From the steam train terminus at Seespitz we boarded a rather luxurious ferry run by the Achenseeschifffahrt. A pleasant 25 minutes, if a pricy way of reaching Pertisau (11 euros). We could have taken a bus if we’d managed to find out where the stop was!

Monday 1 September (cont.)

I had been to Pertisau am Achensee before. It was 1968, and I was 13. It was our first European family holiday.

I have reached the age at which nostalgia becomes a driving force but, to be honest, I do not remember much about that holiday. The tour operator was Arrowsmith Holidays (the founder’s son was one of my best friends); we flew to Munich; our rep’s name was Valerie; we went to Salzburg once in a shooting brake; we went nine-pin bowling; we went to a Tyrolian evening with dancing and face-slapping; one evening it snowed (in June); I was given ice-cream with schnapps.

But I failed to recognise the Spar shop, where I was struck dumb when the shopkeeper spoke to me in German. Nor do I remember the name of our hotel. Would I have recalled more if I’d returned 20, 30 or 40 years ago?

Anne and I shared an unremarkable pizza at a cafe before tackling the walk uphill to the Two Brothers Inn. I was still getting over a torn Achilles tendon and walking with a stick, so it was hard going. It was hot, and the Inn could hardly have been further from the lake, which is over 900 metres above sea level. We waited until 2 pm, when the proprietor arrived to check us in. He had no English, and even his German seemed less than fluent. From the paintings displayed around the public areas we surmised that he was a Russian painter called Berti Müller.

Google Translate came to our aid

“My husband is allergic to feather pillows” … Anyway, our room – inevitably on the third floor, with no lift – was fine and stylishly decorated, with mountain views from the balcony.

The afternoon, which had began with full sun, became increasingly overcast and breezy. We strolled around the town, checked out the buses (as a tourist you are given a free pass by your hotelier, which is handy), and went to the shop for provisions – cash only, which is not unusual in Austria. At random, we chose Christina on the lake for an early dinner. Anne cracked, and had currywurst and chips. I had goulash (again), which was fine if not outstanding. We trudged back up to the Inn. It had been long day, but thankfully we would be staying put for three nights.

Tuesday 2 September

A change in the weather had been forecast, and the morning duly began drizzly and cold. Nevertheless we walked to the southern end of the lake at Maurach, coming across the Atoll leisure centre, where we stopped for a reviving Zillertal wheat beer. It was a bit wet for exploring the illusive charms of the town (apart from the supermarket), so we took our free bus back to Pertisau and spent the afternoon reading before enjoying an excellent, and more than generous, dinner at Erika (which we had sensibly booked the night before). Proper home cooking by talented chefs, accompanied by an excellent Burgenland red. I highly recommend it.

Wednesday 3 September

It was back to clear, sunny weather when we took the boat to Achenkirche at the top of the lake (21 euros, one-way). I idly wondered how a ship of that size had got there. It must have been quite an operation to bring the parts by rail and road, then assemble them on site.

We chatted in French to a retired couple from Marseilles about how their city had changed for the worse and how dirty it was. (We’d be able to judge for ourselves in a few weeks’ time.) They mentioned how difficult it was for a French tourist who understood neither German nor English. In my limited experience Austrians and Swiss Germans, unlike almost everyone else in Europe, do not immediately open a conversation in English, even if it is obvious that you are a tourist. Of course I don’t think that’s unreasonable; although neither Anne nor I is fluent in German we do know some, and it’s nice to be given a chance to use it and perhaps even learn a bit more.

Pleasant though the boat trip was, there was not much to see or do when we got to Achenkirche, so we took a bus back to Pertisau and sipped a cocktail on the terrace of Entners while enjoying the view.

Not as dear as it looks

At the top of the village is the Langlaufstüberl, where the Karwendel Naturpark begins. It has a restaurant and is the home of the Achensee brewery. In winter it is also a base for cross-country skiing. We walked for an hour until it started to get dark, then returned to the restaurant for a tasty dinner of roast pork, dumplings and beer (not quite as heavy as it sounds!), accompanied by classic Tyrolian yodelling. We did not join in, though many locals did. Highly enjoyable and atmospheric.

Thursday 4 September

Time to move on. It was another 7 am start to get a bus to Maurach, then another to Jenbach to catch the 09:00 to Venezia Santa Lucia. We needn’t have worried about missing it, because it arrived an hour late from Munich. It was the only German train we took on the entire trip, and the only train that was more than a few minutes late. German trains have become a national embarrassment.

Once over the Brenner Pass to Italy, there were vines and fruit trees through the valley as far as the eye could see. The scenery on both sides of the border is magnificent.

