Sunday June 18: Würzburg
Fahren (fahren fahren auf der Autobahn) mit dem Auto nach Italien means joining the road to the South in the equable Netherlands. Yesterday I did this. It's like a river springing up modestly in Holland (choppy water on the Utrechtsebaan), starting off quite narrow but, strengthened by tributaries all the way, soon growing into the wide fast-flowing German autobahn system. This is occasionally broken up by stretches of rapids (strange word for the roadworks, but that's where the dangers lie).
I'm not used to driving (what I consider as) very long distances, and I like to stop regularly. I stopped twice at service areas. They're strange, like little space stations, these restaurants on the edge of the autobahn, where you can rest before throwing yourself back into the hard-driving void. Even when you've stopped you seem still to be in motion, travelling a very slow lane, the white lines continuing to roll by in your mind thanks to some sort of inertia.
More restful are the parking places by the side of the road, with no amenities whatsoever. They are quieter, smaller, and there's a screen of trees between you and the motorway, and tend to be used by parents with small children, grateful for the opportunity to lead them off into the woods on a sanitary mission.
I pulled into one of these parking places and walked down a slope to sit on a bench in the shade of the trees. Looking back towards the motorway I couldn't see the cars, thanks to the gradient of the slope and the arrangement of the trees, above which I could still see whatever was being carried on the roof of cars going towards Holland. Thus I saw what appeared to be two phantom racing bicycles, neck and neck in a parallel rush to the sea.
I found a hotel in Würzburg fairly easily - Sankt Josef on Semmelstrasse - and found the Hauptbahnhof, my meeting point with A and B, as well, but I was two hours early, so I walked around the town looking for touristic sites and cafes. No cafes open at all, except one or two so crowded as a result of their scarcity that they were hardly inviting. I went instead into a church, Stephanskirche. Very plain, with not very good paintings around the walls of the Passion of Christ. In the first painting, in which Jesus takes up the cross, there was no hint of the numinous at all. His expression was more one of peeved resignation, as though he was saying "Oh all right then, but I'm really not sure you've got the right person."
A cafe at last, very pleasant in a green shade. I remembered that this is actually Bavaria when I saw the waitresses in aprons and ankle socks carrying large glasses of beer. My German is very rusty, I ordered two beers by mistake. Of course I drank them both. Mustn't embarrass the waitresses.
I met A and B just before 6.30, while they were walking to the station for our planned encounter. We went back to their hotel, where B changed into one of her fetchingly slinky little numbers, and we set off to eat with A still in shorts and sandals. What antipodeans they are!
Excellent meal in Ratskeller (impressively Gothic, with pointed arches and stained glass), sturdy and filling as ever in Germany, washed down with a distinctive dumpy bottle of Franconian wine: Bocksbeutel, the bottle is called. Afterwards we walked about in the lovely evening, which was still warm despite the relative lateness. On a narrow bridge over the Main are statues of patron saints, led by St. Kilian who converted the Germans here, and one of Pat. Franconia, which I translated as the father of Franconia. A began to wonder about the father of the Manx, which he still persists in pronouncing with an "o" instead of "a": according to him, I am a Monx. Possibly following this monkish train of thought, he announced that the father of the Monx was probably Uncle Fester out of the Addams Family. B agreed that that was plausible, "because he does look a bit like a monk." Uncle Fester she means, I hope.
We sat in the market and had another glass of wine. A continued to enquire about V. What can you say without sounding either sappy or churlish? Not much, which he accepts, but they are both curious.
Transeuropa 1989 (Warning: self-indulgent travelogue!)
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Nash
And I found that I was too by the end! About A, B and V.David wrote:but they are both curious.
A fine piece of writing David, there's a short story in there. Do you write short stories? You should.
Thanks, Nasher. To be honest, it's out of an old notebook - although I've edited it and spruced it up somewhat - and it's just a travel journal (although I do see the possibilities of fictionalising it up a bit). I just thought I'd see how it read. Be warned: I may edit and post some more. So now you know why I call it self-indulgent.Nash wrote:And I found that I was too by the end! About A, B and V.David wrote:but they are both curious.
