Unfortunately we arrived an hour-and-a-half late, and he was gone. David telephoned his apologies to his mother. On the way we had had our first puncture, and had taken some time to change the wheel, as we were unable to find the jack. This had been strapped under the bonnet. Later, while travelling at sixty miles an hour down a very long stretch of straight road, a large white cock had stalked sedately out in front of us and emitted a sharp ping as we cut off his head with the front number-plate. At Ingolstadt we had crossed the Danube.

The main streets of Munich are magnificent. Their architecture is contemporary with that of the English Regency, the golden age of town planning. The architect who built them, under the auspices of King Ludwig, did not allow pediment and ornamental pillar to play so prominent a part in his design as in the English style, and favoured the purely Greek cornice ornamented with small upright acroteria in the shape of oriental fans. It is to be hoped that the destinies of the city are not ruled by a County Council and an Office of Works that are intent on destroying any national monument that happens to rest upon a lease.

We lunched, half fainting, at the best hotel, and had a ham omelette and some Rhine wine.

We left at about three o’clock and began ascending the mountains, eventually coming down on Wasserburg, which resembles from above a miniature Venice, being situated on several islands in the middle of the Inn, which here broadens to the dimensions of a small lake. We had reached the very centre of the town, when another puncture occurred beneath the spreading trees of a little triangular green. The whole population poured out like an audience from a burning cinema, until we were encircled by a pushing, chattering crowd, which pressed so close that it was impossible to turn the jack or fix the wheel without jolting some inquisitively bent bare knee that might have seen anything from two to eighty summers.

From Wasserburg we ascended steadily, and the cottages and churches developed eaves and onion domelets in the Austro-Swiss manner. A mile from the frontier the petrol gave out. Recourse was had to the spare tank; and the suitcases, books, and hats were strewn all over the neighbouring fields in our enraged efforts to unearth it. At this moment another car appeared. Alarmed at the scene of wreckage, it stopped to enquire and stayed to chat. The driver, enveloped like the rest of his party in a white dust sheet, said that his name was Tomaselli. He commended us by note to the proprietor of the Hotel de l’Europe, where, we told him, we had engaged rooms. David believed him to be a famous Italian singer; while I had an idea that he was a well-known racing motorist. It turned out that he kept a café in Salzburg. The proprietor was rather sniffy.

At the frontiers, which were divided by a wooden bridge that spanned a rushing river, we were obliged to wait an hour, while David attempted to argue back the exorbitant deposit that he had paid on the two spare outer covers at Hamburg. The head official then discovered that there was not enough money in the office to meet the demand. He promised to have it ready on Monday. Meanwhile Simon and I walked backwards and forwards over the heavy wooden planks of the bridge. There is something absurd about a land frontier. The guards seemed to know all the local residents as they walked across the bridge driving animals, or on their way to visit friends. The Austrian douanier was at a village dance and had to be fetched. He was so anxious to return that he did not examine our trunks, though astonished at their quantity. We assured him that they contained nothing but clothes.

The first thing that we were told on at last reaching Salzburg was that the Festival did not begin until Wednesday. David was furious, Simon indifferent. Personally, after driving six hundred and fifty miles in the last three days I looked forward to a quiet weekend.

That evening after dinner, we went out into the garden and watched some dancing on a tiled floor laid down beneath the trees, from which depended large and unbecoming electric light bulbs.