Falling Off The Mountain

Stand on me, folks, I’ve absolutely no desire to make it habitual – however there was a wee touch of Groundhog Day about the events of July 10th.

You may perhaps recall that in my last posting I described dramatically how on May 17th I was “...laying flat on me back strapped to a stretcher in a speeding ambulance: blue lights flashing, siren yowling, as we raced towards Brackenheim Hospital...”

Well, on July 10th I was once again laying flat on me back strapped to a stretcher in a speeding ambulance: blue lights flashing, siren yowling, as, this time,  we raced towards Bayreuth Hospital... What happened was thusaways…….

My sister Susan and her husband Stuart were paying us a visit from  Blighty, arriving at our gaff on Friday July 9th, the boot of their lah-di groaning beneath the weight of all them ex-pat cravers: Ty-Phoo tea, Marmite, Cheddar cheese etc. I’d previously told ‘em I had a gig in far-off Frankenland on Saturday, and they’d said right, they’d come with me. It was a Song Festival in Bad Berneck, a small town of about 5000 inhabitants tucked away in the “Fichtelgebirge” (roughly:The Spruce Mountains) about 3 to 31/2 hours drive from home. They booked a room in the same hotel as me, and we left early Saturday morning. It was hot, got hotter, and was Hades-hot by the time we arrived: wearied by the overheated journey, and craving cooling drinks (bottled water in the car had reached the ideal temperature for a good strong cuppa). We checked in, went to a nearby cafe, had long glasses of cold, cold water, but were unable to resist the cakes, cream, and coffee that were on display. Afterwards we ambled a bit in the adjacent park, admiring the spreading Spruce woods, and checking out the distantly visible venue, an eyrie perched on a high hilltop. Sue and Stu ambled on whilst I had it orrff to me pit for a quick bout of zzzzzzs in preparation for the evening concert, the “1.Europäische Lieder-und Folkfestival” taking place in what was described as “the romantic setting of the castle ruins.” The ruins are, as all well-built, self-respecting castles were in them days, virtually inaccessible; thereby keeping its aristocratic occupants safe from marauding hordes who might wish to remove their ill-gotten treasures, or, better still, remove their thoroughly superfluous fucking heads; yet provided with several long, winding, steep, narrow tracks up which expendable peasants could toil carrying supplies and what.not on their broad expendable yokely backs for the rich, ruling bastards atop. To reach this romantically situated  open-air stage, we had to be conveyed up several long, winding, steep, narrow tracks by Taxi which brought us to within a few minutes laboured walk of the “Freilicht Bühne.” It was, undoubtedly, a very beautiful, and atmospheric setting for an evening of accoustic guitars, Celtic harp, and songs. A natural auditorium, the punters, sat on seats, gazing down a steep slope to a stage on the far side of a deep, wide gully. To cross the gully one had to go down a slippery, slidey, dusty, stoney slope – its beauty unblighted by safety railings, ropes, or other mundane protective precautionary measures, which became a slippery, slidey, dusty, stoney path winding its way “backstage.” It was a bit of an ordeal...no, no, no, to be unbiasedly fair, it was right sodding dodgy, and with the Bailey in its heavy case clutched in me hand, a right sight sodding dodgier. More by luck than anything else I managed to stagger my way down the aforesaid s.s.d.s.path to the backstage area. After greeting my fellow performers, and doing me soundcheck, I decided that, as I was last on the bill, I could sit with Sue and Stu and savour the proceedings from above.

As the interval approached, I decided to wend me way slowly backstage. Before leaving I told Susan and Stuart that, when they came down after the concert was over, to be very, very careful when tackling the slippery, slidey, dusty, stoney path – its beauty unblighted by safety railings, ropes, or other mundane protective precautionary measures leading across the gully to the backstage area. I must have told ‘em at least three times to take great care, as my previous experience of this bleeding dangerous “path” with its total lack of any safety precautions, had left me extremefold charymost.

I walked slowly and gingerly down the dangerous slippery, slidey, dusty, stoney slope; carefully putting one foot in front of the other, having first ascertained that the ground looked safe enough. My progress was painfully slow, but was soon to become much more painfully fast. How it happened is inexplicable: suddenly my leading foot slipped rapidly forward, I stumbled, tilted, lost balance, unwillingly began to run, tried to stop but – no chance! I was unable to influence my movements, my speed – due to the steepness of the path – increased, and my uncontrollable trotters overtook each other at full pelt:for the nest twenty or thirty metres I’d’ve given Usain Bolt reasons for retirement as I shattered all his records. Before me the Spruce-thick, brushy hillside dived downwards to the little town, and I fearfully emulated the bugger, increasing speed, feet flying, completely powerless to call a halt, until a friendly tree, noticing my predicament, came to my aid: I went zonking headlong into its trunk, giving me loaf an horrendous thump, before rebounding and being hurled through the air onto me back. As I landed, all the breath was forcefully expelled from me lungs; I lay where I’d fallen, unable to move, clutching me chest and feebly gasping: “Help, help!” Later a coupler people told me they’d heard, but as Germany was playing football, assumed it was a remote fan celebrating a goal, how on earth they could confuse “Hilfe, hilfe!” with “Tor, tor!” is beyond me, but there yer go. Fortunately the sound engineer (possibly the very reason he is a sound engineer) heard my cries, recognised the words, left the mixing desk, and hurried to my assistance. Fortunately he was also an active member of the Red Cross, and knew what to do. “Don’t move,” he said, “just lie still.” Moving hadn’t actually crossed my mind, I was far too busy battling increasingly intensifying pain, and shock, to contemplate getting up and going walkies. He went off, returned accompanoed by Sandy, they each took a leg and an armpit, hoisted me, and lugged me up yet another slope to the backstage area, put me in a chair, where I sat hunched, fervently hoping respiration reflexes hadn’t become part of my past. Sandy brought me a glass of water, the called over the mic for Sue and Stuart to come backstage.

