R.I.P. Reginald Hill

I’m veering wildly off-topic, but isolated as I am I feel the need to write something expressing my strong sense of loss at returning from a lovely ski weekend to the news that one of my favorite writers Reginald Hill has died at 75. 

I am an enthusiastic reader of classic British detective fiction – I prefer to call them “mysteries” – but having come to the genre through the work of Dorothy L. Sayers and then P. D. James I am very, very picky.  I want good writing, a complicated but realistic puzzle and strong, complex characters.  I want a solution that is based on showing me a different way of looking at something.  I want a lot of interesting local color – think Colin Dexter’s Oxford.  Hence, it’s not often that I come across a writer that can consistently provide that sigh of happy satisfaction as I settle into a new story.  Once I discovered Reginald Hill’s writing in the 1980s I was never dissatisfied, and I took great pleasure at the continued development of his work, in complexity and especially in bulk, in the years since.

I can not improve upon the words of The Telegraph’s obituary:  “Hill called himself a crime novelist, but his work owed nothing to the hard-boiled tradition of the genre. His approach was cerebral, his plots labyrinthine, his characterisations sharply etched, and his dialogue richly laced with humour. His novels bristle with shrewd perceptions and whimsical wit.”  As a historian, I would only add that his plots often made effective use of the powerful effects of past events upon the present.

Hill is best known for his series about Yorkshire policemen Andrew Dalziel and Peter Pascoe.  Dalziel (pronounced for some indubitably British reason “DEE-el”) was the superior officer, menacingly large, obnoxiously crude but of course surprisingly brilliant, in an awkward match with slender college-educated politically correct Pascoe.  They always made a potent crime-solving team but through 24 books since 1970 their relationship deepened and evolved to the point at which in recent books they almost seemed to be switching personalities.  And there was a host of secondary characters – among them Pascoe’s girlfriend and later wife Ellie, a passionate feminist who often tangled with Dalziel, and their sergeant Edgar Wield, at first cautiously in the closet but eventually settled in a happy gay relationship – what is to become of this rich universe now that their creator has died?

I can, of course, begin to explore the many other works that Hill wrote, often under pseudonyms, in intervals between his Dalziel-Pascoe stories.  The most recent of these, The Stranger House (2005) and The Woodcutter (2010), which I happily seized upon at a London bookstore during a visit last year, were similarly richly-plotted and full of engaging characters.  I can devote myself to searching out some of these that I haven’t yet read, I suppose.  But I will greatly miss looking forward to how my old friends Pete, Andy, Ellie and Wieldy are getting on.

I knew nothing about Hill personally.  From the tributes being made by prominent British writers he seems to have been a true gentleman.  I would like to offer my condolences to Patricia Ruell, his wife of 51 years, and to their friends.  He – and the lively imaginary world he created and populated – will be greatly missed.

The Hills Are Alive – Exploring Austria

A considerable number of friends, told I would be living in Switzerland, broke out in a more or less tuneful rendition of “The Hills Are Alive,” from The Sound of Music.  “That’s in Austria,” I corrected them pedantically (once an academic, always an academic).  Even so, on hikes this past year there have been moments when the Alpine scenery was so gorgeous that I found myself breaking into song, somewhat to The Spouse’s consternation.

Last fall we decided it was time to venture into our neighbor to the east – interestingly, Austria is known in German as Östreich, or the eastern kingdom.  We had heard much about the great skiing there, at lower cost than in Switzerland.  But we were also curious about how it compared to Switzerland, as another (largely) German-speaking Alpine nation.

In mid-October we drove east, turned north when we hit the Rhine, and soon crossed the river and passed through the tiny principality of Liechtenstein before entering Austria.  Liechtenstein is closely linked with Switzerland and uses the Swiss Franc – some day I will have to research why it never joined the Swiss Confederation.  It’s also the place to stop at a gas station and buy a pricey sticker (vignette) permitting one to drive on Austrian highways.   Soon we drove through the customs gateway and were in Austria.  European travel sure isn’t what it used to be; it’s almost impossible to get new stamps in one’s passport.

