Boxing Day was almost a day off. We finally did that thing we always say we’re going to do at Christmas, and that’s to go for a long walk. We used to haul ourselves away from excess on one day over the festive season and waddle and burp our way up a hillside, but we’ve not done it for years. Not until the Feast of Stephen, when all we had planned was the concert in the late afternoon, and, according to the spreadsheet we had “Tour guide Harry…” for the day, and a list of places to see, most of which we had seen yesterday.

Tour Guide Harry was quite happy to lounge in bed and drink coffee, but we finally got our various acts together and headed out into the cold for a decent walk. We’d been averaging eight to ten miles a day simply walking from one place to another, from one hotel to another, or the length of a train looking for the WC, and we were to add a fair few more miles that day.

From Wenceslas Square down to the river and across in the startlingly clear and icy morning. Calm river, water birds, a demonstration on the riverbank, incredible architecture, along one side of the river, over again and into the Jewish Quarter via the Rudolfinum concert hall and the commemorative statue to liberty. Then, back towards the centre of the Old Town to take another sideways glance at the Christmas market, which was about 90% food, so not much good if you were looking for local arts and crafts. Of course, we were visiting these places at the busiest time of the winter season, so you can’t complain about crowds, and I’ve already said, it was slightly quieter than when we’d been at Easter. Even so, it was good to get off the main roads now and then and take a look at what lay behind. For example, we saw the famous hanging-out man, which is David Černý’s Statue of Sigmund Freud. Beyond giving you that info, I can be of no help.

We also went to see a statue that wasn’t there. This had happened before, when H and I went to find Mládí, the famous statue of Youth at Prague Castle. It used to be there beside the Toy Museum, and it was famous because the bronze had weathered to a natural, almost-black colour, apart from the young man’s tackle, which was dazzlingly shiny thanks to the hands of hundreds of people who’d grabbed his nuts for luck. (Thiers and his, I imagine.) When Neil and I were there in 2015, I remember a queue of giggling Asian girls and a couple of burly lorry driver types waiting their turn. When H and I went to see him last time, he had gone. Same this time. He had been removed in 2016 as part of renovation work and never returned. He’s in the city art depository now, no doubt recounting his tales of grappling girls and dubious lorry drivers to Don Giovanni.

Why Don Giovanni? Because he’s missing too. We walked to the Estate’s theatre, where H and I had seen ‘The Magic Flute’ back in 2023, and where there had been a sculpture depicting Don Giovanni (which was first performed at that theatre on the 29th of October 1787). Now, that too has gone. I mean, what next? No Irish pubs?

What is it with Irish pubs and European cities? We found a few in other places too. Not complaining, because Czech beer is Czech beer no matter where you have it, and the menus were great. I was just wondering.

We ended up in one or two that Boxing Day as we went a-wandering looking for missing works of art. Jenine and Harry went to a beer museum while we had lunch and did some more wandering as the sun started to set, met up with the others to look at the place H and I stayed last time, to see the Cat Café from outside (yes, it caters for stray cats and cat lovers), and to make our way to the concert.

Guess who was in the ensemble? Dagmar, again on the viola. The day before, we’d heard her solo Paganini’s Caprice number 24 in A minor (that’s The South Bank Show tune) which, in parts, looks like this:

Now, she was helping the others along with O Come All Ye Faithful, but once the carols were done, they launched into many other classical pieces, we had a mezzo sing for us, and we had the titular organist play for us. The net says about him: The titular organist of the St. Salvator Church in Prague’s Klementinum complex is Robert Hugo, a noted specialist in historical organs and Baroque music who has held this role since the 1990s, frequently performing at concerts held in the Klementinum’s famous Mirror Chapel. So, there you go.

I think, that night, he was in rather a hurry to be somewhere else, for after helping out with a couple of early numbers, he dashed of Bach’s Toccata and Fuge in D minor, and had practically shut up the organ and collected his papers while still holding the final pedal D. That done, he was off – but it was a wonderful concert, and wonderful to see H’s face when the organ began – and it was only a chapel instrument, I reminded him. Imagine what the cathedral ones sound like. Hopefully, one day, he’ll hear one in full throat, feel the air vibrate throughout a cathedral, and appreciate the power of mechanics and music in harmony.

Before that, though, food. We headed to the Wet Beaver for dinner. That was the restaurant where we’d drawn looks three years ago by discussing the river rats, aka, wet beavers, and H wanted to return there. It was just around from where we stayed before, and the food was good. Mind you, by then, I was reduced to pea soup and some slices of cheese as I’d already had Irish bangers and mash. Still, it was another memorable dinner followed by a slow walk back to the mansion apartment ahead of packing for the next day’s journey. This one promised to be a right old adventure, and it was certainly that, as you will find out tomorrow.

