path-setters had decided it was more exciting to send it straight up the slope. To be fair the going up wasn't affecting me that badly, the tree roots that looked like slippery deathtraps weren't, it was the prospect of going down the same route - when they would be! My ascent had been up a route featuring the stages of the Cross, when I got to "Jesus falls for the third time" I sympathised. A third of the way up there was the Gimml chapel, a small cave with half a rococo chapel bolted onto the ledge in front of it, I decided the Gimml was probably a contraction of "Gott und Himmel", an epithet used a lot during the construction, I surmised, it was certainly used a lot by the hapless Germans in the Valiant. Anyway from there the slope steepened and the LHS disappeared. I eventually summited and found blessed relief in a forestry road, that added on the miles but took away the verticality, sadly this eventually took me back to the river, where it took me more than 20 minutes to get back home.

Bloody careless I call it!

In the evening I had to write a condolences letter, the Irish barmaid gave me some notepaper and a postage paid envelope (and a pint and a schnapps [that she failed to tell me cost 8 bucks]), due to the influence of acoustic baffling it proved an emotionally hard letter to write, so at this point I must have lost my presence of mind, as instead of finding a post box, I handed the envelope to the Manager asking him to make sure it went in the post.
"Sure" he said opening a drawer, "Do you want me to charge the stamp to your room?"

Some other sort of hysterical pun.

Day 6 (the road to hell).

I had intended a rest day, so instead bolted my breakfast, opted for a two roll lunch, and beetled to the Landplatz for the first bus to Ursprungalm. As usual we shoot up the hill to the Hochwurzen lift, but then, instead of turning round and plunging up Uber- or Ober - Tal valleys, we continue up the road before a left turn up the Ursprungalm valley. "Up" is now the order of the day buswise, the tarmac disappears, firstly on the right hand side just next to my window, disappears in order to turn into a drop, then from under the bus completely as it turns into a track. Our cloud of dust rolls back down the hill behind us (under gravity) enveloping the following car. As the bus ascends through a series of hairpins, the murmur of conversation stills, and then is replaced with a series of very loud staccato exchanges until, after a final corkscrew, we arrive at the alm. The bus driver attempts to make an announcement but is drowned out by cheering and cries of "Bravo!".
The entire bus decamps to walk to the Ignaz-Mattis hut an hour away up the steepest hill in the world, I follow watching them disappear until there is only an eighty year old in my sights, I lengthen sticks and power walk him to the rear, until I have sufficient distance for him not to be able to catch up while I pant. On the right there is the old road, I later learn that this is, in fact, the Roman road - cor. At the top of the hill I emerge onto a flat plateau stocked with lakes and a variety of huts stocked with Austrians drinking beer.
The walk along the top is a joy, plashy streams, snowbanks, flowers and balmy sunshine. As said, it is an absolute joy until it turns downhill following the route of a 10,000 year old tongue of ice, tongues of ice 10,000 years ago were, as are all things subject to gravity, consequently the road dives into the corrie like a celeb out with a non-spouse when confronted by papparazzi. I lengthen sticks  and set off, my cruciates creak, after a couple of hundred feet, I meet people coming up, they launch into a torrent of German,  I explain, "Englander" but from the haggard look on their faces (and the descending view behind) anticipate the question, "Fumpf minutes". Transitory scorn is replaced with hope, the aforementioned view replaces my hope with despair, and I continue my descent for another two hours and 1200 metres, until I arrive at the thirteenth ring of Hades, the one reserved for sinners with dodgy knees. I consult the bus timetable and realise that I have 55 minutes to travel the 45 minutes to the bus stop, otherwise I have to wait another 2.5 hours for the next bus! "Ten minutes to spare - easy peasy you think." Please bear in mind that my legs have just gone through two hours of muscle-wilting descent, and that my lactate levels are now up somewhere in the region of Wensleydale cheese. I bravely soldier on, fighting through the pain and arrive 8 minutes before the bus. This puts me back at the hotel with an afternoon to spare, I limp to the swimming pool and jet various muscles while trying not to look like a pervert. The pool is (somewhat  mysteriously) packed, on the way home the supermarket and all the shops are (somewhat mysteriously) shut. I peruse Google, it is Corpus Christi, a national holiday. During the evening it begins to rain.

