Very Bad Very Naughty Indeed Schandau
April 9 in Germany ⋅ ☀️ 10 °C
Out of Prague, I kick-flipped the train, and railed it all the way to Bad Schandau (or as I prefer to call it, very bad very naughty indeed Schandau). A further heelflip along, and I crashed out at Kurort Rathen, where I was quickly reminded that German bakeries are a bit crap, selling nothing but stodgy Rye loaves which would probably serve better as frisbees rather than lunch. Undeterred, I hurtled past maniac children gnawing on claggy pretzels (without a drink or anything!), and onto the Elbe ferry.
As I scuttled up the moss-slicked Malerweg and through the densely-wooded Amselgrund past emerald ferns and trickling streams, I witnessed Germans sporting their cute little hiking costumes and crampon rated boots to trudge up the perfectly level steps from the nearer carpark. At the top was Bastei, a photogenic bridge stitching together sandstone pillars like haphazard towers of half-played Jenga, creating a medieval catwalk for ancient Saxon potato farmers and aura farmers alike. The Elbe now a silver ribbon spooled through the valley below, I sausagemaxxed thanks to a currywurst before rolly-polying back to the water level (and my hostel).
The following day, a morning run took me pelting along the riverbank to Königstein, crouched beneath its namesake fortress, one of the largest hilltop fortifications in Europe. From there, I Tarzan'd between vertical ladders and eroded footholds up to Schrammsteine, a panoramic peak overlooking the sedimentary tendrils of Saxon Switzerland National Park. I kahooned my way over other summits, Carolafelsen and Großer Winterberg, to Kuhstall (meaning cow-shed), where I shook my udders and moo'ed into the abyss.
Screeching back to Bad Schandau in a 125-year-old tram, I then discovered the hard way that German engineering wasn't all that it'd been made out to be; all subsequent train services back to Rathen cancelled without warning! After learning that a taxi back would cost literally 100€ for the ~5 mile journey thanks to some dialling from nice Czech man, Denis (a route I'd literally half-run that morning), I opted for a brisk lollop back through the Elbe valley's gloom, hoping to find my route with a vibes based approach and the guiding illuminations of my wristwatch flashlight because my phone had tragically decided to run out of battery. After 50k steps, my legs were shaking with the structural integrity of a damp pretzel (which ironically would probably make them easier to eat (pretzels that is, not my legs)).
For my final day in the rural east, I collected my table manners for a reservation at Lilienstein, a tabletop plateau rising from a treeline carpet, and set with a cutlery of iron-railed stairways and a menu of heavy workouts. Just as I thought my day's walk was petering, I realised that the ferryman at Königstein (where I'd descended) had gone on strike ! I umm'd and ahh'd, circling the ferry slipway and stroking my chin as I wondered how on earth the Elbe had managed to make such a fool out of me. Back I flounced then, practically sick of the shimmering river at this point. Day's walk complete, I swigged some Radler and headed off to Schlieffen plan (*sleep! woops, silly autocorrect.)Read more
Pragueress Report
April 6 in Czech Republic ⋅ ☀️ 14 °C
I was plonked in Prague Vaclav Havel Airport still clutching my Yorkie bar (raisin & biscuit obviously).
An evening skitter over the smoothed cobbles of the old town took me past Baroque facades painted in soft ochre, dusty rose, and pistachio green to the overlapping circles and shifting colours of the astronomical clock, where I moshed in the Easter market crowds and twerked to an accordion's wheeze. After an evening of plundering Lidl for the wackiest looking pastries I could find to flake all over the floor of every tram I rode, I set back out the following morning for a full day of pursuits.
First, I hopscotched my way to St Vitus, the immense cathedral which dominates the capital's skyline. It was embellished with golden mosaics, spindly needles, and grotesque gargoyles, with its interior ribbed, and its stone soot-stained and spiky, like a recovering hedgehog from two weeks stuck up a chimney. As I skipped down the idyllic streets of Malá Strana, a man in high-vis thrust his hand across my chest, as I'd almost become an extra in the emotional climax of a Victorian period drama, near-stumbling onto set during filming (and probably being assumed as an orphan or a penny-pincher).
As my medieval monarchs audiobook prattled away in my ears, I macarena'd across Charles bridge, an iconic foot connection which arcs across the Vltava, passing the blackened fortifications of Powder Tower and arriving at the Museum of Communism just as King John is about to sign the Magna Carta. The museum was stylised in bold red banners and pro-Soviet propaganda, yet its exhibition deplored the brutality of its nation's former regime. Czechoslovakia had fallen behind the curtain post-world-war, and its four decades enduring strict censorship and suppression of liberties had clearly left it embittered.
Embittered myself by a lack of lunch, I argentine-tangoed my way back up the town towards Petrin, widening my nostrils for a hopeful whiff of Soviet badges and rusty medals as I passed a hillside market. Beneath the Petrin slope, the bronze, decaying figures of the communism memorial provoked a contemplative pause as blush-pink petals fluttered down from the blossom trees.
Then, it was back to the tracks. I boarded the red-and-white tram for one last juddery journey, looking down to find a constellation of Lidl pastry flakes still clinging to my fleece.
