Last updated on 21/10/2024
Chapter 2: In Frohsinn’s Gasthaus.
Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.
Go to the home page for The Road to Ancona.
Between Basel and the Alps, it rained continuously. The darkness of the encroaching night was accentuated by the overcast, dismal sky. As the coach sped along, Michael saw strange buildings with peculiar features – the odd domed shape of a Swiss church, the characteristic gable end of a house with carved wooden eaves and he would make rough sketches of these in his notebook. Eventually, darkness obscured the passing scenery and the world became only the narrow strips of dimly lit towns and villages through which they sped. When they were gliding through the countryside, the coach windows were sheets of black.
The coach party arrived in the small Swiss village of Erstfeld and the travellers were allocated to a variety of accommodations. Richard and Michael were sent to Frohsinn’s Gasthaus, near to the railway station. In the pitch blackness, they could see little of the village around them on the short walk from the coach to the front door of the hotel. There were no street lamps and their way was lit only by the light coming from the buildings by which they passed. They arrived at the Gasthaus; the small room they entered was full of local character and Michael noticed how spotlessly clean everything was. Wooden tables, each with ornately carved chairs, were set in neat rows. Michael later noted in his book that both the town and the hotel were ‘absolutely gorgeous.’ He thought Frohsinn’s had ‘loads of character.’ The boys ordered glasses of lager from the bar, costing one Swiss franc each. Lager was not something they had ever tasted back in England. They talked about the journey and had a few words with their fellow travellers. It was their first night away from England and they felt tired from the long journey and the excitement of the new experiences they were having.
At the reception desk, they purchased some postcards with pictures of the local area. Their bedroom was small; it had a shower that provided lashings of hot water and the two wooden beds were made up with large soft pillows and covered in duvets. Michael had never seen a duvet before; to him, it was an Eiderdown, the kind of thing he had on his bed at home but he missed the sheets and blankets he was used to. Michael wanted to talk but Richard was too tired and put the light out. The room was plunged into a darkness that was absolute. It was so silent, that Michael could hear his blood pumping through his veins; he soon slipped into a heavy, restless sleep.
The second day
Day two. The morning came – and with it wondrous light. Michael opened his eyes; the light that filtered through the thin orange curtains filled the room with a rich glow. There was no sound. Richard was still asleep in the bed beside his. He lay awake for some time before getting out of bed and drawing open the curtains. His eyes were greeted with an amazing sight: a vast mountainside encrusted with dark green pine trees around which swirled wisps of white mist. Michael stood looking at the view outside, lost in awe. He had never seen anything like this, in his short life.
The grandeur of the alpine scenery and the picturesque houses of the village, set below the soaring, pine-covered mountainsides, swathed in trailing bands and rolling vapours of mist, stunned Michael. The postcard he had bought the night before showed that the village was set in a valley through which a narrow river wound its way. He saw a small white church with a domed tower, the Jagdmattkapelle or Chapel of Grace, which had survived since mediaeval times according to his itinerary notes. The mountains led to the Schlossberggletscher glacier. Had they arrived in winter, the place would have been deep in snow but in July most of it had disappeared. A single road snaked its way through the low buildings of the village. Around the jumble of small ornate houses, the mighty mountains stood, cradling the valley in their arms.
Later that morning, Michael continued to sketch the buildings he saw around him. The contrast with the houses and churches of his Midlands home could not have been greater. The buildings of this Swiss alpine community were full of character, Michael noted in his book, unlike the dull, regimented terraced houses that stood in the flat lands of the Midlands. Never before had he been to a place that had mountains and he could not remember seeing pine trees before, at least not as many as those that wrapped themselves around peaks that towered about the little Swiss village.
Richard and Michael went down for breakfast at 6 a.m. It was incredibly early for them, used, as they were, to getting up at the more civilised time of eight o’clock. Outside the large window of the restaurant, Michael could see an old woman carrying milk through the light rain in two open pails that hung from a wooden yoke on her shoulders. The boys ate their breakfast of small, segmented rolls served with butter and cherry jam and drank several cups of freshly made coffee. Meagre though it was, by their standards, they agreed it was the best breakfast they had ever tasted. A record player behind the bar broadcast into the room a clumsy mixture of pop songs, mixed with traditional Swiss folk melodies.
