Yes, of course, there are views, and then there are views. But I have stayed in many a hotel where you’re lucky to have a street to look at. On this trip to Ireland and Austria I stayed in six hotels and five had something interesting out the window. I did not request a view. None of these offered the option.
So, welcome to my tour with a view in mind.
At the Castle Hotel in Dublin my room was on the fourth floor–which meant the fifth, because they start counting one up from the ground floor. A small room, it had all I needed and was fresh and clean. When I peered out the window I smiled.
As buildings go, that was pretty spectacular. It’s the Abbey Presbyterian Church, a stone Gothic Revival structure built in 1862 to 1864. A bird perched on the top right peak as I took the picture, and I later noticed the green nest hunkered below, where birds fluttered in and out from time to time. During my stay when I retreated to the room to put my feet up I took pleasure in the strength of those fine walls and the artistic design. And the birds.
Next stop in Limerick my room at the Old Quarter Townhouse was big enough for a party. It was new and modern–or at least modernized. I looked out the window there and spread my arms, hands uplifted.
There seemed to be a theme here. This one is Saint Michael’s Catholic Church, a limestone structure originally constructed in 1779 to 1781, remodeled in 1805, then rebuilt again in the Italianate style in 1881. This too became a pleasant outlook in the changing lights during my time in Limerick.
On my return to Rosscarbery Catherine O’Sullivan at the familiar Rosalithir B&B happily welcomed me to my newly remodeled room. Everything crisp and bright. And I was so happy to get a front room. The house is on a farm in the middle of green pastures, so all the rooms look out on lovely scenes, framed by the graceful windows and drapes, but the front room looks toward that special notch where the sea glistens blue when the sun is right.
Open the windows and lean out and you see even more.
I peered across the attractive yard wall, past the ancient wall of stone, and out over the wide green pasture to the gap in the bluff that opens to the glimmering sea in the notch. A lovely outlook, much the same as my story characters of the Golden Eagle Clan see from their sacred stone circle, shown below. And from their village one ridge over from the other outlook below, where you can see the gap in the bluff beyond the horse pen.
I felt at home.
In Salzburg I stayed in the guest house in a seminary, Gästehaus im Priesterseminar, which has a historic connection with the adjoining church. Through large windows along the hallway to my room I could see the grand rooftop of that church.
These are domes of the Holy Trinity Church, which borders the seminary on one side, built between 1694 and 1702 to connect with the seminary. So not the view from the room, but from the hall on the way to the room.
From the window in my room I could see this.
It’s the former Palais Überacker built in 1732 by the Counts of Überacker because they wanted a residence close to court, the Mirabell Palace being a very short walk away. It’s just a bank now, but the renovation kept most of the Baroque facade, offering a pleasant outlook from my lovely pristine room.
Last but surely not least was Hallstatt. I knew my hotel there was right on the lake. But not every room could look toward the water. And I didn’t know whether mine would. As noted above there was no option to select a view. So when I stepped into the room my jaw dropped. This was my first sight of the outlook I would have.
The lake! The private deck! I rushed to the door onto the deck and went out.
I could see it all. The shimmering water. The fairytale village. The sheer mountains framing the scene. I could see it from my private deck. From my bed. In daylight and dark.
A room with a view. Ah yes. I loved every view. From Dublin to Limerick to Rosscarbery to Salzburg to this of Hallstatt. And I will treasure the memories like a string of cherished jewels.
The enchanted fairytale village of Hallstatt, Austria, is a place you take too many pictures because you keep seeing something new–a different angle, a particular house that seems to drape on the cliffside, a change in the mists. I came here because of the Celts. This was where their ancestors flourished around the time of my new story and I wanted to see it again to better describe it.
When I decided I must have two nights in Hallstatt I tried to cancel the middle two of the four nights I had reserved in Salzburg. The Salzburg reservation, which I made far ahead of time, could be cancelled. The Hallstatt one could not. However I had used a booking company. They told me I had to arrange that with the hotel. The hotel people told me I had to arrange that with the booking company. After going around that circle a few times I decided I would simply have to double book. It turned out to be well worth it.
After I checked into my Salzburg hotel I told the people at the desk that I was going to Hallstatt the next day and asked where to find the bus stop. One of them became quite concerned about me taking the bus. “There are two changes,” she said. That didn’t seem like such a big thing. I looked into it. I could catch Bus 150 a couple blocks from the Salzburg hotel. The 150 would go to Bad Ischl. Bus 542 would soon arrive to take passengers to the next stop, where Bus 543 would pick them up and take them into Hallstatt. How could it be easier?
