Austria

Passau is a beautiful city with much to arrest the attention. It is comfortable, cosmopolitan and relaxed and I would like to return here when I have more time to enjoy it. I haven't spent a great deal of time looking at 'sights' partly due to time constraints and partly because it is no way to get to know a country since you spend your time mixing with other travellers. I'm pleased to say I made an exeption to this in the case of the Dom St' Stephen in Passau: what an extraordinary building. The outside grabs your attention from the off with it's onion domed towers but it is the inside that staggers - it is the hight of Baroque and then some. The sound of my jaw hitting the stunningly tiled floor was drowned out by the 'biggest organ in the world', the cocophony of sound and vision overwhelming. To try and describe the experience is way beyond my capabilities so I will just post the photos I took and hope they convey some of it's splendour.




We left Passau and Germany by crossing the river Inn which flows down at a great rate from the Alps.

Looking back to Germanyand forward to Austria And so, entered Austria.

Sun 8th June. Outside the Pizzaria Casa Vecchia, Ottensheim. We're staying just outside this little town in the wierdest campsite in all Austria (well I hope it is!). The pitches are dark and overhung with too many trees, and people seem to be living in semi-derelict caravans surrounded by small, obsesively trimmed box hedges and gardens full of gnomes. The roofs of the caravans clearly no longer waterproof, they have errected canopies over them in order to keep out the rain. Our fellow campers look like 1970's holidaying Russians - Speedos, almost completely hidden by beer bellies, tattoos and long, lank hair tied up in pony tails, and the men look bad too. They don't seem overly pleased to see us and I'm sure they're watching us through the net curtains. Trips to the spider infested hell-hole laughingly called the Shower Block will be kept to a bare minimum.



Glad to escape, we walk into the little town of Ottensheim and what a surprise: it couldn't be more different. A smart, pleasing town with a chic little market - expensive clothes, pottery, glass. There are bars and cafes dotted around the square so of course - we go for a beer and then end up in a Pizzaria with great food and really good service; we sit outside and have a lovely time. But all good things have to come to an end and as it begins to get dark we head back to Royston Vasey and the gardens full of 'precious things' We lock the doors securely!

Barking at the Moon (cloud formation on the way back to the campsite)

Mon 9th June
It was to be a short ride today since we are well ahead of schedule but I set off from our weird campsite at Ottensheim early, little knowing what a strange day it was to be. After long discussions and much thought I’d decided not to visit the site of the camp at Mauthausen as it would have put a cloud over the final part of the trip. Within the first few miles I got a puncture, which was easily mended at the roadside and I head towards Linz. I thought I might get some late breakfast in Linz but it turned out to be an unprepossessing place in a heavily industrialised area so I pushed on and got another puncture………in Mauthausen;



I change the tube – again, buy a new one from a bike shop, just in case, and resume my journey, only to discover I’ve left my sunglasses behind. It’s just not my day! On the road again and the Danube accompanies me through some beautiful, wooded countryside and after 50 miles I reach our destination for the day: Grein.
A small, agreeable town, Grein sits on a bend in the Danube below steeply wooded hills and as I arrive the sun is beaming down. Phil, Jenny and I have a light lunch, pop into town to do a bit of shopping for dinner and have a cooling beer and then, as we walk home Bang! I didn’t know what it was at first – the bang was loud, and then the pain struck me. Though I’d been on the pavement, the wing mirror of a passing van had smashed into my arm; God knows what the driver was doing but he must have been almost on the footpath. The wing mirror bounces down the road as Phil sets off on foot after the van and with great presence of mind gets a photo of the number plate. At this, the van stops. The driver comes over and wants to take me to the doctor, I’m persuaded to go. Somehow, and my memory of events is a bit hazy, I end up in an ambulance being attended to by two cheerful young guys who turn out to be utterly brilliant;
they take me to a doctor and then on to the hospital 30kms away in Amstetten for Xray. The two lads – Markus and Dominik remain with me the whole time, doing the translations when necessary and going through the paperwork. We laugh and joke and learn a little about each other’s lives and we become friends for the day. After a short time I’m told by Ralf, the duty doctor, that nothing is broken and I’m bandaged up and allowed to go. Back in the ambulance we return to Grein; a short interview at the police station follows and then back to our camp site, still in the ambulance. Everyone involved treated me with great good humour and kindness and I hope they read this and accept my thanks; I wish you all good fortune.
So, here I am, the following morning, bandaged from wrist to armpit, looking like a trainee mummy. I took some mega pain killers last night which knocked me out cold and this morning I’m feeling rested and fit (if a little sore). I will give the bike a brief ride round the campsite later to see how it feels and all being well, will set off again tomorrow. In the meantime I’m going to sit in the sun, eat, drink and generally have a lazy day.