A fine piece of writing David, there's a short story in there. Do you write short stories? You should.
And V is now Mrs D. Reader, I married her.
That's an excess of ands! I'll sort that out.Nash wrote:Forgot to mention, you've got two 'ands' between your ankle socks and your apron!
Ah, the timeless jottings of youth! I thought it was lovely in a gentle rambalacious sort of way and it does introduce the mysterious V who was to later play such an important part in our hero's life. What more can one say without sounding either sappy or churlish? Just this, Killian was one of ours: not German, nor Manx or Monx!
"Hallo, hallo! Noch ein Bier over here, Fraulein!"
That's our lad, or a fair facsimile. I know him by the whiskers.
Any more of these travel diaries?
This brought back several similar memories,
as fresh as berries with morning dew still upon them ....
That's our lad, or a fair facsimile. I know him by the whiskers.
Any more of these travel diaries?
This brought back several similar memories,
as fresh as berries with morning dew still upon them ....
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Nash
I was wondering the same thing. More please, David.dedalus wrote:Any more of these travel diaries?
Well, if you insist ... right you are, lads. I am editing mercilessly, because I was prone to great swathes of navel-gazing dullness in them days. And not just in them days.Nash wrote:I was wondering the same thing. More please, David.dedalus wrote:Any more of these travel diaries?
Sunday June 18: Würzburg - 9 pm
This morning we queued for a while to get into the Residenz. Astonishing interiors - the staircase, the White Hall, the Kaisersaal. The Mirror Cabinet is dizzying. All Baroquery. Rococo, even. Baroque, to me, is ornate, curves, and rococo is just more so.
A large part of the building was destroyed by a bombing raid in 1945. A lot seemed to be made of this. I found myself trying to cobble together the German for "Hey, you started it."
As we left, we talked about the layout of the imperial apartments, with men to one side of the Kaisersaal, and ladies to the other side. A didn't think he would have found this acceptable. "I wouldn't want to hang out with the blokes."
After a diversion into a church and the cathedral we walked up the hill across the river to the castle - Festung Marienberg. Once up there we found a terrace with a cafe - time for beer, Bratwurst and Bockbeutel in the sun. It's wonderful to sit and chat like that with friends.
After we came down, A and B set off back to Frankfurt for a quiet evening in, celebrating their first wedding anniversary. I settled down for a siesta, brought on by the warming action of the sun on the alcohol, from which I emerged about four hours ago to plan tomorrow, have a shower and go downstairs to the restaurant for another generous German helping of tasty carbohydrates. A little walk after dinner and now I'm about ready for an early night. Tomorrow - Italy.
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Nash
What a fantastic line!David wrote:All Baroquery. Rococo, even. Baroque, to me, is ornate, curves, and rococo is just more so.
Will this be your first visit to Italy? For some reason I imagine Italy being your spiritual home.David wrote:Tomorrow - Italy.
That's the stuff! Yes, completely - and in many places literally - over the top.dedalus wrote:The Residenz - lavishly over the top! - with frescoes by Tiepolo, I believe.
Thanks, Nasher. That's one that I will admit to having tweaked, ever so slightly, during the editing process. The thought was there, all right. it just needed a little pointing.Nash wrote:What a fantastic line!David wrote:All Baroquery. Rococo, even. Baroque, to me, is ornate, curves, and rococo is just more so.
Almost. I'd been, briefly, once before. And what a lovely thought, to have Italy for one's spiritual home. In fact I think I'm lucky enough actually to be living in my spiritual home, but if I'm allowed a spiritual second home, Italy would do just fine.Nash wrote:Will this be your first visit to Italy? For some reason I imagine Italy being your spiritual home.David wrote:Tomorrow - Italy.