Meanwhile, as Tony Heart used to say, here’s the gallery.

Share on Facebook

Christmas morning comes, and the house creaks gradually into life. It never fails to impress me how teenagers can sleep for 12 hours and still be silent until after their first feeding. I’m sure when I was 18, I was up at six every day, even if I hadn’t gone to bed until after midnight. I only once remember waking up at ten one morning, as fresh as a model in a senna pod advert, and thinking I’d missed half the day. However, as much as the teen wants to lie in, today is Christmas Day, and we have two appointments booked.

There are to be no presents this Christmas because the whole trip is our present to each other and ourselves. Having said that, Neil paid for the Venice gondola as a gift, and I’ve done the same with our first appointment today. But that’s not going to happen unless we get on the road, so after breakfast of eggs on toast, coffee for the caffeine junkies and tea for me and H (I brought a zip-lock bag of proper tea donated to the expedition by Colette), we set off into zero degrees to find the nearest stop for tram #22.

I should mention that H and I had been to Prague in 2023, and for the next few days, H was mainly in charge of routes and ascents because he had been there before. This is how we knew to search out the ticket machine on the tram, so as to avoid fines. Not that there was any sign of anyone checking. The trams were already busy at nine in the morning, mainly with eager tourists like us and people heading to work. One of the reasons for choosing Prague for Christmas Day was that everything is open. Shops, sights, restaurants, concert halls; nothing, it seems, sleeps, so there is always something to do.

In our case, it was a tram across the river pointing out places we’d been to on our previous visit (Petrin Tower, Observatory, Museum of Music, an Irish pub…), and getting off just below the climb to the castle. There’s a walk up a few hundred steps to reach the top, but hey, we know about steps, especially those of us without transport, so that was no problem. All the same, by the time I reached the top, I was dripping with sweat despite the freezing weather.

There was much ‘Remember this?’ and ‘When I came here in 1783…’ and so on, as all of us had been to the city before, and having been more recently than the others, H and I knew the modern score. A quick glance at the changing of the guard at the Presidential Palace (only the quick change, not the full-drag version), and on to the security barriers now in place at the entrance to the castle grounds.

This is another sad reflection of first-world affluence. Security guards at heritage sites, human traffic restrictions, queues, extra payments to enter cities because we’re gradually eating away at our own world from its resources to things we’ve built from them, and everyone’s an Instagram influencer. I’m sure a large percentage of tourists only visit places to be seen to have been there and to show off the fact on their ‘socials.’

‘What did you think of Prague?’
‘It got me 2k more views.’
‘Yes, but the culture?’
‘Hmm? The what now?’

[Inserts a range of emojis from ‘meh’ to ‘vomit’ and moves on.]

We took a look at St Vitus Cathedral from the outside, and the others went up the tower.

I wasn’t part of the summit party. I tried, but the irrational fear of falling from a great height, plus a little claustrophobia on the two-way, narrow tower stairs, sent me back to the courtyard. There, I sat like Bernie Sanders, wrapped in my overcoat, hat and gloves, minding my own while they scaled the heights.

After that, onwards through the grounds to the Lobkowicz Palace just as it opened, for an hour admiring the private collection of art, china, music memorabilia, including some original scores by the greats, and other interesting cultural things… Such as?

Well, there was a fascinating display of Botulinum toxin housed in an alarming number of lips and trout pouts. Overcome Asian girls photographing every single exhibit to death, people posing by the piano (oops), and a few appreciatives cooing over the Canalettos.

And onwards to take our front row seats in the music room for a lunchtime concert. These happen all the time in Prague, it seems. You can’t help but stumble across members of the Czech National Symphony Orchestra or the Dvořák Symphony Orchestra popping into a baroque concert hall to dash off a few numbers before heading off to their next venue. In this case, we had a wonderful hour of flute, piano and the viola, which was played by a lady called Dagmar Mašková, a member and Deputy Section Leader of the Prague Philharmonia, who would turn up again in our near future. They usually play the old faves, the ones everyone knows such as, ‘That thing by Mozart, and the lovely bit from Orpheus in His Underwear. Oh, and that one… you know, it goes like…. We used to call it Old Father Thames, but not the music hall song version…’ (‘Moldau’ by Smetana.’ The bit you’ll recognise starts at 1.08 on this YouTube version.)