Wed 11th June 15.30

Klosterstuberl restaurant, Krems, Austria.

Something extraordinary has just happened: I’ve just had the worst meal of the trip so far. Yes. Even by Austrian standards it was utterly dismal. We are in Krems, or at least we think we are – we might be in Stien – the place seems to have two names. This is obviously a cunning ploy to confuse the hell out of any foreigners that might stumble in to the place so they can do unspeakable things to them with sausages.
We’ve already spent what feels like days walking round the place in a futile attempt to find the centre and it starts to rain so the water fills our shoes and creeps up our trouser legs as far as our pants. A smart woman comes out of an office,
“You’re obviously a lady that speaks good English,” I say, giving her my most winning smile, “We’re looking for a really good restaurant for lunch.”
“What sort of Restaurant?” She says, without troubling the smile muscles.
“Oh I don’t mind: German, Italian, Chinese, Indian, anything really.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know.” She says and walks off!
What the hell was that about?
Eventually we find a reasonable looking place and we’re taken through to a kind of covered courtyard, or shed, at the back. We are seated next to a table of four Austrians who spend the next half hour amusing themselves at our expense and our order is grudgingly taken by the supercilious owner. The food arrives. Mine is a lake of slurry masquerading as Goulash, with some strange and thankfully tasteless things that may be dumplings or they may be potato cakes or, well, who knows what they might be. Jenny has chicken that she thought was fish; and Phil plumps for the safety of indistinguishable cheese wrapped in plastic ham in a pool of ersatz mayonnaise. Service, and I use the term wrongly, is by an obese and surly girl of about twenty five with an I.Q. to match, who tells us they don’t have any beer, they don’t have any coke, and the only wine they have is some fizzy garbage – probably local – the advantage of which, being that at least we won’t have to drink it anywhere else. 5 minutes later she walks past us carrying a tray of beers for some locals in an adjacent shed. It is at this point we decide exactly how small her tip is going to be……..exactly nothing
Here’s a photo of the front of the place so that should you ever find yourself in Krems (and I strongly recommend that you don’t), you won’t be tempted to try it.

Austria's worst restaurant.........So far!






Thurs' 12 th June 2008
We’re camped just 8 miles outside Vienna at a small town called Klosterneuburg – or Colostomy Bag as Phil likes to call it. My arrival here was a triumph of navigation; or it may have simply been that the campsite is right next to the Danube Cycle-path. I cycle through the gates and on my right, I’m delighted to discover, is a bar. The downside to this is that it appears to be full of English football supporters yawping at the telly. I find Myfanwy and Phil tells me I don’t know what I’m on about – England aren’t even in the European Cup. I return to the bar and sure enough; no-one’s been sick and no-one’s dead – they’re Polish – noisy, but jolly. We sit and have a beer to ‘celebrate’ my arrival but my only emotion is a vague feeling of confusion and certainly not one of elation or achievement. Ah well: the beer’s good!
I get a text from Chris and Lucy saying they’ll arrive today which they duly do and I’m very pleased to see them. Brilliant though Phil and Jenny have been, after 3 weeks together it’s really nice to have someone else to talk to.
Fri' 13th June

Well, today is the day. Phil, Jenny and I take the train out to Vienna airport to meet Becky, Neil, Jane, Nick & Jenny off the plane. I'm thrilled to see them all and Becky doesn't let go of me for about an hour. Back in the City we drop off the bags and decide what to do next. I decide I'd like to get the final 8 miles into Vienna over with so I head back out to Klosterneuburg with Chris to put on my kit and collect the bike.





