Before launching the wine hunt, so that I would have some appropriate appeasement for my sceptical husband (what do you need to do this for?), and something to bring back to Erzsi and her family, I began with the Lyceum. The main building was a landmark in the town. The flagged hallway displayed a notice board between its pillars, and two stone stairways swept up and round. The people standing there in raincoats were not students, more like tourist pensioners, and that looked like the word for 'museum'. Perhaps the Lyceum had packed up altogether. The room numbers and names on the board gave me hope. Should I just wander on up and hope I'd find something? I acted my age, and tackled the concierge's office.
"Is the English Department here?"
He looked at me.
"English or Deutsch? The English Department? Anglia?"
He shook his head and went further in to ask.
"Oben," he said.
"Wo?"
He gave in and walked with me to the smaller staircase, and gestured upwards. Up there a row of numbered doors didn't look any more helpful. Three young people were sitting in one of the elegant window alcoves that lined the inner side of the corridor and gave a view of the quadrangle. They looked like students, and I was determined by now to get the help of the younger generation. It couldn't be only Erzsi who was able to communicate in the under 25s.
"Hello. The English Department?" They shook their heads. They were excusing themselves, but English or German must be possible.
"English? Deutsch?" I stood in front of them, smiling hopefully, pleadingly, anything.
The girl on the left shyly shook her brown hair. "A little English," she smiled.
"Ich spreche etwas Deutsch," admitted the young man, pale, well-dressed in casual clothes.
And so, in the end, they could direct me quite exactly to another building, the modern brown one. There the porter knew exactly what was what, and as I stepped out of the stairwell on the first floor, and asked for the Director, I was introduced immediately, as if he'd been waiting for me. Csaba was one of those overworked mid forty year olds, good looking with dark eyes and greying hair, but too pale, with the clammy skin of someone struggling with too many forms. He was very generous with his time, and it was clear there could be work for me - except I was working on longer term plans than he was. I felt I would probably disappoint him. Perhaps he just enjoyed the opportunity to speak in English, and was still living off fond memories of his time as a student in the USA. He did explain how difficult it was to give students the confidence to speak English. At the change most teachers had to drop Russian and become English or German experts overnight, so they taught from the book, just keeping ahead of their students. Perhaps this did explain some of the young people's reluctance, and being young explains the rest.
It was a good contact, and would need following up from home by e-mail. The next objective was the wine valley. Of course it was not the right time of day. There was one coach parked, and three cars, and even one or two restaurants open, but the cellar doors were mainly barred, and didn't give much idea of what was behind. I was intrigued by the difference between these old doors in the stonewalls fronting the hillside, and the occasional modern house with its carved Austro-hungarian balcony. It was all well-organised for coach loads of wine tasters, and I sat down at an outside table and re-oriented myself with a mineral water.
The
first wine shop in town had a very helpful young lady who wanted to practise her
English. What a difference working in a business makes! I promised to come back,
and went off to the specialist one up at the far end of the square, beneath the
castle. The tourist shops nested there, so I got some postcards too. The rain
was more persistent, and I sheltered under the wide umbrellas of the 'highly recommended'
hotel café, and ordered a 'palatschinken', which, even though it always
looks like it must have something to do with 'ham on the palate', was just as
delicious as Austrian and Romanian 'palatschinken' - trying out local pancakes
is one of my things. Strange what foods cross boundaries, and their names too.
As
the rain had really set in, my hosts offered to give me a lift up to the bus station
in their newish green Golf, if I could wait a few minutes. They were dealing with
piles of mattresses - a whole team of veteran water polo players were due from
Saarbrucken - old competitors had become old friends. They also had a couple of
new apartments they had built a couple of doors down the street, but 18 extra
bodies were still a logistics problem. They even wanted to find me the right bus
stop for my new village, Felsotarkany, but I had a strong feeling that I understood
its system just as well as they did. I'd studied the board and symbols for hours
already. But I was happy that we'd selected the Oazis guesthouse from the accommodation
booklet, and Erzsebet had telephoned for me.
