Travel Stories:

Travels with my Daughters
an excerpt

Koblenz, Germany

Like Frankfurt, certain smells will remind me of Koblenz, but very different smells; cold air laced with the perfume of blossoms, fresh baked bread, cheeses and spicy sausage.

Leaving the hostel (the fortress, Ehrenbreitstein), we discovered the path that led to the chairlift – which was still operational – and so discovered the bus stop we should have got off at on our way up. The view on the way down was breathtaking and I pushed my fear of heights away long enough to enjoy it. Through the trees I could see cobbled street, houses that shone white in the sun, small gardens bright with flowers. In the distance the taller buildings of the city gouged at the sky and here and there the spire of a church pointed the way to heaven.

Once down, we decided to walk the two miles into the city and so set off along a narrow, yet very busy road. Tall and skinny buildings rubbed shoulders with modern glass-fronted neighbours. Workmen, like those the world over, leant on shovels, children whizzed by on bicycles, and mothers took babies for walks in prams.

The bridge spanning the river was long and wide and the wind gusted up the Rhine, bringing the smells with it. As we neared the other side we could see the trees, cloudy with pink blossom that clung, butterfly like, along the length of every branch.

The streets of the city stretched up and away from the river; and the one we chose to explore was filled with old-fashioned fronted shops, their windows crowded with breads, cheeses and sausages. We stepped into each in turn, buying a selection, asking shop assistants to pronounce the tongue twisting names over and over again until we got them right. The language flowed around us and we soaked it up, trying out each new word like children.

Unable to wait to taste our purchases, we ate as we strolled. Somehow, everything looked so much fresher than at home. An illusion, I’m sure, but we continued to find things we couldn’t do without. We bought fruit – apples, pears, strawberries and grapes – and different juices to try. When we found smoked salmon at a price unheard of back home, Michelle went wild and bought more than Ilana and I thought we could possibly eat.

Back at the river we checked out tour times and settled on one that would take us down the Rhine to Rudesheim the next day, before taking a different path – one that followed the river – to the bridge. The river was quiet, not as busy with traffic as the River Main in Frankfurt had been. We passed a sign indicating a ferry. Closer inspection revealed its destination as the base of the fortress. We’d missed the last one but made a note of where it landed on the other side.

We’d also missed the last chairlift we discovered, when we finally got to the other side of the river. That turned out to be our good fortune because, in looking for another way up, we came across a path through the forest, one that led to what we later learned was once a secret way up into the fortress. Luckily, none of us suffers from claustrophobia, because at one stage the path disappeared into what seemed to be the bowels of the earth. Rough and uneven steps twisted and turned on their way up through the cliff face. Every now and again a long, slitted opening appeared in the wall – wide enough for a defending army to look down on their enemy, to perhaps rain arrows down on them, but not wide enough to allow entry of man or weapon. At times, the depth of darkness was such that all light seemed to cease to exist; a thick rope at one side guided us and provided a measure of security, and a means of identifying up from down, down from up.

At last the darkness was not quite so black and a faint light revealed grooves in ancient stone blocks that had once been a guard house we thought, now roofless and floorless but none-the-less exuding an atmosphere that left me shivering. I could almost hear the clash of metal on metal, the guttural cries of attacking and defending armies, and the moans of the injured and the dying. The girls and I spilled thankfully into the road, no doubt much as those defending these walls would have fallen back under attack.

The late afternoon was silent, not even a bird call breaking it as we continued our steep climb. The path was tarred, making our way easier than it would have been for those soldiers of long ago. The walls of the fortress hung broodingly over us, hurrying us on legs that owed their trembling to more than the effort of the climb.

Finally, we rushed in through the gate at the top and almost collapsed in relief. Suddenly we were surrounded by sound, voices, people; what could be more normal than a party of schoolchildren, rushing through tunnels, in and out of courtyards, their voices and their steps on the cobbled ways preceding them around corners?

After putting our shopping away, we spent a pleasant hour following the school children through the fortress and its grounds. A small cinema showed a short film (with a button to select the preferred language – German, French or English) which filled in the historical data for us. The original fortress, we learned, had been built in the 12th Century, and survived many attacks, its location making it virtually impregnable, before it was blown up and rebuilt in the 17th or 18th century. It was used during the Second World War as a supply station and a rest area for battle weary soldiers. After the war it fell into disrepair, being restored in the early 1990s for the Jugen, the youth of Germany, to use as a holiday camp. With the Youth Hostel occupying one section, it now attracts tourists from all over the world.