Heading out to the campsite with Chris for the final ride into Vienna
Having forgotten her contact lenses, Becky welcomes me into Vienna WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! Phil and Jenny - no doubt looking forward to some time on their own!Now this may not look much from the outside, but believe me: this is one of the world's great bars!We found it by accident; turning up at about one in the morning. Getting the drinks I noticed someone was eating pizza. Starving, we asked if we could buy some. The girl behind the counter said no, but she could do us a cold meat platter if that would be any good. Well of course it would! The meats are freshly sliced. There are cheeses, breads and olives all accompanied by a very palatable Rioja and do you know; I think we may even have had a second bottle. Ah yes I remember now: we did have a second bottle because I remember seeing it rolling about the table between the fourth and fifth bottles.
“What time do you close?” I ask.
“Four”.
Four! I think for a moment I’ve died and gone to heaven, but then realise I can’t have done – we have to pay for the drinks.
The girl behind the bar is chatty, the customers are chatty too, it all feels a long way removed from the grizzly food and the surly bird that served us in Krems.
We slurred our goodnights and headed back to the hotel. It will come as no surprise that we made a return visit the next night,

I can't believe it: after all these miles here I am, sitting with Becky opposite the university of Vienna where Hans Asperger worked. It's a beautiful day and we're forcing down coffe and cakes in the interests of research. it's hard work, but sadly we have to do it!

Here's Becky researching hard!Here are some more pics I'll write more soon and take a load more pictures but here's a few to be going on with:


Blogging at the cafe.
The palace of Emporor Franz Josef.A rare drinking picture.Another rare drinking picture 'The Strudel Eaters' by David 'Van' Stead.




Team Vienna, on location
WE LOVE VIENNA!

Sunday 15th Jun

This morning Chris and Lucy climbed onto their motorbike and shot off in the direction of Salzburg, and this afternoon the rest of our party: Becky, Neil, Jane, Nick & Jenny, all left for the airport. It was hard, I think for all of us, to say goodbye, and now I’m feeling a little lonely and deflated. Phil, Jenny and I are back at the campsite in Klosternueburg, which is absolutely heaving with football supporters – mostly German – over for the European cup. I think it will be a noisy night! The city of Vienna is also alive with supporters chanting and shouting and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many police in one place, though it’s sometimes hard to tell which are the police since they have extraordinarily varied uniforms and very few of them seem to fit the wearers; often being bunched up at the waist so that they look like so many refuse bags on bin collection day. This, coupled with the fact that they carry guns, makes you feel as though you’ve somehow tipped up in South America.
I think the plan for tomorrow is to follow Chris and Lucy’s example and head out towards Salzburg, listen to a little Mozart, and perhaps, perhaps, get a flight home. I feel that now the job is done; there is little point in my staying on here. I think too that Jenny and Phil would probably like some time to themselves to wander and explore. I’ve often been asked – and indeed wondered myself – how I would feel, if and when I reached Vienna. Would I be happy or sad? Would I have a sense of achievement? I felt none of these things – I felt nothing, except perhaps, something of a fraud when people congratulated me. I don’t know why this should be since I have just cycled from Darlington to Vienna. Maybe it’s because each day was broken down into small chunks: ride to the roundabout, to the next corner, to the house in the distance. So that it never seemed like I was riding a long way; and in my head that’s the way it has remained.
I feel a fraud because I didn’t think about it properly.

Mon 16th June 09.30

We are, albeit in a round- about way, on our way home. We’ve just left Klosterneuburg bound for the main, A1 road to Salzburg on a warm and sunny morning. If there is one thing this trip has done for me, it’s taught me never to buy Satnav; the thing is a menace and my advice would be to get a good map. Whereas with a map, Phil and Jenny only have two way disagreements; with Satnav it becomes a three-way argument: the calm, modulated voice of electronic reason shoving in her twopenny-worth at every juncture:
“In two………hundred metres…turn………left”.
“In three……hundred metres leave the roundabout second……….exit”.
“At the junction keep……..quiet”.
“When leaving toilet wipe……..bottom”.
I may join in later and we can have four part disharmony.
As we drive, the landscape begins to change: after the flat, floodplain of the Danube valley we are now travelling through undulating countryside, possibly the foothills to the foothills of the Alps. The valleys are planted with wheat and corn, and the hillsides are thickly wooded. Dotted around are small villages of Alpine-style houses with steep, red tiled roofs, balconies and colourful window boxes full of Geraniums. Some of the hilltops are surmounted by castles, or ‘schloss’, well sited to keep an eye on the local peasantry and ensure they’re not overindulging in the local bier, or spending to much time at the mirror, snipping away at the bizarre facial hair that seems popular in these parts. Of course they’d have to keep an eye on the men too.
Travelling through Austria in Myfanwy is a very different experience to doing so by bike: the place seems normalised, less foreign; the hills and the character simultaneously ironed out. The emotions so keenly felt as I looked into the eyes of oddly wary villagers when I passed, are now completely absent as we hurtle along the autobahn. The heavily scented, wind rustled woodland I cycled through is now a still from a film or a photograph. We pass Tulln and Krems, we pass Amstetten, where I spent an evening in the hospital, Grein, Mauthausen, Linz, All places I’ve tasted, touched and experienced, now reduced to glimpsed names on roadside signs. The distance between me and home has been massively reduced by the familiarity of the motorway. White Van Man and the Doppler Effect exist here too!
My feeling is one of relief, mixed with regret – I’m at the beginning of understanding that something has been completed.
Now the skyline is saw-edged with distant, cloud touched mountains and we are in a place I don’t know.

