Pink Sky at Night (Chapter 3 - Into Yugoslavia)
Despite the ruggedness of the Austrian Tyrol, there are a number of superbly engineered passes - twisted as corkscrews, but easily graded and well surfaced. One of them, of course, is the famous Gross Glockner: the one we should have taken but didn't. Nita, as navigator, swore she had read the map correctly. I had my doubts, but whatever the error we took a wrong fork somewhere, and instead of ascending a beautifully made alpine road we found ourselves toiling up a dirt track with gradients that could only be described-like those on the last lap to the Kelsteinhaus-as terrifying.
In first gear we plugged along at a rapidly diminishing pace, climbing (at a rough guess) a gradient of nearly a foot per foot. The revs. sank lower and lower, and our hearts with them. She wasn't going to make it. Not surprising I suppose, but despite the small power output of the 150 c.c. we had felt, until then, that the scooter was almost invincible. It was hard to accept that it just would not climb the mountain. But this was no ordinary mountain. Indeed, it resembled a brick wall. The little machine finally succumbed to the punishment and three times in a hundred yards it stalled, rolled over backwards, and spilt us, our luggage, and itself all over the road.
I had to admit, reluctantly, that the engine would not master the climb unaided. We started to push as well as we could, gaining a little assistance by leaving the engine running, first gear engaged and slipping the clutch. After the first mile of agony our leg muscles ached abominably; and it started to rain. The only sign of life during the dismal interlude was an ancient saloon car which overtook us, steaming heartily and whining up the mountainside in the lowest gear the driver could select: namely reverse. With a two-thousand-foot drop on the offside the motorist, with head craned over shoulder, could do no more than hoot us frantically out of the way. The shower developed into a ferocious thunderstorm which promptly turned the track into a quagmire. We finally reached the summit soaked to the skin, caked with mud, and with unprintable adjectives emerging through my chattering teeth. Wearily, and in a morose silence, we limped past a large sign at the top with a black skull-and-crossbones rampant. In a country of precipitous passes, that was an indication indeed of what we had just accomplished. I was now sick of mountains and looked at the rain-swathed peaks about us with distaste. I reserved (somewhat unfairly perhaps) the same expression for our transport. If this was the reaction to an Austrian Alp, how were we going to negotiate some of the wild mountain tracks ahead?
In Villach, last stop in Austria, we decided to review our equipment again, as we were still carrying too much. We became ruthless this time, weeding out everything considered surplus, which really meant most of our spare clothing. We retained only absolute necessities, even sacrificing our gauntlet gloves-hoping they would shortly be unnecessary-and my shooter's telescope. Our list was now depleted almost alarmingly. One two-man tent, two sleeping-bags, cine-camera and film, a couple of writing pads; a very small first-aid kit, an equally minute ditty bag for Nita's odds and ends, a couple of macintoshes and two pullovers; one set of spare underclothing each, one 35 mm. still-camera, a set of tools and spare parts for our steed; and apart from our dixie and Primus and a few little extras this was virtually the lot.
VilIach housed the last of the European NSU agents, one Fritz Mayerhoffer, who got his mechanics to go over the Prima for a final check and had us installed in one of the town's inns. I told him about the ghastly scramble over what should have been the Gross Glockner. He laughed - a bit heartily I thought - at my description of our plight on the heights, but eased my mind somewhat by saying that he doubted if we would ever find its equal for steepness. We had stumbled on one of the stiffest climbs in all Europe apparently, and perhaps the world. In countries with ample space, he went on to explain, they could build roads around the mountains, but in Austria there was no room to do this, so one had to go over the tops. Relieved by this explanation, but allowing for national pride regarding the bit about 'the stiffest in the world', some of my worries evaporated and we plodded off to enjoy a good night's sleep at the inn. This was a rather odd establishment, with house-martins nesting on the first-floor landing and, in our room, an enormous, hideously painted stove which took up a quarter of the room and reached from floor to ceiling. Anyone wintering there would assuredly be roasted alive. But we couldn't complain at forty schillings (about eleven shillings) a night. We sank gratefully into a huge feather bed and, apart from a dream I had in which Herr Mayerhoffer - who had a long thin body, unruly hair, and an elongated nose - was rolling a hideously painted stove down on to Nita and me as we tried to ride up an endless mountain, I knew no more until morning.
Heavy rain and severe thunderstorms heralded our entry into Yugoslavia two days later. Another night in the mountains, this time under canvas, had left us cold, wet, and disagreeable. The tent, saturated, had doubled its normal weight and was awkward to pack. At seven a.m. as we approached the frontier post, murky skies and a low temperature reminded us more of November than July. I was certain they would keep us for hours at the barrier.
But no, we were lucky. Formalities completed, schillings turned into dinars and we were away in ten minutes. A good road, the skies clearing (one is acutely weather-conscious on two wheels), and Ljubljana our lunch-time objective, we had the highway to ourselves. Nothing passed us in either direction for over an hour. Delightful. On either side stretched farming country backed with cloud-veiled mountains. Our route lay in a valley between two ranges, and was flat and level at long last, for which we were thankful. We passed a number of small, fenced-off memorials at the side of the road. On the stone faces of the crosses were inserted photographs of the dead, with their names and villages inscribed beneath. Some of the photographs dated back to 191 I, yet the images were quite clear. This form of remembrance seemed rather a nice custom.
