Greetings from the Arctic hinterland, where I have been ensconced with the Sami. Today we will travel with thousands of reindeer as they migrate to the coast in search of fresh summer grazing. However be assured that with the use of my patent pomade I am maintaining a stiff albeit upper lip regardless!
Toodle Pip. Fawcett.
Having hurtled south from Switzerland we have made our way past Lake Como via Briancon and on to Nice. Albeit a little weary, I find a small glass of pastis and a liberal application of one’s patent pomade steels one for the rigours ahead! Carry on that man. Fawcett. Please click here for my Grand European Tour photograph album.
Whilst passing through St Moritz I was reminded of dear old Blinky Blenkinsop’s youngest sister Prunella, who if I recall correctly had attended a Swiss finishing school here some decades earlier. After an unfortunate dalliance that involved a little more than a ‘how now brown cow’ deportment lesson with a local ski instructor, a rarely referred to somewhat sordid episode that resulted in the birth of twins. Prunella was in the eyes of accepted society well and truly finished and returned to Cranleigh in disgrace!
I awake the next morning feeling more than a little dazed and with the Wild Boar and memories of the previous evening repeating on me, we head off toward Switzerland.
Regards, Fawcett.
Last evening we were guests of the wonderfully hirsute Englebert and his equally hairy young Russian bride Swetlana.
We dined well on roasted Jungwildschwein, wild foraged mushrooms and red currants, a delightful repast only marred by the attentions of the one eyed servant girl who fussed around our table, her curious stare transfixed into an off putting knowing wink.
Following a glass of mein hosts apfel schnapps we decided to turn in early, after all tomorrow will be another day!
Val-deri Val-dera
My knapsack on my back.
Fawcett.
In sub zero temperatures we motor on through the Austrian Alps. Hearing what can best be described as a trumpeting sound I cause to glance up and there high on the hill stands a lonely goatherd blowing on his alpine horn!
Regards, Fawcett.
Having left Twickenham Twickenham only a few, albeit arduous days ago we now find ourselves ensconced in Baden Baden. Time to spin the wheel of fortune. What.
Toodle Pip. Fawcett.
