Hong Kong and home

30 November. Our final day in Italy, in Europe. The trip’s coming to an end - now it’s the homeward leg.

We saw Rome the last time we were in Europe. It’s a big sprawling city, and I’m not keen to return. Once you’ve seen the artworks in the Vatican, the Colosseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps you’ve pretty much done Rome. Ok I might be accused of being a heretic, or a peasant, but that’s my opinion. Perhaps if we were there on a sunny Sunday we could cycle the Appian Way, but it’s not going to happen this time.

So we’re staying at Parco Leonardo, just one train stop from Rome’s Fiumicino airport. It’s comfortable, it’s quiet, it’s economical, and it’s practical for our morning flight. Even better, there’s a huge shopping mall over the road, not that there’s a lot to buy.

Arriving in Hong Kong is like revisiting an old friend. It’s a bit like flying in to the Northcote Shopping Centre, only a little bigger and with worse traffic.

And it’s the first city on our entire trip where we don’t immediately give ourselves away as tourists as soon as we open our mouths.

During our last visit we stayed in Mong Kok in a tiny apartment where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat. This time we’ve gone up-market, and our apartment is on the island within easy reach of the central train stations and ferry terminals.

Even better, we’re on Graham St where the local food market’s located. You’re not going to get a more authentic introduction to old Hong Kong than this. The apartment’s still not huge. A swing of five cats tied end to end would mark out the main living space, though it would probably be fairly noisy.

We don’t have a big agenda for Hong Kong. It’s more just a bit of shopping and R&R at the end of the trip. But one place we missed last time was Macau.

Situated across the bay to the west, Macau is another SAR (Special Autonomous Region) ceded back to China in 1999 by the Portuguese, who had been there since the 1500s.

But a substantial blight on this otherwise delightful island are the gaudy and ostentatious hotels and casinos that first started springing up in the 1960s. It would be fair to say many Chinese have a penchant for gambling, and in the absence of casinos in Hong Kong and the mainland, Macau is rather popular. So much so the 15 minute frequency ferry service from Hong Kong is about to be superseded by a 50km bridge. Sad really.

Like Hong Kong the motorised traffic in Macau is dominant and it’s not that pleasant to get around on foot unless you’re in the middle of the old town.

It’s got a long way to go to becoming pedestrian and cycle friendly.

The fort is a welcome relief, rising above the traffic and crowds.

Built initially to protect the nearby church (of which only the facade remains after a fire), the fort was repurposed to protect the island from the Dutch, which its large number of cannons did extremely well.

I’m helping to do a bit of repurposing myself - the cannons for Gamblers Anonymous.

True to form our last evening in a city sees us splash out on local cuisine at a good restaurant. When we were last in Hong Kong we found Cicada, just off the Mid-levels escalator. They did an excellent range of Cantonese dishes, and I’m hoping we can do a repeat. Sadly where they were is now just a large hole in the ground pending the construction of a hotel, so we look elsewhere.

As luck would have it, we find Chilli Fagara quite close to our apartment, and despite the Reserved signs on the tables, they agree to seat us. Very small, authentic Szechuan which means bold flavours, and with a real chilly bent - three levels of chilli in fact (tang, ma and la), in increasing hotness. We choose one of each, and it would be fair to say that by the end of the evening we’re breathing the fire of a Chinese dragon, and my beer runs out a couple of mouthfuls too early.

Very tasty food though, but right on the very limit between pleasure and pain. When we get back to the apartment and look them up on the Internet we discover they’re well regarded with great reviews, have just been awarded a Michelin star, and are expanding into a second restaurant. Lucky we got in indeed.

Arriving in Auckland we’re met by Pauline’s Dad and whisked home. It’s good to be back. I’m eight weeks shaggy and desperately need to visit Bob the Barber, followed by a shower, and an appointment for new hearing aids - my old ones expired in Europe. Then there’s Christmas to look forward to.

But most of all it’s good to be home to get back in touch with friends and family, and to get back on two wheels again. If there’s one thing travelling does, it’s to remind us just how good home is. And it gives us a breather so we can start planning the next trip. Mightn’t be for a while though. 2015 has other priorities. 

 I’m delighted you agreed to marry me Pauline. Hope you enjoyed our Proon.

A return to Florence

Author’s note: if you’re religious and easily offended, don’t read this post.

As the train speeds north through the Tuscan countryside, I’m contemplating my third (and Pauline’s second) return to Florence. Already been there and done the sights. Why return? Does it have anything to do with the boar’s snout?

I don’t know exactly what it is, but Florence is just a great place to be.

Sure it has the beautifully ornate cathedral, the Uffizi filled with priceless artistic treasures, Michelangelo’s David, fine palaces bordering the piazzas, and spectacular monuments commemorating Florence’s past.

But it’s more than that. It has a vibe, a feel to it, a sense of purpose, The heart of the city is compact and very walkable, with only a few residents’ vehicles and taxis to dodge. And the Vespas and cyclists of course, which regard themselves as honorary pedestrians when it comes to traffic lights.

So once you’ve done the major sights, the best thing to do is just chill out and enjoy walking everywhere, ducking into the shops and cafes, visiting the markets (choosing the very best gorgonzola), and seeing an unexpected tower, church, statue or square as you round the next corner.

The people are friendly, and it feels good.

Three yeas ago we dropped by Palazzo Strozzi for an art exhibition, and as luck would have it, there was another to our taste in progress - Picasso.

It’s impossible to describe the awe I feel when looking at his work, including a number of studies for Guernica. Quite simply the man was a genius.

With the Duomo under our belt from three years ago, it’s time to tackle the Campanile. No longer used as a bell tower, its primary purpose is to entice tourists to part with 10 euros to sweat up 400 steps and see the view. And spectacular it is, particularly for a closeup of the ornately marbled Duomo itself.

Having seen the major attractions, it gives us the opportunity to stumble over the lesser known (and less crowded) attractions, with the Convent of San Marco being a case in point. Now a museum, I’m interested to see the Fra Angelico frescoes. Why? I’m not at all religious, but I’m interested in the power art wielded in historical times, with my interest first whetted when I visited the Duomo three years ago.

Consider a poor, illiterate peasant in the middle ages. He’s tithed so a proportion of his income goes to the church, and he pays more to be baptised, married or buried. The church is not only enormously wealthy, it is the repository of learning and literacy, and promotes a dogma with which no one can argue. It builds grand monuments to itself, and pays to have them decorated with elaborate frescoes reinforcing its message.