‘These rolls are fantastic. I’ve never seen anything like them before,’ Michael commented to Richard as they ate. ‘They taste really nice. I wish we could get them at home.’ He looked through the window of the restaurant; the morning light was beginning to reveal the scenery they had missed when they arrived last night. Above the line of quaint buildings, they could see dark green mountainsides rising into the misty white cloud base.
‘Just look at those fantastic hills,’ Michael commented. Richard glanced to his left but said nothing; his mouth was full of bread and he was sipping at his coffee cup.
‘I’ve only ever seen anything like this on the telly,’ Michael continued. ‘Do you remember when we went to see The Sound of Music, at the Gaumont? That was set in a country like this. Some of the scenes we saw in the film showed maintains just like those outside.’
‘Sentimental twaddle,’ was all Richard said in reply. He was determined never to reflect his friend’s enthusiasm for anything. In fact, he had enjoyed the film, though he was not prepared to admit it.
The boys walked through the village, while they were waiting for the coach to depart. The morning air was motionless and the light rain had stopped. The tops of the high mountains were still shrouded in mist. Michael could see duvets hanging over the sills of windows, to air. This was not something that English people ever did with their Eiderdowns, he thought. The clouds lifted and the village became bathed in soft morning sunlight. Michael was very taken with the small alpine village; it was, he thought, full of character and atmosphere and he loved its fresh, clean appearance. But most of all he was awestruck by the mountains and their pine-clad forests, soaring above his head.
Towards the Alps
Their coach left Erstfeld at 7:35 a.m. Michael made a note of this. He liked the little Swiss village and would loved to have stayed there longer. He busied himself with writing a few lines of poetry:
The morning came and with it wondrous sights
revealing, through our window, such a world
to fill the soul with awe and deep delights;
for, standing there before us, cloud enfurled
were huge, majestic giants of earth’s crust:
great walls of forest-laden rock once born
by mighty forces that like waves had thrust
them to the clouds, in some primeval dawn.
They reached the Saint Gotthard Pass at around midday, after twenty kilometres of travel from Erstfeld. Michael noticed that the road surface was composed of tiny granite blocks arranged in fan-like patterns. He could see streams running with water that was deep green in colour. They climbed the winding pass towards its summit. The streams that were green, lower down, now gave way to waters that were crystal clear. The rocks were covered in patches of green and orange lichen, Michael noted in his book. The coach climbed higher and higher towards the summit.
Even though it was the middle of July, there was a blizzard as they climbed towards the upper reaches of the pass. The hillsides were covered in snow and the air was full of mist. Michael was excited at seeing snow during the height of summer. Cars were queueing to get through and many turned back, fearing that they would be stuck in the snowstorm if they continued. The coach driver said he had seen nothing like it in twenty years. The blizzard was forming deep drifts in gullies and ravines beside the road. Richard put on his sunglasses to protect his eyes from the glare. At one point the driver was debating with the tour guide whether they should turn back.
At the summit of the pass (six thousand, five hundred feet according to the tour guide’s announcement), the coach stopped at a typically Swiss-style wooden chalet, a layer of snow piled high on its pointed roof. The holiday-makers left the warmth of the coach to have coffee and buy souvenirs. Michael purchased a small triangular pennant, embossed with the Swiss flag and the words ‘St. Gotthard Pass.’ He left his friend, who was talking to the other travellers and walked around admiring the scenery. In places, the snow was two feet thick and had been wafted into even deeper drifts in the more sheltered corners.
Down to the Adriatic
It was not long before the coach was snaking its way round the hairpin bends of the pass on the southern side. They descended out of the snow and everything was clear, just as it had been in the lower reaches of the other side. Through the window, Michael could see the road below, like a coil of rope looping contortedly down the side of the mountain. As the coach turned the tight corners, its front end hung precariously over the edge of the road. To Michael, it looked like they were about to plunge into the ravine below. Leaving the pass behind them, they arrived on the motorway and were soon gliding along it at speed. As they headed towards Lugano, a furious thunderstorm broke out. At 3 p.m. the coach stopped for dinner at a hotel beside the lake. Michael was served with a bowl of soup that contained vegetable matter of indeterminate origins. This was followed by a frugal helping of meat with a small serving of boiled potatoes. Michael said ‘What kind of animal do you think this meat comes from?’
