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.
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!
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!
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.
At midday and with a dire need to replace the pneumatic tyres on our charabanc we stop at roadside coaching inn. The restaurant is bedecked with stuffed and grotesquely mounted trophy kills. I am somewhat nonplussed to see staring down from the wall the dusty head of an old woman, her beady, glassy eyes follow our every move and I am more than a little perturbed by the hint of a wry grin hovering on her eternally frozen lips! On enquiry I learn that this unfortunate is non other than Frau Schnitzel, the proprietor's first wife. Good God! After a liberal application of my patent pomade we take our leave and press on into the German hinterland. Whatever next? Regards, Fawcett.
Rudely awaken at first light by the urgent clanging of the Monastery bells we dress in the dark and shuffle of to breakfast, a pickled repast consisting almost wholly of cold ham and beetroot. After a hesitant nibble we look at our maps and plan the best route into the Scharzwald in search of the Holy Grail of cakes. To sum up we leave our gloomy chateau in search of the elusive gateau! Regards, Fawcett.
As dusk fell we crossed the border via the hazardous mountain pass that rips through the unsullied trois vierges from Belgium into the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. With the barometer plunging we arrive at the fortified village of Vianden, our hearts leapt as we saw the welcoming lights of the Rue de Sanatorium and the pension Victor Hugo, our day was done. Fawcett.
For those that delight in reading of my adventures and tales of derring do, please be informed that yours truly is about to embark on a Grand Tour of Europe, attempting weather permitting to travel through 8 countries in as many days. Hopefully with a fair wind and God speed eventually arriving in Rome on the 15th of this very month. I have the notion of leaving the delightful town of Slough, Wednesday next. Of course It goes without saying that I will endeavour to keep you all posted as to my progress by Railway, Steamship, Aircraft and Motor Car. Any communications offering advice and farewell will be gratefully received. Nurse, NURSE is it still snowing? Fawcett.