The painting of Judgement Day at San Marco is a case in point.

Here the believers are separated from the “sinners”. The believers are elevated to a cherubic heaven, while those who don’t quite make the grade are savaged by pitchforks, run through with spears, devoured by monsters, cannibalise each other and themselves, and are boiled in pots in Hell’s fire. Lovely stuff. What’s a poor peasant coerced to think? And of course if he did have the misfortune to voice a rational thought, it (and he) was quickly snuffed out.

Fortunately we live in more enlightened secular times, where rationality, scientific reason and the experimental method have relegated religious dogma to a historical cultural curiosity. Or have we? Wars are still being fought by people who think the way they worship their non-existent God is better than the way someone else worships their non-existent God, or chooses to worship a rabbit’s foot, or nothing at all. And people are dying because of this?

It perpetuates in religious schools where vulnerable children are indoctrinated with this stuff, and the schools have the gall to put their hands out for taxpayer funding. I see the Destiny Church’s application to run a Charter School has been rejected - at least reason prevails in some instances. How about we teach kids in a secular environment until they’re 18, then they can make an informed choice of how many gods they want to worship, ranging from zero to 330 million if they choose to be Hindu.

Humankind still has a long way to go.

To provide balance in this place of bloody crucifixion portrayals, there are some lighter moments.

Here Christ flattens the devil under a door as he wafts in.

But I digress. Moving on from San Marco, I’m keen to drop in at a motorcycle accessory shop. I’d like to buy a pair of bike boots that are stylish enough to wear to work, and Italy with its design flair should be the place to buy them. I look up the websites of a number of shops. They’re all open from 9 to 7 on a Friday, and Motorama on the eastern side of town is accessible given we want to go on to Piazzale Michelangelo over the river for the views back over Florence.

We arrive at Motorama at 2pm. I should have guessed - this is Italy where customer service counts for nought. Closed between 1pm and 3pm. Nice of them to not bother mentioning it on their website. Buggered if I’m going to hang round for an hour to spend 200 euros with a shop that doesn’t give a rat’s arse about its potential customers. I’ll search harder and buy my boots at home. Barrys Point Rd doesn’t close for an afternoon siesta on working days.

We sweat to the top of the hill and get to Piazzale Michelangelo.

Fantastic views, and I cheer myself up with a street vendor ice cream. Not a good choice, but it’s cold and sweet. Pizza down the hill and proper ice-cream at a Gelato shop past the Ponte Vecchio cheers me up even more.

Back home via Il Porcellino. I tease Pauline by just pretending, but she won’t have a bar of it and clamps my hand onto the boar’s snout.

  

Looks like we’re destined to return to Florence.

Florence is giving me a few more ups and downs this time. I still love the city, but it’s just dropped a peg over the last three years. Perhaps most noticeable is the increase in both the number of beggars and the amount of graffiti, though nowhere near Naples’ level. It seems the whole of Italy is coming under more economic pressure. It’s not a basket-case like Greece, but like Spain and Portugal it’s teetering on the brink. Product design and manufacture is great - just think of Ducati, Aprilia, MV, Cagiva, Moto Guzzi, Vespa, Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Alfa, and Fiat.

But it’s the lack of organisation and customer service that lets the country down. Most noticeably for us it’s the trains that don’t run on time and we end up missing connections and continually advising our hosts we’re going to be late. A real contrast to German and Austrian trains - you can usually set your watch by them.

Perhaps it’s just the Italian psyche. Returning to a religious theme, there’s an old joke that’s been around for decades.

Heaven is where:
The police are British
The chefs are Italian
The mechanics are German
The lovers are French
and it's all organised by the Swiss.

Hell is where:
The police are German
The chefs are British
The mechanics are French
The lovers are Swiss
and it's all organised by the Italians.

Not too far wrong.

Italian cuisine is certainly good, but it’s stuck in a time warp. Nothing changes. There are classic dishes, but they remain classics unchanged over time. What I admire about NZ cuisine, as exemplified by Pauline through her devouring of Cuisine mags, is that kiwis take the best of the best from all around the world and enhance it with constant innovation, strong flavours and the freshest of ingredients. Just one of the many reasons I’m marrying this woman.

If she’s willing to stick with an opinionated old curmudgeon like me, that is.

So what’s next for the peripatetic itinerants? Has nostomania kicked in, or are we going to extend our travels?

The festive lights are all up, the cities are looking lovely after dark, and it would be great to have a white Christmas as winter starts to bite. Spain, Portugal and Morocco are nice at this time of year too if we wanted to follow the sun. Or we could return to Santorini or Rhodes, which we loved. Maybe even Cappadocia which we missed when we were in Turkey.

Sadly the tickets are booked and we’ll be home in a week via Hong Kong. I’ve got a project to run, and so too has Pauline - it’s called a wedding. I’ve skilfully delegated all the detail to her. Just tell me where to stand and when to say “I do”. Sorted.

We’ve cleverly missed the spring squalls back home, and I’m looking forward to shedding layers as we head into a kiwi summer. Shedding the lard layer and getting my body back into shape is on the agenda too.

So stay tuned. One more post from Hong Kong, then a Tramp Abroad will go quiet. For a while.

Sorrento and surrounds

It’s Friday 21 November. We’re heading south from Rome towards Naples, and I’m a bit cautious. Naples has a poor reputation with tourists - a big impoverished city run by the Camorra (local mafia), hopelessly in debt, garbage stacking up on the streets because they’ve run out of landfills, landmarks defaced by graffiti, and petty crime rife. Stories of pickpockets abound, and scooter pillions who’ll wrestle your shoulder bag from you or rip a necklace from your throat. Some describe it as the arsehole of Italy.

It can’t be as bad as that, can it? There are a few who say the crime is over-hyped, and it’s no worse than you’d get in any big city. Nikki visited a few months ago without problems, but did concede a level of grunge-chic.

We arrive at Napoli Centrale, and buy our Unico Artecards. Eurail doesn’t cover the private railway that runs from Naples to Sorrento, so we buy Aretcards which give us three days of unlimited travel in the Unico Campana region, and include entry to two of the many museums available, including Pompeii. The idea of avoiding the ticket queues at these attractions sounds good. Clever marketing here.

It’s 3pm and we drop down to the Napoli Garibaldi station on the Circumvesuviana line that will take us to Sorrento. It’s like descending into hell. There are no lifts or down-escalators, so we lug heavy suitcases down the steps into a seething mass of sweaty humanity. There’s graffiti everywhere - in the station and on the trains, with no attempt to clean it off.

