Encounters with a tranny granny

It is 34 degrees. It is late and we are in a big city. We have no hotel for the night. We are having a row in the middle of the street about what to do. Stuart wants me to ask at a four star hotel for a family room but I've just been turned away from a similar one by a snotty receptionist.  While I'm shouting, in English, I'm also wondering how I'm going to communicate in Italian to find us a hotel at all. And it's the night before a bank holiday, although we don't know that yet. We have cycled sixty four kilometres and have no food supplies and haven't eaten for hours. We also have no cash left and need to find a cashpoint. It's getting very dark and we have no bicycle lights. Stuart is now shouting in English and German. It appears to be my responsibility to find us a hotel.

Frustrated, I cycle off and turn a corner. There are lights in the distance so I make for them. It's a little bar and one star hotel. I hop off the bike, no easy task in this heat, and grab the phrasebook, cursing myself that I didn't bother learning some Italian before we came into the country. For some reason we assumed it was the same as Spanish and we would get by on the fly. It isn't. And why would it be?

I cobble together some basic Italian and ask the woman at the bar, with very short hair and an earring, for a room. She doesn't seem to understand my hopeless Italian, as she speaks back in very fast German. Too fast for me. But it seems natural to slip back into the bad German we have been speaking for a month, so I negotiate in this language. She takes me to see a room. It's very basic, but expensive, but we have no other option. The toilet and bathroom are filthy. I leave the room to sit outside the bar in the heat and wonder if children are allowed in bars at night.

I'm now dripping with sweat, hungry, and thirsty, so I proceed with my guidebook to the bar to order a drink. Every phrase needs every new word looking up, and I flick through the little book feverishly. At last I have enough words to ask for a beer. The bar woman answers my request again in German, filling two very small glasses with her lean muscled arms. I can only conclude that she thinks I am German and that I can't even speak my own language, let alone hers. Next to me at the bar sits another blonde woman who has had too much to drink. She begins to speak to me in Italian that is way too loud for such a small bar. Keen to placate her, I nod, saying 'si,' the only word I do know without looking it up. Suddenly, her hands are all over me, on my back, around my waist, running up and down my arms. I know enough Spanish to realise she is calling me a beautiful little girl in Italian. Then behind the blond wig, defined bone structure, and green halterneck top, I catch sight of her face. It is masculine. It is not young. I'm being assaulted by a trannie grannie. She is shouting 'beautiful girl' as she moves in to kiss me. The woman at the bar tells her to simmer down and passes me the two beers over her head, signalling for me to make my way back to the patio. 

I stick ten euros on the table and grab the beer. Outside the kids are playing hangman and want to know what I have found them to eat? I drink my beer in one gulp, tell them its time to go in to town, and don't look back in case granny is interested in showing me around.

In town we find a panini for the kids, but go without ourselves due to the cost. Everyone is out on the streets in the heat and it's a party atmosphere down by the river. There are hundreds of tiny metal locks on the wall by the water and back at the hotel Stuart fetches a guidebook to see what they are. He can't find anything about them, but does note this was a former Austrian region that became Italian after World War One. Much of the population still speaks German and holds onto their Austrian character and dialect quite fiercely. I realise that it hasn't been necessary to speak a word of Italian all night, and that asking for a bed in pidgeon Italian probably only got the trannie granny excited. I swear, in one language only, and kick the bed.

It's only a hill stupid

"Number seven. Number seven. Over to number seven, " Matthew shouts. It's only minutes since we passed number eight, and yet, forever. Since then the lactic acid in my legs has burnt faster than a Sunday footballer with every sluggish revolution. I feel like a sweaty bloke as I use my T shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It runs into my eyes, stinging like an insect. I mop it with baby wipes and the chemicals in them sting some more. Several flies have tried to land on my skin and each attempt to swat them wobbles the bike. Adrenaline mixes with sheer determination as blood pumps fast around my heart. My arms tense as fingers try to grip on to slippery handlebars. Bloody hills.

We deliberately began the climb through the mountains late as the weather was so hot. But we spent the morning getting into position, pushing up sun coated hills and pined plains. A final leg up to the town of Pfutz had us cycling in the midday sun up a steep hill, the kids primed for a swim in the open air swimming pool. But it was over too soon. It was time to make for the border. The climb wasn't so brutal at first. Fifteen kilometres of gentle hills took us into Switzerland. Empty winding shady roads, and long spooky avalanche tunnels made cycling a pleasure. In the settlement of Martine, four officials stood outside their border post and wished us a good evening. I wondered what they did with their time now apart from watching cyclists go by. A kiosk offering money changing lay abandoned, a memory of past customs. We crossed another line, back into Austria. No one marked it; we hardly noticed it.

