A Christmas Cruise

The Danube Blues

Dum dum dah dee dee

di di

do do

or, if you prefer it in A#,

re fa# la la

FA# FA#

RE RE

etcetera

And as An der schönen blauen Donau (1867) by Johann Strauß Sohn fades into your Glüwein, the shadows gather,

But they are friendly shadows.  The Danube and I go way back.....  Back to the Black Forest in fact, and through Vienna to Budapest, and here I am again, warming myself in the tiled baths of the Gellert, surrounded by excited Italians, while I prepare for a week's cruise up and down the river, from Hungary to Slovakia, to Austria and back.

This is our ship:  MS Oscar Wilde, 135 metres long by 11.4 wide with a draft of 1.6 metres.  Its two engines can produce 2200 horse power and it can reach a top speed of around 24 kph, though it can stop in just two of its lengths.....

Built in 2017, with 88 cabins, accommodating up to 167 guests, and 44 crew, it is quite packed, but it is pretty smart.  Captain Tim Gorges, from Magdeburg, runs a tight ship, and the river is calm after some disastrous floods earlier in the year, so the autopilot doesn't have to sweat.....

This is my first experience of a cruise holiday, and, as a solo traveller, I was a little apprehensive, glad of the opportunity to spend Christmas away from my empty home, but unsure about the company I might meet.  As it turns out, however, right from the queues at Stansted Airport, I fall in with a five star crowd, a handful of very diverse characters, but all eager to make the most of the free drinks package, and up for a laugh.....  Thank you, friends....

As dawn breaks the following morning, I look out of my cabin window to see the vast dome of Esztergom Basilica, (currently) the largest church in Hungary, floodlit but catching the rising sun.

It is an impressive sight, and the dome is 71.5 metres tall, with an intricately decorated geometric interior.  

However, the church, though dedicated to St Mary, could perhaps be better known as the Church of the Holy Scaffolding, as it appears to be held up by the biggest Meccano set in the world.....

From outside, by the remains of Esztergom castle, we look over the Víziváros (Watertown) section of the city and the Primate's Palace, with the Danube forming the border with Slovakia.

It is a grey winter Sunday here today, and not much is happening.  Some of the doors in the old town are bricked up (one way to counter the cut in the winter fuel allowance?):

 

And even the Knight on the hill isn't saying much - frozen in bronze?

So it is back to the ship for lunch and a quiet afternoon (reading The Godfather - there must be some deep need for escapism?) as we cruise on up towards Bratislava, which we reach in the dark.  

Morning brings the coldest day, a wicked wind funnelling around the castle, bearing sleet and chilling even the tall bronze statues of Saints Cyril, Methodius and Gorazd in their bare feet:

Our guide here is brilliant. Matej entertains us, and keeps us enthusiastic despite the cold, 

pointing out sights, such as the Most SNP (Bridge of the Slovak National Uprising) though now officially called The New Bridge, which is topped at 84.6 metres with a restaurant and observation deck. Jiří Sikora, writing on the Authentic Slovakia website which celebrates communist era landmarks in Bratislava, says that the best thing about this restaurant is the unforgettable view from the toilets overlooking the biggest socialist mass housing project in Central Europe – Petržalka.

Then Matej leads us on leads us on a merry dance through what is left of the old part of the city, much of which was destroyed to build the bridge:

Bratislava is a strange mix. There are a lot of tourists (ourselves included), and evidence suggests that this has sadly become one of the destinations for drinking weekends that have become the bane of Europe, but I really like it...

Matej cheers us by playing folk tunes on his harmonica and demonstrating a curious ritual which involves beating girls with sticks who respond by throwing water over young men's heads (A practice which could perhaps liven many an English market town?  Ed), then he leaves us by The Slovak National Theatre, located on Hviezdoslav Square. This was built in 1885–1886 during the time of the Austro-Hungarian occupation, and then restored in 1969 - 1972. 

But it is no longer in use, such is the rubble of post-communist Europe.....

I take my own restoration in hot raisin wine.....

We move on, passing Devín Castle where the river Morava joins the Danube: 

This is the border between Slovakia and Austria and the river here passes through what is known as the Hungarian Gates (also known as the Devín Gate or Hainburger Gate).  We negotiate a vast lock, big enough to take four boats such as ours (volume of lock: 62 million litres), and built as part of a hydro-electric scheme.