I double-check that my valuables are tucked away in my bag or behind zipped or domed pockets. With a large suitcase in tow it’s impossible to be inconspicuous.

The train arrives and it’s already full. A few people get off, then there’s a general scramble for a place, with a lot of jostling as we wrestle our suitcases towards the open door.

I feel a little tug on my jacket, and look down to see a hand deftly sliding into the now undomed pocket. I spin around as I grab at my chest, and see a swarthy but unassuming middle-aged man melt away into the crowd. That was close. Nothing stolen.

We bash shins as we lug our suitcases over the threshold into the train and find a place to stand over them. I’m on high alert, and everyone around me is a potential pickpocket or mugger. It’s sweltering but I zip my jacket up tighter so I can more easily feel if someone’s going for a pocket.

I’m starting to think those who call Naples the arsehole of Italy are right, and the Circumvesuviana line is the diarrhoea trail to the south. Our first stop is Via Gianturco, which I’m sure loosely translates as giant turd. A few stops on is Bellavista - what a joke. Nothing good-looking about this place. It’s black with graffiti.

By the time we get to Herculaneum I manage to get a (nasty plastic) seat with Pauline and recount what happened. We’re both incredulous that the main tourist route from Naples to Herculaneum, Pompeii and Sorrento is such an excruciating experience. The railway treats its passengers with contempt, and the passengers in turn treat the railways and other passengers with contempt. Surely things can only get better from here, and we’re dreading taking this line again for the return trip, particularly the section closer to Naples.

We get to Teresa’s apartment in Sorrento, have a cup of tea, feel the stress start to melt away, and plan our next three days.

Sorrento’s a nice little town, particularly now the Christmas decorations are out. It’s glorious weather too - good call leaving the fog and rain of Florence till later. With our Artecards we’ll do Pompeii and Herculaneum tomorrow, the Amalfi Coast on Sunday, and the Isle of Capri on Monday. Sorted.

With new-found vigour we board the train to Pompeii, disembark past all the touts trying to flog us maps and tours, and head for the entrance. Being the low season the queues at the ticket office aren’t huge, but we’re feeling smug as we bypass them and head direct to the entry portal with Artecards in hand. What happens next should have been expected - this is Italy after all. “No, you can’t enter with those. You have to return to the ticket office and get them validated, and tickets specifically for Pompeii issued”. I restrain myself to some extent, but the attendant is left under no illusion that I’m not impressed by how Italy treats tourists.

But once inside, it’s great. Pauline and I spend a couple of hours wandering up the cobbled streets.

 Vesuvius looms ominously in the background.

It was AD79 when Vesuvius erupted, burying this thriving town of 20,000 people under 10m of volcanic ash and mud, and forming an excellent time capsule of what life was like in Roman times.

Interesting that the larger houses owned by the wealthy are up near the top of the hill, while smaller poorer houses are towards the bottom. The reason’s quite logical when you think about it - the sanitation systems weren’t great in those days, and the sewers got smellier as the shit slowly flushed down hill. The same thing happens in modern times of course. Economists call it the trickle-down effect.

Perhaps the highlight of Pompeii is the lupanar (literally wolf den).

This one is actually the Lupanare Grande, the largest of 35 lupanares unearthed in Pompeii, which equates to approximately one brothel per 71 adult males. Two stories high and with 10 rooms, it was conveniently located close to the Forum, in a rough triangle with the Theatre quarter and the Temple quarter. I suppose you’d watch a bawdy show in the amphitheatre, have it off with a lupa, then repent your lusty desires at the Temple of Apollo.

As Pauline and I are lingering over the erotic paintings on the wall, I remark that it’s clear Pompeii was buried in pre-Christian times as there isn’t a missionary amongst them. I didn’t mean for my comment to be overheard, but an English guy behind us cracked up. He was still grinning in our direction a couple of monuments later.

It’s hard work doing Pompeii in the hot sun. The place is huge, and there’s a lot to see.

I’m feeling a little jaded by the end of it, and Pauline’s developing a headache which has the hallmarks of a developing migraine, so we cut for home on the Circumvesuviana without seeing Herculaneum.

We’re a couple of stops south when a young guy gets on. He casually pulls out a blue felt pen, and tags the inside of the window. No one bats an eyelid. He gets off at the next station, and tags the outside of the window in full view of all the embarking and disembarking passengers. No one bats an eyelid. This place is going to the dogs. No - it’s worse than that - dogs are civilised in comparison.

Arriving back at the apartment early gives me an opportunity to plan Sunday’s activities along the Amalfi Coast. Hugging the coast for 70 twisty kilometres from Sorrento to Salerno, the route looks like a motorcyclist’s paradise. I consult the on-line forums. “Don’t do it, you’ll die” was the overwhelming commentary. Given I don’t have an International Driving Permit, my travel insurance limits me to a bike under 200cc, and Pauline’s desire to marry a living human being rather than an assortment of body parts, I reluctantly put the idea aside. We’ll go by bus.

After consulting the latest on-line bus timetable, I have it all figured out. 8.30am bus to Amalfi via Positano, a coffee in Amalfi, a return bus to Positano where we’ll have lunch, then back to Sorrento. All the times carefully entered into Tripit so we won’t miss a departure.

We rock up to the bus stop and board the bus for Amalfi, carefully choosing seats on the right hand side of the bus for the views out over the coast. A couple of Italians come to board, and we hear the word “Positano”, but they then disembark. Strange.

The bus heads for Meta as per the timetable, then instead of returning to the coast for Positano it climbs inland. Some fantastic views and not a bad trip, but it rejoins the coast road past Positano before arriving at Amalfi. I figured I’d misread the timetable and routes. I ask the driver when the next bus leaves from Amalfi for Positano. 2.30pm. Ok - not as per the timetable. Better check at the bus information office.

“There is no bus to Positano. The road is kaput. Cars can get through, but not buses”. Now I understand why our morning route went inland, but why didn’t the bus driver say anything? And now we’re here, how do we get back to Sorrento? “Take the 12.30pm bus to Salerno, regional train to Naples, then back on the Circumvesuviana to Sorrento. Or the 5pm bus to Sorrento”. Aargh - not what we wanted. Surely there’s another way? We ask others - bus drivers, the waiter at the cafe, we consult timetables. Yes, there might be a bus to Positano, but nowhere can we get consistent information about what’s going on and what’s possible. Customer service for tourists is appalling.

