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.