Top of Germany

It struck me that some of you might like to know how my trip up to the Zugspitze summit was, or even whether I made it at all. Well, I did. But I can't think of any amusing way to describe it. The satisfaction lies entirely in the achievement of having done it. A bit like giving birth. Not at all pleasant, and you often feel like giving up, except you can't, as it is a non-reversable situation. While it is true that with mountains, you can always turn round and go back the way you came, the fact that it would mean another 6 hours on your feet is a real deterrent. (Maybe I am being melodramatic - after all, it wouldn't be the first time.) Anyway, the weirdest thing about it all was, on finally arriving at the top, we were suddenly plunged into a whirl of tourists. The air was pervaded by swirling smoke from sausage stands and cigarettes. Before I even got time to draw breath, a row of chubby ladies asked me to take their photo 'to mark the occasion'.  I was too tired to ask what the occasion was, and to be honest, I didn't really care. We sat shivering on a bench and ate our battered sandwiches. (By battered I mean bumped about, not deep-fried, although it would actually have been feasible to get the sausage seller to throw them in his pot of spitting fat.) After 10 minutes we made our way to the cable car. For once, I was unaffected by the sensation of hanging hundreds of feet above a sheer rock face.  Even Titus' last words the night before "I hope the cable doesn't snap when you're sitting inside Mummy" didn't bother me. We swayed gently down to the bottom, had a coffee and went home. And there, a herd of cows was slowly making its way along the road, plopping out green pats here and there, and the jolly farmer was busy spreading some more muck on the field. As always with Bovinia, on returning there you get the feeling that it is a microcosm, the people within it totally disconnected from the outside world and brighter, more scintillating experiences than queueing for bread or watching the recycling lorry reversing out of the car park. 

Farmer Pickles' Revenge

I think the local farmer read my blog yesterday. I awoke to the sound of him cranking up his engine and revving in that way only tractors can. And then the ominous sound of splattering liquid manure hitting wet grass.  Within seconds, the stench filled the room. It was no longer possible to lie in bed, at least without a gas mask.

Having been forced from our olfactorily-challenging bed, we were in the process of getting dressed, and I casually remarked to CG that he was yet to try out our new vacuum cleaner. I mean, we've had it six weeks or so now, I said. For a split second, his face registered complete disinterest until he realized the consequences this might have, and hastily rearranged his features into what he thought was a regretful, humble expression. It was priceless. Hmm, he sighed thoughtfully, in a way that implied that the very next thing he did would be to haul out the said vacuum cleaner and vroom round the house. I laughed inwardly, in that tolerant, benign manner that wives sometimes have when the husband is behaving really well in most other areas, and it thus doesn't matter, at this particular moment, that he never touches the damn thing. Ask me again later when I'm in a bad mood, and the tolerant benignity (great word, I just discovered it) will be but a distant memory.

I am telling you all this partly for the benefit of my dear brother, whose comment on my last post was something rather cutting about me not being either reluctant or a housewife. He has a point, in that I spend far less time complaining about housework than I used to, but this does not mean I don't do it. Oh no. Far from it - but it simply doesn't feature in the top three of my what-I-love-doing-list. I am getting more and more resigned in my old age, and have taken to delegating wherever possible, in order to train my children for life in the big bad world of adulthood. They moan and groan and roll their eyes like the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, but I stand firm. They declare that they don't want to be grown-ups, if cleaning is such a big part of life. (For some of us.) We were looking at photos of me in my early teens - Hedda needed a picture of children in school uniform, and I was glad to oblige - and Gaia said, wow, you looked so different then.  How so, I asked, apart from 27 years of wear and tear? Well, just ... young, and carefree, and full of hope, she mused.  Apparently I now look as if I have given up. Honestly. Any more comments like that and I'll be off to nightclubs every evening, not wearing a coat in winter, and culturing mould in assorted vessels in my bedroom. 

In July, the sun is hot

... is it shining? No it's not! People here are up in arms about lots of things at the moment. One of them is the lack of a decent summer, so far anyway. The beer gardens are only staying afloat with the help of giant umbrellas. The place is full of disgruntled tourists driving slowly and dolefully looking at mountains half-enveloped in cloud. The thing about Germany is, the school holidays differ from one Bundesland (state) to the next. And let's not forget that, unlike the UK, you always know where cars are from, thanks to the helpful registration system. Wherever you happen to be in this great country, you are immediately identifiable from your number plate. If you don't have a well-known one - B for Berlin, M for Munich, HH for Hamburg and so on - people will scrutinize your car for other evidence of your place of residence. (I know, because I do it myself. Categorizing is a national pastime. It goes hand in glove with nosy neighbours and twitching curtains and who is that person walking down our road, I've never seen him before.)  We used to have UE (Uelzen), and this was obscure enough for strangers to approach us on the street and ask. Anyway, the Bavarian radio announcers kindly prepare us for the next influx from the far-flung North or East, and for two weeks, all you see are these holiday-makers, with a few Dutch, Austrian and Italians mixed in, and the latter are probably just lost. Then we have another dangerous breed, the cabriolet-on-a-fine-day-driver. Maybe I am just bitter, but I cannot see the appeal of a car with no roof. Clearly lots of other people do, however, and it only takes a few rays of sun for them to hop into their vehicles, hatted and scarfed or whatever, and drive around purposefully and carefully (the cars always seem to be old), oblivious to anyone behind them who might be wishing to overtake. Who else do we have - now how could I forget - king of the road, the tractor driver. A bit like lorries on motorways, tractors roar around content in the knowledge that they are much bigger than you and could quite easily flatten you if you got in the way. Far from the jolly smiling Farmer Giles of my childhood storybooks, the drivers here stare aggressively out from behind mud-spattered windscreens as they chugger past, scattering hay, or straw, or liquid faeces, or whatever else they might be transporting from one place to the next. Often there'll be a couple of children sitting in the cab, and even they gaze unsmilingly, insolently almost, as you wait, sinking into the wet verge in your new running shoes that you were hoping to keep dry but your life is worth more.

Yesterday I was returning from my glorious local supermarket in my shiny red car with a roof.  Goodness me, was I glad to be on the ball. You know when you are learning to drive, or what you see in road accident prevention handbooks, or whatever - a ball rolls into the road - slow down!  A child is sure to be coming after it. Check. Large vehicle reversing out of side street, check.  Motorbike coming towards you at 120 kmh on your side of the road. Check. Lone cow trotting around confusedly, buffeting between parked cars. Check. (I actually never saw this one in my learner driver manual.) Careful old man driving very smart car at snail's pace, slowing down before every turn. Doesn't know where his indicators are. Brakes sharply and turns very, very slowly off the road. Check. He looks back, astonished, at the line of cars behind him, some people waving their fists. What, he says - I'm not the only one on the road?  Chaps like these still talk about 'motoring' and don't believe in navigation systems.

In a couple of days I hope to achieve one of my goals, that is to climb the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain. Believe it or not, I am doing this with the hairdresser neighbour of whom I once was so afraid. We are 'only' climbing up, as to save time, we are coming down in the terrifying cable car (which is actually a glass and metal box on a long string). I have no problem with 7 hours of climbing, but the thought of being stuck in this box for 20 minutes with 49 other people brings me out in a cold sweat.