Innsbruck, Wednesday. Written en route to Vienna on Thursday
Approaching Innsbruck from the south is almost like someone has waved a magic wand to change the landscape in a trice. Steep hillsides give way to an enormous flat plain surrounded by towering mountains. I have been here before, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But it still takes my breath away. After the chaos of Italian stations, it’s nice to get to Innsbruck, which has escalators, lifts and thus easy access to platforms.
The Grauer Bar, or Brown Bear, hotel has not won any gold stars for their communication skills prior to my arrival, so perhaps I should not be surprised by their complete lack of knowledge about me. Or my urgent and much notified need for the services of their laundry. But at least I have a room, which is modern and spacious.
The following morning after a breakfast battling through coach loads of tourists from India and China, the hotel still cannot find any information about my laundry or locate my press pack from the tourist board.
I am approached by a sprightly lady in her 60’s, dressed in a pretty local costume. She turns out to be Elisabeth Grassmayr, my guide for the day. She takes charge, very kindly insists on taking me to her home to put my clothes in her washing machine, and then takes me shopping for my replacement camera.
Elisabeth has responded magnificently to my request to be shown some parts of Innsbruck which are ‘different and not generally known to tourists’. She bustles into delightful hidden courtyards and opens doors to private buildings from which, I am sure, any lesser mortal would have been barred. I am swept up a magnificent staircase into the Parliament building, taken to see ancient ceiling decorations immediately outside a McDonalds and whisked in to see two, three or maybe four quite wonderful churches. Almost every few metres she is stopped by a friend, a neighbour or local shopkeeper to exchange greetings. After a while I point out that I am Scottish rather than the ‘Engelander’ I keep picking up in the conversations.
We need to visit her family business to pick up an Innsbruck Card to replace the one the hotel has lost with my press pack. Grassmayr’s have been bell makers since 1599 and are one of the leading firms in Europe. Elizabeth gives me the grand tour while simultaneously chatting in French, English and German to anyone she finds looking lost who will listen. She is utterly charming and, quite clearly, has a set of batteries far superior to Duracell. Meeting her husband later in the day in their delightful garden, I discover that a typical bell would cost about 13,000 Euros.
At the top of Innsbruck’s famous ski jump, I jostle to take a photograph of the scary view of the landing area far below with the same French party who had hoovered up the last of the bananas at breakfast.
We take lunch with Nicholas Boekdrukker from Innsbruck Tourism on the upstairs terrace of Klaus Plank's excellent Weisses Rossl Restaurant. It’s full of locals, which is always a good sign. Mushrooms are in season so the talented chef has designed a seasonal menu around them. But there’s no time to linger. Elizabeth is impatient that I should miss nothing and I am whisked away. Actually, I am despatched to catch the brand new and somewhat lavish 55 million Euro funicular railway while she drives her car to join me half way. From 570 metres, the funicular climbs to 900 and, two cable cars later, I am standing at 2334 metres on the Hafelekar Mountain with stunning views to Italy, Germany and over the valley far below. Elizabeth points to an almost vertical slope. ‘My husband and I often use that run, it take us nearly to our house.’ She tells me that a newspaper has recently reported that the healthy lifestyle of Innsbruck folk mean that they live an average of ten years older than their Vienna counterparts. Out of a population of 125,000, Innsbruck has more than forty centenarians. I am convinced Elizabeth will become a longstanding member of that club.
It’s back to her house to collect the Tyrolean aired laundry and to chat with her husband in the garden. Almost next door is the house where the secretary of Emperor Maximilian lived, now the home of the local priest. Except he’s married, so can’t say mass, which is done by a colleague from town.
I worry that the Grassmayr’shouse, in the shadow of the mountain, is in danger from avalanches. Apparently not, they haven’t had one since 1935. A complex network of defences and electronically detonated explosions keeps the locals safe.
In the evening, Nicholas entertains me at the excellent Dengg café bar restaurant and introduces me to Austrian red wine. The Cabernet Sauvignon from the Weingut Salzl vineyard in Burgenland, south of Vienna, is outstanding.
Not surprisingly, I am late to breakfast. The coach parties have gone and so are all the best bits of the breakfast buffet. The staff seems rather keener on clearing away the detritus than finding more fresh fruit salad and bananas for the remaining hour of the service.
I love Innsbruck. Elizabeth has generously given me a treasured insight into some of the secrets. But do avoid brown bears which seem to concentrate more on attracting coach parties than customer service.
I am writing this in the restaurant car of the train somewhere near Salzburg. No, I am not eating. I have a reservation, but Austrian Railways’ first class compartments are full of unreserved Chinese families with an extraordinary number of children and an even greater number of bags. Most of the children and bags are piled on my seat. Club Class is completely empty, but the guard is insistent that I should attempt to squeeze myself in with the Chinese. The more I protest, the less English he claims understand.
But the view from the train is lovely. It’s a glorious day with cloudless blue skies and lush green grass and freshly gathered hay.
I trust there’s rice for lunch.