Now
I not only had a rucksack that was on the edge of the heavy side, I also had plastic
bags of wine. I showed the young lady with the window seat next to me the hiking
map with Felsotarkany, and asked if she knew the Oazis. She doubtfully pointed
to where the village was two streets wide, possibly the centre. But I was saved
from a long walk by the woman and man behind me. She had picked up that I wanted
the Oazis, and he reminded me of how my English grandfather would have been in
France, in the First World War. He'd picked up some German during the Second,
and could tell me exactly where to get down for the Oazis."Zwei hundert meter, nur zwei hundert meter," he said with pride. "Diese Richtung, Oazis," and he showed me off the bus with an enormous arm wave. He was enjoying the challenge of speaking, and I was sorry to have to leave them. They both had warmth and good humour.
The bar and tables of the Oazis were nice enough in an ordinary sort of way - red and white check table cloths, plastic flowers in the windows, but I was the only one there, except for the man in his thirties, with thinning brown hair, behind the counter. My room was up the outside wooden staircase, with geraniums, and through an outside door into the first floor. It had the slightly musty smell of male travellers who smoke - it could have felt brighter and cleaner. When I found out their main season is the hunting season, and their main income comes from Germany in winter, I knew why I felt slightly out of place.
However, to show I belonged, I sorted out an evening meal of wild boar soup and pork
with dumplings for seven o'clock, and warned them I was going for a walk, so it mightn't be exact. Then I took off. I was torn between exploring the village, and finding a route up into the hills so that I would have a start for the next day. I called in at the Discount shop for some water and an ice-cream, and equipped with a plastic bag for the next two hours, I took a quick turn into where the road doubled into two street width. The church was there, and a small park, so, having done the village, I found the side road that was the beginning of the 'Z' (green) marked trail would take me up to the hill that dominated the south east side of the broad valley. Varhegy, or castle hill, sounded good. Did it refer to its shape - it's deep green wooded slopes rose quite steeply to a squarish top at 669 metres - or were there some castle remains up there? But perhaps a climb right to the top was a bit ambitious in two hours. I was down at about 250 metres at the little river. So I opted instead for something simpler. Half way up the main (?) route the green made a side route on the contours with a cave sign on it. That would be something different. There were, too, some dark clouds building on the northwest horizon opposite, and threatening to mar the evening sun, if not more. It feels very ominous when the sun goes in, and a summer thunderstorm can build rapidly. I decided to give the nearer destination a try.
The side road took me from the little old square houses, each with their garden railing and dense plantings of flowers, shrubs and vegetables that lined the main road, past a man and woman hoeing in their larger plot of ground at the back of their house, and past a huge building still under construction. I looked at the blocks, the beams, the balcony and rafters half covered with red tiles, and the 4x4 parked outside, and realised it was simply a family house - well, maybe for one or two families on different floors, or in different parts - but still a family house. Times are changing, for some.
As
the road changed to a track through the meadow I found a curious wooden barn-like
building. It was newly built, but probably in a traditional style. My Guide had
hinted something of isolated ethnic groups in the hills, and special designs.
It would be nice to know more, but as it was evening, and I was going into the
woods, I decided against attracting the attention of the man scything over in
the far corner of the meadow. I thought of my hordes of schoolchildren again,
on their day out, instead. This was very likely for them.I was proud to find the stile off the main track into the woods, and I walked quite rapidly up the shady track until I felt well away from the village. I always feel it's in outskirt areas that dodgy characters are going to hang around. Once you're up above, people are more likely to share your intentions. Also you leave the horseflies behind. The steeper climb, and an odd clearing with heavy black lines across it on the map were where they should be, and I could stand and gaze out over 'my' valley. I was already at home and possessive of Felsotarkany, even if I still couldn't say it right. The clouds didn't seem to have moved much. The junction for my right turn to the cave was suddenly a complicated network of paths, but I worked it out, and found I had a broad track to follow. But now the grasses and weeds were growing higher, and the signs on the trees were once again faded or hidden. I strode on rapidly, lapsing into a daydream of talking to friends. How long had I been walking? How far to the cave? I cursed myself. The track continued to contour on after the cave, so I could have missed it trees back. I checked the contours more carefully - there was a slight descent after the cave and I was definitely going down. Right, so, if I go on it's getting late for my soup, and I may have missed the cave. I've got to go back on this path anyway, and if I go back carefully I may find it. Proud of my decision-making (I am the butt of my husband's jokes in this area), I turned back. As soon as I found the first tree sign again, I stopped, turned round and began a proper search down on the right - hoping the map was really that accurate. And I found it. I climbed down carefully, thinking about stupid accidents and no one knowing where I was, to what seemed to be the mouth of a very small opening in the rocks. This achievement needed camera shot proof.