I’ve found that always included in their programmes is something slightly more obscure. In this case, it was a Pavane by Ravel I’d never before heard arranged for a trio. Gorgeous. The last time, with H, when we attended a similar concert in the same place, it was a piece by Jan Jiří Benda (not a made-up name) that struck me. Look up his violin sonata and, particularly, the Grave. Here’s a YouTube link. Goosebumps.

(Hint: It’s not us in the front row.)

Side note: Back in 1995 or ’96, Kiwi Bernie and I had visited Prague on our drive around Europe. We pulled up at an accommodation agency on the outskirts, secured a room for two nights at a cost of £6.00, and found it at the end of a tram line. We also found it used to be a borstal or similar, because the bedroom (cell) door was nine inches of iron and steel with a grille protecting a 14 x 5 room containing nothing but two single beds, and the showers were a shared and heavily tiled chamber reminiscent of an army barracks or British boarding school. On the plus side, our £6.00 included breakfast in a room heavy with doilies, fancy china, and psychedelic wallpaper. The lady of the house, aka, the warden, would not let us leave until we had finished six courses of traditional Czech fare. Waddling off, we took the tram into town, visited one traditional market not made for tourists because that was all there was, and later, believe it or not, had a three-course very late lunch (with wine), before stumbling upon a concert performance of Mozart’s Requiem in the Church of Our Lady in front of Týn. Accommodation aside, we spent the equivalent of £10.00 between us that day. How times have changed since the years immediately following the Velvet Revolution.

Moving on. After the concert, we toddled off down the hill to find Harry’s wet beaver.

Now, this takes a little explaining, but to cut a long-haired beaver short, they’re not beavers, they’re a variation thereof, a big water rat, a coypu creature also called a Nutella… No, that’s not right, a Hygena, no, that was a kitchen… Nutria, that’s it. It sounds like another treatment for constipation, but is, in fact, an animal. Three years ago, we came across them, and at dinner that night, the teen, then only 15, announced to the restaurant that he’d seen his first beaver, and it was wet.

The less said, the longer the gag runs for, and it’s still running three years later.

On Christmas Day, the Charles Bridge was less crowded than it had been on Easter Day (during our last visit), and we did the obligatory sightseeing, took the photos, and did the marvelling as we crossed, and again, were grateful for the weather. Cold, yes, but bright blue sky, no wind, rain, hail, frogs, plagues or snow. (That would come later).

We took a wander among the old buildings and streets, did some posing in various locations, and came across a man selling tickets to concerts at the Klementinum. This is “Prague’s second-largest building complex after Prague Castle and houses the most beautiful library in the world.” The concert was for the following afternoon, and if we came at 17.00, we would hear the ensemble performing with the organ. If we came at 19.00, it would be an ensemble and a piano. Well, we’d done that, and although we’d been admiring them, H had never heard a pipe organ in action, and although the tickets for the best seats were €56.00 each (gone are the days of £10.00 for the day), I thought, ‘It’s Christmas,’ and, probably thanks to a recent beer or two in an Irish pub, set about jovially haggling with the chap. Between me and a total stranger beside us who joined the routine, we got the price down to more of an ‘It’s only money’ level, and secured us gallery seats for the next afternoon. More on that tomorrow.

For today, we are still wandering the streets towards our next destination. Night has come early, the shopfronts are warmly glittering, the smell of chimney cake and sugar are in the air, and the sounds of all languages and occasional Christmas music roll between the awe-inspiring architecture. Harry, of course, is in awe of the cars, until there we are, by the river at the second appointment. This is another of those ‘must do’ attractions in Prague, not least of all because it involves food.

Here we go again, but this time, for H’s grandma, who I know is reading this and who might not have seen this video before. Back in 2023, H and I did a similar trip up and down part of the river at night, only on a larger boat than we took this time. I was enamoured of the horseradish sauce, though I found it a little hot. I suggested that the next time I took some, I only took what my grandmother used to refer to as ‘a suspicion.’ A soupçon.

The scene unfolds…

Sorry about the blurred bits. My eyes were watering.

Meanwhile, back to the present day (the day on which you give presents, get it?). Never mind. Christmas Day ended with a dinner on a boat, with sightseeing from up top for those who were brave enough, laughter, chatter, and a bracing walk home.

The Gallery

This one’s a mix of my photos and some from the others, but I can’t remember which is whose, or whose is which, but they should give you an idea.

Share on Facebook

It’s Thursday morning as I write this in readiness for tomorrow. The wind is howling somewhat, the sea is grey and troubled, the Patmos is currently still in the Saronic Gulf, but at least it is on its way, and it’s due into Symi tonight at 19.30, instead of yesterday morning – news of which will be of no use to anyone reading this. I’m just catching you up with my Symi news as I sit here in my dressing gown, sniffing and coughing, but getting on with it. This warm, wet and windy weather is forecast to stay with us off and on until after the weekend, during which time, I must finish off these travel tales. Which brings me neatly onto the next one.

