five go in search of the edelweis

We have been sitting on our bums for a week now, idle flesh starting to drip over the sides of the chairs into the pit. Over a very early morning drink in the infamous 'Triangle' five of us gals decided to go on an adventure. Maps were laid amongst the weizen beer-mats and a suitable mountain was chosen. There was even talk of staying over night....

In the cable car we swigged a pricey bottle of vitamintausandalpingewurzgesundgetrank to try and combat the effects of the rioja consumed only several hours before and arrived at many thousand feet in the swirling clouds. There was no danger of Julian's prophecy of me dying by tripping coming true here as all we could see was our feet and we dutifully looked at them scrabbling over rocks for the next four hours. However, in close vicinity and somehow illuminated by the half light were an array of alpine flowers, their pinks, black purples and blues intensified by being so petite. We were being guided through heaven by little lights.

A chamois led us to the hut - an alpine Jamaica Inn. We arrived in time to get five of the mattresses in the freezing rafters of the 200 year old building whose history included having been used as a bunker for the Nazis. We were served beer by the mountain goat who ran the place, moving swiftly on to goulash and wine and a strange alcoholic 'jager tee'. As if rigged by 'Heidi goes to Hollywood' or 'The Sound of Amadeus', five lederhosen-clad Alpine lads arrived to keep us company. We were not far from bursting into song as we fell into slumber to the sound of the night-wind and giggling under the roof together.

The descent was designed to make wurst-meat of our thighs and as we sit once more for the pre-dress of Mitridate tomorrow there will be no dripping. Just good firm mountain-fresh flesh. We agreed that if only we would all go for group Alpine therapy on free days the orchestra would be bonding across music stands and different stylistic approaches and the pit would be full of love. We'll see if we can spread a little tomorrow.

Half way down the mountain I realised my inner soundtrack had changed from Rameau to Mozart. The fresh air had caused Mitridate to get under my skin. However the first thing I did on my return, after phoning Julian and skyping all the pic links to him, and letting my toes roam free once more in my Birkies, was go to the Boreades spot on my ipod.

Aaaaaaaaah.