Day 7.
The day dawns grey and drizzly, rather like my hair, after a leisurely breakfast I decide to have a leisurely day. The Hochwurzen has opened post Corpus Christi so I decide to go up mountains new. At the top, I head to the summit through squally rain and the nature trail which has poster boards displaying pictures of things you'll never see (apart from the trees), and then lose my presence of mind; I extract the map, " If I go to the col, then I can go down that path and contour back to the top along that one." This I duly do, bravely ignoring the screaming agony of my quads, after the col I realize that "that path" appears to go about halfway down the mountain, but I persevere, this may be a mistake, as I had forgotten basic geometry, the circumference of a cone increasing the further away from the apex you are, I am now a considerable distance down from the apex of the mountain, so that my half an hour transit of the summit has become a two hour plodding return.
Once again there is a race for the bus - I win!

Day 8 (the last).
After a late breakfast during which I allow myself coffee, something I normally avoid due to its diuretic properties I walk to the Planai lift, watch a bit of the World Cup Mountain Biking and then ascend to have a last stroll around and over the summit. After I come back down there are still some hours to kill so I walk back up the Talbach gorge. At this point the coffee makes its presence felt, so that I arrive at the top rather hoping to see a dearth of people ( or rather not see any people ) - failure. I walk further up the valley, past several people cutting hay, some children go-karting, wide open spaces with not even a tree for cover, eventually a woodland hoves into view, I accelerate past an Austrian tourist and insert myself into the wood behind the nearest shrubbery. A few moments later, much lighter, I return past the same tourist who informs me that I should have turned right at the wood, my internal dialogue responds with, "Ha!". I arrive back at the hotel two minutes before the cab, bid farewell to Rita and Peter and am removed back to the UK.

Massif high Styria

Day 4, The day started as it always does in Austria at  -- oh bloody bells!
Caught the bus to Eisachalm to do the gentle stroll through the woods to Neualm, before continuing on the mountain path to the Keinprechte hut, before going back to Neualm to pick up the level path to a lake beginning with D, which I'll put in in the edit ( yes I do, difficult to believe huh? ).
The bus was the easy part, twenty metres down the path it split into two, I consulted the guide, " The path follows the river most of the way...", I plumped, indeed it did follow the river, about 60 metres above it. The forest is hot and humid, and prone to throwing bits of road across the path. After 90 minutes there is a break in the crepuscularity, another road? No, it is Neualm,  "a welcome relief from the forest" this bit is true. Neualm is a small flat shelf with a river dropping in on one end and separating to form small islets, " while you relax on the terrace the kids will find something to do by the river " mayhem or torturing small animals probably. This river terrace sports two different sorts of gentian, and "eek" frogs, the "eek" is me narrowly missing one of the frogs, it stared at me reproachfully, and deliberately refused to come into focus for the camera. I continued up the road past the fall, and was then directed off piste, onto one of those paths that are a delight, gentle ascent, either big stones or nice flat ground, lots to look at, well if you like big stones and flat ground. These are my major points of focus (frogs apart) these days, as my ankle tendons now roam unfettered by their capsules occasionally deciding to work for someone other than the necessary proprioceptors. What I'm trying to say is that they sometimes allow my ankle to roll indiscriminately, painfully, bone-chippingly and stuck at the top of a mountain - ly, consequently my gaze is normally directed downward to look for lurking twigs that may cause me to dial 140 and exercise meine Deutch, or at least exercise the operator. This is why I know that the Austrian alps are full of frogs, and devoid of birds, quite a few ants too, "Crikey look at the size of that one!".
The path continues up and, suddenly, we have left namby-pamby alm, for proper mountain. The air temperature drops due to the presence of a lot of snow, the flag flutters from the hut, up, and in the distance, and Marmots begin to whistle provocatively. "Why provocatively, Captain?" I'll explain:  The Marmot lives in the high mountain in burrows, when a marmot sees something it doesn't like, in this case me (which is why I've demoted it to lower case), it whistles to tell its friends to come and look at the bright red thing and hide the children. I, of course want to see the marmot, and am therefore forced to search the mountainside for something I can't find, prey species very rarely sound off with "I'm over here!", so the marmots whistle comes from erm somewhere over there, or maybe over there. I search, nothing, provoking me to offer the  corrie "bloody marmots!"