Meanwhile the sound engineer phoned from his “Handy” (despite Stephen Fry, they do sometimes live up to their German moniker) for an ambulance. On stage, although the audience had been informed of my accident, and told I’d not be appearing (I wanted to try but was having terrible trouble breathing, and couldn’t lift me arms, leave alone play guitar and sing) the programme, true to the ancient adage the-show-must-go-on went on. As I sat surrounded by anxious colleagues and family, a paramedic from the “Bergwacht” (mountain rescue service) came puffing uphill towards us. After I’d explained what had happened, he peered into me gorgeous blue eyes. felt me pulse, poked me chest and back, took a phone out of his skyrocket and called for further assistance. Some minutes later a Quad bike arrived, I clambered (very painfully) ontoit, behind the driver, had a helmut thrust down over me bonce, and we set off slowly down a steep, narrow, twisting track, bumping over stones, rocking from side to side when we hit a large protuberance (I thought it likely we were about to do an Ozzy) until finally we reached the roadway; moments later I was laying flat on me back strapped to a stretcher in a speeding ambulance: blue lights flashing, siren yowling, as we raced towards Bayreuth Hospital.

Only one private person was allowed to travel with me and the paramedics, so sister Sue sat with the driver, and Stuart returned to the hotel to await news. They wheeled me in on a stretcher, then transferred me to an hospital bed. A young doctor shone a tiny torch into the limpid depths of me minces, searching for concussion signs I suppose; then taped a plastic thingy to me left arm, shoved a bloody long needle into it and drew a few tubes of blood; said I’d be kept in overnight for tests, then phoned for a Taxi to take Sue back to Berneck. I was wheeled along a labyrinth of corridors (Bayreuth Klinikum is vast, and the people who work there guv’nor) flat on me back, looking up at the ceiling, lights popping past overhead making me feel a bit dizzy. My chest and back were x-rayed (no broken bones ) my head was x-rayed (nothing found…….no smart-arse remarks, thank you very much) I copped an ECG, more blood was siphoned out of the plastic thingy on me left arm, and my heart got the ultrasound treatment. Finally, having survived the paperwork formalities, I was taken to a ward. It was big enough for four beds, but there was only one other occupant. I discovered next morning that my companion was Turkish, had been training on a trampoline, missed his mark, and ended with a broken leg.

Sue phoned from Bad Berneck, asked how I was, what was going down, and arranged to come to the hospital around midday. 

The Turkish bloke was visited by his girlfriend, and whilst they were canoodling (ain’t that a lovely expression, so much nicer than that awful “snogging” which is unfortunatly undergoing a revival in popularity) a well-dressed, middle-aged, vacant looking geezer (who I took for a god-botherer ) crossed the room to my bedside, and asked in German: “Do you understand German ?”

“Ja” I replied warily, preparing to tell him I was in no need of spiritual comforting. 

He said:” Could you maintain a reasonable amount of quietude between 13.00 and 15.00 ?”

“Certainly, no problem,” I replied, wondering what the fuck he was on about.

“Dankeschön” he turned and left. As the door closed behind him, my Turkish roommate – who had apparently already had dealings with the geezer –– gave the universal hand sign for “Nutter.”

Another patient was wheeled in to join the Brit/Turk contingent. He’d been out alone on his motorbike enjoying a ride in the country, when a bee flew into his helmet, unsurprisingly distracted him, he lost control, shot off the road and went arse-over-tit into a ditch. Fortunately he was discovered by another biker who called for medical help. Although his bike was, he said, a total write-off; he had suffered, like me, no broken bones, but bags of pain.

Sue and Stu arrived, sat around for hours in the sauna-bath heat waiting to discover if, and when, I’d be released. It was Sunday so normal doctors’ rounds were nonexistent, nurses drifted by, took more of me blood, and promised they’d try and hurry release time, but explained there were dozens of accidents coming in and they were short-staffed. Before they agreed to discharge me I had to be x-rayed once again: back, chest, bonce, ECGd once more, another bout of ultrasound, and even more of me precious claret siphoned out. Nicking one of the great Tony Hancock’s lines, I told a nurse it was no good trying to take anymore blood out of me left arm as it was now empty. She earnestly assured me this wasn’t so, explaining in scientific detail how blood replenished itself…….so my day wasn’t entirely wasted!

Shirl was expecting us home around 16.00 so I phoned her (I’d seen no point in worrying her, nor Vince, the night before, especially as she/he could have done nothing) and explained where I was, what had happened, that we’d be home much later than expected as I still umpteen more tests to go through before they’d let me out.

The journey home wasn’t as hot as the journey down, I’d been discharged – clutching a letter for my GP – late afternoon, so we drove into the evening. Or rather, Stuart drove into the evening. I cannot praise him highly enough, he was driving our car, which is about twice the size of his and Sue’s; ours is an automatic gear change, whereas theirs is a stick-shift; the driving wheel is on the “wrong” side of the car for him, and he had to drive on the “wrong” side of the road – everything is completely different to that to which he is accustomed, so he did an absolutely brilliant job: first driving from Bad Berneck to Bayreuth, then through the streets of the town to the Klinikum, then finally getting us safely back to base where Shirl and steaming hot, strong tea awaited our arrival.

In closing, let me mention that my scheme to ascend the North Wall of Everest has been, for the nonce, relegated to the back burner.