March 2009

[Sweder]

A minor conflict broke out between sore heel and bloated, wobbly belly under my duvet this morning. The aforementioned appendage unhappy that, having elected not to run this weekend, I spent a good deal of it climbing the remarkably steep, cruelly cobbled hills around Vianden, a resplendent commune in the Oesling. Vianden Castle, perched precariously a-top the central crag, was a rare delight. Dating back to Medieval times the cloud-kissing enclave was the subject of a number of increasingly impressive make-overs until it reached it's epicurean zennith in the sixteen hundreds. Time, ever-more destructive battles and accrued apathy saw the battlements steadily crumble until, in the late 1970's, the good Burgers of the region clubbed together, nipped off to B&Q and got stuck into a nine year restoration gig. By 1987 regal magnificence was reborn to house ancient tapestries colated from France, Germany and Spain depicting impressive scenes from history, mythology and regional fables.


[SIZE="1"]Somebody else's home video shamelessly purloined from YouTube[/SIZE]


Jelly Belly was also attributable to the weekend, stuffed as it was with sweet and savory Luxembourgish delights. Gentle shop-front sleuthing in the shadow of the imposing ramparts revealed, in delicious contrast, the Ancien Cinema Café Club under proprietorship of Polish visionary Maciej Karczewski. I say visionary; I hold no evidence of this other than the establishment itself and the eclectic clip collection to be enjoyed at YouTube. This is, for me, a very cool place to hang out. Delicious thanks in no small part or portion to their signature strudel, served piping hot with lashings of vanilla ice-cream, and a paradoxical carrot cake smothering in thick, dark chocolate. Lost in the embrace of a bottomless armchair I perused the free-to-thumb cinematic treasures. Reams of celluloid bibliography, a century of stunning movie art, folders stuffed with rare black & white celebrity snapshots, genre-specific volumes (a superb Horror special) and gargantuan, barely liftable tomes of reference.

Back in sunny Sussex after much wailing and gnashing of teeth the need to address the beltline won out and I took to the sun-drenched hills, offering a silent promise to take it easy on the grumbling foot. I grabbed a camera. I’d been meaning to snap our recently arrived downland ponies; the foaming mist-cloud wallowing in the valley offered yet more tempting Canon fodder.

On days like this I thank my lucky stars for a soft, yielding track. Despite residual bruising the plantar survived. Had I taken to the pavements there’s no doubt I’d’ve been hobbling home inside of five minutes cursing my bone headedness and desperately seeking an Ibuprofen massage.

With the sun racing heavenward with an unbound joy that can only mean spring has truly sprung the mists dispersed, leaving a somewhat blurry landscape for my lens. I cursed my reticence to rise at first light; once again I’d missed the best of the early morning scene. Happily the ponies posed in obliging manner, accepting my amateur snapping with a good grace that could easily have been aloof disdain. I stumbled home, hounds bounding merrily in the sunshine, a low growl of complaint building in my throbbing heel, Reading Half 2005 shirt heavy with steadily leaking weekend residue.