A final walk around the walls brought us to another gate, one that led out onto a forest track that beckoned us on. The trees were tall, and very skinny, their pale leaf-filled branches high above our heads. Again, an eerie silence settled around us, broken at last by a dog who puffed its way up to us. Its owner was not far behind. We exchanged pleasantries before he persuaded the dog to leave Michelle and follow him. After they left, silence fell again and we noted the absence of bird calls.

That night we tucked into a feast of fresh bread rolls, smoked salmon, tomato, cheeses and fruit, agreeing it was one of the most delicious meals we’d ever eaten.

Later, wrapped in arms of ancient stone, I dreamed of castles and armies, of great battles, of victory and defeat. Each time I woke I could see the lights of Koblenz, like the campsites of an invading army, winking at me through the window.

Letter from New Norcia
9 September 1996
Dear Mum,

I’m here at New Norcia, about 150 kms from Perth, for a week with 14 fellow members of the Society of Women Writers. They hold a writer’s retreat here twice a year, and have done for 8 years or so I believe.

New Norcia was established by Spanish Monks, 150 years ago this year. We are actually staying in the Monastery, although there are parts that are off limits to us (as women). The whole town is owned by the order. Apart from the Monastery, there are two huge buildings that were, until very recently, colleges for boys and girls. They closed just a year or so ago because of falling numbers. They are now used as accommodation for the many tourists who come here. Then there’s another building that used to be an orphanage and is now the museum/art gallery. The old noviate (nun’s quarters) is now the police station, and the old goal, at one time used as a guest house, is now the public toilets!

The Moore River is nearby and a walk to it reveals many old buildings and numerous wells. There’s also an old flour mill and a bee house. Other parts of the monastery land are not open to the public, like the orchards, the olive grove, flour mill, and bakery and so on. The monks spend their days working (making honey, bread, olive oil, jams and wine), praying and studying. A bell rings three times a day for vespers and another on the hour and the half hour. The monks dress in long black habits that would be hot in summer and cold in winter. They wear only sandals on their feet.

The meals here are wonderful. Breakfast, we help ourselves (juice, cereal, toast and tea or coffee), dinner (which they have in the middle of the day) is a large three course affair, and tea, two courses with plenty of bread (made in their own bakery) and fruit to fill up on if necessary. At dinner and tea there are also two bottles of the monk’s own wine placed on every table – one white and one red. Tea and coffee is available 24 hours a day, along with a never-empty biscuit tin. I overate yesterday and suffered for it so plan to take it easy from now on; perhaps just two courses at lunch?

The wildflowers are blooming and after lots of winter rain the normally dry countryside is green and lush. The rooms we have all face onto a courtyard that adds to the Mediterranean feel of the place, along with the facades of buildings and the bell tower.

The courtyard is full of plants and flowers (mostly Australian natives), and has a small pond and a fountain. Hundreds of birds use the space and there’s one who sings gaily outside my window each morning, sounding almost like a bell himself (or herself). There’s only one drawback, and that’s a bobtailed lizard. When we first arrived here, I questioned the sign on the door, asking that it be kept shut to keep out the flies and goannas. Carmel (secretary of the SWW) assured me that in the 8 years they’ve been coming here they have never seen one. Guess what turned up yesterday and headed straight for me! It’s still lurking around, waiting for me whenever I go outside. Rejection, everyone assures me, is spurring it on. Perhaps if I could get to like it, it might go away. I don’t think I’m likely to ever put that theory to the test somehow.

The program here consists of workshops (Tuesday and Thursday), where we are given two exercises that must result in short stories. These are to be read on Friday morning, when everyone will be asked to make comment. Each night, we also read any parts of our work we need help with. The rest of the time is our own; the only stipulation is that we must write.

I’m going to play hooky this afternoon however. The monks have a guided (walking) tour of the town, including the older parts, so I’ve booked to go on that. It will take two hours but will give me a clearer idea of what this place is all about, the history and so on. I’ve already finished one of my writing exercises and the other is on its way so I think I’m entitled to take some time off.

It’s getting very warm here now, 27 degrees on Monday and not much cooler yesterday or today. Summer is on its way.

Must close. Hope your arm/shoulder not giving you too much pain. It must be frustrating, wanting to do things and not being able to. Until next letter, love from Trudy.