I ended the evening of course, by getting drunk. So drunk that, thankfully, I barely even had to taste my plate of traditional Svíčková, beef swimming in sickly vegetable sauce and topped with a bewildering dollop of cranberries.Read more
Mutually Assured Distraction
April 4 in England ⋅ 🌬 13 °C
As much as I'd love to be wandering the Jordanian desert with a tea towel over my head and cannonballing from wadi to wadi right now, my mummy (and every airline) said I'm not allowed.
Unbeknownst to me, I'd booked a flight from Jordan to Cyprus all while it'd been raining Iranian missiles in not one but both of those countries following the death of a certain supreme leader. So after realising my knowledge of world affairs had been being propped up by poorly edited internet memes (those of which I've since opted out of), I decided I'd best do some adulting and install the BBC News app. Within five minutes my phone started popping off with 'breaking' articles reporting the best looksmaxxing techniques, so anyway long story short that's why I refuse to pay my TV licence and fund the beeb.
You join me instead zooming north, as I floor it up the M40 towards Birmingham Airport in the kind of panicked driving usually reserved for people who've just remembered their own wedding. Screeching into my Car Park 5 bay with millimetre precision and a handbrake turn, I decide to finally read my pre-paid parking ticket, wondering how on earth they'd know not to charge me again. Then the penny drops. I've entered my postcode where I should've entered my car reg! Fuck!!
I stress call the parking company as I'm crammed onto a train and up against girls drinking buzzballs while the operator apparently starts reading War and Peace over the tannoy. Amid the clamour, I'm assured it's fine, which I don't believe, but there's nothing I can do about it from a train to Leeds so I file it under 'future me's problem' and watch the Midlands dissolve into the North.
York greets me with a bajillion cobbles and a bajillion-and-one bargains (i.e. a kebab shop). I thrust my money at the cashier, professing my disbelief that I've just bought a banquet for the price of an Oxford pint, he looks at me oddly. The following morning, I head straight for York's parkrun at Knavesmire, a route which tracks the oval horse racecourse. A few furlongs in, I fall into a full gallop. Blinkered into the flat grassy expanse, I pass the herd, throwing in a whinny and neighing enthusiastically with each overtake. I can only hope they interpret it as eccentric charm rather than cause for concern. Still, lucky no-one bet on me (I came 190th).
Next, I hail the world's least chatty taxi driver over to the York Cold War Bunker, one of thirty built across the country in the 60s. Tucked incongruously in a suburban residential street, you'd walk past it entirely if it weren't for the blast doors (much like Lidl in Temple Cowley). It housed sixty Royal Observer Corps volunteers (civilians, essentially) who were to batten the hatches and monitor nuclear fallout across Yorkshire in the event of apocalypse. The operations room is the centrepiece: a tremendous map of the UK plastered in plotting gear, Perspex display boards above, teleprinters below, and a nuclear sensor named after a dinner lady: AWDREY, for Atomic Weapons Detection Recognition and Estimation of Yield. I spent the tour sidling toward the map and trying to bite my tongue while the guide attempted to explain the concept of radiation to me: a nuclear scientist.
From there, I chugged over to the National Railway Museum, where hangars of giga-big steam locomotives sit oiled up erotically between hordes of screaming toddlers and their exhausted parents who are just relieved to have finally found a free family outing. I stared at the plaques and nodded thoughtfully, pretending to know anything at all about coupling rods or front bogies. That said, I loved it! From the Mallard to MagLev to mouldy carriages, maybe I'm a train enthusiast after all, all it took was just not having to take 400 pictures of Thomas sat on each and every one.
I round off the afternoon with a lap of York's greatest hits: an antique centre stuffed with megalodon teeth, tacky porcelain, and tasteful Soviet wristwatches I can only drool at through the glass casings; followed by a gander down the Shambles, a bustling medieval street crammed with market stalls selling overpriced flatcaps and overcrumbly fudge; then the city walls, which being built in 70 AD, offer a pleasingly elevated view over the Roman fort walls of Eboracum (and, of course, PureGym).
The gothic towers of York Minster impale the skyline, then their £20 entry fee impales my bank account.
Inside, the nave goes on for what feels like several postcodes. Lofty vaulted ceilings amplify the reverent chorus of a robed ensemble and pipe organs resonate with a low pitched thrum as cold blue light bleeds through thickened glass depicting miracles in vibrant colour. Below in the undercroft, layers of historical lasagne peel back to reveal sheets of Roman foundations beneath Norman stone, itself beneath Gothic ornaments, all separated by the béchamel sauce of roughly a thousand years each. Constantine the Great was proclaimed Roman Emperor on this very spot in 306 AD. He then had a fairly quiet career. With the aptly named Storm Dave puffing his cheeks and threatening to gust, I head for the exits.
To finish the day an animated Italian family served me the best pizza I've ever eaten in England, which I'll not be elaborating on further. Some things are too sacred to write about.Read more
TravelerYou were destined to walk everywhere that day! 🚶♂️
TravelerSounds like you're destined to walk nowhere at the moment