The Keinprechtehutte sits on the lip of the corrie, I sit, don my fleece for the first time this hols, and order peppermint tea, while watching elderly men order pints of beer, a couple, for elevenses, are there no prostate problems in Austria? I consult the map, I could go up that, which looks fine except that it's twice the height I think it is, this is not Snowdonia, well actually that ascent might be about half of it! I return back the way I have come, via frogs and froglets, until at Neualm I divert to the path  leading to the lake beginning with D, Duisitzkarsee..
The path " is level with no major ascents or descents, but care must be taken because of the numerous stones and roots.", there are indeed numerous stones and roots, and the path does not have any major ascents or descents, what it does have are innumerable small ascents and descents, amounting to several major ascents and descents, in fact an indecent amount. After 90 minutes I sense a change, light filters through the trees, the forest opens, my knees hurt marginally less. Over a rise we find Lake Duisitzkar, in front of me there is a dog standing up to its haunches in the lake, it seems to be doing nothing, a bemused gaze passes between us, the same sort of gaze that passes between the litterer and the outraged mild-mannered witness.
"What?" plangent.
"WHAT!" demi-interrogative.
I move on, moving being a relative term after the lack of major ascents or descents, I'd love to stop at one of the cafes but have no idea of the time of descent (AKA can I get the bus?), however, the number of people milling about might point in a positive direction if I didn't know that I had already failed to catch up the 80 year olds who passed me 5 minutes before I'd finished lunch (incidentally the two pint elevenses person and spouse, perhaps he had a pressing need). I persevered, starting off on the forest trail (descending a cliff in a series of zig-zags surrounded by trees) and moving to the forest road ( descending a steep hill in a series of zig-zags) after most of my lower body had forgiven me - briefly.
I arrived an hour before the bus, had a sit (potentially bad) before getting the bus and getting a seat ( good, but potentially bad ), forty five minutes later I had to get off my seat and the bus (very bad - such potential!) and tin soldier my way to the hotel for prophylactic, but excruciating stretching.
We ate, the lady in the next room vomited for 6 hours, after a lot of internal discussion I decided I didn't have food poisoning, and so drifted into her troubled sleep.

Day 5,

The dawn brings the same lady in distress. At breakfast I plump for a trip up to the Dachstein Glacier, and depart to fight my way onto the bus. At the cable car there is a ticker, "No ascent without reservation", I move to the reservation and ticket office and show my Sommerkarte, giving me a free ride, this is where things go wrong:
"Sprechense Englishe bitte?"
"Yes."
"Umm, could I have a reservation?"
"When do you want to go up"
"As soon as possible."
tappety tap tap tap
"One hour?"
"Fine there's plenty to do round here."
tappety tap, zizz - one piece of paper.

During the intervening hour I set off for the Sudwand hut, in an attempt to scare myself crossing a snowfield on a steep slope - I succeed. I return to basecamp and meet Peter and Rita, I tell then they should book right away as there is a one hour waiting list, they do, and, mysteriously end up on the one behind me. I should explain that this is an act of faith for Rita, not great on heights or buses. I get on the car, sadly not the one with the outside balcony, where people talk quite loudly after take-off (see Day 6), and whizz my way up a thousand metres or so. At the top (in cloud - ho hum) I check all buckles and pockets, push my recalcitrant specs up my nose, knowing full well that at the first opportunity they will lemming into the void, if I had gold fillings I'd be breathing through my nose exclusively, and move out onto the glass panel of the "skywalk". before attempting to take a picture of Rita in the approaching car. Whether it is the motion sickness pills I cannot say, but someone is ecstatic with achievement. After a brief flirt with 6cm thick glass, we move onto the glacier and set off for the wrong walk (mea culpa), ending up doing a partial ascent of an arete, someone is more ecstatic, up to a point. A point which Pete surpasses by about 100 metres, presumably to contemplate what may have been unleashed. We return for coffee in the restaurant and talk about the pieces of paper.
"When are you due to go down?"
"?!"
"Well look that's your up time and that's your descent. You were supposed to go up at 10 and down at 11, look at ours."
I replay the conversation from 1000 metres ago.
"When do you want to go up?"
"As soon as possible."
tappety tap tap tap (aka "I'll do it for now").
"One hour?" (at the top, or would you like more).
"Fine! Some sort of Englander murmuring that means nothing".

At the ticket office the lady makes a joke about me being 3 hours late for the descent, I can determine no numbers, so presume I'm not being charged.
"I said that you'll have to go down tomorrow morning, it is a joke."
I gurn hilariously, wondering why she would joke with me in Deutch, my loss I guess. To cheer me up after such hilarity, I travel down on the top of the car, like Richard Burton, only without a stunt double but with fences. It's windy.
On the trip back Rita tells me that that Michael Mosely bloke on the telly says that when confronted with abject terror, that one should tell oneself that it is excitement as the hormonal kerfuffle is the same. I commit this to the " potentially useful " box , but far enough away from the "that Michael Mosely, what does he know!" box to avoid collision.