Our train pulled into Santa Lucia at 15:45, half an hour late. I had been to Venice twice before: once in 1978 and once with Anne 18 years ago. There is nowhere like it; an obvious thing to say, but it is such a thrill to be chugging across the lagoon with the city awaiting you.

What a contrast

From anonymous Alpine villages and green meadows to one of the most famous cities in the world, a living museum on the Adriatic. We walked for about 15 minutes from the station, hauling our luggage over the little bridges, up the Strada Nova and past the Ca d’Oro to the Ostello Santa Fosca in Cannaregio, the most northerly sestiere. I was still limping along with a stick and an ankle support. Physically, it was my low point of the trip: my legs ached, my back ached… but I perked up after a craft beer at Il Santo Bevitore.

Santa Fosca is built on the ruins of what had been one of the greatest Gothic churches of Venice. Not much remains, but the location of the hostel is perfect. Basic, but quiet, affordable, and handy for exploring this less touristed sestiere.

After a shower we toured the Rio della Misericordia. It is an area of little shops, bars and restaurants, where locals actually outnumber the tourists. We dined at Al Bacco, which was not bad: a small saor starter selection, followed by calves’ liver for Anne and spaghetti ai frutti di mare for me. The only downside was the persistent and vicious mosquitoes. It was the only place where they were a blinking nuisance.

Friday 5 September

Up and out early, we explored Cannaregio, getting lost before finding the churches of Sant’Alvise and Madonna dell’Orto, the latter home to several Tintorettos, as well as the painter’s tomb.

After a coffee break we took a vaporetto to the island of Murano. You can just tap in with a bank card when boarding; no need to buy a ticket. We took a stroll and downed yet another refreshing beer. We watched a glass-blower at work (a process I find fascinating), but no glass animals or paperweights were purchased.

Then it was another boat to peaceful, tiny Mazzorbo and Trattoria La Maddalena, scene of a memorable lunch 18 years earlier. We were not disappointed: fritto misto to share, then ravioli of bass al pesto for me and a sea bream fillet – with far too many chips – for Anne.

We walked across the footbridge to colourful Burano to relive happy memories of our previous visit before taking the vaporetto back to Cannaregio. I love the lagoon: it is a delightful contrast to tourist-packed Piazza San Marco and the Rialto.

In the evening we went to the astonishingly cheap Corner Pub in Dorsoduro to meet musician and film-maker Paul Wiffen, with whom I shared a house when we were founder members of One for the Wall back in 1979. With no appetite for dinner, Anne and I returned to the hostel for drinks and nibbles in the garden.

Saturday 6 September

We were intending to go straight to the Palladian church of San Giorgio Maggiore but took a vaporetto to the Lido by mistake! It would not have been such a bad idea, if only we had taken our cozzies. Nevertheless, it was interesting to go there for the first time.

The Film Festival was in full swing

It was roasting hot, so guess what? We took the opportunity to enjoy a lager on the terrace of the Excelsior Hotel.

The we took a boat to the Zattere whence, at last, to San Giorgio Maggiore for superb views from the campanile. It was a prefect day for it. The Palladian church has two huge Tintoretto’s (unfortunately off display when we visited).

Wonderful views

We passed Pensione Seguso, where we stayed on our last visit, noticing that it was next door to where Herne Hill hero John Ruskin lived in 1887.

One of the buildings I was most looking forward to seeing was the Frari church, with its Donatellos, Titians and other great works of art. We arrived, at long last, at 4 pm … just as it was closing for a wedding! I pleaded to be let in for five minutes, to no avail.

Somewhat disappointing

However, our route back to Cannaregio took us through San Polo, where the church is certainly worth seeing (Tiepolo, Tintoretto, Veronese). We returned to our hostel via the famous Ca d’Oro. Sadly many rooms are closed for restoration but a superb Mantegna is on display.

The worst experience of our three days in Venice? Without doubt, the route through the sestiere of San Polo, over the Rialto bridge from San Marco to the station (and vice versa). It is a tacky tourist traipse. An army of day-trippers – pardon my snobbery – snakes through narrow streets which could have been designed for pick-pocketing. The souvenir shops are not among Venice’s finest, but it’s the locals I feel most sorry for.

OK, it was only a 40-minute walk, but it showed how you could come on a day-trip to Venice and have an ugly experience. It is much better than that.

A last supper

Where and what to eat on our last night in Venice? What else but a curry? We dined at Ital-India on Rio della Misericordia, and very good it was, though we over-ordered. It was certainly popular with the Indian diaspora. A last negroni at our “local”, Santo Bevitore, then we retired to pack our bags for another early start. We will be back.

Onwards and downwards to Puglia