Mon 13.50

Driving along the shores of Lakes Attersee & Wolfgangsee, the water is the most spectacular shade of green. The mountains, and bare, vertical rock faces rise to almost 6000ft from the shores and we must drive through a long and brightly lit tunnel in order to continue our journey. This is classic Alpine country as seen on tv.






Tues 17th June Salzburg
My final full day in Austria – I’m getting a flight home at 20.00 tomorrow - Wed. I’ve spent the morning doing my washing and drying and I’m now in a smart café in Salzburg which is one of the few that has wireless internet connection. The young guy that is serving me is excellent and has very good English, the food is fresh and modern – Bruschetta with tomato & cheese, Smoked salmon, prosciutto, and I’ve had coffee and two small beers for 13 euros. What a change from the usual stuff. I’m going for a look around the Altstadt to see what I can see.



Wed 18th June Salzburg

My final day in Austria. We breakfast early and head off in Myfanwy to look at Hellbrunn Palace, a strange and interesting place, it has water gardens which are designed to squirt the unwary.......we all got wet!
Leaving Phil and Jenny to continue their journey was very strange. We'd been together almost a month and in very close proximity. I could think of nothing to say to them that would adaquately convey how gratefull I am for the way they treated me; I still can't. So, once again: Thank you Phil, thank you Jenny. See you when you get back. X X

On the subject of Jenny: as well as thanking her I must also congratulate her on her selfless dedication to researching both German and Austrian cake. Few would have had the stamina and determination to keep going, but keep going she did and I'm sure when she gets round to writing up her findings it will be a learned tome indeed. Here she is outside a cake shop in southern Germany, about to put in a spot of work whilst Phil, ever concious of his figure, refuses to enter the cafe.

And here we see Jenny at her laboursHaving taken on the Austrian Strudel mountain, she was not found wantingThe Austrians have a strange sense of humour, but this was taking things too far: a cruel joke.
Wed 18th June 15.45

So, here I am at Salzburg airport It’s almost four ‘o’ clock and my plane leaves at eight. I’ve already been here for three quarters of an hour and it seems like a week. This is a very tiny airport – one coffee shop and people are smoking in there and no chance of missing the check-in desk. I sit surrounded by people, most of whom are English and who’s average age far exceeds my own, showing that Austria is not a destination sought out by the young – no surprise there!
After aeons of sitting around my flight is called and we all shuffle forward for the humiliation of having our bags emptied in public. I’m also told to remove my belt which is a worrying moment since I’ve lost so much weight my jeans don’t fit any more; I have a vision of myself standing in front of the table containing the detritus of a traveller’s life with my trousers round my ankles.
The flight itself is great: the sky is clear and we skirt the northern edge of the magnificent snow capped Alps; a sight I first saw twenty five yeas ago and which has stayed with me ever since. We turn north, flying over France and the Channel and within no time we are fastening our seat belts for the descent into a cloud covered Gatwick, arriving at 20.50 local time. The journey from Salzburg takes 1hr 50mins. It now takes me 3hrs to cross London and I finally arrive at my friend’s flat at twenty past midnight. Bob bungs a pizza in the oven and we’re soon devouring it with salad and a couple of bottles of red.


Euston: a different pace of life.