Ninety years ago, Patrick Leigh Fermor, an Anglo-Irishman who became a Second World War hero for kidnapping the German Commander, General Kreipe, on Crete in 1944 (an adventure later filmed by Powell and Pressburger as Ill Met by Moonlight, with Dirk Bogarde) walked from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople, and recounted his travels in A Time of Gifts and Between the Woods and the Water.

At that time some stretches of the Danube were fierce passages of water between rocky cliffs, dangerous much of the year and impassable in flood or drought.  Fermor says of one part (admittedly further downstream than our cruise) that It was the wildest stretch of the whole river.....  He describes hearing of millions of tons of alluvia always on the move; boulders bounding along troughs and chasms which suck the currents into the depths and propel them spiralling to the surface.....

But then, in an appendix written many years later, he describes how Rumania and Yugoslavia built one of the world's biggest ferro-concrete dams and hydro-electric power plants across the river, which turned a hundred and thirty miles of the Danube into a vast pond which has swollen and cleared the course of the river beyond recognition.  It has abolished canyons, [and] turned beetling crags into mild hills....

In the course of our 974 km journey, we pass through 16 of these locks.....

It is fascinating to read Leigh Fermor's accounts of his travels in another world - before WWII, before the communist era, before mass tourism....  I cannot help but feel that the river, however grey it may appear under a cloudy sky, or dark at night, or green in the morning - or even blue when the sun spears down from an azure sky - I cannot help but feel that the river, and the life that once teemed along its banks, must have the blues in its soul.  I feel it myself, while knowing that I am part of this degradation..... 

Anyway, on with the show.  I will be brief....

The next port of call is Melk, to see the inordinately rich baroque abbey complex which has the distinction of being almost completely devoid of any subtlety or artistic interest [Some may disagree? Ed.] [OK, I liked the spiral staircase.] 

Our guide fits in perfectly, bless her, as she must have fallen on hard times since they stopped making 'Allo 'Allo!

[Herr Flick: I have an excellent gramophone, and many records of Hitler's speeches. They are quite amusing.

Helga: (surprised) Hitler's speeches, quite amusing?

Herr Flick: Played at double speed, he sounds like Donald Duck.]

To be fair, Astrid has a pretty difficult job amusing us here, and it must be hard instructing lapsed protestant northerners in the Hapsburgs' desperate attempts to glorify catholicism with a counter-reformation that was completely smothered in the baroque.....

Melk itself is a charming little place, dripping with Austrian charm, so very different from the crumbling plasterwork of post-communist Slovakia.....

We dock at Linz, but the air is crisp and blue and the snow-tinged, powder-sprinkled mountains (is this the land of Cocaine?) beckon; 

So we head for Salzburg, a place I associate with a very happy visit with Amanda perhaps forty years ago. I remember it as being quite quiet, and had a very pleasant morning with the Mozarts. There is something different about today, however, as the place is absolutely awash with guided tours (and the Mozarts are away). 

It's Christmas Day! Has no one any respect? Or am I missing something? I mean - the locals have been to church [Note to self: Church Bells in Salzburg v loud. Bring muffs next time.]

Our guide is missing her turkey, I surmise, as she is lacking a spring in her step. Note the various levels of attention in this snap:

I must admit that if anyone else mentions the Baroque and the Counter-Reformation in the same sentence I shall not be responsible for my actions.  In my defence I quote Rudolf Wittkower who claims, in Art and Architecture in Italy, 1600 - 1750, that nothing could be more misleading than to label .... the art of the entire Baroque period as the art of the Counter-Reformation. 

I cannot take any more of this.....

I climb to the castle and have the most wonderfully reviving Glüwein before admiring the views. Something/someone is missing, but there's no going back.....

Next morning we are in Vienna, and I make a break for it (no disrespect, but somehow I was finding the way the group was being managed a tad trying - but that's just me: as they say, that's my bad..... Pace Pamela....)

Metro U1 to Stephansplatz in a matter of minutes, then up the south tower of the Stephansdom - just checking the tiles are all in place:

Then across town to the MuseumQuartier, where I indulge my ignorance in marvelling at Expressionism (if only we could all express ourselves).  Gustav Klimt offers Death and Life (1908), which I am happy to accept:

 

While his mentee, Egon Schiele, offers a mischievous Kneeling Female in Orange-Red Dress (1910). She I would be happy to meet for Kaffee and Sachertorte....