So the next morning after a lovely breakfast I packed my little backpack with all I needed for the two-night stay in Hallstatt, left the rest of my things in the room at Salzburg with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and off I went. Caught the 150, which took me to Bad Ischl, end of the line for the 150. But when we passengers got off the bus we found no sign of Bus 542 or any indication when or if it might arrive. Our 150 bus driver came over and said we should take the train. It was better, and we could use our same ticket.
A train was waiting right next to the bus stop with several destinations posted but not Hallstatt. I asked around. No one seemed sure. Finally an elderly lady I guessed to be a local came back from asking and assured me this was the train for Hallstatt. I headed for it and another person said yes, it was the train for Hallstatt. I got on. The train left the station.
I saw a reader board that did have Hallstatt listed but Hallstatt wasn’t lit up like the other stops. I asked the guy across the aisle from me why that would be. He was apparently a local. He had his bicycle with him. He didn’t know. I glanced at the passing scene, wondering. Soon an announcement came over the sound system–in German. The guy with the bicycle nodded and smiled. We would have to get off at the next stop and catch a bus. There was something wrong with the tracks ahead. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will show you.”
Another one of those angels when I needed one.
He did show me. He led me off the train and toward a waiting bus. A whole busload-size cluster of people moved toward the bus with me. Somebody asked in English if this was the bus to Hallstatt. The bus driver shook his head, answering in English. “I’m not going anywhere.” He was parked. Another bus arrived. The crowd moved as a single thing to that bus, and we asked if he was going to Hallstatt. No. The other bus would take us. We stood looking at each other. What now? Then the first driver cheerfully called out. “Oh, come on. I’ll take you to Hallstatt.” And as one we flowed into the first bus. And he did indeed take us to Hallstatt.
My hotel in Hallstatt was billed more as an apartment than a hotel. It didn’t have a kitchen, but it also didn’t have reception. I was to ask for my key at the Seecafe right next door or use a code on the box if I was late. I got there in plenty of time so a charming young man at the cafe had a key for me. When I walked into my upstairs room and looked out the windows my jaw dropped. The view! And my own private deck!
My hotel/apartment, the Hallstatt Lakeside top 5 Zimmer mit Balkon, was at the south end of the roughly one-mile length of the whole village of Hallstatt. The above photo is the northerly aspect of my view toward the village center. I don’t know much German but I might have guessed that “mit Balkon” meant with balcony. The “top 5” referred to my room.
This next photo shows the view directly across from my deck. Ah! The rippling water, the raw stone mountains, the clouds!
As soon as I dropped off my few belongings I set out to see the town and took the four pictures at the top of this post. And more pictures. And more.
I had been in Hallstatt once before, in 2006, with my friend Tilly, who was from Austria though she had never visited Hallstatt. That was in October when leaves had begun to show color. Now it was May. The weather forecast wasn’t encouraging, but you take it as you find it. I had my umbrella. For now it wasn’t raining and I thrilled to the wonder.
My plan was to explore the village for the rest of this day, take pictures, and locate the waterfall, which plays a role in my story. For some reason I could not find that waterfall. Once I thought I had glimpsed it, but when I looked again I didn’t see it. The next day I planned to visit the museum which I remembered being outstanding. I had a very different story brewing in 2006, one I had since abandoned. This time I wanted to know more about those Hallstatt Celts, or Proto-Celts, who are important in my new story.
The other thing I had hoped to do on my one full day there was to walk the trail up to the High Valley where I had set my Proto-Celtic village near the ancient salt mine. The mine has been in operation for about 7,000 years, going back well before the Celts were there and continuing during their time. I had gone up to the High Valley in 2006, taking the funicular. But it was the trail I wanted to see and describe. I had never been on that trail, and I was deeply disappointed to learn that the trail was closed for renovation. One of those plans I would have to let go.
Before I was quite done with my first day a light sprinkle began. Full of optimism I hadn’t brought out the umbrella or even worn a rain jacket. I hurried back to my room for my umbrella and long raincoat. I was too late for dinner at the nearby Seecafe so I had to walk the mile back to the main village through what had turned into a heavy rain. I found a nice place where I got an unusual but tasty pizza. I’d eaten half by the time I thought to take a picture.
Back at the room, where I could prop up a pillow and lean back on my bed and still see the view, I looked out and saw this.
Magical.
The next morning I headed for the museum and found my waterfall.
See it? Just above the museum rooftop. The museum wasn’t open yet so I searched for a way to the falls, doing my best to ignore a soft drizzle.
I met a friendly guy on the street, vigorously fluffing his white feathers, and one feather wisped onto his bill. Swans own a good portion of the lake–the real and not.