We drove through the charming town of Feldkirch, complete with medieval towers and a schloss (castle) looming atop a cliff on the edge of town.  We didn’t stop on our first trip, but on our second trip in December decided to stop there for lunch.   That being December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, it was a vacation day in our Catholic canton, and was likewise in Catholic Austria. 

Although some stores were closed, there was a hum of activity in the cobblestoned central square where the Christmas market had attracted holiday shoppers and many others who seemed content to stand around and chat, warmed by frequent trips to the Glüwein stall.  After a while we realized that the Christmas music pouring from loudspeakers was not only in English but with an odd country music twang.

Beyond Feldkirch the route followed the turquoise Ill River eastward into a broad valley between high mountains.  Vorarlberg, the westernmost region of Austria, has much in common with its Swiss neighbors – locals speak a Swiss-Alemanic dialect – and after World War I residents unsuccessfully sought union with Switzerland.  After leaving the broad valley of the Rhine and the tributary Ill we found ourselves back in familiar Alpine territory.  Yet there was one significant difference – the valleys seem to be wider, with less of the glacial action that had produced the sheer rock walls that we have seen so often in Switzerland.  The mountains rise more gradually from the valley floors in a fashion that reminded us of Colorado mountains, and hence the ski areas more closely resembled those we have known in Colorado.

We were headed to San Anton am Arlberg, one of the most famous ski towns in Austria.  It was here in 1901 that the first ski club in the Alps was founded and where in the 1920s Hannes Schneider founded the first formal ski school that taught the forerunner of modern parallel ski technique.  We wanted to check it out for the winter to come.  Though it was indeed picturesque, we discovered that in October it is practically a ghost town.  After the departure of the summer hikers, the town shuts down for a long break until snows arrive.  We did note one especially quaint guesthouse, the Altes Thönihaus, in the center of town, with aged wooden walls that our guidebook dated to 1465.

So, after eating a picnic on a bench overlooking the closed athletic center, we headed further east, soon joining the Inn River as it flowed east through the center of the Tyrol region.  Before long we came to Innsbruck (i.e., bridge over the Inn) and decided to spend the rest of our day exploring it.  Perhaps best known for hosting the Winter Olympics in 1964 and 1976, Innsbruck was long a capital of the Hapsburg Empire, which left a rich architectural legacy.   

The old city is wonderfully picturesque, especially framed as it is by stunning mountains on all sides.  After securing a room in a comfy little pensione in the hills above town (thank you, Lonely Planet!), we spent the rest of the day exploring the old city, with well-spaced stops for coffee and Küchen, wine, and dinner.   

The following day we returned to Switzerland by following the Inn valley southwest; in Switzerland the river is known as the En, and forms the center of the Engadine region of Graubünden.

Since our arrival in Switzerland, many people have used the term Gemütlichkeit in reference to Austria.  Most simply defined as coziness, the term also carries connotations of a cheerful, relaxed, friendly approach to life, which is supposed to be especially characteristic of Austrians.  It carries an implicit contrast with the Swiss, who are supposedly more uptight and unfriendly.  I have to say that I have found Swiss people as friendly as most.  On the streets and in stores, strangers exchange a warm Greützi upon meeting, and everyone bids each other Schönes Tag or something similar when leaving.  On the other hand, strangers aren’t in the habit of making conversation on trains or in waiting rooms, which is fine with me.  Even so, I was curious to see this Gemütlichkeit in action.  

Our first visit was too short to make a definite impression, though our hosts were most agreeable.  Our second trip in early December was longer; we headed to Ischgl, along with San Anton noted as the top ski towns in Austria.  We read that they generally get snow earlier than in Switzerland and hoped to turn the Immaculate Conception holiday into a three-day ski vacation to launch the season.  We booked a room in a hotel a few miles outside town, along with the “half-board” rate that includes breakfast and dinner.  As December dawned we began to worry about a lack of snow, but right in time the week before our arrival saw the first heavy snows of the winter.

