I mounted the
shoulder of the ridge and pulled up, raising my visor to get a good
look at the valley before me. The river ran down the middle of the
basin that lay before me, carving it’s path around and back to the
sea that I had started at so many weeks ago. The walled town of
Oberwoelz sat upon the river, some three leagues from my current
position; just as my map read. I saddled back up and completed the
final leg to my next country of destination.
Rolling up the path
toward the city gates, the high walls rose up to meet me. I had heard
about them from the cartographer in the milk bar back at Klagenfurt;
but I had imagined them some fifteen foot tall, spanning around a
smallish town. Now I could see they were almost double that height,
towering as high as the nearby trees. I wondered what exactly they
could be for; I don’t recall there ever being any struggle near
here, at least not in hundreds of years. Nor was this particularly
valuable land; infertile and uneven; with the Alpine landscape making
building any real transport links impossible. Maybe the King here was
just showing off; as many of the monarch’s around this region were
made rich as forfeit for their allegiance to the Archduke. I reached
the Western city gate to be met by the usual gruff guard-type,
holding a musket slightly too threateningly. After they logged me and
my Motorrad I would be allowed into the town’s inner. I was also
surprisingly issued with a identification pass: a strange amount of
security for a town of such insignificant standing.
The guard opened the
gate with a pulley system, swinging them open in front of me
smoothly, like magic. Starting the engine of my bike, I trundled into
the town in first gear. The white and green banners of Styria flew
from every building down the main street, cobbled but well
maintained. The townsfolk gave me no notice as I passed by; moving
slowly down the mostly empty road. The road lead up to what I must
guess to be the town’s main square, surrounded on three sides with
whitewashed, red rooved shops, with the baker, butcher, grocer and
fishmonger on my left; and to my right was the bank and a few assorted
shops. In front of me stood the focal point of the town. The two
churches of Oberwoelz: imaginatively named the big and little
churches, respective to their size. Taking out my kamera I took a few
snaps of the twin towers and then set my mind to finding an inn to
stay overnight. I had chosen to stay but one night here, I’d head
off tomorrow at around midday. I glanced up at the clock tower. Half
twelve. If I found a place to stay quickly I could have the rest of
the day to spend exploring Oberwoelz.
Looking around I saw
a old man smoking a pipe on a stone wall. Asking for directions to an
inn, he recommended the “Spitalhof” off in the Southern quarter,
by the South wall fountain. I thanked him and proceeded to walk my
motorrad up the right hand street into the Southern sector of the
town. Here the buildings became less imposing, with the white stone
of the central square replaced by more humble wattle and daub houses,
and washing lines were strung above me across the street. A
washerwoman paused in her work to give me a good day, and a black cat
came up and rubbed itself on my legs. As I neared the city walls once
more; the swinging sign of the “Spitalhof”. Apparently it was
built as a hospital and orphanage, but was bought and turned into an
inn by the current owner a few decades ago. The rooms were still set
out as wards, but had obviously had a refurbishment. The woman in
management of the premise was a fr Winkler. She seemed to have a
reputation as a strict landlord, as so I picked up in the adjacent
bar later on in the evening.
The rest of my stay
in Oberwoelz was totally uneventful. Leaving my bike outside the
inn, I walked around the entirety of the town for the remainder of
the day’s light. As well as the two churches, I saw the old
Rathaus, the even older bank and the ingenious sewage system that ran
into the river, which ran just outside the town. I never did find the
reason for the town’s walls. Nobody seemed to know, nor had anybody
seemed to have thought it odd. Many of the people here have barely
left the town in their lives. And don’t wish to. They may even live
happier lives for it. But alas I have chosen the path of the
traveller; and so after a lunch in the small coffee house on the town
square the next day. I took my motorrad and left the town the same
way I had come in. Passing the same guard and leaving down the same
path. My mind was already set upon my next destination, following the
valley down using the old man’s map. Everyone thinks the life of a
traveller has not a dull moment: but the dull moments are the best
parts.