Thurs 19th June 12.38

Feeling quite bright this morning considering the long day yesterday; I was up early-ish and I’m now on the train to Leeds – passing through Grantham to be precise. I texted Phil and Jenny this morning and they are enjoying fine weather in Innsbruck which sounds great but I’m glad to be back in England and very much looking forward to getting home.


On the final leg to Leeds

Mauthausen & Meeting Thomas

The whole subject of the war and the holocaust was something I had intended to avoid on this trip (Don’t mention the war) but as I followed the Rhine there were many poignant reminders – sculptures, Plaques, destroyed bridges etc that put me in mind of my own father’s experiences on the push through to Germany in the months after the Normandy landings. As I progressed further south, I became more and more uneasy with the idea of ignoring – glossing over a period with such resonance. Mauthausen had been praying on my mind for some time; in fact ever since I’d realised my route would take me close to, or possibly even through it. Mauthausen was one of the most feared concentration camps of the Nazi regime – a place of grotesque inhumanity where the most appalling treatment was visited upon its inmates; usually resulting in death. I’d talked it over with Becky and decided not to visit the camp, but instead write about my reasons for not doing so. I am of a generation whose fathers fought in the war and so, oddly, the events of sixty years ago seem quite close and personal. I am fully aware of the arch cruelties perpetrated by these unspeakable people and felt that such a visit would be an unnecessary trauma near the end of my journey. As I’ve already said elsewhere on the blog, Mauthausen wasn’t that easy to avoid and seemed to keep dragging me in, but I stuck to my decision and moved on. Holocaust memorial, Judenplatz, Vienna

A few days later and I’m walking through Vienna with Becky and the crew. We enter a beautiful, sunny square surrounded with tall, handsome and richly decorated buildings. There are restaurants with tables and chairs out; people sitting enjoying themselves and a lovely sense of calm. There are many such squares throughout Vienna but this one has a special resonance: It’s the ‘Juden Platz’. At one end, seemingly at odds with the elegance of the square is a kind of bunker – a large concrete cube with double concrete doors at one end – no handles. In the floor, all round the cube are the names of the concentration camps Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald, and of course, Mauthausen, and in front of the doors is an inscription in memory of the 65,000 Austrian Jews murdered by the Nazi’s.
The memorial, by British artist Rachel Whiteread, was unveiled in 2000 and resembles an inside out library, the spines of the books turned inward. I think it sits well in its place, striking the right balance of spatial empathy versus incongruity.
We spend quite some time taking in the enormity of what it represents. Then take a seat outside a café and order a drink, but before it arrives we spot a small gallery in a corner of the square. Becky and I leave the others to their drinks and wander over to take a look. The gallery is closed but the man inside motions to us to wait a minute, then comes to open the door. He’s a man of presence, about 70 years old, with strong features and long, grey/white hair; his name is Thomas. We are to spend the next two hours with Thomas as he takes us on a tour of the gallery and tells us about his life and that of his father – the artist, Adolf Frankl – whose pictures fill the gallery.
Adolf Frankl, along with his family, was arrested in his home town of Bratislava on the night of 28th September 1944 and taken to the railway goods yards, where he was separated from his family and pushed aboard a cattle truck bound for the concentration camp at Sered, Slovakia. Here he survived in appalling conditions and continual fear of transportation under the command of Alois Brunner whom Frankl describes in his writings as a sadist – “I saw how he had people buried alive, and how prisoners were pushed into fires composed of burning Torah rolls”. After several weeks at Sered, Frankl was moved to Auschwitz-Birkenau - a journey he describes as ‘the longest and most awful of my life’ – where he witnessed and experienced many atrocities. By the middle of January 1945 the Allies were advancing on all fronts and the Red Army was closing in on Auschwitz. The order was given to evacuate the camp and the so called, Death March, began. Days of forced marching followed under the most fearful conditions where hundreds died or were shot but somehow, Adolf Frankl survived and was finally liberated in early 1945 by the Red Army.
His wife and children had escaped being incarcerated through a combination of luck and courage and spent the remainder of the war in hiding. As Thomas says: had they not been able to do so he would certainly not have been here to tell the tale.
The paintings bring home the terrible fear and helplessness of this time in a way that photographs can never do – they are witness to the mind’s torment rather than simply that of the body and we are compelled to share in that experience – ‘Shades of the prison-house begin to close about us’. For many nights after witnessing Adolf Frankl’s paintings, my dreams were filled with his images brought to life – I spent my sleeping hours with him in Auschwitz – Birkenau - proof surely of the work’s power, and ironically, in the end, this was every bit as disturbing and thought provoking as visiting any concentration camp. Probably for me, more so.
Meeting Thomas Frankl was a great pleasure and a privilege and I send him my regards through this blog. All images are shown with the kind permission of Thomas Frankl

You can view more pictures and there is more reading at http://www.artforum.judenplatz.at/ or better still go to vienna and, if possible, talk to Thomas.