And then, a sharp left and the real match began. Us against the mountain. Two puny cyclists up against a giant. After two hundred metres of climb I panicked; Matthew and I couldn't sustain this level of effort over the next three hours in the evening sun. We would burn out, crash down, noses in the dust. Ninety kilos of weight pulling us back down the hill. This load should need an HGV licence. And then, the voice of reason and experience, "The switchbacks are numbered" said Stuart. "Stop and count them as you pass. Or pause every fifty metres of climb for a rest." We threw away the milometre; distance no longer of importance, and concentrated on the altimetre. Metre by metre, switchback by switchback, we worked our way around an Alp. Matt and I had a game. He had the instrumentation and I had to guess our height. I lost 18-4. In my head it was always higher. In between guesses, I could hear the sounds of cicadas, the squeak of handlebars, my own breath, and Matt humming the Star Wars theme. Each breath forcing my body to push onwards and upwards, through pockets of humidity and pine.   

"Come on, come on. Number one. That was the last switchback. Yay!" Burning legs, slipping fingers, hot tyres crawling up the road. Then up and over. It's suddenly dark. There's a hotel, but it seems inappropriate somehow. We spot a football pitch, and make for it in the twilight. The tent goes up faster than we did, next to the pitch. I lie awake, thirsty, adrenaline still pumping, thinking of switchbacks and passes, and the goal we just  achieved, me and my eight year old son, on an Austrian mountain in the fading light. "It was just a hill, stupid," I whisper into his ear. But he's tipped downhill into a deep sleep.    

Garlic spam? Is that all?

"Is that all?" says Hannah as she sits down to breakfast. She echoes my own sentiments as I take in breakfast. One bread roll each and some garlic spam. I look around for the buffet, then remember we crossed a border yesterday. We are in Austria, not Germany. We are also in the worst hotel in the world, a dirty place full of mouse droppings. It's not like it's cheap either. Perhaps Austrian breakfasts are lovely and it's just this hotel. Or perhaps we need to let go of the delightful breakfasts and so many other treats that Germany had to offer.  

After nearly a month in Germany we all came to love it in different ways. Stuart and I were besotted by a country that methodically builds cycle paths along every single road, whether a main road or a back road. For a thousand kilometres we hardly touched traffic; a cyclists dream. For me this was only surpassed by the breakfasts; eaten outdoors or indoors and every one of them a delight and surprise. Freshly soft boiled eggs, five different types of cheese, cake, croissants, plates of ham and salami, breads and rolls of every kind, basil, mozzarella and tomato. Sometimes olives and pickles. Hundreds of varieties of jams and marmalades. Chocolates and sweets for the kids. Hot chocolate and coffee and juice.

For Cameron it was a different type of food; bratwurst and doner kebab. Trying both for the first time he declared them delicious and then proceeded to order them in every fast food joint. One of his favourite projects was learning German from either the MP3 or the phrasebook and every so often he came out with a new word; often a variation of bratwurst. As we sat around the other night with beers and lemonade he shouted "Prost!" explaining it was the German for cheers.   

For Matthew the best of Germany was in the swimming; splashing about as the barges and cruise ships pushed past him on the Rhein, the glacial lake swimming in the Bavarian Alps, or the huge open air swimming pools with slides, with a backdrop of pine trees or the mountains, where even the rain fails to put him off diving in.

For Hannah? The playgrounds, with their swings, slides and more exotic play equipment shaped into pirate ships or castles, or diggers. She particularly remembers those where she has found treasure, like the new teddy she has named Smelly, perhaps in honour of this Austrian hotel.  

Ah yes back to the travesty of breakfast. Matthew and Cameron come tumbling into the hotel restaurant. "Is that all?" They chorus. "Garlic spam? Yuk. That's a really rubbish breakfast. Does Austria have McDonalds? "      

What is the opposite of stone?

“Dad?” shouts Hannah. She’s close enough for me to touch her, sitting right behind me on the tandem. I shift gear as we accelerate down the mountain, trying to maintain a steady cadence and stop her tiny legs spinning too fast. We’re a harmonious team, her legs and mine spinning together, locked in father daughter synchronicity by the drive train. The chain clunks, the sprockets chatter and the spin of our legs slows to a more comfortable pace.