Tuesday June 20: Merano - 9.15 am
I'm reclining in a lounger, one made out of steel and clothes line but incredibly comfortable, on my balcony. The tower of Merano's Duomo is only about 100 metres away, over trees and old rooftops. Immediately to the right a slope ascends to a few villas, hotels, and a rather plain-looking castle, but steep though it is it's only a slope. The mountains are everywhere else that you look. I can see white houses on the side of the nearest one, almost at the top, in open patches of grass - trees below and rocks above. Their gardens must have a gradient approaching 1:2.
The other mountains in that direction - west, I think - have a sparse covering of snow. Sprinkled, rather than covered. Behind them, above them, the sky is quite cloudy but bright, with blue between the clouds. It's not warm yet, but my balcony is in the shade still. The shadows on the mountains are fading as the sun fills out the last empty places.
Swallows are sporting over the rooftops, often swooping right past my balcony. Last night at twilight I was out here, resting after a heavy meal - the tiles were still pleasantly warm from the heat of the day - and there must have been over a hundred of them, wheeling and diving. Only their urgent squeals indicated that it might not all be play, but maybe it was - maybe they were just going "Wheee!", like children on a swing.
Yesterday ... the drive.
Some time after passing Munich you notice mountains off to the right, but they still seem quite low. Then at some point you turn towards them and they're awesome. (Ed: pre-American teenage usage.) All the way through Austria they line the road, barring any attempt to wander from the direct way, firmly ushering you through to Italy.
Before Italy, of course, is the Brenner Pass. It's an impressive climb, but all the most spectacular bridges are skirted with sightscreens so you can't look down, thus preventing rubber-necking drivers like me from plunging to their death while admiring the view. I couldn't resist attempting a few travelling snapshots from behind the wheel - foolish, really, and probably doomed to aesthetic failure by the windscreen smeared with insect carnage.
The descent from the Brenner - Brennero now - is also impressive. The road from Vipiteno to Merano is even more so, over Jaufenpass or Passi di Giova, all hairpin turns down the other side. An extraordinary number of German cars. Maybe it's unreasonable of me, but meeting more German cars than Italian put me in a bad temper. This is supposed to be Italy.
It's the Südtirol, that's the thing. It's bi-lingual all the way down to Bolzano - Bozen. Sitting outside at a cafe on Corso Libertà, though, it seemed to me more and more of an Italian town, smart and chic. Good looking people, fashionably casual. Yet the restaurant where I ate, and the hotel I'm in now, are both identifiably German. Maybe that's the way things are shared here - the Italians have the display, the Germans have the commerce.
Coming into Merano by car beside the Passiria river, then crossing the ponte della Posta to a first view of the Duomo, is one of those revelatory experiences - "I didn't expect this!"
I was really lucky with the hotel - attractive room, this balcony, that view. It just occurred to me before - this is a room with a view! I wish V was here.
That's what I was thinking last night as well. Just last year I was perfectly happy to potter round by myself in the evening, in any strange town, probably because there wasn't anyone else I could think of who would have made me enjoy the place more. Ah well, things change. Last night I had another heavy German meal with two large glasses of beer, after which I could only go back to the hotel. A typical Northern choice - oblivion in preference to ennui.
Back at the hotel, out on the balcony with the swallows and the twilight, things looked better, and this morning they don't look bad at all. Time for my first foray in shorts, I think, and a climb to Castel Tirolo.
I'm reclining in a lounger, one made out of steel and clothes line but incredibly comfortable, on my balcony. The tower of Merano's Duomo is only about 100 metres away, over trees and old rooftops. Immediately to the right a slope ascends to a few villas, hotels, and a rather plain-looking castle, but steep though it is it's only a slope. The mountains are everywhere else that you look. I can see white houses on the side of the nearest one, almost at the top, in open patches of grass - trees below and rocks above. Their gardens must have a gradient approaching 1:2.