But Amalfi’s a nice little town.

A peloton has just arrived, and as cyclists know the best place for a coffee and snack, we choose the same cafe. All is excellent, but the coffee’s a little cool - probably suits a flying stop.

We decide to cut our losses. Rather than get stuck in Amalfi, we take the bus to Salerno at 12.30, and it’s a great trip along the coast. It more than meets expectations. The train to Naples takes us on the eastern side of Vesuvius, and we get to see a bit more of the countryside. Without suitcases we blend in with the locals and don’t have any trouble running the gauntlet of the Circumvesuviana.

So we missed Positano, and were frustrated by the Italian transport system and abysmal communication, but otherwise we had a great day.

Our final route could actually have been planned that way, and we have a great bunch of photos for the library.

Of course if we’d been on a bike we’d have done the whole coast road and back. For a competent motorcyclist it’s no trouble at all. So long as you can handle hairpins and take evasive action periodically, it’s a great ride. And if you get scared, all you’ve got to do is sit behind a bus and let it bulldoze errant motorists out of the way. Perhaps I’ll come back and ride it one day.

Day three on the coast, and it’s time to visit the Isle of Capri. My parents were here nearly half a century ago on a Mediterranean cruise, and I wonder if I’m retracing their footsteps at all. But my first thought is are we even going to get to the island? The online timetables say the ferries are running and the sea is like a millpond, but I continue to remind myself that this is Italy. Something has to go wrong. But it doesn’t.

The guidebooks say Capri is the pits at the height of the season, with gawky tourists looking for the rich and famous, but only finding their prices.

We arrive at the port and take the funicular up to Capri township. What a relief. Gucci, Prado and other up-market stores line the streets. It’s clean, it’s cool, there’s no graffiti, and the views are to die for. I can see why the Roman emperors Augustus and Tiberius liked it so much as their holiday hideaway. Give me money and I’ll happily live here.

We do a lovely walk out to the Arco Naturale on the eastern side of the island.

The arch, the remains of a collapsed limestone grotto, is stunning. Why can’t the rest of Italy be like this? Clean, safe, attractive, on time… Is this just the preserve of the rich and famous in Italy?

We hop on the minibus to Anacapri on the western side and take the 12 minute chair lift up to Monte Solaro for more great views.

This place is fantastic. But we can’t do everything. We have neither time nor inclination to do the Blue Grotto for which Capri is famed, but which many say is nothing special and an expensive ripoff. It’s a bit like a gondola ride in Venice. Large amounts of money for what in the end is a ho-hum experience. A sea cave with blue light? A ride in a little boat? Hmm - I’d rather go kayaking around NZ’s coastline.

Lunch in a pleasant cafe in Anacapri isn’t too expensive.

I bathe my face in the weak afternoon sun thinking life can’t get much better. But I still have a nagging feeling that the return ferry may be cancelled. Spurning the funicular, we walk back down to the port, and the ferry leaving for Sorrento is right on time. We enjoy dinner in a local seafood restaurant that nearly rivals Pescheria Backi in Salzburg. All is good. A day of bliss in Italy.

In an email from my sister I subsequently discover that Mum and Dad did indeed do the Blue Grotto and really enjoyed it. Perhaps when I come back to bike the Amalfi Coast I’ll squeeze in the grotto as well.

Where to from here?  We’re trying to work the itinerary so we can overnight in a trulli house. They’re ancient Apulian small round houses of stone with a conical roof, and Pauline rather fancies staying in one. But located in the heel of Italy’s boot, it’s just too much of a logistical challenge to get there and still do justice to Florence.

Having run the gauntlet of Circumvesuviana a final time, with our valuables stowed deep in our shoulder bags, we set our sights for Florence. The weather doesn’t look that great, but it doesn’t matter. There can be a howling gale in Florence and we’ll still love it, but the extra time does perhaps give us the opportunity for a day trip.

Would we go back to Naples? Not if we could help it. We’d find some other way to get to parts of the south coast. It’s a shame. Naples used to be a proud, wealthy city. Over time it’s become economically depressed, the people impoverished and the mafia has taken over. Avoid it like the plague.

Venice - Italy redeemed

After an ignominious start to our Italian adventure, Venice is making up for it in spades.

We set off on Tuesday morning, 18 November, in glorious sunshine.

The markets are bustling, boats are cruising up and down the canals, and the odd gullible tourist has been sucked in to a gondola ride.

I stop off at a WIND store for another attempt at getting a 3G data SIM, and this time it’s third time lucky. 4Gb for 35 euros - should keep us going for two weeks. Takes three hours to activate, and is a bit slow at times, but at last I’m connected to the world again.

The best way to get an overview of Venice is by boat (cycleways are few and far between!). We hop on a vaporetto (ferry) near the train station, and wend our way down the Grand Canal in a lazy S to St Marks square.

Ah - there’s the Bridge of Sighs - so named as it was the last glimpse of Venice prisoners got as they were lead from the law courts to the dungeons - including legendary lothario Casanova.

Venice is a funny place. There is a sense of grunge and dilapidation with many of the buildings. Plaster is peeling off the brickwork and a lot of the walls are black with mould. It wouldn’t surprise me if they had a rising damp problem.

Then of course there are majestic palaces, towers and cathedrals, but at present we don’t feel like parting with a substantial number or euros to go inside.

We’ve seen lots of ornate interiors on our travels, and more are just sensory overload.

More fun is just looking at Venetians getting on with their every day life - shipping materials up and down the canals in little utility boats, haggling for the best deal at the fish market, or setting up and taking down the raised walking platforms for acqua alta.

Acqua alta? High water.

Venice is slowly sinking into the ooze of the lagoon, and already many ground floor rooms are uninhabitable and just used for storage. At king tides sirens sound and the walking platforms are assembled as water sloshes over the edges of the canals and inundates the footpaths. Steel plates with rubber gaskets are put in place at the doorways, and designer gumboots feature prominently in the shoe shops. If I had worries about Shanghai with imminent sea level rises, I’ve got even more worries for Venice.

Venice is also very tricky to navigate on foot. A lattice of little canals and lanes twist and turn in every direction, and if the sun’s not readily visible it’s easy to get disoriented. Thank goodness for iPhones and GPS, and pre-loaded maps showing where the bridges are.

Pauline and I have been on the road for six weeks now, and we’re in alignment on just about everything. Augurs well for the future. But we do have subtle differences in our approach to sight-seeing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a left-brain traveller.