Today, because this is a shorter and rather dull text compared to the others, let’s start with a bonus picture. The bear I was talking about yesterday.

To Prague on an unusual Christmas Eve
The itinerary of this trip had been spreadsheeted to death, and the column of ‘Main Event’ for the sixth day of the journey read, ‘Travel. Travel. Soup in a bread roll and beer. Melody Apartment, Prague.’

It was a day for being on the move, and, thanks to the preplanning, it all went smoothly. The 10.07 from Salzburg to Linz – on time. Half an hour or so to wait in Linz. Onward 11.45 to Prague, a 3.45-hour journey where it was possible to see the countryside and culture change outside the window.

From the industrial sites on the edge of Salzburg, and stops with Teutonic sounding names, to flat landscape, snow, and changing architecture.

There was plenty of time for eating, much to the delight of at least one member of the party, so the day began with breakfast aboard. This involved shopping in Salzburg station for anything that would go with apple strudel, and enough supplies to see us through the long journey, which was to be a total of nearly six hours from station to station to station accommodation.

During the journey (I forget what train we were on, but it was before Christmas Day), we had Christmas carols playing on Jenine’s phone. We were in our own compartment, like old-fashioned corridor trains had, so we weren’t disturbing anyone, and there was no chance of being told off by a bullying Italian as it wasn’t a quiet carriage anyway. Whatever, this gave Neil and I the opportunity to present a little present. Having found Michael Bauble’s version of Silent Night on the phone, it played and we signed along in BSL. We’d only learnt the second verse the night before, so that was a bit touch and go, but we managed. Then, all four of us learnt the first verse, and from then on, every time we heard it playing throughout our journey, at least one of us would sign along.

[Here’s the link to the YouTube video we learnt from. Apart from anything else, it’s lovely to watch.]

There’s not much else to tell you about this day, which was the most un-Christmasy Christmas Eve I’ve yet encountered. It was easy to forget what day it was, not because of doing too much in a short time, but because the day didn’t matter.

Since moving to Symi in 2002, we have spent every Christmas bar two with the logical family, and over the years, a Christmas Eve routine has evolved. The day usually starts with last-minute purchases of wine, sherry, port, and other unnecessary extras, and the last-minute gathering of presents. Around midday, to save too much haulage on Christmas Day, we’d shuffle off to Jenine’s house ladened with bags of gifts, games and bottles. There, we’d sit at the table en famille, peeling potatoes, making stuffing with the boys (not a euphemism), wrapping bacon around sausages (nor is that), and keeping an eye on Neil so he doesn’t throw the sprouts in the bin. Later, in the afternoon, we’d wobble home to watch a Christmas film (either Polar Express or Die Hard), and wake the next morning to do it all again with more excess.

This Christmas Eve morning passed by in a blur of railway stations, views and later, snow. I have to admit, we were ladened with bags, and weighted down with shopping before we reached our rented apartment not far from Wenceslas Square in Prague, so that could have been construed as Christmas Eve-ish, but what a place it was.

New to the dreaded Airbnb market, the owners had given us a special price, and what we had in return was outstanding. I made a video, but the soundtrack isn’t suitable for sensitive ears, so walk with me…

A security number to enter the lobby, a key to operate the lift up five floors. Enter the apartment through a secure door to find a hat stand… A Hat stand! My Hiker had a home.

A long hallway full of cupboards, and a double bedroom with a bathroom opposite. (Heated towel rails – I’ve just ordered a small one for home.) Then, we come to a dining/sitting room with a table large enough for eight, a large TV, a fully-equipped kitchen, including baffling coffee machine and dishwasher, a sofa bed made up for our fifth member who couldn’t make the trip, and plenty of heating. Then, a second wing with a huge bedroom and en suite bathroom, and all kitted out in a modern, elegant way. We could want for nothing in this place, and we soon made ourselves at home. It became Christmasy when Jenine blew up an 18” inflatable Christmas tree from Temu and plonked it on a random table.

The only thing on the to-do list that evening was a pre-booked meal, because turning up on the doorstep in such places on Christmas Eve would only lead to disappointment. In this case, we saved the ‘Soup in a bread roll and beer’ for another day (when we would include an appropriate comma), because we hadn’t been able to advance book a restaurant close by that served it, and so, we had an Indian meal at an atmospheric and well-designed basement restaurant not far from the apartment. Apart from Jenine leaving her new and much cherished bobble hat there (or losing it on the way home), everything was wonderful and dandy.