Ljubljana is a garrison town, and as we invariably arrived at all major towns and cities at week-ends, or public holidays, it was not surprising to find all the shops shut and the streets empty. It was, in fact, Saturday afternoon. The town was a fair size and widespread; as we approached the centre there were a few groups of men strolling about, most of them in uniform reminiscent in style of the British Army, vintage 1914. They were friendly, and we found ourselves waving frequently. For the first time we had real language difficulty. We drove round and round until one old fellow from his scat on a front porch-after seeing us pass for the third time - pointed up a side road. We found the garage and refuelled. There were no food shops open, and we were hungry, so Nita approached the back door of an hotel. After ten minutes she reappeared with some cold meats (assorted), a kind of Russian salad in a cardboard box, and half a loaf of wholemeal bread. The proprietors had been very obliging and their charges were nominal for this favour.
There was little in the way of motor traffic in the city, and bicycles seemed to be the most popular form of transport. They looked happy Communists, the people we saw. Not colourful in their dress but quite adequately attired; certainly no sort of rich living was evident but everything looked comfortably solid. There were one or two pleasant squares of grass in the city and houses were clean and neat, though small. One could neither boast nor complain of Ljubljana. Not, at least, until the outskirts were reached and with them the Zagreb road.
This road soon deteriorated into a narrow, chalky track. I thought at first that it was a detour (despite the A.A. warnings), and expected any moment to get back on to tarmac. The hope was short-lived, however, and we resigned ourselves to the cart track which was to take us 130 kilometres towards Zagreb. We bumped and skidded onwards, being engulfed in choking dust every time the odd truck or car passed. After an hour of this torture, we cried quits and sat down, well away from the road, to eat our food from the hotel. The white shimmering road looked ghostly and uninviting, stretching away between the green hills, with its lime-coated trees lining either side. Yugoslav roads in the summer are inclined to be very dusty, said the A.A. How right they were. I suggested our usual antidote to tough stretches and Nita was in full agreement. We would make a night drive. So at four o'clock, we arranged the sleeping-bags and after a mug each of hot strong tea, we lay down to sleep for a few hours. My last view of the road in daylight was a depressing one: a truck bumping and crashing its way over the corrugations and pot-holes, leaving a huge dust-pall hanging motionless in the air as evidence of its passing.
Well, there it lay before us: the first really arduous part. So far it had been easy - save for the one short hazard in the Austrian Alps - but by the next morning, when we hoped to be in Zagreb, we should know whether we had been over-optimistic in our choice of transport. The first trial was imminent, and as the rugged Balkans loomed ahead, the holiday atmosphere began at last to recede.
In first gear we plugged along at a rapidly diminishing pace, climbing (at a rough guess) a gradient of nearly a foot per foot. The revs. sank lower and lower, and our hearts with them. She wasn't going to make it. Not surprising I suppose, but despite the small power output of the 150 c.c. we had felt, until then, that the scooter was almost invincible. It was hard to accept that it just would not climb the mountain. But this was no ordinary mountain. Indeed, it resembled a brick wall. The little machine finally succumbed to the punishment and three times in a hundred yards it stalled, rolled over backwards, and spilt us, our luggage, and itself all over the road.
I had to admit, reluctantly, that the engine would not master the climb unaided. We started to push as well as we could, gaining a little assistance by leaving the engine running, first gear engaged and slipping the clutch. After the first mile of agony our leg muscles ached abominably; and it started to rain. The only sign of life during the dismal interlude was an ancient saloon car which overtook us, steaming heartily and whining up the mountainside in the lowest gear the driver could select: namely reverse. With a two-thousand-foot drop on the offside the motorist, with head craned over shoulder, could do no more than hoot us frantically out of the way. The shower developed into a ferocious thunderstorm which promptly turned the track into a quagmire. We finally reached the summit soaked to the skin, caked with mud, and with unprintable adjectives emerging through my chattering teeth. Wearily, and in a morose silence, we limped past a large sign at the top with a black skull-and-crossbones rampant. In a country of precipitous passes, that was an indication indeed of what we had just accomplished. I was now sick of mountains and looked at the rain-swathed peaks about us with distaste. I reserved (somewhat unfairly perhaps) the same expression for our transport. If this was the reaction to an Austrian Alp, how were we going to negotiate some of the wild mountain tracks ahead?
In Villach, last stop in Austria, we decided to review our equipment again, as we were still carrying too much. We became ruthless this time, weeding out everything considered surplus, which really meant most of our spare clothing. We retained only absolute necessities, even sacrificing our gauntlet gloves-hoping they would shortly be unnecessary-and my shooter's telescope. Our list was now depleted almost alarmingly. One two-man tent, two sleeping-bags, cine-camera and film, a couple of writing pads; a very small first-aid kit, an equally minute ditty bag for Nita's odds and ends, a couple of macintoshes and two pullovers; one set of spare underclothing each, one 35 mm. still-camera, a set of tools and spare parts for our steed; and apart from our dixie and Primus and a few little extras this was virtually the lot.
