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!

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, what 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.

Railway Cutting

A man is standing next to the rail-track looking ruefully at the ballast, and picking some of the finer bits of it out of the craters in his elbow and calf. Blood seeps out of said craters and meanders through the downy hairs contrasting nicely with the coating of dust picked up on impact. It is Nick, he has just come to an involuntary stop and put down his foot on the wrong side of the bike, the side where there is no side, just some shrubs poking airily out over the edge of the four foot cutting for the track. He and the bike have paid a quick visit to inspect the quality of the gravel (hard, resistant to gravity, and in some cases, sharp). Ironically he has been hoist by his own petard, had he hired a bike instead of using the free hotel one this may not have happened, but parsimony prevailed.

The previous day I had ascended the Reitherspitze, and now prostrated by the nervous exhaustion engendered by proceeding past this notice (ACHTUNG Sie betreten alpines wegegebiet trittsicherheit schwindelfreiheit und alpine erfahrung sind erforderlich. Which apparently translates as : 

 ATTENTION you enter alpine routes landscape occurs safety swindle liberty and alpine experience are required. Hmm, and I thought schwindelfreiheit meant a good head for heights.), going round the corner and up the ladder conveniently wired to the rock and summitting a mere thirty minutes later. On the way down, I met a girl in one of those spaghetti-strapped tops, the sort that are tight and cut straight across the chest, you know the ones I mean, the sort with breasts in. Anyway, I asked if she had binoculars as I'd just spotted two chamoix, she didn't, but she did tell me that more chamoix were to be found on those alps there, because there were less tourists! I mumbled an apology and she went powering on her way, I mentally christened her "Skippy", and went hobbling on my way (She - L R L R L R L R. Me - L   L   R     L    R LRLRLRL OH SHI...). Anyway I made the cafe, downed a pint, and then downed the funicular. That evening the soup was... wait a minute where was I? "A man is standing next to the railtr..." OK.

As the previous day I had ascended the Reitherspitze I decided to go on a bike ride, the hotel had one mountain bike and about a dozen sit-up-and-begs. I opted for the mountain bike, which was I'll admit, small. After banging my knees on the handlebars I opted for a sit-up-and-beg, number eight or

Achtzie as she was known throughout the day. Slightly more accommodating than Skippy, she let me sit on her upholstered parts, and with the map and guide book in the basket off we went for a trip to the Karwendeltal valley.

Now, there was one thing about Achtzie, and that was that she was very continental, by that I mean that she had a front brake and a barrel brake, an internally mounted rear wheel brake activated by back-pedalling - very easily activated by back-pedalling, wheel-lockingly easily activated by back-pedalling! The start of the journey was through town, and then onto the service road for the railway, this was fine until the first downhill when I had to stop at the bottom - I counter-rotated the pedals a fraction, the bike slid majestically across the grit of the track and piled into the embankment, I went with it. It was at this point that I felt that Achtzie's lack of cross-bar was an unexpected

blessing. Pausing only rub down the new graze on my ankle we carried on to Geisenbach, where I consulted the guide book, "Cross the stream over the bridge and carry on along the gravel track to the right." I crossed the stream. I reconsulted the guide book, then the map, then the guide book again, then the map. At this point I decided that the word for "track" and "vertiginous narrow unstable footpath" must be the same word in German. Achtzie and I continued hand-in-hand for the next half mile, until I decided that the vertiginous schmalen instabilen Fußweg was now sufficiently placid to not ensure instant death. Two minutes later I discovered that there is a tendency for one to backpedal when free-wheeling. We came to a sudden and unexpected halt, and, as explained at the top of this account, I discovered a lack of solid ground under my left foot - for about a second, maybe two, then I discovered a glut of solid ground. I thanked whatever Teutonic pantheon was looking after me by not providing a train at that moment, manhandled Achtsie back up the bank, followed her, stood about for a bit, and then re-descended back to the track to pick up those bits of my "Nick-has-a-jolly-day-out-cycling kit" that had exploded from the basket, my pockets and my psyche, the latter took sometime, so I used that time to do something worthwhile - clot.

Eventually we arrived at Scharnitz, and I started up the valley, after a moment or two I decided that Achtzie and I were potentially missing out on the spirituality of the ascent, so we started to walk up together. Occasionally gangs of Teutons would cycle past, and make some, probably derogatory, remark, "Drei gears!" I would riposte briskly, which usually got me a nod. When the road leveled, I mounted and we continued. It was lovely, eventually the deciduous wood thinned, and we emerged to be surrounded by high mountains and pine forest, it was hot, the air delicious, my legs on Achtzie's robust pedals pedalled me on into the looming shadow of ..."AN ENORMOUS CATTLE TRUCK". Achtzie and I skidded to the side of the road. The Almabtrieb is a delightful rural fete, where soft-eyed, sweet breathed cows bedecked with ribbons and flowers are brought down from the high pastures by their lederhosen-clad cowherds, and are paraded through the villages to the church pasture, where everyone has a drink and a wurst. "Bollocks to that!" says Joe Tyroler "I'll bung them in the truck and drive them down the narrow road at 50 MPH."

After Achtzie and I had recovered, we carried on, I even felt sufficiently relaxed to record a video, here it is. If you listen carefully you will be able to discover the moment when I realise that I'm holding the camera in the hand that I should be using to brake with, thus committing myself to backpedal-brake or 23Skidoo as I came to know it (after the first 22). But you might get some sense of the scenery. I continued for an hour and a half, stopping for water breaks - and involuntary brakes until I got to the point where, for the sake of time, I decided on a discretional reversal, though being stupid I had a bit of an explore first, leaving me to wonder if I'd ever see the track again. However, my keen sense of direction prevailed and I regained the track, it was at this point that I realised I'd been going uphill for the past ninety minutes, as I coasted back to the start point in twenty, narrowly missing a tractor with cattle trailer, an alpine viper and the returning truck.

There now remained only the return, Achtzie and I crossed to the other side of the valley and started up the narrow track through delightful woods dotted with fungi and..."AN ENORMOUS QUARRY TRUCK!" I pulled the brambles out of my calf, and the bike out of the brambles, we continued. It was a voyage of discovery; discovery that there appeared to be trails not present on the map, and discovery that to get from Scharnitz to Seefeld you had to ascend what felt like several thousand feet, up tracks that would put the average staircase to shame. I gave Achtzie a well-earned rest - and walked.

Upon our return to the hotel, I re-stabled Achtzie, returned her key to the desk, and then treated myself - mainly with antiseptic cream.