I do a bit of background reading, identify the attractions I want to visit on a digital map, and join up the stars with an efficient shortest path algorithm. A little blue GPS dot guides me unerringly to where I want to go.

Pauline is a right-brain traveller. “We haven’t seen that area of Venice there”, she declares, stabbing at a broad swathe of the map with her finger. “Ok”, I say, “You lead”. We set off to explore. We head down a long and interesting little lane, and nearly fall into the canal at the end of it. There’s no bridge. We backtrack. After more wandering we discover we’ve done a tight loop and ended up where we started from - not quite the intention.

But to make matters worse, Pauline’s so busy looking up at the sights and to get oriented she doesn’t notice the large dog shit on the pavement.

The next 10 minutes are spent looking for sticks and puddles, and extracting what she can from the treads of her shoe. I helpfully ask if she’d like me to lead, but get a rather frosty reception. I offer her the use of my toothbrush when we get home, which cheers her up a bit. And of course we have some photos of places in Venice that I can almost guarantee no other tourist has.

There’s more to Venice than the main island of course.

To guard against the place being razed by fire, Venetian glassmakers were banished to the island of Murano in the 13th century. 

 It’s great to get out on a boat again, and in no time we’re wandering the trinket shops and being invited in to glass-making demonstrations.

Perhaps it’s the end of the season, perhaps our taste in glass just doesn’t match what’s on offer, and we come away slightly disappointed.

Burano, on the other hand, is delightful.

A bit further out into the lagoon and the home of Venetian lace-making, Burano is famed for its picturesque multi-coloured houses.

The vibe is good, the scenery (including its own leaning tower) great, and both the food and beer good.

On the subject of food (one of the main reasons for travelling), it’s good to get away from the heavier German meals and into the lighter and more flavoursome Italian cuisine. Despite its Neapolitan origins, pizza is economical and widely available throughout Italy. But it is Italian pizza - not kiwi pizza. Spurning pizzas with bland ingredients, we choose one with gorgonzola - this’ll give us a flavour hit.

But we’re disappointed when the pizza arrives. The gorgonzola block has been waved over the pizza, and a couple of crumbs have dropped onto the surface. I remember now that Italian pastas and pizzas have a lot of carb filling, but are relatively modest on toppings and flavoursome ingredients. I wonder how well a Hell Pizza franchise would go down in Italy - I suspect not well for a number of reasons. But it does remind me that back home we’re blessed for choice, with both quality and quantity when it comes to ingredients to stimulate the taste buds.

Our final attraction in Venice is a modern art stop.

Peggy Guggenheim acquired a superb collection of mid-20th century pieces, many of which I’d be delighted to have in my home, but certainly some I’d consign to the rubbish tip too. Art is a very personal thing - I want it to be both decorative, and to make a statement. What is the artist saying in the political or social context of his/her time? Why do I like surrealists like Miro, Ernst and Dali while Jackson Pollock’s abstract expressionism leaves me cold? And why is it necessary to push artistic boundaries, if the current boundaries are there for a reason, and overstepping them just results in contrived ugliness? The best place for some of this stuff is indeed a gallery where students of art history and learn from past mistakes, but it has no place in my consciousness. Perhaps I’m an anarchist, then perhaps I’m not.

We see another Giacometti in the garden.

Millions of dollars worth of sculpture out in the open air. Hope their security’s good. I suspect Pauline is reflecting on what size she needs to be to fit into her wedding dress, and reconciling it with her last healthy nut treat glued together with just a little toffee. We’ll be able to put a bit of elastic in the dress I’m sure. Fortunately my suit rental can be done last thing - I’m certain I’ve expanded a size while travelling. Too much good food, good beer, good wine, and only walking for exercise. Looks like we’re both in for a summer of salads and aerobics.

After three full days in Venice we’ve done our dash, and we've loved it.

But there’s more of Italy to explore, so where next? The base plan is to head for Florence, but a beautiful sunny weekend is forecast for Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast. We set our sights for Naples instead, but as we speed through Tuscany on the train we remember why we liked this part of the country so much last time. Don’t worry, Florence, we’ll be coming back before we fly out of Rome. We rubbed the boar's snout, remember?

Note to self - buy a new toothbrush in Sorrento.

A bumpy introduction to Italy

Say “Bolzano, Verona, Venezia” with a lilting Italian accent. Don’t they sound wonderful? Full of romance and expectation. But expectation of what? That is the question.

Giorgio’s residence in Bolzano is huge. He and his family live on the ground floor, while five apartments are rented out to guests upstairs. A large impregnable steel door guards the entrance to the first floor. Security’s good, I think. No one will be able to break in through that.

We settle in to our room, have a coffee, check some emails, and gear up to start exploring the town.

Well it would be nice to explore the town if only we could get out. The steel door is locked, there is no key, and all manner of pulling, pushing and looking for hidden releases is in vain. I look around for a fire escape or alternative exit, but there are none. The phone by the door doesn’t work. I txt Georgio - no reply. We knock on all the doors to see if another guest can work some magic. No one around. After 20 minutes we spot a car pulling up, and Pauline waves frantically from the window. It’s Georgio’s wife, and she lets us out. “I’m terribly sorry”, she says. “This door should never have been locked from the outside. Perhaps someone did as they left”.

There’s a little sign on the outside of the door next to the key which says, “Please do not lock this door”. Great. And great security. And the ability to open the door from the inside? A key? An emergency release or exit? She shrugs. This is Italy.

But we put our frustration behind us and set off to explore Bolzano. can’t let things like this get us down.

Bolzano’s a nice enough little town, and given it’s a Sunday it’s good to see some shops open. An improvement on Austria in that regard.

But you can tell immediately that this is a poorer country than its northern neighbours. Graffiti is more omnipresent. There’s more grunge. It’s late autumn but the footpaths aren’t swept, making them very slippery.

We saw a couple of guys scratching around a tree with a rake, while in Austria we had to dodge motorised vacuum cleaners with rotating brushes sucking up all the leaves.

Monday morning, 17 November, and it’s time to leave for Venice. I choose to take our suitcases with us from the apartment rather than return for them. Our accommodation doesn’t give me a good feeling.