The other mountains in that direction - west, I think - have a sparse covering of snow. Sprinkled, rather than covered. Behind them, above them, the sky is quite cloudy but bright, with blue between the clouds. It's not warm yet, but my balcony is in the shade still. The shadows on the mountains are fading as the sun fills out the last empty places.
Swallows are sporting over the rooftops, often swooping right past my balcony. Last night at twilight I was out here, resting after a heavy meal - the tiles were still pleasantly warm from the heat of the day - and there must have been over a hundred of them, wheeling and diving. Only their urgent squeals indicated that it might not all be play, but maybe it was - maybe they were just going "Wheee!", like children on a swing.
Yesterday ... the drive.
Some time after passing Munich you notice mountains off to the right, but they still seem quite low. Then at some point you turn towards them and they're awesome. (Ed: pre-American teenage usage.) All the way through Austria they line the road, barring any attempt to wander from the direct way, firmly ushering you through to Italy.
Before Italy, of course, is the Brenner Pass. It's an impressive climb, but all the most spectacular bridges are skirted with sightscreens so you can't look down, thus preventing rubber-necking drivers like me from plunging to their death while admiring the view. I couldn't resist attempting a few travelling snapshots from behind the wheel - foolish, really, and probably doomed to aesthetic failure by the windscreen smeared with insect carnage.
The descent from the Brenner - Brennero now - is also impressive. The road from Vipiteno to Merano is even more so, over Jaufenpass or Passi di Giova, all hairpin turns down the other side. An extraordinary number of German cars. Maybe it's unreasonable of me, but meeting more German cars than Italian put me in a bad temper. This is supposed to be Italy.
It's the Südtirol, that's the thing. It's bi-lingual all the way down to Bolzano - Bozen. Sitting outside at a cafe on Corso Libertà, though, it seemed to me more and more of an Italian town, smart and chic. Good looking people, fashionably casual. Yet the restaurant where I ate, and the hotel I'm in now, are both identifiably German. Maybe that's the way things are shared here - the Italians have the display, the Germans have the commerce.
Coming into Merano by car beside the Passiria river, then crossing the ponte della Posta to a first view of the Duomo, is one of those revelatory experiences - "I didn't expect this!"
I was really lucky with the hotel - attractive room, this balcony, that view. It just occurred to me before - this is a room with a view! I wish V was here.
That's what I was thinking last night as well. Just last year I was perfectly happy to potter round by myself in the evening, in any strange town, probably because there wasn't anyone else I could think of who would have made me enjoy the place more. Ah well, things change. Last night I had another heavy German meal with two large glasses of beer, after which I could only go back to the hotel. A typical Northern choice - oblivion in preference to ennui.
Back at the hotel, out on the balcony with the swallows and the twilight, things looked better, and this morning they don't look bad at all. Time for my first foray in shorts, I think, and a climb to Castel Tirolo.
-
Nash
I like the bit about the swallows going "Wheee!". We get a lot of swifts in the spring, they fly in from all over the world and I always like to imagine that they're calling "News! News!".
Lovely as always, David. I am enjoying these.
Cheers,
Nash.
Terrific line!David wrote:A typical Northern choice - oblivion in preference to ennui.
Lovely as always, David. I am enjoying these.
Cheers,
Nash.
I detect a hint of melancholy in this latest offering. Were you in love and your beloved not by your side? That has since been attended to, I understand. The occasional little sideswipes at the Germans made me chuckle: they are indeed EVERYWHERE, aren't they? One simply can't get away from these people. They must have been unbearable during the war, prancing about in uniforms no less. I have a couple of rather good tales to tell about the South Tyrol with blond beefy chaps having a right good go at the Italian border guards, all of whom seemed to be weedy runts imported from Naples or Sicily. They were more Austrian-German than German-German, as they carefully explained to me but I couldn't quite grasp the difference. Once while hitchhiking I was picked up by one of them who quite cheerfully told me he was transporting explosives. They were going to blow up a power station that evening. I was quite relieved when he dropped me off. Did I inform the police? I did not. See, hear and speak no evil as you travel through unfamiliar places where the local passions are not your passions. I was to follow the same traveller's dictum while moving about Northern Ireland, hardly 90 miles from my own hometown! Keep these stories coming, dear boy!