As was the cold walk back among more twinkling lights. I think we watched a film… Or was that before going out? I know we moved the dining table, and at one point, us three blokes were camped out on the sofa bed having a laugh about something, and it was below zero outside, but it didn’t matter, and there were no potatoes to peel, and no sprouts to guard. All was well, and we were looking forward to our two Christmas Day treats – which I will talk about next week.

The Gallery

So that you have something to view over the weekend, the gallery today includes some images that Neil took with a real camera. There are more somewhere, and these are mainly Innsbruck, but among today’s gallery photos, you will see: Jenine’s bobble hat (before it went missing on Christmas Eve), the hideous but award-winning funicular railway station, Santas in gondolas in Venice, a lot of snow, and cathedral details. Enjoy your browse, and have a good weekend.

Share on Facebook

You know, it’s a good job I’ve got all this to talk about because, apart from Epiphany yesterday, there’s not much going on in Symi right now. Not that I would have seen it had there been. It’s windy, cloudy, sometimes wet, not too cold, I’m pleased to say, but still, not even the Rainbow Bar is open. Although other places are, it’s that staying-in time of year for me. Which gives me time to continue wittering about the recent trip. I hope you are keeping up.

Innsbruck to Salzburg

All but four of our 15-day trip began with a journey. Innsbruck was no different, except the usual order of breakfast, pack, railway station became pack, breakfast, railway station, because rather than pay €14.00 each extra at the hotel, we used a local café. Harry was, by eight o’clock, twitching for a caffe Frodo, or whatever a shot of caffeine with watery ice is called, but could we find one in Italy? No. Could we find one in Austria? Nein. Not even in our little café, where they hid us and our 10 bags of luggage around a corner.

Cosy breakfast done, we waddled towards the railway station like refugees bearing our entire world, through the cold morning, to another cold, but always interesting railway platform. I’ve never used a Greek overland train (not even the one on Symi), but I’ve used trains in the UK, which, in my experience, have always been hit or miss. My journeys with various companies there, and even good old British Rail, have either been as smooth as you like, or as tedious, delayed, crammed, and as filthy as you wouldn’t like. The stations themselves were never very helpful either, but in Austria, and other parts of Europe, there’s this thing called Customer Care, or Passenger Thoughtfulness, in this case. Not only is the displayed information accurate, and not only are the trains (usually) on time, but there is also a guide showing you where to stand on the platform. You are here, and carriage 233 will stop there… So, you can be in the right place when the train pulls in. Very helpful for us bag people, and helpful and more efficient for the train company too – fewer delays.

Nice. Of course, the surrounding views of mountains and ski slopes add to the charm. I mean, it’s not Folkestone, is it?

Our train, this Christmas Eve eve, left precisely at 10.16 and took us north through more scenery none of us had seen before, to arrive in Salzburg at 12.03 as promised. From there, it was another case of following the bouncing puffer jacket through streets broad and narrow until we reached our hotel not far from the station. In other words, it wasn’t among the Old Town and Christmas markets on the other side of the river, but somewhere quieter and more unused. A working district, if you like, and I don’t mean for workers of the night, but for offices. It was also the first hotel so far to not allow an early check-in, so we dumped the bags and headed straight out for some Mozartian adventures.

Well, for some sightseeing of the ‘must do’, like the Mirabell Palace Gardens famous for that Sound of Music fountain moment. [Inserts yawn emoji] We viewed it through the railings, as we were in a hurry to find food for the teen before it erupted, and so, after the obligatory pic, a little tram spotting, and after crossing the river, we came to the part of Salzburg famous for commercialism. In other words, the Christmas market.

When I last visited Salzburg with my Kiwi friend, Bernie, back in 1995 (or ‘96), we entered the Cathedral Square to find only a few people outside a café and a duo busking under the arches. They were singing duets from The Magic Flute, and it felt as though we had the town to ourselves, even though this was late September. This time, to reach the square, we weaved through hordes of people, past glittery shops selling all manner of things you never knew you wanted until you saw them, and stopped for lunch in one of the few places that had free tables. After another local feast (I think sausages were involved), we continued, and entered the square not to the sounds of Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen, but to the sound of something ‘pop’ blaring from a live radio broadcast beside the cathedral. This was backed by the chatter of a thousand people, and the screams of delight and otherwise of twice that many children. Wading through, we gazed dazed on the live broadcast stage and whatever was going on, and like many persecuted before us, took sanctuary in the cathedral (where Mozart had been an organist when a teenager – but only after breakfast, I suspect).