Hannah waits a moment until the business of the gear change is done then tries again to catch my attention; “Dad?”

Two ‘Dads’ and I know she really wants to talk. But she won’t continue without a verbal acknowledgement. I’m not sure what’s worse, incessant Dadding or the incessant chatter that follows. I opt for the chatter; “Yes, Hannah.”

“Dad?” she continues, “What’s the opposite of down?”

Opposites has become one of our regular tandem games. It’s sweet the way she plays it with me, revealing something of the world she’s in as we pedal the road together. “The opposite of down?” I pause to give her time to think wondering where the question came from. “Is it up?”

“Yes, it is Dad.”

There’s a moments silence while I wait for more. Because there’s always more.

“Will we have to go up again? Because when we do I will pedal harder if I’m not too tired. I can pedal harder than Cameron. And when I do get tired can I swap with Cameron and go back in the buggy and he can pedal harder can’t he Dad?”
It amazes me how much our kids commit to the journeys we do together, not just in pedalling the ups and downs on the hills and mountains but in handling the physical and emotional ups and downs that come with journeying this way. We may pedal up and down the hills at the same time and pace but our individual highs and lows are much less well synchronised. Still we find ways to handle them together, like our tandem teams find ways to power up and down the Alps together.

We ride on and through a sleepy Tyrolean village, a rush of painted houses, wooden balconies and window boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers.

“Dad?” Hannah’s chatter continues, “Is this a village?”

“Yes, sweetheart, a little Austrian village.”

A pause. And then, “What is the opposite of a little village?”

The first round of opposites is always easy; up, down; big, small; fast, slow; tall, tiny; but that’s boring for playful little minds. I try and imagine where she’s coming from. Sometimes there’s a ‘right’ answer; other times it’s pure exploration.

“Is it a big village?” I ask.

“No, Dad.” she responds. I’ve clearly got it wrong. “It’s a big town. That hotel town we stayed in last night was a big town, wasn’t it Dad? With that TV and that camel. Do all towns have camels?”

It amazes me how much kids take in while we travel around. It’s not like we set out to teach them stuff but they show an amazing capacity for learning all kinds of stuff from the experiences we have. It’s not force fed or curriculum led but experience based and experience led. They notice stuff, things you often fail to notice; ask questions, often ones you’d never think to ask; and concoct fantastic explanations that explain their observations, stretch their (and your) imagination and sometimes challenge the way you make sense of the world. It’s not hard work but a natural process and usually fun. Watching the kids learn like sponges, get it right and get it wrong, reawakens my own curiosity and desire to keep on learning no matter how old I get.

We ride on and onto a section of steep, loose gravel on a trail leading up to the Fernpass. It’s too hard to ride so we dismount and start to push. Well at least I do. Hannah has other ideas. To me the path is a horrible steep gravel obstacle, getting in the way of us making progress over the Alps. But to Hannah it’s something else, a place to play, a chance to walk, a change of scene, a new train of thought.
“Dad?” she asks, scrambling around on the ground behind me. “What is the opposite of stone?”

Round three of opposites bends my mind. It’s about things that have no opposites, at least to grown-ups. But as a child perhaps they could have, should have, do? I try to imagine what she is thinking and play for time.

“The opposite of stone. That’s a good question. What do you think it is sweetheart?”

“I don’t know. What is it Dad?”

Pushing the tandem and trailer up the stony hill I can think of nothing else but stone. It has no opposite. It’s all there is. As a grown up I feel I should have an answer, that’s my job isn’t it? I try to find my imagination but my mind is just filled with stone.

Hannah throws her stone into the woods and picks up another. “What is it Dad? What is the opposite of stone?”

In my growing irritability I want to tell her that some things just don’t have opposites. But I know I forget this myself. How often I contrast the kids, one with another, saying how Matthew is the opposite of Cameron, Hannah is the opposite of Matthew, but they are not opposites; they are simply different. And travelling with them in this way I see those differences more and more clearly each day. Some things don’t have opposites; they are simply different. But this is too philosophical a point for now.

We reach the top of the hill. I put the tandem down and take a moment to rest and find my imagination. The opposite of stone. Could it be grass, sponge, water, sky? Finally it comes to me.

“The opposite of stone is… tarmac.” I announce.

Hannah looks at me confused. “No, Dad. It’s not. It’s not tarmac. The opposite of stone is shelter.”

We sit together, sharing the moment, perhaps contemplating each others answers. But only for a moment. Then we’re off again.

“Dad? What’s is tarmac?”

