Globusz^® Publishing 

Austria.

As we drove over the smooth, eight-lane highway leading to Vienna, we remembered some of the fine lines that we had seen on maps purporting to be roads, yet turned out to be mere dust or gravel tracks. By comparison they now seemed to be some figment of our imagination. Everyone appeared to be in a hurry to get somewhere so we, too, hastened on anxious to get into town and sort out our camping accommodation.

One of our early moves was to visit Annette and some other Austrian people whom we had met in the Lebanon. This resulted in two complimentary tickets for the twentieth anniversary concert of the Austro-British Society to be held in the Hofburg. The stage and hall were richly decorated with Austrian flags and Union Jacks, and there were numerous glittering chandeliers. It was a very enjoyable evening. After a few speeches by the President of the Society, we heard some songs by Muriel Dickenson and Richard Angus. For us the highlight was the Vienna Boys’ Choir, who sang ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘The Blue Danube’. At the end of the concert, Annette, whom we had last seen in Byblos, came bustling up and invited us to have coffee with her.

In the cool, night air, we walked to the Cafe Mozart, and sat outside talking and enjoying delicious coffee and pastries. We learnt that she and her friends had managed to get to Pakistan, but not India. The Pakistan authorities had very politely told them that if they could show the entry permit for India, they would allow them an exit permit for Pakistan. At the Indian customs they were told if they had an exit permit for Pakistan they would be given an entry permit for India. Consequently the Austrian group were running between the two, achieving nothing.

People talk nostalgically of Vienna ‘The City of my Dreams’, of ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’ and ‘The Blue Danube’. Their affection is genuine and permanent, but what is this magic thread that links most aspects of the city’s traditions? The answer is a simple one, a single word, and music. Music weaves its way round all the streets, which lead one from the birthplaces and lodgings of the musicians to the historical concert halls and the famous Staatsoper. In the hundreds of parks and gardens there are quiet corners, where statues of Brahms, Schubert, Strauss and a host of other composers can be discovered. All had influenced the Viennese; all had been inspired by the city’s charms. Since 1951, Vienna has held an annual music festival and this was in full spate whilst we were there. The two big concert organisations, the Gessellschaft der Musikfreunde and the Koncerthausgesellschaft, alternate in planning the main musical attractions, and we were fortunate to get tickets for several concerts. There was always an exhibition, which we visited beforehand, where we had the opportunity of examining old musical instruments and various original manuscripts from the archives. Amongst many famous works was the title page of Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’ symphony, where the dedication to Napoleon had been scratched out.

At each concert that we attended at the Gessellschaft der Musikfreunde, there was a wonderful atmosphere – not without good reason, for this old and esteemed building had seen the very composers whose music we were enjoying.

The State Opera House, an imposing grey building, is set in just the right position, in the very centre of Vienna. Around it trams clatter and clang and people hurry by. At night it is floodlit and music lovers flock to listen to the famous operas. Excitedly, we joined them one evening, for we had tickets for one of Mozart’s most perfect operas, ‘The Magic Flute’. A few days before, we had taken advantage of a tour inside the Opera House, and had seen not only the beautifully decorated entrance halls, but also the dressing rooms and the fantastically large stage. We had been shown tapestries that had taken several years to complete, depicting scenes from ‘The Magic Flute’. It was a magical evening, our first visit to an opera. Although we spent most of our two and a half weeks in the city, we did not neglect the Vienna woods, where we often enjoyed picnics beneath the trees, reminiscent of our days in Epping Forest in Essex. We also drove to Klosterneuberg to see the Abbey and its famous golden Verdun Altar. This journey gave us very good views of the valley of the Danube and the wine-growing districts of Grinzing, Nussdorf and Sievering, once villages, but now forming part of the city itself.

Before we left Vienna, Annette invited us to her flat for a meal. There we renewed our acquaintance with some of her friends, and also met a young Yugoslav, who told us many things about his country.

“I hope you have seen everything in Vienna”, Annette enquired. We assured her that we had seen most of the usual sights, including the great palaces and formal landscaped gardens of Schonbrunn and Belvedere, the Hofburg, the Votive Church, and St. Stephen’s Cathedral, where we had taken the lift to the roof and had seen the Pummerin bell, as well as a wonderful view of the city. At the Spanish Riding School we had watched the famous White Lippizaner horses being trained.