The cathedral is dedicated to Saint Rupert and Saint Vergilius, which is lovely because they don’t get many dedications – not even played for them in the live radio broadcast. This time, H and I looked at each other, knowing the routine, and I suggested we go together. Passing through the narthex, we took the nave to the transept, there to stop, agree the spot, and turn to see the organ. The cathedral actually has seven, which seems a little greedy, but also rather delicious, just like the main instrument. Which we admired, before viewing other interesting things and moving on.

It was at this point in the trip that educational side quests came into play.

My motivation for revisiting Salzburg was to take my piano student to the place where Mozart was born, and I mean, the very room. For Jenine and Neil, it was something far more cerebral and industrious, worthy and technical: an apple strudel baking class.

Our party divided at this point, each pair with their own side quest to accomplish, and Harry and I set off towards Getreidegasse 9, otherwise known as ‘The Mozart Birth House.’ This, to me, sounds rather too functional; as if it is still in use as a public facility. ‘Husband! The child comes. Haste! We must away to the Birth House.’ (Bequeathed by Mozart for the good burghers of Salzburg.)

Again, on my last visit here, Bernie and I wandered in from a street with few shops and fewer pedestrians, paid our tuppence to a lady at a wobbly table in a courtyard, and took the stairs up to the apartment. There, with two other couples, we admired the little there was to see, stood in the very room, and wandered out again. Simple.

This time, I was able to secure tickets in advance through the phone, and had them electronically delivered while I was on the loo. So, that was taken care of, and just as well, because the ‘attraction’ was popular. However, showing the lady (now in a glass booth with a heater and coffee) your phone is easier than using cash, and apparently saves trees while feeding Chinese hackers. The process, though, was made farcically complicated by the Greek electricity company, ΔΕΗ. For weeks, they had been plaguing me with phone calls at inconvenient times, so I had done a lot of ignoring. They’d tried me when I was in Rhodes, eating, then again during the transfer in Athens, and even when I was sightseeing in Verona. I’d become adept at forgetting about them, thinking I would deal with them on my return.

So, there I am, phone out, showing the lady the first ticket, and scrolling down to find the second when a thing pops up on the screen. It’s only the bleedin’ ΔΕΗ, isn’t it? I press the button to turn it off, while apologising to the nice lady, and the queue building behind me, but somewhere, a voice starts jabbering in Greek.

‘You answered,’ Harry tells me.
‘Well, how do I turn it off?’
I’m pressing buttons and sliding fingers, and nothing’s working. She’s still jabbering about plans and policies, and the queue starts tutting.
‘Talk to her,’ the teen sniggers.
‘I can’t talk to the electricity board. I’m in Mozart’s house.’ I swipe and slide, and the second ticket appears. ‘I don’t want to speak to the bloody woman while…’
‘She can still hear you.’
‘Oh, bloody hell…’

The nice lady is now also sniggering as she scans, and a woman in Piraeus is trying to sell me electricity, while a distinctly deviant child is preparing to kick me in the back of the knees.

‘Done it!’
Both tickets shown, and off we march to the stairs. Once deserted, they were now overrun with fake fur and Gucci… And I can still hear Mrs ΔΕΗ jabbering.

‘You’re still connected,’ H tells me, and I hand him the phone in desperation.

Dear Passepartout. So resourceful. He defeated and banished the ΔΕΗ in one fell swoop, and we pressed on, our side quest nearing its finale.

Yes, it was busy, and yes, they have had to put in a one-way system, toilets, and a shop, but on the other hand, people from all over the world were there to see where Mozart was born. There to see, as you now can, a lock of his hair, some of his belongings, such as small cigarette boxes given in lieu of payment for an opera, and even the violin he played when he was five. Being in such a place can still be moving if you block out the background noise, fur, and Gucci, and this is what we did as we stood in ‘The Birth Room’ and took photos for posterity.

Escaping from the side quest was tricky, and involved seeing a few more rooms that I don’t remember being there before – museum rooms which were simple, but informative. It also involved negotiating those incapable of reading signs and following large arrows, the backflow of people who hadn’t meant to find the shop, and passing the toilets which smelt much as they would have done in Mozart’s day. Had his family had one.

Back in the open air… Sorry, back in the crowded streets where the air was scented with sugar and baking, and where the approaching dusk was challenged by thousands of twinkly lights, we had time to kill before meeting the B Team. To start with, we wandered more streets, and Christmasy enclaves we found in 18th century courtyards, and we paused to admire a shop that sold teddy bears. One of these was actually a full-sized brown bear guaranteed to traumatise any child who didn’t settle down at bedtime. We considered taking it home, but it would have needed its own seat on the plane. Then we considered taking the stuffing out, putting one of us inside, and seeing if we were challenged at customs. Then we saw the price of €2,200 and moved on.

