At The Seaside
I walk up the hill from the yacht club to the village and find a small cafe while I wait for my train. Breakfast at the hotel was an uncomfortable, solitary affair; an inconvenience for the staff, all that effort for the hotel's only guest. I ask for an omelette, something substantial.
"How many eggs?" the waiter asks:"three, four? It is up to you."
"Twelve, please," I try to joke. He is appalled. It takes a long time to explain that three would be sufficient.
The ticket office is in a dark corner of the station, a single window with a wooden counter. I am sold an old-fashioned cardboard ticket by a woman who seems surprised to have a customer, and annoyed at the intrusion. It is the kind of ticket you would find at a steam railway in England, and seems more like a souvenir than an authorisation to travel.
The train takes me along the North shore of Lake Balaton, to Keszethly. It is a journey to savour. I have a carriage with open windows I can look out of, a few locals as travel companions, and the noise of the M41 diesel's exhaust; no mobile phones ring, there is no trolley service, and no passenger information display. It could not be further removed from the cramped, airconditioned, sealed environment of a train in Britain. I have space, fresh air, natural light, and spectacular views: railways, as they should be enjoyed The lake is the largest in Central Europe, and is known as the Hungaria Sea; the Hungarians are proud of their lake, and drawn to it, along with Austrian and German holidaymakers.
I arrive at Keszethly and have no problem in finding a small apartment. It has a fridge, a balcony, and there is a small swimming pool in the garden; it is a fraction of the price I paid last night, and there is a restaurant at the bottom of the street that I can afford to eat in.
The town is pleasant, if a little like Skegness with subtitles and mosquitoes. The old buildings of the centre stand on a hill overlooking the strand, a ribbon of candyfloss stalls and amusement arcades stretching along the beach. I take the train up to Tapolca and walk around the town in the slow afternoon heat; it is much the same as any other Hungarian town, familiar architecture, the market with baskets of paprika, cafes, shady sidestreets. I walk back to the station. My is not for an hour, so I set off to explore the depot: I simply walk off the end of the low platform, across the tracks, past men working on the line and engine drivers finishing their shifts. Nobody stops me, or questions me: "Where are you going? You are trespassing". I would be ejected, or possibly arrested if I did this in Britain. I would be suspected of some criminal intent: a thief, a vandal, a terrorist. I wander around the depot at will, nodding to the mildly curious workers I pass, taking photographs, and looking in locomotive cabs. Then I walk back over the mainline to the station and get my train. The Hungarians are very relaxed about their railways. At Keszethly, rather than walk down the road from the station entrance, I walk back down the line to Tapolca, a shortcut to the park by the strand. I greet the signalman as I walk past his cabin, and step onto the grass at the side of the track as an M41 towing a dozen wagons rumbles by.
I sit at a table in the Hali Sorozo Ettrem. The railway runs through the park right in front of my table. A blast of a horn, and another M41 passes, shaking the open air cafe to it's foundations, panicking pigeons from their roosts in the sun-dappled trees as it streaks past the park benches and plastic racehorse rides. Its heading for Tapolca, fuel, and a siding for the night; I could hear its approach long before, a deepening throb, the sound of the AirCav approaching the Vietnamese ville.
I have no intention of eating here, but there is something intriguing in the menu: Fogasfile Fokhagymamartassal; or Zander Filet mit Knoblanchsosse, if you prefer German; Pike-Perch in Garlic, with an addendum - "Our Preises Not Include The Garnis". Chips are extra, then. But is it Pike, or is it Perch? Is there a difference? Or is it an aquatic monster they breed in a bucket in the kitchen, to be fried in garlic for the fickle tourists, garnis extra? I decide I would rather not find out, and eat a delicious meal of beef and paprika at the restaurant near my apartment, a single species feast.
"How many eggs?" the waiter asks:"three, four? It is up to you."
"Twelve, please," I try to joke. He is appalled. It takes a long time to explain that three would be sufficient.
The ticket office is in a dark corner of the station, a single window with a wooden counter. I am sold an old-fashioned cardboard ticket by a woman who seems surprised to have a customer, and annoyed at the intrusion. It is the kind of ticket you would find at a steam railway in England, and seems more like a souvenir than an authorisation to travel.
The train takes me along the North shore of Lake Balaton, to Keszethly. It is a journey to savour. I have a carriage with open windows I can look out of, a few locals as travel companions, and the noise of the M41 diesel's exhaust; no mobile phones ring, there is no trolley service, and no passenger information display. It could not be further removed from the cramped, airconditioned, sealed environment of a train in Britain. I have space, fresh air, natural light, and spectacular views: railways, as they should be enjoyed The lake is the largest in Central Europe, and is known as the Hungaria Sea; the Hungarians are proud of their lake, and drawn to it, along with Austrian and German holidaymakers.
I arrive at Keszethly and have no problem in finding a small apartment. It has a fridge, a balcony, and there is a small swimming pool in the garden; it is a fraction of the price I paid last night, and there is a restaurant at the bottom of the street that I can afford to eat in.
The town is pleasant, if a little like Skegness with subtitles and mosquitoes. The old buildings of the centre stand on a hill overlooking the strand, a ribbon of candyfloss stalls and amusement arcades stretching along the beach. I take the train up to Tapolca and walk around the town in the slow afternoon heat; it is much the same as any other Hungarian town, familiar architecture, the market with baskets of paprika, cafes, shady sidestreets. I walk back to the station. My is not for an hour, so I set off to explore the depot: I simply walk off the end of the low platform, across the tracks, past men working on the line and engine drivers finishing their shifts. Nobody stops me, or questions me: "Where are you going? You are trespassing". I would be ejected, or possibly arrested if I did this in Britain. I would be suspected of some criminal intent: a thief, a vandal, a terrorist. I wander around the depot at will, nodding to the mildly curious workers I pass, taking photographs, and looking in locomotive cabs. Then I walk back over the mainline to the station and get my train. The Hungarians are very relaxed about their railways. At Keszethly, rather than walk down the road from the station entrance, I walk back down the line to Tapolca, a shortcut to the park by the strand. I greet the signalman as I walk past his cabin, and step onto the grass at the side of the track as an M41 towing a dozen wagons rumbles by.
I sit at a table in the Hali Sorozo Ettrem. The railway runs through the park right in front of my table. A blast of a horn, and another M41 passes, shaking the open air cafe to it's foundations, panicking pigeons from their roosts in the sun-dappled trees as it streaks past the park benches and plastic racehorse rides. Its heading for Tapolca, fuel, and a siding for the night; I could hear its approach long before, a deepening throb, the sound of the AirCav approaching the Vietnamese ville.
I have no intention of eating here, but there is something intriguing in the menu: Fogasfile Fokhagymamartassal; or Zander Filet mit Knoblanchsosse, if you prefer German; Pike-Perch in Garlic, with an addendum - "Our Preises Not Include The Garnis". Chips are extra, then. But is it Pike, or is it Perch? Is there a difference? Or is it an aquatic monster they breed in a bucket in the kitchen, to be fried in garlic for the fickle tourists, garnis extra? I decide I would rather not find out, and eat a delicious meal of beef and paprika at the restaurant near my apartment, a single species feast.
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 2:33 AM
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