Coming soon: abject excitement as I descend 1000 metres with my original knees after an ascent on a bus that reduces the passengers to an excited silence.

High Styria

I had begun to panic and signed up for a week with Thompson in Austria, that is after extensive searching, hiking over walking, that sort of thing, which is why you find a grizzle-haired cove, bashing away at his keyboard, dressed in his pants. He is in the Kirchenwert Gasthof in Schladming, and it is hot. The TV is not tuned in to anything, the bedside lamp has a broken bulb, but on the other hand it is the biggest Austrian single room he has been to in his life ( and, for older readers, it doesn't look over the slurry pit) and, due to bathroom refurbishment, it doesn't have a medical toilet, this is a big plus! The one minus point is that it has a faint whiff of fags, dispersing with the open window. This is a perennial problem in a lot of hotels but here in Austria it is compounded by smoking being a sacred right, cig heil perhaps!

As usual I had planned to arrive at the airport the advised two hours early, but had managed two and a half, thirty minutes after arrival I was standing in the maelstrom of departures. Two dull hours later (the people offering tasters in duty free always seem to disappear at my approach) I was privy to a conversation between the boarding gate crew of "Shall we tell them now?" "No, let's get them all in.". We took off an hour late.

Salzburg airport, minivan to the resort with two others, indicative of its popularity. Arrival in hotel dating from 1680.

Dinner ( I am all inclusive ). Soup with kneudl, Weiner Schnitzel ( when in Rome ), tired pancake stuffed with ice cream, seven other diners, all of whom left, small jug of white wine, and a large beer which I watched being combined from several others. As I left the kitchen staff had a pizza delivery!

Day two, starts as all Austrian days do at 6.00am when the churches go off. At breakfast I meet the two other people in the hotel, Rita and Peter from Manchester (you've no idea how I'm longing for one of the waiters to be Dieter). I depart to the main lift, Planai, and decide to ascend something beginning with K - Krahbergzinken (2134m). Halfway up the rep rang, Schladming being so underwhelmed with Thompson tourists that we have a virtual rep. I mentioned the room, she said she'd see what she could do.
At the top as I turned to go, I met Rita and Peter. I descended and before completing the other side of Planau panorama walk, popped into the WC, one of those that the Austrians like to do, they have mirrored windows, so that while you're ensconced you can look at the view, and crowds of people standing around wondering why there are mirrored windows. This one even had a theme - paradise, featuring a very buff Adam and Eve, though apparently Adam had been sporting some bling in his rib as it now decorated Eve's navel, wait a  minute though, she wouldn't have had a navel! Ok, so featuring two models pretending to be Adam and Eve, there was sufficient greenery to protect their modesty, or whatever it was needing protecting. Eve was being demure in the WC, looking away from the throne, but making distinct eye contact at the urinal ( better than laughing I guess?). But I digress, who should walk past but Rita and Peter, and who was in the cafe? Yes.
I descended, dumped my bag and set off along the river walk that Rita had recommended, up past the hydroscheme, then along a nice gentle path featuring a lot of water sculptures (whizzy things made out of dead skateboards and teaspoons [this used to be a nickel mining community - hence the spoons]), and a heck of a lot of water. I returned via the country route featuring a wooden bridge to get past one bit of none path, which had a rotten board. At the hotel they offered me two different rooms, one that smelled the same as mine had ( a day of open window had dispersed nearly all trace ) and a twin, about twice the size with less storage. I stayed put. Ate my roast pork, drank my wine, mooched about town, and went to bed.

