Today marked the launch of a new initiative in our household - the Mountain Challenge, in other words, bribe the kids into climbing ten local peaks with the promise of a new Wii game. This might sound harsh, but they've already got four apiece. (I mean local peaks, not Wii games.) So lunchtime found us on the summit of the nearby Jochberg in thick cloud. The only way we knew we'd reached the top was the huge cross (every mountain around here has one). This cross had a natty little metal cabinet with a guest book inside, where other successful climbers had recorded their euphoria, or whatever. Hedda, our anointed scribe, was too cold to write anything other than our names and the date.
It was all a bit eerie. Just under the cross was a weatherbeaten grave. Some poor guy had snuffed it there, struck by lightning in 1937. (Amazingly, there is still a hurricane lantern and candle in homage to him.) We stumbled down through the fog and rain in search of shelter for our picnic. All we found was a closed-up restaurant, but at least there were tables and benches outside. If you sat close enough to the wall, you just about escaped the deluge of water from the gutterpipe above. There's nothing worse than a wet sandwich.
The rain steadily worsened as we shivered and slipped our way back to the car. I could hardly speak for coldness, but the children's merry chatter and sense of achievement was worth every drip seeping into my now-known-to-be-not-waterproof-raincoat. Only five more mountains to go...
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