Among
my travel memories, most of which were included in letters home to
New Zealand, the day we left Innsbruck seems to remain the most
unexpected and memorable. This would have been in 1956, when Europe’s
appalling ruins still showed signs of the horrific years of WW2.
My
travelling friend, Zala and I were part hitch-hiking our way around
Europe, (not a risk I would take today). From time to time, we shared
an old London taxi with four other young women who would occasionally
head off to an area we had no interest in. By the grace of God, we
somehow always managed to reconnect at one of the Youth Hostels in a
prearranged town or city.
This
day, having completed all our YHA’s chores, we walked out of
Innsbruck’s haze at 10am. The mistiness seemed to be a mixture of
heat and smog caught in the basin of Innsbruck’s enclosing mountain
setting. But, despite the haze, what fabulous peaks surrounded us.
After enjoying the previous night’s Tyrolean cuisine in a typical
Austrian restaurant, we were a little reluctant to move on, but we
knew, local residents and further adventures were ahead of us.
By
1pm, we had covered about three miles of the 24 ahead of us, on our
way towards the beginning of the Brenner Pass. About that point, we
were picked up by a young Italian aged about 30. He told us he was
going to Bologna, about 400 km further south. We weighed up the pros
and cons—being mostly money and time—and decided, much as we
would have liked to see it, we would give Venice a miss. As ever, we
can’t do and see everything, but who knows, we may be fortunate
enough to come back another day?
He
told us his name was Joe. He politely packed us into his Volkeswagen,
which he informed us, had a newly installed Porsche motor. He also
said this was his ‘runabout’ for fun on a nice day. Imagine going
to the dairy on the feathered back of an angel? We had an unexpected
treat in store, the smoothest motor trip I will ever experience.
Surprisingly, Joe’s unbelievably fluid driving continued for mile
after mile—I assumed this was due to the upgraded motor. Not once
was I aware of a gear change, I knew I would never again be the
passenger in a car driven as if I were on the back of an angel.
Our
young driver seemed a pleasant fellow, and thank goodness, reasonably
familiar with English, so we were able to chat throughout the drive.
He pointed out various little villages and their private vineyards,
apparently a common family venture and more than likely, not intended
for commercial use.
At
every stop for petrol or refreshments, such as a bowl of fruit or a
cool drink, we found ourselves surrounded by young women all
clamouring to touch our driver or shake his hand. All very confusing.
We could only ‘mill’ around in their midst as we enjoyed their
smiles and happiness. But why this unexpected welcome?
These
people were obviously delighted to be close to our ‘Joe,’ who, in
the face of all this enthusiasm, we had to accept was both well known
and highly regarded. From then on, as we proceeded to Bolgna, we
looked at him with totally different eyes. He eventually admitted he
was returning from the Grande Prix at Stuttgart where, as he’d
expected, Fangio had won. Was Joe also competing?
After
an amazing winding road over corniches and by way of viaducts through
the Brenner Pass, we came to the Italian Border where our doubtful,
outdated visas were accepted without question as our driver was
swamped with wild fervour by his eager countrymen. All a mystery to
us, but never-the-less we rather enjoyed being the centre of
adulation flavoured with a touch of envy, I suspect.
I
don’t know if crossing the border had anything to do with it, but I
was immediately impressed by the casual air of the laughing people in
their bright clothes. Maybe one day I shall return to this sunny
climate and its people. At the border, Joe bought us delicious pears
and plums and later pulled up at a small village and provided us with
a platter of salami, cheeses, bread rolls and sparkling red wine.
We
spent an hour in the sun beside the River Isareo, enjoying the
Italian fare and idle chatter. Eventually, we ended this summer feast
with Italian coffee, thick and black in tiny handless cups, smaller
than a demitasse.
After
leaving little Chiusa, we continued through amazing hills and valleys
and I began to understand what Turner was after in his Italian
landscapes. Everywhere around was a soft, pinkish-blue haze that
blurred the mountain edges and rugged hills into the sky, or the
many lakes. The villages were painted in white, green or orange, with
short brick-coloured tiles on roofs. The perfect scenery for a keen
water-colourist.
And
so on through Bressanone to Bolzano, Trento and Verona; all the time
twisting and winding through tantalising vineyards. Eventually we
crossed the River Adige near the city of Romeo and Juliet, but saw
little of it as it suddenly became almost dark. Joe explained that
there was little twilight in this area due to our present latitude as
we approached ever closer to Equator level.
Travelling
on through the darkness, Joe and I passed the time entertaining my
friend Zala in the back seat. Joe had a superb tenor voice and I
managed to remember enough of the music, (not the Italian words, I’m
not that clever) to sing along. I suggested to him that he sing,
‘Your Tiny Hand is Frozen,’ and sing it he did with an occasional
glance in my direction. Then he thought we might like to hear some of
Gigli’s favourites and invited me to join in where I could. (So
muchfor
my hidden dreams) it would be the nearest I’ll ever get to the
operatic stage!)
Eventually,
we arrived in Bologna at 10.30pm, where it being too late to rouse
theYouth
Hostel, we finally found an hotel that was not filled with members of
a Medical Convention. What a trip! We’d covered over 400 kms (about
240 miles). Joe ‘practicing’ as he said, had driven from
Stuttgart to Munich and Saltzburg by autobahn, then to Innsbruck,
where he’d left at 6am for a 16 hour trip with one hour’s rest in
the middle. Tomorrow he told us, he drives to Pavia and back, amere
400 kms!
‘Practising’
we then discovered was Joe’s terminology for being at that time,
rated the second-to-top driver in Italy, as we finally learned from
the hotel manager.
So
that accounted for all the clamour we had encountered whilst in our
driver’s company!
We
tactfully didn’t ask if Joe had taken part in “Fangio’s race.’
Somehow a Volkswagon didn’t seem to quite fit the bill, but who
knows, he may have had a Maserati or a McLaren parked up waiting to
be part of the fun? Joe finally admitted his name was listed among
such highly regarded names as Stirling Moss and Brabham. He told us
he also races at Monte Carlo, Le Manz and Silverstone in the UK.
No
one on the old hitch-hiking trail could possibly expect or imagine
that a chauffeured ‘pick-up’ could be like this one, floating as
we were along the roads as if we were a foot off the ground. What
would we be without our memories?
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message we
won't know where to send it.) ***** If the
link to the letter doesn't work you can copy
and paste in this address: preserve@storyhouse.org
