Читать книгу Europe from a Motor Car - Russell Richardson - Страница 5

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Even a congenial environment like that of Marienbad began to lack interest when we looked at our motor itinerary and saw awaiting us such rich experiences as climbing above the clouds over the snowbound Stelvio, or the sight of Carcassonne, tower-girt and formidable behind feudal walls. The call of the white road was irresistible when it led through the purple valleys of the Pyrenees to beautiful Biarritz on the Atlantic and to San Sebastian in Spain, where the Spanish king and queen hold summer court. The perfect day of blue skies added its persuasive voice.

We were again on the road. The villas of Marienbad withdrew behind the mountains, and we settled down to the complete enjoyment of the ride through Bohemia and southern Germany to Munich. On either side were quaint scenes of Bohemian life. Every little farm hamlet had its pond of geese, with a goose girl tending her flocks. One of them threw us a flower. Her action meant more to us than she thought; it was a happy omen for the rest of the trip. Peasant women were toiling barefooted in the fields, or trudging along the road, bending under heavy burdens of wood. This human element in the scene was impressive. Here, as everywhere, the great drama of human life was being played. But the role of the actors was such a humble and pathetic one, so much of the land was given over to unfruitful fields, half cleared of stumps! There were no such pictures of content and prosperity as one finds everywhere in Germany and Holland. The houses were scarcely more than huts.

We halted in some of the towns to take a first lesson in the Czeck or Bohemian dialect. The store signs were mysterious, with their hieroglyphics. One shop contained sewing machines, and the word "Singowiski" above the door hinted that this might be the Bohemian translation of Singer sewing machines. Road signs were not always visible, and less often intelligible. Then we were obliged to ask the way. If the source of our information was a town official he usually spoke in German, otherwise in Bohemian, an answer which did not relieve us of our uncertainty.

The German frontier was reached about noon. Our Triptyque received the customary official stamping at the Zoll-amt. To our great relief, no questions were asked about Pichner Torte, a very delicious kind of cake made only in Austria, and so good that tourists always lay in ample supplies. Such articles as a rule are heavily taxed at the Austrian frontier.

Just at this moment Looloo, our French bull terrier, became sick. The shock of coming so suddenly into German territory was probably too much for her sensitive French temperament, but she soon revived after eating a piece of French dog biscuit. We lunched at a Gasthaus in the small town of Furth im Walde. The first word on the wall which caught our attention was "Ausstellung." That was enough to make us feel that we were once more in the Fatherland. The Germans seem to be always holding or advertising exhibitions and fairs. "Ausstellung" and "Practisch" need have no immediate fear of losing their place in the vocabulary of the average German. There was no doubt of our being in Germany. We would have known it from the trim, clean farms. Order and thrift were in evidence, every stick of every wood pile in place—all such a contrast to Bohemian untidiness.

Once more in the land of the Kaiser, and motoring through picturesque Bavaria, slow changing and old-fashioned, the mediæval part of modern Germany, a region of small towns and peasant farms. We were often delayed to pay the Zoll of a few pfennigs. The impost was not onerous, but it was inconvenient to stop so often. Frequently a little girl or small boy would come out to collect our pfennigs, and would hold up flowers for us to purchase. On one occasion we saw an aged collector of tolls apparently overburdened by official cares, his head sunk in slumber, and a large beer stein on a table near him. The picture was so characteristic of the slow-moving life around us!

Our motor flight through this fascinating region of Germany afforded opportunity to observe how the different towns had striven for a style of architecture original and unique. The houses had much warmth of color, much more than one would see in northern Germany. But then Bavaria is of course closer to Italy, and to the vivid landscapes, the bright sunny skies of the southland, and this difference in climate is naturally reflected in the life of the people. It is not surprising that the great artists of Germany should have come from the south.

We remember vividly the town of Straubing, where we stopped to buy gasoline. In the middle of the street an old-fashioned clock tower rose above the red-tiled roofs and gabled houses. Many of the homes had attractive window gardens; red and blue were the prevailing colors. No one was in a hurry; life moved with a leisurely swing. Baedeker barely mentions Straubing, but we doubt if Nurnberg or Munich could show a street more typically south German or better worth the artist's brush.

At this point should be mentioned the happy discovery of the lunch box which thoughtful friends had stowed away with the baggage. There had been so much to attract our attention that we had overlooked it. Our motor appetites were equal to the occasion; fruit, cakes, and cold chicken sandwiches received no mercy. It is unnecessary to add that scenery and sandwiches went well together, especially such scenery and such sandwiches.

The landscapes were not more varied than the weather. At times the road was wet where a shower had just preceded us. All day the sunshine had brightened and faded. Now we noticed a battalion of dark clouds massing heavily above us; little by little the blue sky surrendered to the storm king; the artillery of heaven thundered into action. It was worth a wetting to see the storm sweep toward us and then fade into the gorgeous sunset which closed the day. The church spires of Munich were luminous in the golden light. Swiftly we sped down the long, straight road into the city. When we stopped before the comfortable Regina Palast Hotel our speedometer registered one hundred and eighty-five miles, the longest run of the trip. The country ahead of us was to prove too interesting for any attempt at long-distance records.

