The Colonial Tourist In Europe.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue VII, 14 February 1903, Page 415

The Colonial Tourist In Europe.

A TOUR OF THE TYROL. Most New Zealanders, most colonials indeed, when they visit the Continent, stick very much to one well-defined line. Laris, Switzerland and the chief cities of Italy, that is the usual itinerary. It is a most interesting, a most unequalled round. But if time and purse permit there are other tours which would be well worth while, and as an instance we herewith give a brightly-written account of a tour of the Tyrol by a couple of ladies. It is interesting even to those of us who cannot afford a hope for a trip ourselves, and there may be some few fortunate readers of the “Graphic” who will find a useful hint in what follows: I. We started with high ambitions, resolved to do the Tyrol in three weeks. Our experiences may not be strikingly novel; I only hope they may prove seriously instructive. Macaulay, when, at the age of five, he was first taken to Can terbury Cathedral, recorded the event in his diary as “a mighty moment for a thinking mind!” The first mighty sensation of the amateur traveller on arriving in a foreign country is that of having fallen into the hands of robbers. But the seemingly extortionate demands of the porters, servants and restaurateurs who wait on travellers can be very unjustly exaggerated; one is apt to forget the many weary hours, both of night and day, during which they have to hang about watching for their prey; and that, when they catch it, there is always the chance that it mav prove courageously fair in its rate of payment. I have known a man so hard as to deny the plea of the Dover porter, that he, the porter, has to pay fourpence for the privilege of carrying a portmanteau from the train to the boat, and, therefore, has a right to demand eightpence for every piece of luggage he brings on board; I have known this same man maintain that the poor hotel porter who carries your bag upstairs in the evening and down again in the morning is well paid with a shill ing, even should he have been put to the terrible trouble of cleaning a pair of boots as well. The porter grins condescendingly. “Carrying gepack,” says he. pointing to your shilling; “clean boots also?” And this rascally traveller refuses to pay the poor fellow’s just demand! I feel for the servant; he has to live, and, unless he is paid what he asks, how is he to do it? How? That is, in the manner in which he desires. Descending the Schmittenhohe one afternoon on foot, I stood aside on the narrow path to make way for two elegantlydressed gentlemen who were being carried to the summit in mule carriages, and, on furtively glancing round at these two lords, I was aware of familiar faces. Yes, there was no doubt about it—these two gentlemen, indolently puffing at their cigars as they lounged in mountain armchairs, were both waiters at the hotel in which I was staying at Zell-am-See; by one of them had I the

honour of being waited on morning, noon and night, and, to my credit be it said. I recognised the absolute propriety of the situation. My wife and I had ascended the mountain on foot; these gentlemen had comfortable “equipages,” as Disraeli would have said. Why not? You say that we were travelling for our pleasure? I beg your pardon; the sole object of our pilgrimage, as well as that of every other British tourist, was to provide ample means for all lackeys,

waiters and porters to ride in ease and elegance up the Schmittenhohe. These are their youthful relaxations; later, say after ten years of thoughtful British tipping, they themselves will build huge hotels, and train other bands of polyglot robbers to continue the happy tradition. You see, we are nothing if not philosophical. Quite meekly we paid fifty centimes for a cup of bad coffee at Ostend; quite meekly another fifty for a stale roll and a wisp of butter; at Herbesthal

an obliging porter seized our two pieces of luggage, and carried them to the douane and back—quite fifty yards—and when he demanded one “sheeting” we gave it to him as to the manner born. Thus, without any unnecessary fuss or wrangling, we found ourselves at Cologne, only one hour late, and sank peacefully into deck chairs on board a Rhine steamer. My companion rose to the occasion; 1 was for sleep, but in the intervals of dozing 1 heard her humming softly but persistently, “Die Wacht am Rhein.’ She is so thorough, my companion. Later, after dinner, gazing lazily from the saloon windows at the receding i ills, softly dim in the blue twilight. their gentle tones accentuated in contrast with the pink drapery and elec trie light of the dining-room. I fancy I heard her humming—or was it whistling? “All in a Row.” The Rhine wines on board the Rhine boats are excellent. Oh! lam so glad we came this wav to the Tyrol.” exclaimed my irrepressible companion, as we looked out of our windows on the gay Karlsplatz in Munich. “Such a beautiful city.”

Strange that so many small Continen tai eities should possess museums and art collections so greatly superior to those of wealthy London; the Pinakothek made us feel doubly the inadequacy of our own National Disgrace. Only in the Deutches Theater, a variety show, did we recover our British equanimity; we do this sort of thing better in England. But even here we were bound to recognise the high pitch to which civilisation has brought the Bavarian—they give away good beer all the evening, in big mugs, for nothing! The place is a perfect paradise—for Bavarians. Munich is a beautiful and enticing city, and I advise all good tourists who wish to reach the Tyrol to visit this city of beer; it is not too huge, nor, on the other hand, is it so small as to be provincial; it is full of fascinating shops, its streets are handsome and picturesque, its opera is. by some, ranked above Bayreuth in the production of Wagner, its galleries are rich in art treasures, and its catering is moderate in price and excellent in quality. From Munich and its excellent, dinners we managed, with heroic selfdenial. to tear ourselves reluctantly away, and steamed off one fine morning to Salzburg and the Salzkammergut. I don't remember how many towns on our tour my companion pronounced to be ’the most heavenly in the world,” hut, on reflection, we have agreed that. Salzburg is certainly the most beautiful town we have ever seem Its situation is romantically lovely, surrounded by mountains of tine shape—surrounded, yet not stilled- its houses creeping up the lower slopes of the hills, solid, old-fashioned houses, built over arched eaves on the ground floor, eool and inviting, its streets climbing and zig-zagging in the most impetuous and unexpected manner, and through the midst of the town, the rush ing, swirling Salzach, a beautiful flash of blue and green lighting up the whole valley. "This,” said my companion, “is heaven.” And so we halted. (To be continued next week.)