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Antcliff
- Perspicacious Poster
- Posts: 6599
- Joined: Thu Nov 24, 2011 1:35 am
- Location: At the end of stanza 3
More of a midlands choice I think.A typical Northern choice - oblivion in preference to ennui.
seth
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Now then Seth, you're being too provincial. I meant in European terms, rather than just British. Bigger picture!Antcliff wrote:More of a midlands choice I think.A typical Northern choice - oblivion in preference to ennui.
Cheers
David
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Suzanne
- Perspicacious Poster
- Posts: 4898
- Joined: Sun Oct 19, 2008 4:46 pm
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- Location: Land of the Midnight Sun
I curtesy in your direction, David, and bow to the talent of keeping a travel journal. It is not an easy thing to do well. I speak of current struggles to do so myself.
So! Bravo!
Very enjoyable to travel with you.
Loved tomorrow- Italy!
Suzanne
So! Bravo!
Very enjoyable to travel with you.
Loved tomorrow- Italy!
Suzanne
Wednesday June 21: Merano - 9.20 am
Well, I'll be leaving Merano shortly but I'm still not quite clear in my mind about where to go. My thinking is a little cloudy this morning after a drinking session with the owner of the hotel last night. I came back at about eight to study my books and decide where to go today, but I was corralled by him, red-faced with hospitality. Two jolly old ladies took advantage of my arrival to slip away. We drank pear schnapps while he slurred political commentary in broken English and - for my benefit - verry slo-ow German. Two middle-aged German couples happened along and they were press-ganged too. He warmed to a larger audience and seemed to be quite a wag in German. I was understanding his German less and less, and he told a few jokes that went by me completely. One of the ladies said of me, seeing my genial and indifferent incomprehension: "Er hat keinen Wort von Verstand, der arme Mensch!" (Ironic I should have understood that.) She tried to explain one of the jokes but I still missed it.
By midnight there was only the owner and me, I having seen no way to explain and excuse an early departure without seeming rude. Now that the others had gone I could retire as well. He insisted on finishing his cigarette before wishing me good night. Quite a nice fellow, really, and his habit of addressing me as Sir David was quite a novelty - I have always fancied myself as an English milord in Europe - but he is a lonely man. In one of his maudlin moments he said something about his wife and children leaving him fourteen years ago, and got the first line of Are You Lonesome Tonight wrong. The hotel seems to be doing very well, but all he can find to do is get pissed in the evenings with any guests who blunder along.
Anyways ... I took the footpath up to Dorf Tyrol yesterday. The place is packed with Germans. I stopped for a while to watch families' relations growing strained on a crazy golf course - one old dear could not get the ball in the right gap, and she laughed and laughed while everybody else got tense and looked at each other.
There was one Dutch car, driving through (good idea). It looked forlornly out of place, like a cockroach in a super-clean kitchen.
I stopped for a cola at a mountainside restaurant. Full of Germans, of course. I was starting to remember childhood fantasies - me, the intrepid spy, in the heart of enemy headquarters.
Schloss Tirol, Castel Tirolo, is in a superb situation. I couldn't look inside because I arrived at lunchtime. Walking up to the castle you're not far below the houses on the mountain I can see from my balcony. The gradient is even steeper than I thought.
After lunch at the restaurant just by the castle I came back into Merano on the Tappeiner Promenade. The path comes to the castle, really only a tower, just above my hotel. I descended the path to the river, which comes rushing down over rocks with lots of white water. Mostly, though, it looks a very pale green, a sort of healthy Alpine green.
Crossing the river to go back to the hotel you see a graffito - "Fascists Go Home." What do the Germans think of that? And who wrote it? The language would suggest an Englishman with an inferiority complex, but maybe someone thinks English is the language of protest. It's certainly the language of graffiti.
