It’s a bit like giving a boy a new train set, (or these days a
Playstation) and after a few days taking it away again. A week ago, it was
suddenly warm and sunny. The snow retreated, the roads were swept and cyclists
were out in force. There were plenty of bare, pale legs to be seen pumping up
and down.
Now, after three short local trips, and when there is time to venture a
bit further, the sky, which for days has been leaden with masses of sand blown
up from the Sahara, has come crashing down to ground level. The view from the
window this morning, was a solid wall of grey. It is cold, even for here in the
mountains. Big drops of sandy water are plonking down. There is even a hint of
snow.
Just as it seemed that grinding away on the ancient Shorter Rochford
bike on rollers in the cellar had come to an end for the summer, it is back to
relying on the MP3 for entertainment while going through the
sprint-and-wind-down, sprint-and-wind-down routine below ground.
Out along the lanes, the spring flowers are blossoming; droves of yellow
oxlips crowd the banks, drifts of wild crocuses throng the meadows and groups
of pinks and primulas huddle in the shadows. Streams are rushing snow melt down
to the rivers and trees are bursting with enthusiasm.
It’s frustration time.
Coffee
Segafredo in the bakery, St Martin bei Leogang