Day three, starts as all Austrian day do with - the f'ing market being set up at 4.00am!
I decide to go to the Reissachfall and the gorge of Hole (hell, not Hell, apparently there are lots, it's Austrian for a place difficult to get your cows out of). Hole is Hell, so many steps, so many steps I'm surprised that the local denizens have not been woken up with me wailing about them in the night. First there are the steps up through the woodland to the bridge crossing the lower fall, then there are the steps up to the bridge crossing the upper fall, then there are the steps up to the bridge that crosses the gorge, which is shut for refurbishment. Then there are the steps just after the sign that says "Abandon Hope", these are not real steps, they are bits of log that are trying to stabilise the sodden earth, they are about the steepness of a stepladder and rise about 100 feet, a third of the way up a toddler is demanding their bottle, apparently we all have to stop and wait. Wait a minute, a toddler, I'm sure there's something about no children under the age of eight! At the top of the glutinous steps there are a series of galvanised walkways AND STAIRS that according to the guide book take us up 260m, however since they go both up and down it's more, my legs say quite a bit more. I meet some Americans, they are from Birmingham, so am I,  I sweat decorously as we chuckle about the coincidence, then they say, "See you at the lake!" and skip off. This leaves me in a quandary, I feel I might die before the lake, and I didn't know there was a lake. As it is there is, I eschew it, lovely though it is and wander on thinking about the Preintaler hut 1.5 hours further on, after 1.2 hours it is .75 of an hour away, I check the bus timetable and turn round.
In the evening I consume several sets of ribs and, apparently, enough booze to set me thinking on the meaning of life, i.e. what's wrong with me that I am single? I brusquely order a small red wine, despatch it, and then dispatch myself to bed.

WATCH THIS SPACE FOR MORE ADVENTURES

Coming up, how the Schladming Tourist Board are economical/ingenuous with the truth.
Nick or the Glacier - which is retreating?
Can knees make that sound - and be alright?

All roads lead to Loam

A man is standing on the margin of a field, searching through the hedge for a suitable stick, his grey hair is being hardened into a series of vent-shapes spikes as the sweat evaporates through the holes in his helmet just leaving the salt. Next to him is a bicycle, well, it used to be a bicycle, in its present state it has become sculpture, a sculpture signifying the fusion of rural and industrial. It is Nick, one month into his retirement he has had an interview with the bathroom scales, and decided that getting out of the house may prevent over-eating. Consequently, he has decided to go to the other Sainsbury's (the one over the hills and far away, as opposed to the one down the hill by the canal) to see if they have liquorice comfits (they don't by the way, in this time of superlatives this Sainsbury's Superstore is less than the other Sainsbury's Superstore. Speaking of superlatives, when did "average" become a term of approbation: "I thought your light bulbs were average." How different can light bulbs be for crying out loud [FCOL?]? "Why did you give us such a poor rating? How can we do better?" but I digress). Liquorishly disappointed but otherwise laden with heavyweight peanut butter, yoghurt, coffee and olives, he has now decided to embark on a different route back.
Should you wish to follow, the enclosed link may prove useful (https://www.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/demos/os-trig-pillar-80/index.html) if you zoom in on Hemel Hempstead and then find grid ref 080102 (Sainsbury's) you will see a bridle path next to the wood at 104. This was fine, a bit slippery but the weight of groceries in the panniers provided extra traction. At the road he turns right until distracted by a bridleway at Eastbrook Hay Farm. The start of the route is ballasted, at the bottom of the valley he can see that it is concreted, so, throwing caution to the winds, he turns right, past the farm and descends. At the top of the other side the concrete runs out, in retrospect it is probably only concreted to assist getting up it in winter, after a few more hundred metres the slight knobble on the tyres are plastered over with mud, this is fine until the left turn by Hay Wood, heading towards Corner Farm, where the skin of Hertfordshire loam picks up, grass, small twigs and more Hertfordshire loam. After a few more hundred metres a Mediaeval brick factory is happily ensconced under both mudguards and butted up against the brakes. It is here that we join Nick in the hedge, searching for the stick that will allow him to remove some of the log jam. The next 400 metres takes over half an hour and culminates with 100 metres of portage, first the groceries, then the bike. There is a further 10 minutes of jiggery-pokery with the stick, followed by various repairs, then he is off, ignominiously back past Eastbrook Hay, and down Dodds Lane, accompanied by the susurration of tyre against impacted adobe tempered with whatever has been picked up on the tyre rattling and scraping on the inside of the mudguard. Eventually he arrives back at Warner's End, mercifully prior to the School Run (the School Run is bad at the best of times but the school on Green End Road is a Catholic Primary - bigger cars). Knackered, he loses his presence of mind on the last hill, and turns off to go through the wood, 100 metres later the bike comes to a grinding halt, the stick-cleared space now choked with leaves. Stick.
At home the bike is treated to a shower, followed by an extensive application of bike spray. Nick is treated to a large coffee, and a reminiscence of the last time this happened - in Bedfordshire - about 25 years ago.
Moral:- if it's winter, and you have mudguards - DON'T.