But given we’re in Italy for two weeks and wifi is uncommon at many of the accommodation spots, I want to buy a pre-paid data SIM for my TP-Link 3G/Wifi gateway - say 1Gb should be just right for the remainder of the trip. That would cost about $20 in NZ, say 13 euros. I try the TIM shop first. We overcome the communication barrier - yes he can sell me a 4Gb data SIM valid for three months. That’ll be 42 euros. 42 euros! Extortionate. I hadn’t realised the mafia had infiltrated Italy Telecoms.

There’s a Vodafone shop on the other side of the piaza. Yes, he can sell a data SIM. The smallest is 15Gb for 50 euros. I groan inwardly - should have got the one at the TIM shop. But I’m here now so I’ll take it, and pull out my plastic. Sorry - cash only. I have 35 euros in my wallet, and Pauline’s on the other side of town taking photos.

Back to the TIM shop. Sorry - our activation system is broken. He shrugs. With 50 euros in my hot little hand, back to the Vodafone shop. The queue is out the door, and our train leaves in half an hour. There’s no way I can sort this before it leaves. Perhaps I’ll try again in Venice, but I’m not confident. Despite being close to Slovenia and Croatia, Venice is still in Italy.

Pauline encourages me to stay calm.

Our two month global Eurail pass allows us to travel first class, and it’s been great. Fewer passengers, more room, complimentary nibbles and drinks. Reservations are recommended on the busier routes, but not compulsory. Hop on any train you want. Services are frequent, on time, and there’s plenty of spare capacity except in peak times. It’s different in Italy.

Here reservations are compulsory. But we can only reserve second class seats, and we’re told to talk to the guard on the train to change to first class. We settle in to our seats, and talk to the guard. That’ll be an extra 20 euros. More extortion. We decide the mafia has infiltrated Italian Rail too and decide to stay shoehorned into where we are.

We arrive in Verona to change trains, and have a half hour wait for our connection to Venice. This will get us in there in good time - in daylight and before the forecast afternoon rain starts.

But there are problems - the train we’ve reserved seats on is delayed for an hour. Another train is ready to depart for Venice, but we can’t hop on because we don’t have reserved seats for that train.

I look after the bags while Pauline goes to check to see if we can swap our seats. Why yes - that’ll be 22 euros, but you booked these seats in Austria, so you’ll have to go to the OBB counter over there. Pauline queues up. So you want to change your reservation on the Italian train? You’ll have to go to the Italian counter over there, indicating to where Pauline had just come from. Pauline has a minor meltdown, and the kindly man at the window suggests she goes to the Customer Care office around the corner. There is no Customer Care office.

Probably just as well for international relations. “So let me understand this. Our train is late, this is Italian Rail’s problem, not ours. To swap to another train that will gets to our destination quicker will cost US money? Where is the customer service??”. I can imagine Pauline having a major meltdown. This is Italy. 

I encourage Pauline to stay calm.

Two trains have departed for Venice and finally our train arrives 75 minutes late. We collapse into our second class seats, and talk darkly about turning around and heading for Switzerland, Austria, Germany - anywhere but Italy.

I understand now why Italians yearn for the return of Mussolini. Despite his faults, at least the trains ran on time.

It’s dusk and pissing down as we arrive in Venice, now 90 minutes late. Fortunately we’ve booked close to the station, but in inimitable Italian fashion the directions to our accommodation are haphazard, and we waste 10 minutes in the rain trudging up and down little lanes with inconsistent street numbering and faded lettering.

Finally we find Yaya’s apartment and settle in. She doesn’t advertise wireless, but just perhaps there might be a signal? Yes, but it’s so weak the iPhone can’t find it, and the MacBook Air can barely latch on. The signal drops continuously, and the MacBook helpfully suggests I move closer to the WAP. I figure the WAP is buried under the abutment of the Bridge of Sighs, and resign myself to using expensive roaming data for now. This is Italy.

But tomorrow is another day, and the rain is forecast to stop. Venice has a reputation for being a magical romantic city, Pauline’s been hanging out to get here, and it is our honeymoon after all. It might be Italy, but things can only get better from here. Can’t they?

Catching up with Robert in Munich

We cross the border back into Germany again, and I’m amazed to see all the solar panels on the roofs of the houses. I read in the Herald that Germany’s GHG emissions are down 20% from the 1990s, and with their focus on wind and solar I can see why. Meanwhile, NZ’s emissions are up 110% over the same period. I know NZ’s emissions are small by world standards, but if we don’t start playing our part we’ll become the pariahs of the international community, possibly with sanctions imposed. About time we started getting our act together with an effective carbon tax and incentives to increase renewables. More cycle lanes would help too.

It was last summer, and I was just paddling my kayak back from an unsuccessful fishing expedition when I heard a motorbike pull up close to our tent at Kawhia. In no time Robert was sharing a beer with us, asking about the DRZ and Freeride, and recounting stories of his adventure travels through NZ on his rented DR650. He was going on to Auckland via Raglan the following day, so I suggested we ride the Whaanga Coast road together and have lunch in the Raglan pub. We could even do a little beach ride before we set off. “A beach ride? You mean you can ride on the beaches here? We can’t possibly do that in Germany!”. Robert was incredulous, but I reassured him that yes indeed in some places we could.

The following morning we dropped onto the beach at Kawhia, rounded the point, and went as far to the entrance to Aotea Harbour as we dared before the rocks got unmanageable. We stopped for photos at the Te Puia hot water beach section. Robert snapped away. “My friends back home are never going to believe this!”. Retracing our steps we set off for Raglan, and recounting the beach ride and wonderful views from the coast road, Robert said, “Well, if you ever come to Europe, you must get in touch and come and stay with me in Munich”.

Pauline and I don’t need much persuading.

We stash our bags at the Hbf and set out to explore the town, with the Pinakothek der Moderne first on the agenda. Some interesting iconic design exhibits for me. More artistic inspiration for Pauline. Perhaps we might see a change in style when she gets back home.

Long ago Munich got rid of all the cars from the centre of town,

and it’s now a fantastic pedestrian area with with people milling around the classy shops and looking at the animated Christmas displays in the shop windows.

Even the big kids are fascinated!

Robert meets us at the Hbf and guides us through the subway system to his apartment. We have a great Bavarian dinner at a local restaurant with his friends Herbert and Maria, talk about their adventure riding trip to Morocco, and drink way too much beer.

So what shall we do tomorrow? It’s late autumn and the weather’s a bit dodgy for Neuschwanstein, Berchtesgarten or Eagles Nest.

Well, up on FrankfurterRing there are the major KTM and BMW motorcycle dealerships, and just down the road from there is BMW Welt. With a couple of KTMs of his own (690 Enduro R and 450 EXC) Robert’s more than happy to take us up there in his Audi Quattro and have a browse himself.

