Precerpt from In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life - Austria: Die Alpen
Die Alpen
Johanna worked in Telfs, a mountain town 25 kilometers west
of Innsbruck, nestled in the Tyrolean Alps on the Inn River. She taug ht German
at the Bundesgymnasium (secondary school). That school made Telfs unusual compared
to the smaller villages nearby, which only have primary or middle schools and
send their older students into Innsbruck. Telfs was well connected by bus and
train — daily commuting to Innsbruck was easy. Johanna would leave early,
before I got up each morning, leaving Franz and me to put breakfast together
for ourselves and giving me time to get to know Franza (and improve—and sometimes
challenge—my German). She would return at 2:00, Austrian lunch time, and we
would go into Altstadt for lunch. Franz, who left after breakfast to teach
music classes at the university, would join us. My lectures were in the
afternoon, so lunch was always a pleasant interlude, another piece of the
easy-to-live Austrian lifestyle.
One day school had vacation, and Johanna suggested we take
the train to Telfs so she could show me the enchanting little town where she
worked. The ride itself was barely twenty minutes, just long enough for the Inn
Valley to widen and the mountains to shift into new, sharper angles. Then the
train slowed, and suddenly we were stepping out into a place that felt both
modest and quietly proud—larger than a hamlet, yes, but still with the intimacy
of one.
Telfs sat tucked beneath the broad shoulders of the Hohe
Munde, a mountain so close it seemed to lean protectively over the town. The
air had that crisp Tyrolean clarity, the kind that makes colors look freshly
washed: red geraniums in window boxes, pale church towers, the soft greens of
meadows edging right up to the streets.
Johanna led me through the center, where the buildings had
that unmistakable Alpine sturdiness—thick walls, painted shutters, and the
faint scent of woodsmoke lingering even outside winter. She pointed out the
parish church with its twin steeples, a landmark visible from nearly anywhere
in town. We passed the Noaflhaus, an old building with carved details that
hinted at centuries of local stories, festivals, and the Carnival traditions
Telfs is famous for.
What struck me most was the way the town opened outward.
Every few blocks, a lane or footpath seemed to slip away toward the hills,
inviting you into forests, chapels, and mountain huts. Telfs was threaded with
hiking trails—some gentle, some ambitious—and even from the center you could
see the switchbacks climbing toward the Mieming Range. In winter, the same
slopes transformed into ski routes and cross‑country tracks, and Johanna told
me that on clear days you could hear the distant scrape of skis from the higher
meadows.
Despite being one of the larger communities in Tyrol today,
Telfs still felt like a place where people knew one another. Children darted
across the square with that mountain‑town confidence, and older men
lingered outside cafés, greeting passersby with nods that
suggested long familiarity. It had the rhythm of a working town—shops, bakeries, a climbing hall, even a textile history still
visible in old industrial buildings—but wrapped in
the charm of traditional Tyrolean culture: painted facades, local dialects, and
a sense of rootedness that felt centuries deep. For me, arriving there with
Johanna felt like being given a glimpse into her everyday world—a place both
ordinary and quietly magical, where the mountains were never just scenery but
companions.
I would get to meet these magical mountains even more fully
when I left Innsbruch. Rather than flying out—there was indeed an airport there—I
took the train from there to my next teaching gig, which was in Garmisch. One
of the best decisions I have made. The trip was exciting as the train hugged the
side of the mountains (looking down not being for the acrophobic), yet at the
same time, relaxing and charming.
The train left
Innsbruck quietly, slipping out of the Inn Valley, following a seam in the
mountains. Within minutes the city faded behind me, replaced by steep forested
slopes and the pale green ribbon of the river below. The track began to climb
almost immediately — not dramatically, but steadily, as if taking a long breath
before entering the high country.
As the train spiraled
upward, the world opened in stages. First came the orchards and scattered
farmhouses on the lower slopes, then the deep fir forests that closed in around
the windows. Tunnels appeared without warning, then short bursts of darkness gave
way to sudden, startling views: a cliff face so close you could touch it, a
valley dropping away in a sweep of meadows and slate‑roofed villages, and conifers
nearly within touch.
By the time the
train reached Seefeld, we popped out onto on a broad alpine plateau now—high,
bright, and unexpectedly level—with wide meadows and distant peaks that look
almost theatrical in their symmetry. The air felt different here, even through
the glass: thinner, cleaner, edged with cold even in summer.
After Seefeld the
line tilted downward, threading into the Karwendel range, one of the most
dramatic sections of the route. The mountains crowded close, their limestone
faces rising in sheer, pale walls. The train curved along the side of a gorge,
crossed a high viaduct, and then slipped into Mittenwald, a painted Bavarian
village that looks like it was arranged for a postcard.
by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
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For more posts by and about Betty Lou Leaver, click HERE.
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