Back in Lycra

I’m preparing for the moment when I have to slip back into the lycra. I don’t have to do any cycling (well, a few yards for the cameras at most) but I have to make my triumphant appearance at the Education Village on Tuesday, with bike and all the kit.
I’d prefer to do the cycling bit and not wear the kit but apparently they want the whole package (if you’ll pardon the pun). The thing is: I look ludicrous in lycra; everybody does, but me more than most. I thought of ringing the school and pleading with them for the sake of the children but it’s no use….Dame Della has decreed bike and kit so bike and kit she must have. I think she’s forgotten what I looked like when I turned up last time for the ride – several children went into hysterics, two newly qualified teachers fainted and then gave up teaching for good, and the school’s much loved goldfish drowned.
Well, I’ve lost weight since then – I look like so many bits of piano wire stretched over a broom handle. I remember when I crossed the Humber Bridge in high winds, the suspension wires were making a deep humming noise. If I stand out in the wind I’ll probably set up a high pitched whine and shatter the school windows.
My bike came back to the UK on the back of Myfanwy and is now in Devon so Martin at Kudu Bikes has offered to lend me another one for the day, which is a double cause for worry – firstly I might fall off and damage it. And secondly and more likely, he’ll lend me something I’ll want to keep ‘cause I’m sucker for shiny new bits of metal.

Return of the Native

Dame Della Smith welcoming me back to the Village and at the same time trying to make off with my bike.I’m feeling ever so slightly foolish cycling round and round a housing estate waiting for Becky to give me the signal; well you do don't you? We’re waiting for the TV and radio people to set up their gear so I can ride into the Education Village as a symbolic end to the trip. The only thing is, I’ve been up and down the same road several times now and the three blokes fixing their car are beginning to give me the - evisceration with a tyre lever would be too good for you - look; so, not being overly fond of offal I decide that a change of scene might be good for me. The problem is: when I eventually get the call from Becky, I’m half way across the county. By the time I get back to the Village I’m sweating and panting and I’m sure many of the children think I’ve just cycled back from Vienna, which, incidently, some of them believe to be in Australia - Now that would be an impressive ride!
A countdown begins when I cycle through the front gates and then cheering and clapping but I’m barely aware of it as I’m in a self-made cocoon – my mind is concentrating fiercely on getting through the next few minutes – so much so that as I draw up to the Alpha Radio stand, there’s a moment of near disaster for me, and no doubt endless hilarity for everyone who knows me - I forget to unclip my pedals and very nearly crash to the ground in front of a hundred or so children and staff and the Tyne Tees Evening News. Phew!
I do a radio interview and the TV camera is in my face and the children surround me asking questions. My mind is saying, “Keep calm, keep calm.” And I do, and I begin to enjoy it. The children are much more interested than I expected and they seem to have made the project their own which is what I’d hoped for.

Dame Della isn't giving up, but Martin Lowes of Alpha radio is on hand to helpFifteen minutes later and I’m hopping about a classroom cupboard, trying to change out of my cycling clothes. It is only as my hitherto successful attempts to remain perpendicular fail, and I crash to the ground like a poleaxed moose, I realise that the pair of trousers I’m trying to get my leg into are in fact not mine, but those of a six year old – I’ve got the wrong bag.
Reunited with my own- and it has to be said - eminently more suitable trouserings, Becky and I swing along to the children’s party, but in common with one or two of the children, I find it too noisy, so after accepting the kind donation of a bike to raffle from Alpha Radio, I make a quick speech and leave.

Quo Vadis?

