I had lunch in a castle earlier this week. It was an excellent castle, with a spindly tower, lovely dark wood, and a yellow flag that flapped in the wind.
It also had a yellow slide, and it was situated beside a sandbox and a pair of swings.
Yeah. I ate lunch in a tower on a children's playground. There were no children about - possibly because I was hogging their turf, but more likely because it was pouring rain in six different directions at once. I had just hiked up the long ravine known as Siebenbrunnengraben, just west of Gumpoldskirchen. Emerging from the forest at the top of the hill, I saw to my right a small playground with a couple of dripping picnic tables, and to my left a Gasthaus filled, presumably, with cozy chairs, central heating, and bowls brimming with steaming goulash. The tower seemed the most logical place for me to pause, though I am now struggling to remember why.
I ate with record speed, but by the time I was ready to move on, my fingers were numb with cold and there was a steady trickle creeping down my back. I pulled up the hood of my not-particularly-waterproof rain jacket and decided that there was no real reason for me to spend my holiday all cold and miserable, so perhaps I would head home early and curl up under a pile of blankets with the cat instead.
Ha. A couple hours and a wrong turn or three later, I trotted my damp self back into Gumpoldskirchen. The downpour had stopped by then, and there were only a few sprinkles left in the air.
It also had a yellow slide, and it was situated beside a sandbox and a pair of swings.
Yeah. I ate lunch in a tower on a children's playground. There were no children about - possibly because I was hogging their turf, but more likely because it was pouring rain in six different directions at once. I had just hiked up the long ravine known as Siebenbrunnengraben, just west of Gumpoldskirchen. Emerging from the forest at the top of the hill, I saw to my right a small playground with a couple of dripping picnic tables, and to my left a Gasthaus filled, presumably, with cozy chairs, central heating, and bowls brimming with steaming goulash. The tower seemed the most logical place for me to pause, though I am now struggling to remember why.
I ate with record speed, but by the time I was ready to move on, my fingers were numb with cold and there was a steady trickle creeping down my back. I pulled up the hood of my not-particularly-waterproof rain jacket and decided that there was no real reason for me to spend my holiday all cold and miserable, so perhaps I would head home early and curl up under a pile of blankets with the cat instead.
Ha. A couple hours and a wrong turn or three later, I trotted my damp self back into Gumpoldskirchen. The downpour had stopped by then, and there were only a few sprinkles left in the air.
I have a picture in my mind of all the places I've lived or visited, an image that is first to come to mind when I think of a particular country or city or period of time. Heading back into town through the vineyards, I hoped, not for the first time, that the mental image of Austria I will walk away with one day will involve rolling hills, red-roofed villages, and those lovely leafy vineyards.
When I'd left that morning, the church bells had been ringing and what looked to be the entire village was milling about in the courtyard, the men and boys in suits and the little girls in white dresses with flowered wreathes in their hair. Vaguely unnerving, but I assumed it had something to do with Ascension Day. Nobody caught up with me while I was hiking and dragged me off to offer myself in a ritualistic human sacrifice, so I guess my assumption was right.
On the other hand, there wasn't a soul in sight when I walked back into town in late afternoon, so perhaps I just lucked out. The mental image I have of Leamington Spa is the train station, and all I remember from my few hours in Madrid is the inside of a bus. I'd prefer to remember Austria's rolling hills and vineyards, but if push came to shove, I would take either the train station or the coach over a Wicker Man.