VilIach housed the last of the European NSU agents, one Fritz Mayerhoffer, who got his mechanics to go over the Prima for a final check and had us installed in one of the town's inns. I told him about the ghastly scramble over what should have been the Gross Glockner. He laughed - a bit heartily I thought - at my description of our plight on the heights, but eased my mind somewhat by saying that he doubted if we would ever find its equal for steepness. We had stumbled on one of the stiffest climbs in all Europe apparently, and perhaps the world. In countries with ample space, he went on to explain, they could build roads around the mountains, but in Austria there was no room to do this, so one had to go over the tops. Relieved by this explanation, but allowing for national pride regarding the bit about 'the stiffest in the world', some of my worries evaporated and we plodded off to enjoy a good night's sleep at the inn. This was a rather odd establishment, with house-martins nesting on the first-floor landing and, in our room, an enormous, hideously painted stove which took up a quarter of the room and reached from floor to ceiling. Anyone wintering there would assuredly be roasted alive. But we couldn't complain at forty schillings (about eleven shillings) a night. We sank gratefully into a huge feather bed and, apart from a dream I had in which Herr Mayerhoffer - who had a long thin body, unruly hair, and an elongated nose - was rolling a hideously painted stove down on to Nita and me as we tried to ride up an endless mountain, I knew no more until morning.
Heavy rain and severe thunderstorms heralded our entry into Yugoslavia two days later. Another night in the mountains, this time under canvas, had left us cold, wet, and disagreeable. The tent, saturated, had doubled its normal weight and was awkward to pack. At seven a.m. as we approached the frontier post, murky skies and a low temperature reminded us more of November than July. I was certain they would keep us for hours at the barrier.
But no, we were lucky. Formalities completed, schillings turned into dinars and we were away in ten minutes. A good road, the skies clearing (one is acutely weather-conscious on two wheels), and Ljubljana our lunch-time objective, we had the highway to ourselves. Nothing passed us in either direction for over an hour. Delightful. On either side stretched farming country backed with cloud-veiled mountains. Our route lay in a valley between two ranges, and was flat and level at long last, for which we were thankful. We passed a number of small, fenced-off memorials at the side of the road. On the stone faces of the crosses were inserted photographs of the dead, with their names and villages inscribed beneath. Some of the photographs dated back to 191 I, yet the images were quite clear. This form of remembrance seemed rather a nice custom.
Ljubljana is a garrison town, and as we invariably arrived at all major towns and cities at week-ends, or public holidays, it was not surprising to find all the shops shut and the streets empty. It was, in fact, Saturday afternoon. The town was a fair size and widespread; as we approached the centre there were a few groups of men strolling about, most of them in uniform reminiscent in style of the British Army, vintage 1914. They were friendly, and we found ourselves waving frequently. For the first time we had real language difficulty. We drove round and round until one old fellow from his scat on a front porch-after seeing us pass for the third time - pointed up a side road. We found the garage and refuelled. There were no food shops open, and we were hungry, so Nita approached the back door of an hotel. After ten minutes she reappeared with some cold meats (assorted), a kind of Russian salad in a cardboard box, and half a loaf of wholemeal bread. The proprietors had been very obliging and their charges were nominal for this favour.
There was little in the way of motor traffic in the city, and bicycles seemed to be the most popular form of transport. They looked happy Communists, the people we saw. Not colourful in their dress but quite adequately attired; certainly no sort of rich living was evident but everything looked comfortably solid. There were one or two pleasant squares of grass in the city and houses were clean and neat, though small. One could neither boast nor complain of Ljubljana. Not, at least, until the outskirts were reached and with them the Zagreb road.
This road soon deteriorated into a narrow, chalky track. I thought at first that it was a detour (despite the A.A. warnings), and expected any moment to get back on to tarmac. The hope was short-lived, however, and we resigned ourselves to the cart track which was to take us 130 kilometres towards Zagreb. We bumped and skidded onwards, being engulfed in choking dust every time the odd truck or car passed. After an hour of this torture, we cried quits and sat down, well away from the road, to eat our food from the hotel. The white shimmering road looked ghostly and uninviting, stretching away between the green hills, with its lime-coated trees lining either side. Yugoslav roads in the summer are inclined to be very dusty, said the A.A. How right they were. I suggested our usual antidote to tough stretches and Nita was in full agreement. We would make a night drive. So at four o'clock, we arranged the sleeping-bags and after a mug each of hot strong tea, we lay down to sleep for a few hours. My last view of the road in daylight was a depressing one: a truck bumping and crashing its way over the corrugations and pot-holes, leaving a huge dust-pall hanging motionless in the air as evidence of its passing.
Well, there it lay before us: the first really arduous part. So far it had been easy - save for the one short hazard in the Austrian Alps - but by the next morning, when we hoped to be in Zagreb, we should know whether we had been over-optimistic in our choice of transport. The first trial was imminent, and as the rugged Balkans loomed ahead, the holiday atmosphere began at last to recede.
posted by Michael Marriott (c/o P McIntosh) at
18:26
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