When I started up a staircase I thought I’d been on before I met a family coming down and asked if the falls were up that way. The man didn’t try English but he showed me the translator app on his phone that mentioned the “view.” And a picture with a fine view from up there. I showed him my picture of the distant waterfall above the museum. He nodded and nodded, pointed up the stairs they had come down and said. “Two minutes.”
I soon knew for sure I had been on those stairs the day before but apparently not far enough. You had to go into the edge of a tunnel for cars that hadn’t looked to me like a place for pedestrians. This time I went in and found it was well roped off. The sound of rushing water grew steadily louder. I came out into a parking lot and there was the full view of raging water in two tiers.
For all that power of moving water, I had read that this waterfall freezes solid in the winter. It also does so in my story.
Going back down the hill another way I found more lovely views.
I remembered the Hallstatt Museum for its excellent displays, but it was even better this time. Now I was especially looking for the Celts of course. There were also some good exhibits on the mine. The salt of the mine preserved materials so they know what people wore and the fabrics they wove.
The above photos show a miner’s pack for carrying salt blocks out of the mine and a diorama of a miner himself. From fragments left behind scholars believe the ancient people in the High Valley built their houses of logs, the corners interlocked as in the diorama, the way Oregon pioneers did. There were plenty of nice straight firs in those heights to use for that. I would get that in my story.
A huge necropolis of graves was found for the period 800-750 B.C. (my story opens in 750 B.C.), and many bronze tools and treasures were drawn from these, telling us more about the Proto-Celts. No princes’ graves were found, but the items showed considerable widespread prosperity.
I especially liked the above display of the swirled fibulas in bronze, as well as a bronze necklace. The fibulas were worn by men and women both, probably to pin garments together. The necklace came from a woman’s grave.
And above we have the famous Hallstatt sword in bronze. Note the long leaf shape and the ribbing on the blade. The richest graves contained long swords like this in bronze or iron.
A village on a sheer bluff has many steps. I traipsed across hillside lanes and up and down a lot of steps to get a feel for the slopes and the places my characters would go to appreciate the beauty themselves. That evening I made it to the Seecafe before it closed and ate delicious pesto pasta while still enjoying the view right outside their back door.
And so, one more look at the village on the southern end beneath the massive limestone mountains and the pretty houses that climb the bluff on that side of town. My room was just beyond the photo to the far left.
The next morning I had to leave this beautiful place. The morning broke with a hope-inspiring light, throwing a sheen on the water’s edge in the southern aspect from my deck view. The surface across the water never appeared quite still.
I would retrace the uncertain way back to Salzburg. It worked. I was glad I left the big bag in Salzburg so I could make all those bus and train transfers with no more than a small backpack and handbag to carry. I absorbed much on my journey into the enchantment of this place, and it will reflect in the work.
I dedicate this post to my writer friend Elizabeth King. I was telling her about the many times I’ve been rescued by people on my trips just when I needed them most. I call them my angels. She told me about a time she and her husband were traveling and found themselves in a terrible predicament. A man offered to help, and after he resolved everything Elizabeth happened to see the man’s name. His name was Angelo.
~ ~ ~
So, after my wonderful stay in Rosscarbery at Catherine and Finbarr’s B&B, my next stop on this trip was Salzburg. Pictures of the hotel there looked amazing and I was looking forward to that.
It’s a renovated seminary turned into a guest house. The Gästehaus im Priesterseminar. When I saw a picture on a booking site I knew I wanted to stay there. The domes aren’t on the guest house itself, I learned, but on the connected Holy Trinity Church. And while Salzburg itself doesn’t figure in my stories it was close to the more remote Hallstatt, which does.
Salzburg was a long road from Rosscarbery. Bus or train to Dublin, which could take all day. Flight from Dublin to Salzburg the next day with a brief layover in Frankfurt. My concerns about that short layover niggled at me after seeing the confusing monstrosity of the Frankfurt airport on the original flight from home. I flew Lufthansa, a German airline, and their hub was Frankfurt. I likened the place to nightmares where I walk and walk, upstairs, downstairs, around and around, and never find the place I’m looking for.
Even the road to Dublin looked long. I had a return bus ticket as far as Cork, but there I would have to transfer. Catherine recommended a particular bus from Cork. It was faster than others and would let me off on one of those quays in Dublin where I would know exactly where I was and could walk to my hotel up familiar O’Connell Street. However, this bus line didn’t go into the Cork bus station, leaving instead from a simple bus stop across the river. Another of those streetside stops for long-haul buses. She did her best to give me directions, with a map. I hoped I could find it.