“You haven’t mentioned the Kunsthistoriches Museum nor the National Library”– Annette said.

“I shall take you there myself. They are too wonderful to miss.”

Annette certainly made an admirable hostess, always telling a good joke and genuinely interested in everyone’s ideas and welfare.

A few days later we left Vienna and continued to the Salzkammergut region, which is a popular winter and summer tourist playground of lakes, streams and mountains. We stopped close by the Attersee, the largest of the Salzkammergut lakes.

Before we set off again the following morning we went for a swim. Soon after getting in the water I found that my foot had become entangled with some wire. As I was wearing sandals, because of the sharp stones, this served to make things worse, the wire getting twisted around the straps. If I had been in shallower water, or a better swimmer, it would have been a. simple matter to take the sandal off, but the water was deep and I could scarcely touch the bottom. For a while I struggled, then Audrey, who had dressed and was sitting on the beach, suddenly realised that I was in difficulties and came wading out to support me whilst I unbuckled the sandal. Rather subdued by this rather unfortunate occasion that could have had more serious consequences, we made our way towards Salzburg, stopping only at Mondsee for our lunch.

Rain was teeming down as we darted across the road to Mozart’s birthplace, and continued as we made our way up to the Fortress Hohensalzburg, the largest completely preserved medieval fortress in Central Europe. There were many interesting rooms and antiquities to see here, but one thing particularly pleased us. It was an exhibition of contemporary woodcarving. From branches and trunks of trees, the artist had sculpted some wonderful forms, enhancing the natural shapes of the original pieces of wood by his own masterful carving.

In the afternoon we decided that we needed some exercise, so began the steep uphill walk from Hallein to the Durnberg Salt Mines. It had become very hot, so that we were glad of frequent rests, and almost wished that we had made use of the Land Rover. At the entrance to the mine, there was quite a long wait, during which we were provided with white trousers and jackets to put on over our clothes. Periodically various group numbers were called, and at last it was our turn. Six of us followed the first guide into the dark tunnel, eyes transfixed upon his small, swinging lamp. Gradually we became more accustomed to the darkness, and could make out the salt rocks. Most visitors to the mine undoubtedly have read or know something of what to expect from their tourist literature. As we had not acquired any pamphlets, it came as a great surprise to us to find that the method of moving from one stratum to another was by a slide. We were told to sit in line, one behind the other, legs stretched out on either side of the person in front. The guide sat in front of us all, and regulated the speed of the descent by means of a friction rope. Altogether there were about eight of these slides, some of which were up to one hundred and thirty feet long. At the speed with which these were taken our stomachs arrived at the bottom, some time after we did! Each descent brought varying shrieks and squeals from the group that we were with and, glancing at one of the older women, I could see that she had turned quite pale.

Various exhibits were seen along the route showing the salt processing methods, and at one point we were taken by raft across a salt lake. We had travelled far enough into the mountain to cross the Austrian-Bavarian frontier, and the guide remarked that it was the only place where we could do so without a passport. The last part of the trip was made by a small mining train, which emerged once more to daylight at the foot of the mountain.Maybe it was just as well that we had left our vehicle at the bottom.

Innsbruck had special significance for us, for we had arranged to meet my mother and father, who were spending a holiday there. We arrived at the Goldener Stern Hotel and, on enquiry, were told that they were in their room. We thought that we would probably detect some changes in them, but as we went in and greeted each other we realised that appearances do not alter that quickly. We had meal together and made plans for the next few days when we would be with them. It was a very pleasant time for us all, visiting the pretty Austrian villages and spending a wonderful day driving to the impressive Grossglockner. At nearly eight thousand feet high, we stood outside Franz Josef’s Haus, looking down at several marmots that were eagerly nibbling at odd tit-bits of food dropped for them by tourists. Beyond the Pasterzen Glacier was the Grossglockner, the highest peak in Austria at 12,461 feet.

On our last evening with my parents we went to a small restaurant in one of the back streets of Innsbruck. We enjoyed a well-cooked meal in typically Austrian surroundings. A few friendly groups of local people began to sing Tyrolean songs and, with the general air of joyousness around us, we felt that we could not have chosen a better way to conclude our few days together. It was an evening to remember. They were to return to England via. Belgium, but we had planned to visit Venice.

Italy.