What is the opposite of stone?

"Dad?" shouts Hannah. She's close enough for me to touch her, sitting right behind me on the tandem.  I shift gear as we accelerate down the mountain, trying to maintain a steady cadence and stop her tiny legs spinning too fast. We're a harmonious team, her legs and mine spinning together, locked in father daughter synchronicity by the drive train. The chain clunks, the sprockets chatter and the spin of our legs slows to a more comfortable pace.

Hannah waits a moment until the business of the gear change is done then tries again to catch my attention; "Dad?"

Two 'Dads' and I know she really wants to talk. But she won't continue without a verbal acknowledgement. I'm not sure what's worse, incessant Dadding or the incessant chatter that follows. I opt for the chatter; "Yes, Hannah."

"Dad?" she continues, "What's the opposite of down?"

Opposites has become one of our regular tandem games. It's sweet the way she plays it with me, revealing something of the world she's in as we pedal the road together.  "The opposite of down?" I pause to give her time to think wondering where the question came from. "Is it up?"

"Yes, it is Dad."

There's a moments silence while I wait for more. Because there's always more.

"Will we have to go up again? Because when we do I will pedal harder if I'm not too tired. I can pedal harder than Cameron. And when I do get tired can I swap with Cameron and go back in the buggy and he can pedal harder can't he Dad?"

It amazes me how much our kids commit to the journeys we do together, not just in pedalling the ups and downs on the hills and mountains but in handling the physical and emotional ups and downs that come with journeying this way. We may pedal up and down the hills at the same time and pace but our individual highs and lows are much less well synchronised. Still we find ways to handle them together, like our tandem teams find ways to power up and down the Alps together.

We ride on and through a sleepy Tyrolean village, a rush of painted houses, wooden balconies and window boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers.

"Dad?" Hannah's chatter continues, "Is this a village?"

"Yes, sweetheart, a little Austrian village."

A pause.  And then, "What is the opposite of a little village?" 

The first round of opposites is always easy; up, down; big, small; fast, slow; tall, tiny; but that's boring for playful little minds. I try and imagine where she's coming from. Sometimes there's a 'right' answer; other times it's pure exploration.

"Is it a big village?" I ask.

"No, Dad." she responds. I've clearly got it wrong. "It's a big town. That hotel town we stayed in last night was a big town, wasn't it Dad? With that TV and that camel. Do all towns have camels?"

It amazes me how much kids take in while we travel around. It's not like we set out to teach them stuff but they show an amazing capacity for learning all kinds of stuff from the experiences we have. It's not force fed or curriculum led but experience based and experience led. They notice stuff, things you often fail to notice; ask questions, often ones you'd never think to ask; and concoct fantastic explanations that explain their observations, stretch their (and your) imagination and sometimes challenge the way you make sense of the world.  It's not hard work but a natural process and usually fun. Watching the kids learn like sponges, get it right and get it wrong, reawakens my own curiosity and desire to keep on learning no matter how old I get.

We ride on and onto a section of steep, loose gravel on a trail leading up to the Fernpass. It's too hard to ride so we dismount and start to push. Well at least I do. Hannah has other ideas. To me the path is a horrible steep gravel obstacle, getting in the way of us making progress over the Alps. But to Hannah it's something else, a place to play, a chance to walk, a change of scene, a new train of thought.

"Dad?" she asks, scrambling around on the ground behind me. "What is the opposite of stone?"

Round three of opposites bends my mind. It's about things that have no opposites, at least to grown-ups. But as a child perhaps they could have, should have, do? I try to imagine what she is thinking and play for time.

"The opposite of stone. That's a good question.  What do you think it is sweetheart?"

"I don't know.  What is it Dad?"

Pushing the tandem and trailer up the stony hill I can think of nothing else but stone. It has no opposite. It's all there is. As a grown up I feel I should have an answer, that's my job isn't it? I try to find my imagination but my mind is just filled with stone.

Hannah throws her stone into the woods and picks up another. "What is it Dad? What is the opposite of stone?"

In my growing irritability I want to tell her that some things just don't have opposites. But I know I forget this myself. How often I contrast the kids, one with another, saying how Matthew is the opposite of Cameron, Hannah is the opposite of Matthew, but they are not opposites; they are simply different.  And travelling with them in this way I see those differences more and more clearly each day. Some things don't have opposites; they are simply different. But this is too philosophical a point for now.

We reach the top of the hill. I put the tandem down and take a moment to rest and find my imagination. The opposite of stone. Could it be grass, sponge, water, sky? Finally it comes to me.

