Is ðeos burch breome geond Breotenrice, steppa gestaðolad, stanas ymbutan wundrum gewæxen. Weor ymbeornad, ea yðum stronge, and ðer inne wunað feola fisca kyn on floda gemonge. And ðær gewexen is wudafæstern micel; wuniad in ðem wycum wilda deor monige, in deope dalum deora ungerim.
Is in ðere byri eac bearnum gecyðed ðe arfesta eadig Cudberch and ðes clene cyninges heafud, Osuualdes, Engle leo, and Aidan biscop, Eadberch and Eadfrið, æðele geferes. Is ðer inne midd heom Æðelwold biscop and breoma bocera Beda, and Boisil abbot, ðe clene Cudberte on gecheðe lerde lustum, and he his lara wel genom.
Eardiæð æt ðem eadige in in ðem minstre unarimeda reliquia, ðær monia wundrum gewurðað, ðes ðe writ seggeð, midd ðene drihnes wer domes bideð.
Much to my surprise Ryanair flight FR199 from Vilnius to Vienna left on time and landed early. This left some time to kill waiting for the 2202 Railjet to Linz, not that I cared. However, the extremity of the project I had landed on was becoming clearer. Even with everything fitting together it was a very short night in Linz. Just as well, as the hotel I’d picked was ‘Eurotired’ and above a casino. Linz itself felt like it was stuck in 1987. I was not sorry to leave early the next day. Perhaps I misremembered the Hidden Europe article extolling the virtues of the Summerau Railway. Perhaps the writers are just more chilled versions of me, itinerant but willing to spend more time sitting still. I enjoyed the gentle rolling countryside of a beautiful late summer’s morning and the distant views of Prague appearing like a baroque painting. In the Czech capital there was such an absence of sausage I concluded that all the sausage stands had gone, melted away in the blast of gentrification that removed the taste of street-stale mustard from local palates forever. What a shame!
Or perhaps that was just around the station, where the next train Bavorsky Express was waiting to travel to Munich. It wasn’t until later on this route that I spotted a road sign for Linz and realised just how much of a dog leg I’d taken on, not that I cared about having less time in Munich. Bavorsky herself took plenty of time over a seemingly disproportionate number of loco changes and reverses, dawdling on a warm afternoon for five and a half pretty draggy hours, especially once we were in Germany. The section in Czechia, like that morning’s route and the Decin line towards Dresden was completely lovely.
In the early evening something of the impossible happened and Munich revealed a different, possibly even slightly ethereally wonderful side. On what everyone seems to have concluded was the last Sunday of a not-terribly-willing summer, the whole city seemed to be in the Englischer Garten, just being out and being European. I don’t know if Hampstead Heath is like this on a sunny day, I don’t tend to go there then, but this vast green space was full of volleyball matches, people standing in the fast-flowing water, surfers doing their thing and a sprinkling of beer gardens to remind you where you were. The distances were huge to walk, and I did a New York day in an evening to and from the never to be finished Hauptbanhof and dinner via the park, and then over to Ostbahnhof, via another lovely open space where a few small groups sat out, one of them singing harmonies with a guitar to a song I didn’t know.
Nightjet 468 from Vienna to Paris, meanwhile, had set off and was catching up with my movements over the past 24 hours. It pulled in to Munich East just after 11pm with the memorable air of a service that meant punctual business and stuck to task. There were several of the disconcerting signal halts that were accompanied by the ventilation shutting off, both heating up and silencing the carriage. I had been unable to get a bed for the night on this train so was sitting up, in tight quarters with five others for company. One of these fellow travellers had talked without pausing for breath to his new friends for 30 minutes on boarding. Everyone went quiet when the provodnitsa turned the light out. Dog tired, I slept well and in tune with the up-tempo noise of the train until Mannheim, where we arrived at 2.11am. We were separated from the Belgium-bound portion of the train, a service I felt sure to hit delays weaving along the Rhine and along the Aachen – Liege crossing point of shit, and hooked up with a new loco. Then we sat there, with the usual suspects of a night train layover; chain-smoking train crew on the platform, an oddly-dressed passenger arguing and determined to board despite having unclear status, random shouting from the only partygoers left standing, and hissing and creaking from the train itself, otherwise hot and silent. My anxiety rose as time ticked on, but then we equally silently departed, picking up speed as we headed for the border. I woke again as we arrived in Strasbourg, possibly for a loco change, but we left there bang on time. At dawn we began to follow the Marne, flanked for sometime by champagne vineyards that seemed to be in the middle of harvest, passing Meaux, home of Brie. Another gut-wrecking trip for another time.
If you can’t be happy when arriving in Paris, especially off an on-time night train as the penultimate leg of a long journey then you must be dead. It gave me great if slightly guilty joy to once again make acquaintance with Ten Bells cafe just off Canal Saint Martin. An Australian couple with a Colin dog sat next to me outside. A French young lady asked them the dog’s name. ’Spanky’ they replied. Her face contorted into disgust. No further words were exchanged.
I walked around a bit looking for a brie baguette but couldn’t find one. Then joined the well-marshalled scrum to get through Eurostar check in and home. Summer’s end. The end of which has come up trumps.
Tom Hall: travel, London, other things 