But she is not there. Not in the Café Hawelka, at Dorotheergasse 7, where I happily renew my acquaintance (since 1978) with Günther.... 

Not in the Kaffee Alt Wien on Bäckerstraße, where I rashly accept a Hangover Breakfast (Old Vienna Goulash with a stein of Gösser beer).....

Nor can I trace her later in the Schönbrunn Palace (I used to live in a room full of mirrors)

Not in the gardens:

Whichever way I look:

Nor in the Glüwein-fragrant Christmas Market:

Time to turn back, to leave the past behind.  A quartet [That's two pints?  Ed] give us an hour of The Blue Danube after dinner, then it's cast off fore, aft (and ift) and we are splicing mainbraces on the dark downhill run.....

Das Schifflein fährt auf den Wellen so sacht,

still ist die Nacht,

And then it's dawn, and we are far from anywhere, slipping silently through the void, a pink fuzz arising somewhere around the back of my eyes:

It's lovely.  It's -5.0 Celsius and the deck is thickly frosted.  Steam wisps off the water.  No one has thrown their towels across the deckchairs.

Geese squabble across the rising sun, reminding me of home:

And in the cold stillness we float downstream past Esztergom again.....

It is all almost over.  Budapest awaits, but only briefly, before we have to pack and head north to fog-ridden Stansted and the bleakness of home.

Was it worth it?

Certainly.

Would I do it again?

Not sure?

The best bit?

No.  Seriously?

Und zum Schluß

bringt noch einen Gruß

uns'rer lieben Donau dem herrlichen Fluß.

Was der Tag

uns auch bringen mag,

Treu' und Einigkeit

soll uns schützen zu jeglicher Zeit!

And in conclusion

brings even a greeting

to our love of the beautiful Danube River.

Whatever the day

may bring us,

Loyalty and unity

is to protect us all the time!

The Blue Danube

Words by Franz von Gernerth

It really can be blue!

******

With many thanks to those who offered me their friendship:  Vicky and Dave, Julie, Ruth and Stewart, Sally and Nigel, Bern and Gabriel, Captain Tim and Kata.....

A presto!

December

For Santa Lucia

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, 

Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; 

The sun is spent, and now his flasks 

Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; 

The world's whole sap is sunk;

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

John Donne

St Lucie's day is actually December 13th, although in times past the celebration of this virgin martyr from Siracusa (died 304) coincided with the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere), which is December 21st.

In 2010 I wrote about this day in another piece, after interring my father's ashes on a snowy day in Hertfordshire (https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/12/a-nocturnal-upon-st-lucys-day.html)

And I am reminded every year when we reach this turning point, where hope will rise from the cold cold ground.

It will!

So far, this winter has not been too bad in Norfolk, and I have been walking the blues away, watching nature take its course.  The pink-footed geese flying out of The Wash in the mornings:

And over the village, towards the sugar beet fields as the sun rises

Redshank

And black-tailed godwit

Feeding in the muddy shallows, while a marsh harrier hunts among the reeds:

On farmland a buzzard takes warmth from the low-lying sun:

While frost still coats the fallen leaves:

A hare makes haste to avoid my lens:

And I miss, by a whisker, a shot of a weasel drinking from a rain pool on the track, and then, again too slow, I miss the barn owl that roosts in the barn by Sedgeford Carr.

But overhead under Lodge Hill, the jackdaws are playing chase, clattering in and out of the trees and chacking at each other in the leafless heights:

I note that the fairy houses are locked tight now, their occupants no doubt somewhere warm:

And I spook myself with the reflection of my doppelgänger where the path is water filled:

Time to move.  This time tomorrow I should be on the Danube - flow, river flow - and all this will join the splinters of other memories whirring in my head.  Life's a blur, but there is a crack in everything.....

That's how the light gets in.....

[Thank you Leonard....]

Since she enjoys her long night's festival, 

Let me prepare towards her, and let me call 

This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this 

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

Or, perhaps,

Sul mare luccica l’astro d’argento.

Placida è l’onda, prospero è il vento.

Sul mare luccica l’astro d’argento.

Placida è l’onda, prospero è il vento.

Venite all’agile barchetta mia,

Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

Venite all’agile barchetta mia,

Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

Santa Lucia

Traditional Neapolitan 

Guillaume Louis Cottrau (1797 - 1847)