Into town, after a bit of straightforward sun-bathing on my balcony, wandering along the river trying to find a smart cafe where the gilded youth of Merano hang out. No such thing, it seems. Robust-looking oldies everywhere. There's a creeping geriatric quality to Merano. I hope the next stop is a little less gerontocentric.
After an uninspired steak in Albergo Rode Adler I strolled round a bit more. Saw some of the vintage cars in the London - Monte Carlo race, then back to the hotel. And the schnapps.
Well, I'll be leaving Merano shortly but I'm still not quite clear in my mind about where to go. My thinking is a little cloudy this morning after a drinking session with the owner of the hotel last night. I came back at about eight to study my books and decide where to go today, but I was corralled by him, red-faced with hospitality. Two jolly old ladies took advantage of my arrival to slip away. We drank pear schnapps while he slurred political commentary in broken English and - for my benefit - verry slo-ow German. Two middle-aged German couples happened along and they were press-ganged too. He warmed to a larger audience and seemed to be quite a wag in German. I was understanding his German less and less, and he told a few jokes that went by me completely. One of the ladies said of me, seeing my genial and indifferent incomprehension: "Er hat keinen Wort von Verstand, der arme Mensch!" (Ironic I should have understood that.) She tried to explain one of the jokes but I still missed it.
By midnight there was only the owner and me, I having seen no way to explain and excuse an early departure without seeming rude. Now that the others had gone I could retire as well. He insisted on finishing his cigarette before wishing me good night. Quite a nice fellow, really, and his habit of addressing me as Sir David was quite a novelty - I have always fancied myself as an English milord in Europe - but he is a lonely man. In one of his maudlin moments he said something about his wife and children leaving him fourteen years ago, and got the first line of Are You Lonesome Tonight wrong. The hotel seems to be doing very well, but all he can find to do is get pissed in the evenings with any guests who blunder along.
Anyways ... I took the footpath up to Dorf Tyrol yesterday. The place is packed with Germans. I stopped for a while to watch families' relations growing strained on a crazy golf course - one old dear could not get the ball in the right gap, and she laughed and laughed while everybody else got tense and looked at each other.
There was one Dutch car, driving through (good idea). It looked forlornly out of place, like a cockroach in a super-clean kitchen.
I stopped for a cola at a mountainside restaurant. Full of Germans, of course. I was starting to remember childhood fantasies - me, the intrepid spy, in the heart of enemy headquarters.
Schloss Tirol, Castel Tirolo, is in a superb situation. I couldn't look inside because I arrived at lunchtime. Walking up to the castle you're not far below the houses on the mountain I can see from my balcony. The gradient is even steeper than I thought.
After lunch at the restaurant just by the castle I came back into Merano on the Tappeiner Promenade. The path comes to the castle, really only a tower, just above my hotel. I descended the path to the river, which comes rushing down over rocks with lots of white water. Mostly, though, it looks a very pale green, a sort of healthy Alpine green.
Crossing the river to go back to the hotel you see a graffito - "Fascists Go Home." What do the Germans think of that? And who wrote it? The language would suggest an Englishman with an inferiority complex, but maybe someone thinks English is the language of protest. It's certainly the language of graffiti.
Into town, after a bit of straightforward sun-bathing on my balcony, wandering along the river trying to find a smart cafe where the gilded youth of Merano hang out. No such thing, it seems. Robust-looking oldies everywhere. There's a creeping geriatric quality to Merano. I hope the next stop is a little less gerontocentric.
After an uninspired steak in Albergo Rode Adler I strolled round a bit more. Saw some of the vintage cars in the London - Monte Carlo race, then back to the hotel. And the schnapps.
I like the way this thing sort of ambles along. Since nobody has made a comment since mid-August - plenty of people seem to be reading it, though - I thought I would put in a word. I would like to see you keep up with this. So what happened next? (Bren)