Ah - merchandising opportunities we didn’t get at Mattighofen, including some cute stuff for my imminent grandson.

 

Couldn’t quite fit the little KTM bike into our suitcase though.

Pauline’s rather taken by a classic sports BMW, but it doesn’t have a pillion seat.

 

Guess she’ll just have to ride it on her own.

Saturday night and we’re shouting Robert out to dinner - authentic Bavarian. First stop of course is the Hofbrauhaus for a beer. After last night’s effort, Pauline and I choose to share our one litre stein, while Robert has one for himself. He can put it away, that lad! The brass band starts up, the table next door starts singing football songs, and the environment is getting more conducive to bonhomie and less to conversation.

 

We do manage a few words with a Turkish couple at the end of our table, and reflect on the fact that a hundred years ago our ancestors were shooting at each other at Anzac Cove, and it’s good we’re now friends. We say goodbye to them with a hug - the Hofbrauhaus is that sort of place.

We move on to a quieter Mini-Hofbraushaus for a late dinner. Our last chance for schnitzel, pork knuckle, and of course more alcohol than we need. Our train leaves early in the morning, and I sense I’m going to be a bit under the weather at 6.30am.

But a shower and a sip on Pauline’s cup of tea helps. Robert runs us to the station, and in my finest Deutsch ich sage, “Vielen dank fur Ihre wunderbare gastfreundschaft”. Robert and his mates know they’re welcome in Birkenhead any time.

It’s sad to be leaving our German-speaking countries. It’s the European language I know best, and both Pauline and I are increasing our vocabulary and starting to understand the day to day interactions we encounter in the shops, restaurants, cafes and trains. We have competitions with each other to pick times of arrival and departure at stations, which side of the train to get off, and which platform we need. We’re both pretty good at ordering coffee and filled rolls now. The danger comes when the waiter or shop assistant thinks we’re more proficient in German than we are. “Langsamer bitte! Sprechen Sie Englisch?”.

But now we’re heading for Italy, the last European country on our tiki tour, and an opportunity to reconnect where our last trip ended three years ago. The train climbs higher and higher through Garmisch-Partenkirchen into the Tyrolean Alps, and we get some great views at Seefeld before dropping down into Innsbruck. The train tunnels through the hills, while the adjacent icy road has an endless number of switchbacks. I want to come back in summer on a bike! The mountains have a light dusting of snow, and in some places the season has started already. A bit cold for biking. Robert’s off skiing in Austria next week.

It’s too long a journey to travel directly to Venice, so after a few difficulties booking accommodation in Innsbruck we’ve decided to transit through and carry on to Bolzano in Italy. It’s snowing lightly as we cross the border and change at Brennero. 

 Good call. Bolzano is a nice little town, and our accommodation looks good. But then, this is Italy. We leave German logic and efficiency behind, and prepare to embrace the special Italian way of doing things, of how things work, or not as more often the case may be.

Auf wiedersehen Germany and Austria, ciao Italy. Another data error - that’s all I know. Better brush up on my Italian.

Munderfing and Mattighofen

Where? What’s to see at Munderfing? We get off the train at Munderfing Dampsaege and start to wonder the same thing. But it’s a nice enough little town, and we wander the few hundred metres down the main road to Gasthaus Weiss.

Nice to get out of the cities and into the little villages. The smells are decidedly rural - a combination of silage and what seems to be a pig sty. But no - it’s just the equivalent of pig sty effluent being sprayed on the fields as fertiliser. Very fruity.

With an afternoon to kill we figure a hike into the adjacent forest might be in order. It's warm too - the first time my legs have seen daylight since Shanghai.  We set off down WaldStrasse and past little farming hamlets until we get into the canopy. There are signs we have difficulty translating - but one of them says “This also applies to cyclists”.

Staying on the road would mean an 8km loop getting us back after dark, so we take a 4WD track heading more directly up the hill closer to town.

This is perfect adventure biking country - a bit muddy and rutted in places, but I can’t see any knobbly tyre tracks, not even for mountain bikes. I’m starting to think two-wheeled vehicles are verboten here.

It gets increasingly steep and by now the DRZ would be struggling with traction, but there’s something blue tucked up near the top of the hill that’s worthy of investigation. Pauline looks a bit dubious but I hike on up to take a look. Ah - blue plastic barrels filled with corn meal, and a feeding trough. Up to the left on poles is a hide, while to the right a detector beam shines across a path between two trees.

Now it’s clear - set up a feeding station for the deer, understand their movements from the detector, then knock them off from the hide at your convenience.

Seems to be a bit one-sided in the hunter’s favour to me. Whatever happened to stalking? I take a flash photo of the detector and it gives a satisfying click in return. I wonder if I’ve shifted the odds in the deer's favour a little? And now I understand why bikes aren’t allowed. Wouldn’t want to scare the deer would we? Even wonder if hikers are meant to be here - couldn’t read the signs…

Makes me realise how lucky we are to have Woodhill, Riverhead and other forests open by arrangement to two-wheeled activity. Despite progressive Maori ownership, it looks like we’ll continue to have access to both the Sandpit and the mountain bike park, even if it costs a dollar or so more.

Thursday morning 13 November. Apart from our airport arrival and departure dates, our European trip is revolving around this fixed date. We hop on the train to Mattighofen.

In was back in the 30s when Hans Trunkenpolz started up his Kraftfahrzeug business in Mattighofen. In the early 50s he started building motorbikes, and Ernst Kronreif came on board as a significant investor. KTM (Kronreif Trunkenpolz Mattighofen) was officially born. In receivership in the 90s, the motorcycle division was purchased and reborn by CEO Stefan Pierer, who remains in charge today of a growing company producing over 100,000 motorbikes a year. With a pair of KTM Freerides in the garage at home, how could we not see the place of their birth? And it follows a travelling tradition - when we were last in Europe we stopped off at the Ducati factory in Bologna.

We arrive at KTM HQ a bit before 10am for the English language tour.

The date was initially set for us by email long ago, then it was advertised for others as well. And popular it is too, with 40-odd people showing up, including a large contingent from the Indian dealer network.

Very similar to the Ducati factory inside, but on a smaller scale. We see a 690 Enduro R being assembled, from the initial “marriage” of engine to frame, then the addition of all the bits to make a finished bike, which is then tested on rollers in an enclosed room with exhaust extractors before being packed for shipment.