After hugs and warm good-byes I was on my way, looking back from the bus to the lovely lagoon of Rosscarbery, a place of so many memories.
On the way to Cork the bus had several stops. At Bandon a lot of people got on, and a nice-looking woman sat by me. We struck up a conversation. Where are you headed? How are you getting there? That kind of thing. I did express a little concern about the change in Cork. By the time we reached Cork we had covered many subjects, a most enjoyable visit. So when the bus pulled into the station she told me she would show me the way to my next bus stop. Much relieved, I went down to drag my bag out of the luggage bay underneath the bus. I thought she would point me in the right direction.
No. She introduced me to her husband, Dermot, who had taken a seat farther back, and her husband’s brother, John, the brother’s wife, Mary, and told me her own name, Catherine. Another Catherine! They were the O’Donovans and they were headed my way. They didn’t just show me. They escorted me.
They whisked me right through that bus station, out across the street shown below, across the bridge over the River Lee just beyond that street, down the angled lane on the far side that Catherine tried to tell me about, and right to the bus stop I was looking for, chatting and laughing with me all the way.
View toward the River Lee from Cork bus station (2018 photo)
We were exchanging names and contact information when the bus pulled up. Angels. All four O’Donovans. Angels to help me. Just when I needed them.
~ ~ ~
For the next day, second leg of the long road to Salzburg, I had paid extra for a seat near the front on the flight from Dublin to Frankfurt on account of that short layover. My hopes for an early landing didn’t happen, and when the plane did land they drove and drove until I thought we must be circling the entire massive airport. I checked the time when the plane pulled to a stop on the tarmac (not at a gate, but I remembered a bus had picked passengers up on my previous landing there). I had ten minutes until my next plane started boarding. I wasn’t feeling easy.
We waited and waited for the airplane doors to open. Someone announced that they were waiting for somebody to bring the stairs so we could deplane. Then they announced that a stairs had been brought to the rear door so they would start letting people out the back. So much for my seat close to the front. By the time the front door opened it was still quicker for me to go that way. But by then my next flight was boarding. As I left the plane I mentioned that to one of the friendly flight attendants. He smiled. “You’ll make it.” I clung to those words.
When I entered the terminal I came to a crowd of travelers (probably all those people who deplaned from the rear) wending their way through zigzag lines toward Passport Control stations, the lines barely moving. I knew what the expression “her heart sank” means. Worries flooded my mind. Reception at my Salzburg guest house would close at 4 pm. If I didn’t make this flight I would be late and I’d have go through some rigamarole to get my key. Well, I could figure that out. But what if I couldn’t get another flight that day? I would miss my reservation altogether. And I had reserved another room in Hallstatt for the next night and I already had so little time there. I might not get there at all and that was my whole reason for going to Austria.
In my rising despair I exclaimed, “My plane is boarding now!”
Someone heard me and echoed my words. “Her plane is boarding now!” The person made way for me. And the echo continued up the line. “Her plane is boarding now!” And they moved aside, one after the other, each encouraging the next person to make way. “Her plane is boarding now!” And the way opened all through that zigzag line. In moments I had reached the head of the line to the Passport Control stations, and the people ushered me forward. “There’s an open one.”
I went to that station and held out my passport, telling the official, “My plane is boarding now.” But the official in the station shook her head, her voice stern. “I am in control here.” She pointed to someone near me and said to me. “That person is ahead of you. You will wait.” I stepped back, stunned.
But the people were not having it. “Here,” they said. “This one’s open.” They ushered me to a different station and the official there hastily did what she had to do and let me through.
Still, I had so little time before my boarding gate would close. I located the departures board to make sure of my gate and, finding it listed, rushed ahead. Despite my early impressions of this airport I found the usual signage. Like every airport, once you know your gate you just follow the letters to the concourse and then the numbers. I was headed for gate 69. I think it was Z69. I don’t remember now. I didn’t take time to check my phone but about the time I got to the 50s I saw a big clock. I had 5 minutes before my gate closed. The 50s seemed to take forever. When I finally saw my gate 69 it was a long way down the concourse and another clock showed I now had 2 minutes. I wondered if it was even possible to go that far in 2 minutes. I don’t know if I made it in time or if they saw this frantic-looking woman rushing toward them and waited, but they did let me through.
If all those wonderful people hadn’t helped me through Passport Control I would never have made it onto that plane. Angels, yes! So many angels.
I reached my guest house in the seminary in plenty of time and they welcomed me in, one leading me first through the beautiful cloister courtyard.
That night as I lay in my narrow bed in my lovely pristine room, I heaved a sigh. “A whole host of angels came to help me this time.” And sudden tears rose.