To buy a hat! There are not enough hats in the world, so I did my bit to water the drought and bought what I was told was an ‘Austrian deer hunting’ hat. I think the guy was a temp and not a hatter, so I took that with a pinch of cinnamon. Later research has proved the hat to be a ‘Hiker’ made (probably) in Italy of 100% wool fine felt. It features a teardrop crown, leather band, and downturn dimensional brim. This hat is water repellant, packable, crushable and will never lose it’s shape! (The spelling/punctuation is all sic. See Mike the Hatter.)

Hat bought and worn at a jaunty angle, we did what every music lover should do in Salzburg, and had a beer in an Irish pub. This was near where the Team B side quest was taking place, and we were prepared to wait for them to succeed before regrouping. However, we received a communique stating they were delayed by a free bowl of goulash while the strudels were baking, so we should press on.

Beer downed, we did, and our route took us past the theatre of strudel war, so we pushed our noses up against the window to see how things were going. Neil and Jenine had their station not three feet away from us, and although they had their backs to the window, they seemed to be having a great old Todd & Lovett time rolling biscuits.

We left them to it, took the riverside path to a bridge and over, past the famous gardens, and into the deserted district to finally check us all into the hotel. I just had time for a quick shower when my phone buzzed, and I received one of those passive/aggressive inquiries from a teenager. ‘Are you hungry yet?’ In other words, ‘I need feeding.’

To finish the day, we found a café/restaurant that was all about health food and other such horrors, but where they advertised tomato soup, and that being one of my weaknesses, we set about ordering. Trouble was, not only did you have to order through an electronic menu, so the server not two feet away could make up our order without actually having to speak to us, but there was no such thing as a simple bowl of tomato soup. One had to add a ‘base’ of rice or noodles, and a ‘complement’ of this or that, and there was no way around it. Anyway, we were able to order, silently collect our trays as though partaking in an ancient rite, and find a table at the window where we could watch for the returning Conquerors of the Strudel.

They arrived, we caught up on news, ate healthy things and drank beer, before returning to the hotel so the B Team could finally land.

Day five done. Level accomplished.

Share on Facebook

The next day began in what was becoming a standard fashion: a walk to a train station. Actually, before that, we took advantage of the hotel’s breakfast room, and at the Hotel Mastino (the one beside McDonald’s in Verona), you get more than your average continental. There was an array of baffling coffee machines, a samovar with warmish water, and other contraptions such as one of those toasters that take half an hour to do half a toast, lukewarm eggs and bacon, and so on. But they also had fresh honeycomb and other things of interest, so we fed ourselves up on as much as we needed, packed the bags, and checked out, ready for the next stage of the journey.

We’d had on our list of things to see, ‘Juliette’s Balcony’, because, of course, we were In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, but, I suspect at around the 99% level, that the much advertised (and soon pay-to-view) balcony is another tourist board scam, like Bran Caste/Dracula’s Castle (more about that in the future). So, we hadn’t bothered with that and were once again on our way to somewhere else. This time, Innsbruck.

Why?

You mean, why were we visiting one of the top winter sports locations in Europe? Was it for the skiing? No, there hadn’t been as much snow as usual (global warming but no-one listening, was the cause, they said), and we had no intention of throwing ourselves off the famous Birgisel Ski Jump in the manner of Eddie the Beagle, or whoever – although Jenine did try to impersonate a ski jumper while on the Innsbruck station platform, with the jump distant behind her. However, with knees tucked and butt out, she looked like she was trying to pass a Käsekrainer and much hilarity ensued, although you can probably imagine the indignant complaints of ‘Mum! What are you doing? Stop it…’ from the teen.

We were going there because it was on our way to somewhere else, and we knew there would be snow and mountains – two things a young man growing up solely on Symi doesn’t see and hadn’t seen. Also, for me, a journey through the Brenner Pass sounded romantic. I don’t know why, but it sounds like something from an adventure, a Lord of the Rings kind of thing, where Legoman the elf says, ‘The sun shines this morning; there has been nighttime this night. We must take the pass of Breen.’

‘No!”’ thunders Grandelf. ‘We must risk the Pass of Brenner.’

Well, there was no risk, just miles of scenery none of us had seen before, snow on mountain peaks, amazing engineering on high road bridges and small villages by the grey-water streams alongside the tracks. In three and a half hours, the 9.01 from Verona took us all the way along the 271 Km route to the surprisingly interesting town of Innsbruck. I’d only driven past it before, on my own youthful Grand Tour back in the 90s, and from that, I remembered only office blocks and the usual stack-‘em-high housing. Things, in the centre of town, were and still are very different.

