A Very Long Blog with a Happy Ending

Since I’ve neglected the blog of late, I have suspicions that this will be long.

Heidelberg

At each new city we collect six brochures (one good one in English, the other five utterly useless), three of the same map, and at least two theatre programs in German, which are puzzled over and invariably end up in the bin. This isn’t going anywhere - I’m just setting the scene.

So there we are pamphlet laden, desperately hoping that this hotel will be better than that hotel, packed on a jerking bus with hoards of school children, heading further and further way from the city.

Heidelberg Hotel is satisfactory in every way except that it lacks a kettle. It sits in a peaceful suburb where old ladies of five and eighty cycle along on old-fashioned bicycles, and the only noise is the rumble of the occasional tram as it shunts across the corner intersection to its resting spot.

That first afternoon we tram back to the Aldstadt (tram is much nicer than bus travel since it doesn’t run past any schools), and trek - yes, I do mean trek - the almost two-kilometre pedestrian boulevard, which is lined with all manner of shops, including one selling only Christmas decorations.

We have an early dinner, sharing pizza at a quaint little Italian café in a back alley still lit by sun and then trek back to the tram stop for home.

Since hockey season has started back in Oz I felt compelled to go for a run so took off down the road, looping around the green fields (we‘re practically in the country), down a path lined with blossoms that I shared with a few sheep and a weary-looking goat, and back past the old cemetery, which had more than a few evening visitors.

A large ruined schloss sits atop a hill overlooking the town and as our Heidelberg Card offered free access we went by funicular - cable car - and toured the courtyard and the German Pharmacy Museum housed in the few still-intact rooms, which had a curious assortment of bits and pieces, including the innards of odd-looking animals.

Over the river we tackled the Philosopher’s Walk, a series of steep steps that run back and forth at angles so that you walk far more than you should. We followed a red squirrel, nut clutched firmly in mouth, who was most exasperating in his refusal to hold still for photos. It must be said that more puffing and huffing and resting took place than philosophising and really the walk isn‘t at all conducive to thinking deep thoughts and should be renamed.

We went by boat to Neckersteinach, a small medieval town famous for its four castles - the ruling four brothers had a falling out so each built their own fortress. (Have doubts this would be an achievable solution in my family.) The weather was perfect for boating; the sun illuminated the small mountain villages, monasteries and castles that dotted the hillsides, even the birds were tweeting. Everything was going swimmingly well when the sun decided to depart for the day leaving behind a fast, cool wind and dull skies. We retreated inside our boat and home to our hotel, where we ate pick-me-up corn beef and mood-cheering penne pesto, and thick chocolate with tea from the travel kettle Mum had obtained.

Our last day in Heidelberg was gloriously sunny so we caught a bus up to the King’s Seat and choose trail number five to walk down the mountain through the Black Forest, which was not in fact black at all. Trail five turned out to be rather elusive and we ended up on the better-signed nine, though there was an awful lot of logging going on so five’s markers might have been in the wood piles we kept encountering. We found a suitable-sized rock for an Enid-Blyton picnic of biscuits, holey cheese, smoky ham, tomato, red apples, chocolate and tea. Somewhere, when we weren’t paying attention, trail nine swung a left so we ended up miles and miles from our destination, which meant we probably set a record for the amount of walking done in one day, and really deserve a trophy or even, say, a cash prize.

WURZBURG

Mum’s got a knack for picking accommodation close to the train station and in Wurzburg we only had to walk across the road and we had arrived. At Babel Fish hostel we had a room with its own kitchen and a balcony bigger than the room itself. One of the nicest things about our stay was that we could cook our own meals - there was a food market in the old square where we got ingredients; the Germans adore white asparagus so we got hold of some and had asparagus crepes with prosciutto, and Camembert sauce.

It took us a day to warm to Wurzburg - where all the previous towns had distinctly old quarters, here was a blend of old and new architecture, and in the main square shiny new department stores abutted antique treasures. Yet some long-dead poet once announced that were it possible to chose his birthplace he would have named Wurzburg.

We went for a walk to the large fortress across the river and by chance took a left and found ourselves on a garden path leading up the hill. It was like stepping into Peter Rabbit’s world and I could almost see Ms Potter’s animals behind the flora, more content here than in England. Narrow green hedges ran alongside and every so often there would be an opening where other hedged paths beckoned the walker astray. Daffodils bloomed a rainbow and magnolia trees arched overhead to shadow passers-by. We walked by tiny cottages with neat little garden beds, one with an upturned wheelbarrow - to the other side a path broke off and down, leading to a fountain and more paths. Silver birches stood straight and tall, and one lone squirrel nestled beneath a bush.

I think I fell in love with Wurzburg here on this path, even before I learnt, on reaching the fortress, that the entire town had been levelled in 1945 and then rebuilt - hence the odd arrangement of building styles. The fortress was grand, with high walls and a deep moat running its length - though it looked ancient it had been finished just ten years before. We were there on ANZAC day, a strange occasion as Dad had found in the paper an Australian soldier’s account of bombing this very town.

We kept making new discoveries. The splendour of the Wurzburg Residenz - the bishops' palace - where five great halls with their glorious frescoes and stucco features survived war-time fires by an innovative ceiling design. One day we took a boat ride to an unknown town. We had an hour’s wait for the return trip so ambled towards the zentrum, took a right, then a left, another left and there, behind a high wall, was the most unexpected yet marvellous sight. The bishops’ summer residenz, ignored in our guide book, with its never-ending rococo garden of statues and ponds and perfectly straight lines.

I didn’t want to leave Wurzburg because our next destination was Frankfurt and the last stop before Mum went home.

FRANKFURT

We’d slowed down by the time we reached our final port and spent our last two days poking about. I found a decent bookshop and got Scarlett Thomas‘ latest Our Tragic Universe, which oddly has some connection to what I did yesterday (which I won‘t write about in this blog, but isn‘t, as the novel‘s title suggests, tragic, nor have I, Margot - since I‘m assuming you‘ve gulped this book down, started to see strange beasts; anyway, it‘s not really important, just curious, but I‘ll tell you later). We went on another boat ride - we do like our boats - and enjoyed the warm weather that lingered late into the night. Saying goodbye to Mum was awful but we’ve had a lovely time - and now I’m in England, home of my mother tongue, so everything seems aligned once more.

LOWESTOFT

I had to take a plane and two buses - the first bus I was fifteen minutes late for as my plane’s departure had been delayed; I was so sure it would have left and I had no idea how I was going to get to the next point, but there it was in bay 13 and if I hurried, the man at the information desk told me, I’d catch it. I did and on boarding learnt the reason for its tardiness was an accident on the motorway; all I’d felt was relief at seeing the bus and then I didn’t know what to think - it’s odd to feel such a strong sense of relief when what you’re grateful for might be the cause of someone else’s downfall.

At the moment, I’m sitting on my bed at the Cotter’s house in Lowestoft where out my window I can see a grey sky of thick rain-heavy clouds. And I’m perfectly happy because there’s something about England and rain and the cold that seems just right; I'm sure I read it in a book somewhere.


p.s. It was dreadfully long, wasn’t it? Next time, I’ll condense everything and write something like: all is well, weather’s cold, went walking, sat on boat, saw Queen, run out of things to wear, pondering what to do next, think it shall be sunny tomorrow.

Love to you all.

xxxx