Originally Venice was a group of about a hundred and twenty islets situated in a lagoon at the head of the Adriatic. Refugees from other cities settled there and established their own Government, which was later to be ruled by a Doge, or Chief Magistrate. As the population steadily grew, the need for more space became apparent. Forests were cut down to make log piles, which were driven into the muddy insecure ground and, in due course, the islands were joined by over four hundred and fifty bridges to create a complete town.

Canals take the place of roads and, boarding a vaporino or waterbus, we travelled the entire length of the Grand Canal, the main thoroughfare of Venice, which also carries gondolas, barges, and private launches. Passing waterside palaces, cafes and markets, we came to the Piazza San Marco. The focal point in this square is, of course, the church of St. Mark, its facade an amazing mixture of gold mosaics, marble pillars and sculptures. Opposite is the three hundred feet Campanile, such a contrast with its massive shape and vertical lines. After we had been to the top by lift we wandered around the cool arcades surrounding the square. As we did so, we suddenly heard the sound of a shot and instantly thousands of pigeons that peck and gobble grain thrown by tourists, rose to the air like some grey cloud. These pigeons are by tradition honoured and protected. They are fed twice a day at public expense.

I then chose to climb to the Clock Tower, which has its entrance beneath a small archway at the side of the square. The very fine machinery of the clock shows not only the hours and days, but also the phases of the moon and the position of the stars and planets. On the tower is a large bell, which is struck every hour by two bronze figures, known as the Moors.

Gazing down into the sunlit square, and at the people sitting in open-air cafes cooling themselves with ices and drinks, I found it hard to imagine that the area is often flooded in the spring and autumn, and the pedestrians have to make their way across on planks. The lagoon is repeatedly subjected to flood tides, which invade the ground floor of many buildings, undermining the foundations and creating the notorious smells of the city.

Audrey had contented herself sitting watching the hundreds of people in the square: the chattering excited tourists, an artist, the professional photographer and the women selling packets of maize for the pigeons.

Later, we walked beside the Grand Canal and over the Rialto Bridge. At the water’s edge, elegant gondolas positioned between gaily-striped poles, became galvanized into a frantic rocking motion as a large boat passed, creating a surge of rippling waves. Could we afford a ride in one we wondered?

It seemed as though the gondolas nodded in agreement with the idea as the water lapped about them. At one of the decorated shelters, several gondoliers were resting in the shade. We enquired the price of a trip.

“Four thousand lira” – we found the price to be a little too much. Turning to walk away we heard a voice call:

“Three thousand.”

This time we nodded and the young man beckoned us towards his gondola, pulling on his blue and white striped jersey. We stepped into the carpeted craft and made ourselves comfortable on the cushioned seats.

The gondola is indeed an unusual shape. One side of the hull is deliberately longer than the other to counter the weight of the one-oared rower, who stands at the stern. At the prow is a strange shaped steel device called a ferro.

The gondolier rowed along some of the smaller canals, a watery maze, bordered by tall, wooden-shuttered houses. Plaster was peeling beneath window ledges, which were decorated with flower boxes and canary cages. Near the Rialto he pointed out the house where Marco Polo used to live, then he stopped by a small doorway, which was the way into a glass factory. A nervous apprentice was working at a great furnace, demonstrating the art of glass blowing. He did quite well, forming a beautifully shaped vase, but dropped it to the floor with a splintering crash, just at the critical moment. There was time to glance around the showrooms, which were filled with well-designed glassware for which Venice is so famous. Mentally we compared the fiery colours of this Venetian glass with the cool, muted colours, which are predominant in Scandinavian craftsmanship. It was interesting to see how the different colours reflected the climate of the countries.

Eventually the gondola glided beneath the Bridge of Sighs, which connects the Doge’s Palace to the notorious prison, the Piombi. The evening light was playing on the quiet waters of Venice giving an effect reminiscent of a Canaletto painting.

We drove into Switzerland, stopping for two days at Lugano, before crossing the St. Gotthard and Susten passes, which were most spectacular. Amongst the snow and ice, we discovered many wild mountain flowers, which gleamed like gems against the whiteness.

France, Luxemburg, Holland and Belgium all merged into a mist, the last stages of our journey home. Ostend, The car-ferry. The white cliffs of Dover looking bleak and rain-washed. London policemen. Egg and chips. A telephone call. We had arrived.