The S-e-c-r-e-t Page So, you've found it: the missing link. That other bit of the story which I conveniently neglected to mention. There are some quite obvious reasons why I felt it necessary to stash this little event in solitary confinement, as you'll discover. It was the evening, and I was spending it with, amongst others, a young Russian chap and a German guy. We had already consumed a fair degree of alcoholic beverages when the Russian (who I shall name Mikhail) suggested to the German (Helmut) and I (Harold) that we should go for a walk. There was no particular reason or itinerary, just the notion that having a break from normal evening activities might be a welcome change. I was quite happy where I was, and Helmut seemed decidedly unenthused with the idea, but as the night wore on the drink had unpredictable effects on our abilities to make rational decisions, and we all began entertaining the idea more seriously. Just as we were on the brink of forcing our bodies to do something more useful than filter liquid toxins, there was a sudden downpour outside. This was a rare occurrence during my travels, and it seemed to dash our hopes of exploring the wider world as hailstones bounced across the road. Clearly, however, the now stupendous quantities of refreshment that we had saturated our stomachs with had reversed our regular brain patterns, and the cloudburst outdoors was seen as a challenge. We decided to throw caution to the wind, or more particularly to the rain, and go off on an adventure, wearing short sleeved tops and squelchy shoes. We acquired more bottled entertainment in the shape of seven Desperados, the Spanish beer mixed with tequila which appeared to be the current fad, and stepped out into the now drizzly rain. We began walking up a hill, finding dimly lit recesses from which to takes gulps from our bottles away from the odd spurts of traffic on the quiet road. We passed some large gates, the entrance to an historic site that was a tourist attraction by day and closed to the public at night. As none of us had been inside there before, we climbed the gates and went for a wander. Soon, however, we were thwarted by the hubbub coming from inside a marquee, and silhouettes of late chattering revellers could be seen shining through the canvas, so we decided to get out of the place before somebody spotted us. With that infiltration attempt foiled, we continued walking up to the top of the hill, from where we found a spot commanding a fantastic view over the surroundings. It was nearly midnight and we continued guzzling in the peaceful, damp darkness, admiring the nocturnal panorama which unfolded for miles ahead of us. I had instigated the gatecrashing down the road, and I was still keen to achieve some kind of silly triumph to round the evening off. A short distance away lay an unusual construction, a local landmark of fair vertical size and illuminated against the night sky. It towered over its surroundings, and in my inebriated state I saw its ascent as a necessary conquest. Suddenly, on the stroke of twelve its light was extinguished, and all around for as far as the eye could see, scores of bulbs began to switch off, one small area at a time. It could not have been a power cut, because the vast majority remained lit, but some central control was shutting down a separate circuit of less important lamps. It offered the perfect opportunity to scale the landmark without anybody seeing us. Within seconds of unhatching our masterplan, some police cars screamed around the corner and drew up close by. Unbeknown to us, the Thought Police must already have begun operating in this country. We hid our bottles like vagrants in the Prohibition era, stashing them in bags and sneaking off, leaving the inspectors to continue whatever business they had at the site, which seemed to revolve around a small bar that was closing its doors for the night, and chucking some rowdy types out onto the street. The monument we intended to climb was well hidden at low level in a quiet back road, but it was also impossibly protected from intruders like us. Huge walls surrounded the base, with spiked fencing placed on top. There must have been something to hide inside - the safe of a Swiss bank perhaps? However, there seemed to be no cameras focused upon us, and having got here I was determined to continue with this absurd idea. Mikhail and Helmut thought of me as a little crazy at first, but we had by now built up a high degree of childish excitement at the prospect of standing atop the region's highest point and feeling on top of the world. It was the kind of thing I might well have done when I was sixteen, bursting with anti-establishment sentiments and eager to upset anybody in authority. I clambered onto the wall and edged around to one corner of the building. There was a circular fan of spikes at the end of the fence which were easily penetrable for somebody as slim as myself. I slipped through, and giddy with adrenalin, found myself within the private grounds of the giant construction. I thought I'd be going it alone, but within seconds of getting inside I looked around to see my cohorts rapidly following suit. We scurried around the back in the dark, unable to enter the locked doors at the base and rather worried by the humming noises and giant electrical cables running up the sides. Ascending this thing was like a treasure hunt. It seemed that somewhere, somehow we could unlock a clue to gain access to the next stage of the climb. Mikhail found some dodgy rungs running up beside the huge banks of humming cables, and my first thoughts were to stay well clear of them, but it then became apparent that their presence was for the reason of emergency access and they were probably safe to climb. Having witnessed the non-electrocution of the other two, I followed behind them. We reached a height of several dozen feet, but just
as things were going so well, we hit upon a major snag. The access hole
onto the next ledge was too far above the top rung, and rather small
for us to clamber through easily. The only method we could use to get
through was to dangle perilously eighty feet in the air, and haul ourselves
up with our arm strength alone. Getting down again would be nigh impossible,
and I had visions of being found the next morning either splatted like
a tomato, or stood shivering like a ninny in front of the local population
on top of their famous landmark, being escorted down by fire officers
and filmed by a TV helicopter for the regional news bulletin. I could
imagine the headlines in the newspaper: |
INTERRAIL 2003 > Day ??? > Mystery
Location