By now I had less than half an hour left for getting back. Time to move. Why do I complain about my husband doing such 'big' things with me, that I never have time to stop and look at the view. I seem to be twice as bad by myself. I stopped at the clearing and tried a camera shot over to the hills on the skyline in the north west, under their evening clouds. They rose up gradually in the distance, with hints of limestone rock jutting through at the ridge. That looked interesting. They must be in the same sort of direction as Istallos ko. But with my current record of near over-ambition? Perhaps I should keep ideas for tomorrow on hold. Perhaps they would have some suggestions at my pub.
I was only half an hour late for my boar soup, I'd found the cave, and had not twisted my ankle, or been scared off by dark clouds. Perhaps a mobile phone would be sensible, though, rather than relying on telepathy.
What should I do for the rest of the evening? My host had changed. He was now a little older with brown hair swept over a balding crown. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and his manner seemed gentle, but slightly impatient, or was it just uncertainty in the face of this lone English woman in their empty pub?
"I like to speak some English, not German," he said from across the room and the safety of their high bar. "I have studied it from a book."
I felt ashamed of my humorous conjectures as I saw this man, at least ten years older than me, laboriously working at English all by himself since 'the change'. His accent was remarkably good. I warmed, and fetched down the family photos to help us along. But he wasn't that social. A small, round white-haired lady came in - the wife and mother - yet father and son didn't try and introduce her. Both seemed to be turning as brown as the dingy atmosphere of the rooms. Through the passage behind the bar I could hear a TV, and I glimpsed a large living room, but I wasn't invited.
I
said goodnight, and outside the door took a swift turn to the left, and up the
village road towards the other Panzio I had seen in the brochure. There was a
large green playing field, and possibly a youth camp, but I couldn't read the
signs; then narrow gauge railway lines came in from the left. Intriguing. I kept
to the right past a wide- open gateway, and a dog lurking by the garage. There
were people around, browsing in their gardens with a hoe or watering can. As soon
as I walked round the bushes and up onto the front veranda of Panzio, I knew I
should have paid the extra. It was clean and bright, Austrian style, with some
guests talking on the carved wooden balcony above my head, and at the tables outside.So I ordered a beer, bought postcards, and enjoyed it. We seemed to be at the head of the valley. The trees grew tall around the Panzio, and rock walls suddenly created a narrow gorge where the stream flowed through. In front of the Panzio, the water broadened out into trout pools, and the warm evening air burbled with frog croaks and crickets.
Back at the Oazis, I drew in my breath. All the lights were out. I had my own key, and own stairs up, but the garden gate was firmly locked. Should I ring the bell? I giggled to myself, and tested the gate for height. With the help of a cement plinth and the picket fence at the side, I got one foot up, and over I was. I'm not sure if the beer helped or hindered, but the ripping sound was the bottom two buttons on my one respectable shirt. I rescued them carefully. Two days later, Erzsi immediately creased up with laughter when I asked for a needle and thread to sew them back on, and admitted how it happened. I am nearly her mother's age.
Are
differences in behaviour just 'personality', though, or part of the whole economic
situation? Once I had met her mother, I was pretty sure she would be capable of
doing the same, if her circumstances changed.The next morning I took my map down with me to the breakfast table, and tried to open up a walking discussion with the father. I wanted them to roughly know where I was, as well as asking advice. He immediately proposed the Torok ut as preferable to wilder ideas. The little steam train that might have got me further towards my tempting skyline ridge wasn't yet running. And hearing the name Torok ut I was immediately caught. It meant 'Turkish Road' and was possibly one of the old routes
Which is where I got to just before the 'expedition' this summer............