"The opposite of stone is… tarmac." I announce.

Hannah looks at me confused. "No, Dad. It's not. It's not tarmac. The opposite of stone is shelter."

We sit together, sharing the moment, perhaps contemplating each others answers. But only for a moment. Then we're off again.

"Dad? What's is tarmac?"

Hans but no Gretel

Deep in the forest a tractor is blocking our way. A log is chained to the front, and a man in dungarees darts out from behind a tree as we wonder how on earth we are going to get past. He puts down his chainsaw, to ask where we are heading. His name is Hans, he was born in a nearby village, and spent his childhood growing up with the trees. He tells us they were planted in the 50's when he was a boy. "People come here on holiday. But why would I ever need a holiday when I have all this? I am a lucky man." We gaze up at the tall trees, at the light bursting through the upper branches, and agree that Hans is indeed a lucky man. He is at home in this peaceful place. We are so transient, just passing through as we have done for the last thousand kilometres, like the Roman soldiers who marched this route.

Hans says he hopes we have sun. "But it's all the same to nature. Sun rain, the trees like it all." He places huge scuffed leather gloves down on my handlebars and together we gaze up the gravelled forest track at the hills that will fill our day. The gravel hills I normally hate, but recently mind less. Our encounters with the Romantic Road, which we ditched faster  than an annoying boyfriend, were anything but romantic. The route was longer than advertised; we suspected towns were being surrepticiously added to the road for commercial gain, and it was all rather hard and unrewarding.  The Via Claudia Augusta, on the other hand, has been our friend. We've happily travelled in the path of the Romans, sometimes on gravel, mostly on the road, usually uphill, but not excessively so for the last week.

Hans tells me he learnt his English in Glasgow and Oxford. He liked England but Germany, and this forest are his home. Today he is cutting down a sick tree. "I will move my tractor now, so you can finish your journey," he says, shaking my hand and smiling sweetly. I am sorry to leave the clearing. The air is cool, the trees atmospheric, and even the children are quiet. But Hans has leapt into the red machine and pulls it off the road, waving us on. We weave around him and up the hill, looking for other pleasant distractions.    

One hump or two

"Take the luggage off your bikes and then take them to the right and around the back and park them up,"says the hotel owner, in good English; a relief after days of pidgeon German.

"Next to the camel?" I ask him cheerfully.

"The what?"

"The camel." I'm hoping he doesn't ask me to clarify this as I'm sure my phrasebook won't stretch to a German translation of Camel.

"What?"

With the palm of my hand I draw two bumps. He probably thinks I intend to retreat to the nearby Mcdonalds. But no, he raises his head and lets out a long laugh. "Ah you mean the hysterical market?"

I take my bike through the historical German market which for some inexplicable reason has recreated a cross between a Moroccon souk and a medieval castle. Spices fill the air, a man is gutting something dead in front of me, and donkeys and camels are on every corner. There is a beggar dressed as a medieval peasant who demands euro's but gets none. The archery stall is doing a roaring trade, and scantily dressed women throw coloured lights into the air on strings. A band plays in the centre of the town, and everyone is drinking the usual selection of German beer. Sausage sellers shiver in sackcloths with string waistbands in fairy lit wooden stalls, and the boys are attracted to a stall wholly furnished with animal skins. "Oh it's so fluffy," says Matthew, handling what looks like some kind of beaver fur, getting the same look from the stall owner that Stuart was awarded earlier when he tried to squeeze his tandem and trailer between the camels, a lamp post and a large pile of camel shit.

We go out for dinner, a traditional medieval fayre of pizza, spaghetti Bolognese and egg fried rice in the local Chinese takeaway. Shongau is a strange town. As we approached we could see it high in the air. "Not another medieval walled city," I cursed under my breath, knowing it would be another two hundred metres of climb after a long day. But no, just up a short hill the city walls opened to reveal a rather bland place of chain stores and fast food shops. And of course the quaint, traditional medieval market.

As the rain comes down, and thunder flashes above, everyone rushes for cover with their beers and we retreat to our hotel. The camel is now stationed outside the front door. Both the animal and its owner give us an evil stare. But then the local drunkard offers three euro's to be carried home on it, and we run inside, side stepping the dung, resolving to close the windows in case camels are nocturnal creatures. "Night night John boy, Night night Mary Ellen. Night night camel," says Hannah as she drifts off to sleep, a medieval guitar playing a soft accompaniment to her dreams.