Richard replied, ‘Probably one of the goats we saw on the way here.’
The boys were given a dessert – a slice of tinned pineapple garnished with a glacé cherry. Michael was so disappointed with the dinner that he spent the last of his Swiss francs on a cigar.
A new tour guide joined the party. Chico was to be the rep for Galaxy Tours while they were in the resort. He crossed over to the table at which the boys were sitting and settled himself into one of the vacant chairs. ‘Hello boys,’ he said with his heavy Italian accent. ‘Not long now and we will be arriving in Cattolica. You will love Cattolica. We will stay at very nice hotel. The Britannia. Very good for English. The resort of Cattolica is on the Adriatic coast…’
Richard interrupted what would have been a rehearsed monologue; he asked ‘I thought we were staying at a pensioné?’ ‘Yes of course’ Chico replied. ‘The pensioné Britannia. A very nice small hotel. I know the manager well. Signor Ricardo. He is good friend of mine. Mi scusi, I have favour to ask you. In return I will offer you both something very nice.’ Richard and Michael looked at each other, rather apprehensively.
Chico continued, ‘Just for tonight, would you be willing to share room with two other boys? Nice English boys – your own age. It will make you new friends. And, in return, I give you each free bottle of wine – for your troubles. This is for only one night. Tomorrow one of the tours will depart and this will free up rooms.’
Richard was immediately seduced by the offer of free wine. Michael was less than impressed. Although he said nothing, he thought ‘How on earth am I going to sleep – in a room with three other people, two of whom I don’t even know – when for sixteen years I have always slept on my own. Will we all have to get undressed in front of each other? Will they all snore? What happens if I want to go to bed early and they want to stay up? Or vice versa?’ Before Michael could comment on Chico’s proposal, Richard said, ‘That’s OK Chico. We don’t mind.’ The ever-cheery and helpful Richard did not think of asking his friend’s opinion on this matter before agreeing to the rep’s ‘offer.’ Chico jumped up from his chair and leaned over the boys. ‘Grazia bambinos. I make sure I give you nice wine.’ And with that, he left.
‘Are you sure this is going to be alright, Richard?’
‘Oh don’t worry so much Michael. It will be fun to have some company. We might make some new friends. We want to make new friends while we are on holiday, don’t we? It will only be for one night. We can get drunk at the expense of Galaxy Tours. I bet I can persuade him to give us more than two bottles. You know what those reps are like.’
Northern Lads
The very first time they met the two northern lads, was when Michael and Richard walked into the room at the Britannia on the first night of their stay. It was clear that the two northerners were not natural talkers. When they did speak it was in short sentences, using only simple words. Michael thought about this. He wondered why they were so taciturn. He had heard them talking to each other, both in the hotel room and in the lounge, and noticed that they talked to each other a lot more than when he was present. He couldn’t understand a lot of what he overheard; they talked with heavy accents and used a lot of local expressions he was not familiar with. But what he noticed was that they actually talked as much as anyone else – between themselves. Michael wrote:
People from the Midlands talk a lot. They say a lot more than they need to; it’s their way. Northerners don’t see the need to talk all the time, at least, if Dave and Nick are anything to go by. Most of the people on our coach party are from the Midlands. Only Dave and Nick come from another city. Perhaps they booked late and this was the only flight available. They don’t talk much in front of other people. Why is this? Are they a bit shy? When they do speak they are very direct in what they say. People from the Midlands are careful what they say and the way they say it. But those lads just say whatever comes into their heads without caring much what effect it might have. In a way, I wish I could be like them. Simple in their ways.
The party got back on the coach for their Journey to Italy. They left the area of the lakes and headed south through the northern mainland.
Next: Nights on the Adriatic.