Our hotel, the Tannenhof, had just opened after almost complete rebuilding and managed to be both modern and comfortable.  Our first dinner in the dining room reserved for hotel guests was most pleasant.  Our waitress, wearing the traditional dirndl-style dress that is far more common in Austria than Switzerland, was both charming and efficient.   Whatever our preferences – sparkling water with dinner, decaf coffee with desert – she remembered from one evening to the next and brought them automatically.  The second evening happened to be The Spouse’s birthday.  We’d been asked to fill out cards upon registration with information including our passport numbers and birthdates, and after we seated ourselves in the restaurant our waitress brought us each a glass of Proseco and wished him Happy Birthday.  So far, top marks on the Gemütlichkeit front.

We were blessed with three days of good weather and great conditions for skiing, especially considering that it was the beginning of the season.  I found some pistes that weren’t too difficult for me to get my ski technique back in shape but offered some challenges, while The Spouse found much more interesting terrain on distant runs, despite the lack of sufficient snow for much off-piste skiing. 

At the end of each ski day, we sampled some of the après ski scene for which both Ischgl and San Anton are famous.  Now, both TS and I took up skiing relatively late in life; at the end of a long day of skiing we are usually more interested in soaking our aching muscles than in hitting the town.  But we were curious about the scene in Ischgl, so each evening we stopped somewhere for one beer before heading back to the hotel.  Our favorite was the “Kuhstall,” a barnlike bar with lots of rough wood and DJ-driven music that somehow combined Tyrolean umpah instruments and a relentless techno beat.  As we sipped our beers the room filled up with mostly-young skiers and the energy level rose higher and higher.  A few decades earlier I might have been tempted to stay and see how wild it would get, but not now.

Après ski at the top of the Gondola at Ischgl

On Saturday afternoon, TS skied on some of the more far-flung trails reachable only by experts. At the end of the day we met as usual at the top of the gondola that would take us back to the valley.  When he saw me, he said, “Did you hear that?”  I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about.  He explained that as he rode the skilift on his way back he passed over one of the numerous restaurants that dot even the most distant points of Alpine ski areas.  At 3 o’clock the place had already been hopping, with some three hundred skiers standing on the snow outside with their beer, schnaps and whatever, singing and dancing to the DJ’s beat.  The sounds, while not necessarily musical, had reverberated off the mountain walls.  The fact that the partiers would eventually have to tackle some pretty steep runs to get off the mountain didn’t seem to faze them.  Ah, to be so young!

 










At the end of December we returned once more.  We had managed to reserve rooms for ourselves and for Handsome Son, who would be joining us briefly for Christmas, at the Altes Thönihaus in San Anton.  It turned out to be just as charming and comfortable on the inside as it was traditional on the outside, and our hostess was the essence of Gemütlichkeit.  Moreover, the region had been covered by a thick blanket of snow in the preceding week, promising perfect conditions for powder hounds like TS and HS.

View at coffee break, Day 1

Although it blizzarded the middle of the three days, we had a fantastic ski holiday.  The après ski was quiet, largely because the town was filled with families over Christmas, but we had the feeling that things would soon begin to heat up during the following week.  Instead, we enjoyed a gourmet Christmas Eve dinner at the Museum Restaurant, which is housed in a mansion-sized chalet above town that also holds the Ski Museum.  Our table was set in what must once have been the ladies’ drawing room, just off a great room with a large fireplace.  With snow falling outside and a roaring fire behind us, it made a perfectly festive Christmas Eve for our family.

View of San Anton, Day 3

So, our first experiences in Austria have shown it to be a beautiful, welcoming place.  I’m still not sure exactly how it differs from Switzerland, but we will undoubtedly be going back to try to find out.