So: what next? The fundraising will continue, so if you’ve found some spare change down the back of the sofa cushions, please send it in; but what of the blog? I’ve sort of got used to writing it now but of course Darlington to Vienna is over. It’s finished, completed, at an end. Who am I writing for now; is there anybody out there? Knock three times on cyberspace if there’s anyone there. If one of the first stages of madness is talking to yourself, then where along the line of looniness does writing to yourself crop up? I’m not even sure my own family read this stuff and of course, quite a few of them have died; even further reducing my potential readership.
If only my parents had had me when they were younger – not only would they have still been around to read this, but there would have been legions of aunts and uncles too.
The children are on holiday at the moment, so I might try bribing them to read the blog and if that doesn’t work it will have to be force. Phil described some torture implements he’d seen in a schloss in Salzburg and I think with a little modification…….

As you may have noticed, I’ve altered the blog’s format so that now it loads from the top – ok, so I’m a slave to convention but I reckon it probably works better and I should have done it earlier.
I have a belated meeting with the Worshipful Mayor of Darlington this afternoon so I’ve just spent half an hour riffling through my wardrobe to find something to wear, but there’s a snag – nothing fits me anymore. I was hardly Charles Atlas when I set out on this trip, but now I look like a split pin – if the wind gets up, it fills my shirt like a spinnaker and I’ve all-on to stop myself ending up in Lancashire. And people keep saying:
“Oooo you have lost weight; there’s nothing left of you”. And I go into the: lifting the shirt and showing them the thrice scarred belt buckle routine, and the fact that my jeans are rucked up like the blowy end of a balloon. So why is it ok for these folk to tell me I’m skinny and yet if I say “Wow, you’ve bloated up since I’ve been away”, they get a bit tetchy and go and talk to someone else?
Anyway, I hope the mayor doesn’t see this afternoon’s meeting as a photo opportunity because I will be turning up looking like a refugee

New Blog

I have a new blog at http://www.throughthegallerywindow.blogspot.com/

Perception

The scope for misunderstanding and acrimonious squabbling on this strange trip was vast. A pair of eccentrics and a depressive-Aspergic-artist cheek by jowl in a camper van for a month in the rain; throw Sat-Nav and the fact that I’m cycling upwards of 80 miles a day in to the mix and the potential must surely be explosive. That we only seriously lost each other the once is a miracle on a par with anything Jesus knocked up to entertain his mates. There occurred a series of coincidences so bizarre as to be almost unbelievable: at the end of each day, in the middle of Holland or Germany or Austria we bumped into each other by accident! Yes we did!
Each morning we would tell each other where we were going to be at the end of the day but of course we none of us believed each other. We would then make every effort to avoid going to the place we had nominated and yet – and yet, at the end of each day we would catch site of each other across a crowded Aldi car park or bump into each other at a roadside café.
The truth is of course that there was a good deal of misunderstanding: I couldn’t understand why Phil would say “We’ll meet you at the car park next to the supermarket on the main A8 Passau road out of Vilshofen when my perception was that of a cyclist – Main roads, supermarkets and car parks were things to avoid and certainly not meeting places. Phil on the other hand couldn’t understand that I’d be keen to meet at the most obvious landmark in view – usually a church or Dom in the centre of a village, town or city. Surely, my thinking went, this would be ideal – the likelihood is that the cycle path will pass close by and I can ride right up to the gaff. I can shower and change in Myfanwy and we will be surrounded with everything we need: cafés, bars, shops etc. Perfect!
Phil’s reluctance to accede to this view, a complete mystery to me at the time, was probably based on the fact that a) he would have to drive into a town/city centre, b) he would have to find somewhere to park and c) the road he had nominated headed in the direction of that night’s campsite.
So, at the end of each day, and sometimes at lunchtime too, there was often a period of tight lipped, eye avoiding silence which in my case was meant to convey: “Phil, though I understand your problems (I didn’t), at the end of a long day’s cycling I’d rather not have to cycle beyond what has, in my mind, become the destination; i.e. that effing great spire!
And there is the problem: once I have it in my mind that a certain place is the day’s finishing point it is very difficult for me to go beyond it; not because of any physical restriction but rather, an inflexibility of thought process. It affects everyday ‘normal’ life every bit as much, causing anxiety when there are unforeseen changes to plans or routines; an Aspergic trait which I’m aware is a part of my makeup but at the same time am reluctant to admit is immutable.

Day off......Gone fishing.