There was plenty to see, but after dumping our bags at the ‘Basic Hotel’, we set off immediately for the point of the day; the funicular and cable car up to Nordkette, also known as the Top of Innsbruck, though the very top was closed. We followed Harry the Map along the riverbank, over the road, around some stunning Baroque and Classical buildings, to a horrible modern thing which was the start of the route up the mountain, and about half an hour later, there we were, above the snowline.

That sounds awfully knowledgeable, doesn’t it? As if we were experienced mountaineers, retelling acts of great derring-do to a packed lecture hall. ‘We were above the snowline watching the spindrift coming off the summit of Piz Buin in the Silvretta Alps, and considering who would make the summit team…’

Yeah. No.

Neil and Harry grabbed the first available sledge, joined the queue of little’uns waiting to scream their way down 100 feet of snowy slope, then made snowballs and attacked each other with squeals and swear words. Jenine and I considered the view, the clean air and an Aperol Spritz.

It was one of those days when we were ‘lucky with the weather’, and there were to be many more. Although when you see the photos taken from the almost-top of the mountain, it looks cloudy and grey, that was all part of the spectacle. “The sun was white, as though chidden of God”, as Hardy wrote, setting a gloomy scene which doesn’t suit my scene, but allows me to show off that I know at least one line of poetry by Hardy. It wasn’t too windy, either, or even too cold (ha ha), and, later in the trip, we would have snow when it mattered, and the weather would be clear on other days. Watch out for blue skies in future posts. [Inserts winky emoji]

Lunch outside at 7,000 feet isn’t as bad as it sounds, and the soups and stews were spot on, and the cable car and funicular weren’t too busy, despite this being high winter season (because of Christmas rather than skiing, I suspect). Later, back at sea level, we were able to change and prepare for the evening, and while Neil and I were out searching for a pharmacy — I can’t remember what for; ChapStick, non-allergenic soap, warmth maybe — we received a message from the B Team to be back at the hotel by five, because they had a surprise for us. Eek.

The surprise began as a pleasant walk through the dusky streets, beside the Christmas market, through older streets and finally, to a large square and an even larger cathedral. The eighteenth-century Baroque cathedral of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Innsbruck, dedicated to the apostle Saint James, and known also as the Dom. St. Jakob. Why there? The reason was about to become clear, but first, there’s some backstory…

Yesterday in Venice, we took a peek inside a large church (I forget which one already), where I told H to ‘Come with me and don’t look back.’ We walked up the aisle towards the apse, and about halfway along, stopped, and I told him to turn around. That, for me, is the best way to see a church/cathedral; organ when one has been built up in the west gallery – and it was a reasonable sight. (See above.) In return, he’d looked for a similar sight in Innsbruck, and found the cathedral was open until six. When we entered, he said, ‘Follow me and don’t look back.’ This view was just as stunning, if not more so, as the Baroque instrument was a riot of silver and gold. Not only that, but an orchestra was practicing for a concert, and we sat and listened to some free classical music while admiring the architecture.

And I thought Innsbruck was just office blocks.

On the way to the Dom, we’d crossed a road, and I’d noticed a man carrying a tuba, as you do, and, in the cathedral, I wondered if he was then up in the gallery tuberign away, but it wasn’t tuba-suited music. Later, though, while wandering the – you guessed it – Christmas market, we discovered a four-piece brass band playing from the gallery of The Goldenes Dachl (Golden Roof), so that was what tuba man was all about. More free music, this time seasonal, including Austrian carols, and we could have stood and listened for ages, except…

Of course, when you have a teen in tow, you can never be far from food, and it was that time of day again. A hearty dinner served by unbelievably cheery staff considering they were run off their feet, a slow walk back to the Basic Hotel, and time to put the feet up and watch Indiana Jones dubbed into Austrian before falling asleep.

I have to say, the Basic Hotel in Innsbruck is designed to be, clearly, basic, but it had everything we needed, was very clean, had towels and soaps, and TV, etc., and was hardly basic at all. It had its quirks. Like the lip between the bathroom and the bedroom, which caught us tripping a few times, and the smoked glass pattern on the bath/bedroom dividing wall wasn’t completely smoked. One assumes this is so kinky guests can spy on their companions in the shower, and the really perverse ones can do the same with toilet occupation. I don’t know, but then, we were in Austria.

And would remain in Austria the next day too, as you will read…

Meanwhile, here’s the gallery.

Share on Facebook