The evening gave a pleasant glimpse of Bavarian life, of its good cheer and warm spirit of hospitality, so in contrast with the colder social customs of the north. The Berliner is reserved, exclusive. When he enters a café he would like, if possible, a table where he can sit alone. But Bavarian sociability is all-pervasive. The café where we passed an hour or so was filled with it. Tyrolean warblers in native costume occupied the stage fashioned to portray a bit of south German landscape. Song books were handed us. Every one joined in singing the rollicking folk songs. Of course the evening would have been incomplete without a visit to the famous Brauerei and a cooling sample of Münchner Brau.

After a couple of days in Munich we departed for Landeck, in the Austrian Tyrol, a ride of one hundred and eighty-two kilometers. For some distance our course was the same as the route to Ober-Ammergau. Lunch at a wayside inn included Gänsebraten, which can only be described as "ausgezeichnet." Bright Tyrolese landscapes flew by. It was glorious running, the air buoyant with the breath of the mountains, which rose in a jagged, majestic profile above little villages where the houses were painted with queer scenes of peasant life.

At Garmisch we were in the heart of the Bavarian Tyrol. It was a good place to stop for a few minutes to watch the people, the women almost theatrical in the gay colors of their dress, the men equally gorgeous with their red neckties, green hats and vests, to say nothing of green leggings which left knee and ankle bare. Every one wore the feather. Garmisch is not far from the Austrian frontier, so we purchased five liters of gasoline, this necessary article being much more expensive in Austria than elsewhere in Europe. Indeed, on reaching the Zoll-amt at Griesen we found that gasoline had jumped from forty-five or fifty pfennigs to a kronen a liter, an increase of about eight cents. The Austrian officials made us pay a duty of ninety heller on the five liters of gasoline which we carried as reserve. They also enriched the treasury of their government by a duty of 3.60 kronen on our twelve liters of oil, and thoughtfully suggested that we purchase five additional liters of gasoline at the Austrian rates. In view of our purchase in Garmisch, this invitation was declined. Had we carried a spare wheel and covers, they would have requested us to remove them and would have weighed them in an outhouse opposite the Zoll-amt. It is customary to charge duty on tires if the equipment be above a certain weight. If one carries the average equipment, there is usually no trouble.

Just across the frontier a sign post, bearing the word "Rechtsfahren," reminded us of the change in the rule of the road. The scenery grew wilder. Nowhere in Europe can be found a more perfect country for the motorist than the Austrian Tyrol, with its splendid roads and incomparable scenery. Steadily the road circled and climbed. It was the sunset hour. Shadows were creeping out of deep valleys; a snowy mountain was turning to a lovely rose color in the crucible of the afterglow. Far down among the shadows we spied a little lake, still and black under the overhanging mountains.

The Post-Hotel in Landeck was surprisingly good. It is located right on the river Inn, which rushes noisily through the middle of the town. After an excellent Abendessen we retired early, and were not long in yielding to the drowsy roar of the waters.

Breakfast was followed by an animated scene in front of our hotel. Amid a medley of motor horns, other cars were also departing. As we ascended beyond Landeck, the road swung with easy grades above the magnificent gorge of the Hoch Finstermünz pass, where we stopped for a picture. The ride from this point over the Reschen-scheideck pass was simply indescribable. In that exhilarating air, one seemed to be flying instead of motoring. We plunged through rocky tunnels, or hesitated as the road appeared to leap off into the abyss or the towering rock masses seemed to sweep forward as if to bar further progress. Then would come a sharp turn, opening up a new sweep of highway. The road was as good as we found anywhere on the trip, and wide enough for the motor cars that occasionally passed us. But accidents could easily have happened at the curves. Sure brakes and a tireless motor horn are invaluable at these critical moments.

It was a pleasant surprise at Reschen to see a cozy villa flying the American flag, and to discover acquaintances in this secluded corner of the Old World. We had forgotten that buckwheat cakes could be so good. Our departure was accompanied with warnings about the difficulties of the Stelvio, which we were to climb the next day.

After being shown the picture of this most formidable of mountain roads, with its serpentine windings, rising mile upon mile, and finally disappearing above the clouds, we wondered if the car could possibly ascend such a barrier, and if it would not be better to reach Italy by some less dangerous route. One motorist had attempted the feat a few weeks before, and after climbing eight thousand feet was forced to turn back on account of deep snowdrifts. Mention was also made of a particularly dangerous curve where there had once been a fatal accident. These reports were not encouraging, but nevertheless we wanted to make the attempt. Every one who motors in the Austrian Tyrol has but one dream, one ambition—to submit his skill and car to the supreme test of scaling the Stelvio.

From Reschen the car ran along a pretty lake, then shot down a long grade to Mals and from there wound along to Neu Spondinig, where we stopped for a few minutes for tea and to exchange motor experiences with other travelers, on their way to Landeck over the same route by which we had come.

Cutting across the glacier Page 38

Leaving Neu Spondinig, we turned sharply to the right and into the gloom of a deep gorge, crossing the bridges of the impetuous Trafoier Bach and climbing for several kilometers to Trafoi, where a most marvelous view burst upon us. Until this moment the high walls of the gorge had shut us in, but now the road suddenly opened into a view so magnificent as to seem almost unreal. We were directly under the shadow of the Ortler, with its twelve thousand feet of rock and ice. The glittering whiteness of the Madatsch glacier formed with its ice floods a veritable mer de glace. The scene was so wild, the impression so overwhelming, that for some minutes we forgot to order rooms for the night at the fine Trafoi hotel.