I first spot him from high up on the bank: the telltale ‘Glop’ and the widening rings betraying his position, and now I approach him slowly and quietly. Feeding trout always face upstream, allowing them to expend minimum effort in catching their food as it floats down to them and so I wade cautiously upstream towards his Lie. The river bed is stony and I’m careful where I place my feet so as to make as little noise as possible. A Dipper zips past and sits on a nearby rock, his brilliant white chest bobbing up and down, and my fish rises again, further giving away his position. I select my fly, tie him on and pull out a length of line, and now I wait.
The river is at its most exciting and vibrant at this time of year: insects abound and the birds and the fish make the most of that bounty. Wagtails indulge in acrobatic displays plucking midges and mayflies out of mid air to feed their young and occasionally a thrilling glimpse of the Kingfisher – a flash of dazzling refraction to rival anything in nature.
Another rise, slightly further from the bank than before, and I put a couple of practice casts out, all the while lengthening my line. Finally I allow my fly to alight on the water a metre or so in front of the last rise and it floats down to where I hope my fish is holding water - nothing. A couple more casts and he rises again; further to the right this time. My fly has barely touched the water and bang! He’s on. I tighten into him and he sets off upstream heading for the cover of overhanging trees. My rod arcs and I turn him back into mid-stream, all the while hoping not to lose him. The line goes slack. Damn! Has he gone? I take in quickly and realise he’s still there; now he’s off downstream like a rocket towards the fast, shallow water and I tighten into him again, slowing his progress. It takes a good 5 or 6 minutes to get him over my landing net but eventually he’s in – a beautiful wild Brownie and at home I cook him in butter, lemon juice and lemon thyme…….and make a complete pigs ear of it.

Cakes & Ale

‘So........!’ Many people have been asking. ‘What was it like?’
What was it like? Well, to be truthful, I don’t really know what it was like. There doesn’t seem to be an ‘it’……more of a they, or them, and they were all different. Should I at this point cite the curate’s egg?
“Oh it was great”. I say. Then immediately picture myself pedalling for mile after mile with rain and snot running down my face; wishing I were anywhere else but here. Or:
“It was agony!” And then I see myself sitting in a sunlit square in Regensburg or Passau; Whoofing down chunks of cake the size of Herman Goering’s suitcase, whilst whipped cream sticks to my nose and tee-shirt.
What I do know is that I’m glad to be home. I’ve been back for a week now, though it only seems like a couple of days and you know............. I don’t really like cake; I'm more of a Wiesbier kind of bloke.
I’m catching up with everything that has gone on here since I left – they’ve knocked the petrol station down in order to build a petrol station and the local florist, who sells plastic flowers, is closing down – well they last so long don't they! The council have blocked off most of the roads in the city to facilitate the building of a supermarket that no-one wants and there was a letter waiting for me on my desk from a local councillor, offering me the opportunity to contribute a ‘minimum of £50’ towards printing some leaflets to say the city is still open for business…….I should coco!
So the pace of life here is marginally quicker than that of rural Austria, which raced towards the 21st century, pulled over for a fag in 1958 and then forgot which direction it was heading in. And talking of fags: boy can they smoke over there! Neither Germany nor Austria have introduced the smoking restrictions we have here, which came as a surprise; usually the rest of Europe strides confidently ahead and we follow on, kicking stones, dragging our feet in the dust and sulking, but for once we’re ahead of the game. It really does feel odd, sitting in a restaurant with people sucking away at the Marlborough full strength all around you; and I thought the days of coming home from the pub reeking of smoke were long gone but no; these delights are alive and coughing on the banks of the Rhine and Danube.

Hunter home from the hill.

Home at last and though I went to some lovely places - particularly Vienna - it feels great. The house seems strange to me and I have to walk into all the rooms to look and familiarise myself with them again. Everything is refreshed and new. I can even see my paintings with a fresh eye. Whilst I was away I don't think I gave the house or the gallery a moments thought so it's only tentatively that familiar things present themselves to me.

Friends on the other hand have been far from tentative and it has been a great joy to see everyone again; particularly those who flew out to Vienna to see me......So here they all are: Nick, Jenny, Chris, Lucy, Jane and Neil. We're all hoping to have a proper get together soon with Jenny and Phil, but I think they're lost somewhere in France, following instructions from the Sat-nav so we may, or may not, see them before next Whitsuntide.

And most missed of all of course.........t'missusNot forgetting Frantz, who kindly gave me a lift home from the station in Leeds. Thanks mate.