Good seeing KTM’s attention to detail, their focus on quality, and their pride in building many of the parts themselves, including the wheels. Interesting too hearing how one of the more time-consuming aspects is applying the country-specific modifications and engine maps. Our 690 R was being detuned for the American market - poor buggers.

As opposed to Bologna, there are no merchandise opportunities. KTM realise what a great PR and sales opportunity factory tours are, and are busy planning a museum and shop which will be ready in a couple of years. Meanwhile, all available space is going on increasing their production capability.

But it’s interesting. As opposed to Germany and Italy where there are bikes everywhere, there are relatively few in Austria, even KTMs. Perhaps the biking culture hasn’t hit Austria yet, and even of the bikes I did see, no great loyalty to KTM either.

Another afternoon to kill - there’s not a lot else to see at Mattighofen. We get off a stop early on our return and wander the stream path and and back roads back to our hotel.

There’s a bit in the news about Armistice Day celebrations, and it’s poignant to see flowers on the equivalent of our Anzac memorials as well.

Time to catch up on emails and blogs, and just chill out with a bit of R&R. Travelling carries a degree of stress when you’re on the road all the time, and sometimes it’s nice just to do not much at all.

But we can’t rest up for too long - Munich calls, and a catch-up with my mate Robert. What to do in Munich for a day? Art?  Monuments?  Churches?  Well, it’s the home of BMW, and there’s a KTM shop not too far from BMW Welt…

The salt towns - Salzburg & Hallstatt

We leave Cesky Krumlov with fond memories, but perhaps the railway station could do with a bit of work to make it a tad more tourist friendly. As we rumble south into Austria I’m struck by the romanticism of the little villages we pass through - Aisbach Wartberg, Katsdorf, Lungitz Gusen, Pulgarn. Yes, not just the language of engineering, German is truly the language of love. Ich liebe dich, Österreich!

As you’ve gathered, we spend a lot of time on trains, and getting used to the peculiarities of the dining and toileting facilities is becoming a fine art. I was caught short by the toilets in the train to Linz, failing to read the small print on the door which asked not to flush while at a station. Yup - the contents are deposited straight onto the tracks below. I experienced this in SE Asia, but it didn’t even occur to me some that European trains wouldn’t be fitted with holding tanks, as most are. Recounting my experience to Pauline on my return she turns a little pale, as she’s done exactly the same thing a couple of stations prior with a more substantial flush.

The Linz to Salzburg Intercity is a different story. We get first class seats, first world toilets, and are whisked along at 200kph. With the recent loss of air services to some of NZ’s smaller towns, I reflect on how much better and environmentally friendly an efficient electrified rail service like this could be back home. Whangarei or Hamilton to Auckland in less than an hour? No problem. Even Auckland to Wellington in four hours would be competitive when you factor in airport commuting and parking time. But the idea of enhancing our rail network for passengers and freight seems anathema to our Government.  Let’s build more roads instead, and proceed to destroy them with increasingly heavy trucks.

We arrive at Salzburg, pick up the key and make our way to Viktor’s apartment. It’s Sunday 9 November, and the final MotoGP race is in progress at Valencia. I wonder if it’s live on TV? I flick through 100 channels on the satellite receiver, and am just in time to catch the last two laps and Marquez’s victory. I’m torn by watching the replays on what I missed, or venturing out to have a look at Salzburg in the late afternoon.  Pauline’s persuasive powers win out, and I content myself I have MotoGP recorded back home.

Good call. Salzburg’s a magic town tucked up on the edge of the Austrian Alps, and it’s great to familiarise ourselves in the afternoon sun. Translated as “Salt castle”, the city owes its existence to the considerable salt deposits in the region. The bishops 

moved in first, transformed themselves to princes, and with the fortunes to be made from the salt trade (with gold and silver to boot) built themselves the magnificent and impregnable castle on the hill. The peasants and miners, sensing a degree of wealth inequality, tried to attack it in the early-1500s as part of a general Germanic peasant uprising, but were brutally suppressed. 

The legacy of the wealth is reflected in the town itself.

The Mirabell Palace and Gardens, the churches, plazas and ritzy shopping streets - all serve to turn this into a delightful town on a human scale that can easily be explored in a day or so.

Other than salt and its alpine location, Salzburg is known for two things - the home of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and the location of the Sound of Music.

The Mozart Museum gets a visit, and I’m starting to warm to him and his compositions. Sure he was a bit precocious, but he had a lot of fun as a lad setting up ribald targets with his mates and shooting at them with air rifles. It wasn’t all red jackets, curly wigs and music. Getting back to the apartment, I download a selection of Mozart’s work, and am steadily working my way through it. Definitely some favourites emerging.

I was nine when I fell in love with Julie Andrews. Not many people know this, not even Julie. I’d seen the movie, and we had the LP at home, with a gorgeous picture of her on the back. But the infatuation didn’t last long, and it certainly wasn’t sufficient to justify doing a trip of the shooting locations. Pauline agrees. Now if I’d been here with Karen, my cousin’s wife, things would be different. She loves the movie and has seen it at least half a dozen times, so I’ve sent her a suitable postcard wishing she was here.

We’re tiring a bit of schnitzel and goulash, and are delighted to find Pescheria Backi, a local seafood restaurant only a couple of blocks from the apartment.

There’s no menu - just choose what you want from the display cabinet. We decide on mixed platters for both entree and main. Can’t fault the quality, nor the quantity. Getting through that turbot (large flounder) took time, but it was worth it.

With a relaxed schedule we have time for a day trip to Hallstatt up in the mountains to the south-east.

This place is built on a cliff face that rises near vertically from the lake, and was only accessible by boat until 1890 when the road and rail links were blasted through the cliffs. 

Possibly the world’s first commercial salt mine, a 40km brine pipeline was built in 1595, made from 13,000 hollowed out trees. Impressive! Nearly as impressive is that the Chinese mineral company Minmetals Corp has built a replica of the town in Huizhou - which perhaps explains the hordes of Chinese tourists competing with us for photo shots.

But it is a delightful spot, and if we ever come back again we’ll be sure to do the salt mine tour. 

The trick with any place in Austria (as we found with both Vienna and Salzburg) is don’t arrive on a Sunday. Apart from the odd restaurant, the country is closed and at rest. Part of me thinks this is a good thing, part of me thinks it’s a bad thing. But the important thing is to be aware of it, and adjust your time to Österreich time accordingly. Then you'll love it.