A Bodacious Bayreuth Babe

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair!” complained Princess Friederike Sophie Wilhelmine of Prussia to her parents. “I want to be Queen of England. It’s not fair! I won’t go to Bayreuth!” “Well, your mother’s to blame for that one” replied Willie’s father Frederick William 1 of Prussia. “It’s Bayreuth for you after all her tricks with the royal family, so forget England and the House of Hanover!”

For a larger than life comeback, a phoenix rising, dreams – dashed and history made saga, the bodacious babe who hit Bayreuth by storm, turned her misery into might, her fetish into fame and her hobbies into history. As a true leader of #Me Too, this ‘Power Frau’ erected and performed on her own podiums, spruiked her own talents and testimony, created a predominantly Baroque Bayreuth, shaping its current day style and rocketing her into the hitlist of top chicks of the 18^thcentury.

With hopes of the crown dashed, hitched for political persuasion in 1731 to Frederick, (I protect the boarders), Margrave of Brandenburg-Bayreuth to ‘stop the Austrian drift’, young Willie sucked up her sorrow, dried her eyes and resigned to her fate in the backwaters of Bayreuth.  Perhaps as reward for her ‘exile’, an attempt to make good, guilt-ridden generosity, or just down right brotherly love and favouritism, Willie’s brother Frederick the Great softened the blow by throwing open the coffers, sending stacks of coin to placate sister and fund princess lifestyle, enabling Willie to embark on an audacious offensive to transform the Bayreuth hood.

As big sister suffering ‘ditched queen complex’, Willie lived large by the motto, “If you can’t go to Hollywood, build Hollywood and let them come.” A self- made and endorsed composer, musician, theatre star, singer, project manager and interior designer, Willie was locked and loaded. With the additional bolstering of husband Freddie’s new- found inheritance, and love for their sweetness Elisabeth Friederike Sophie, she set to work creating the stage for the shin dig of the century – Liz’s wedding. The now internationally and UNESCO listed, epic Bayreuth Margravial Opera House, bubbling with Baroque was sculpted by the finest Italian architects and set designers of the day. A clear shout out to the international courts that Bayreuth counts!

With a heightened taste for centre stage and confidence in the limelight, this mover and shaker in the Age of Enlightenment, continued her eye opening, cultural construction crusade. Not to be outdone in the arena of gift giving, hubby Freddie bestowed upon his Bayreuth babe palaces, theatres, gardens, music rooms and more. In the breadth of her emphatic inspiration and imagination, Willie garnished these spaces with outdoor ruin theatres, grottos, and new palaces for good measure. Perhaps out of idolatry, thankfulness or sheer matrimonial competition, one of Willie’s masterstrokes, created specifically for Freddie, included the opulent Bayreuth Hermitage Temple of the Sun. Set in palatial gardens, appealing to the highest of the Greek gods Apollo, and depicting her husband’s epic granduer, Apollo sweeps the sky on his daily sojourn in a chariot across the world, filling it with light. So too Willie continued her creative spree, waving her magic over Bayreuth whilst driving a dangerously diminishing bank balance.

Blazing a spectacular path across the town and along its boarders, Willie left no stone unturned and no opportunity untouched. In harmony with her repertoire of creations, ensemble of ingenious pieces, architectural arias and the renaming of rock gardens beneath the Zwernitz castle to the French ‘Sanspareil’, there would be absolutely no mistake that this splash of fame, this Bayreuth blitz, this bodacious babe from Bayreuth ‘C’est sans pareil!’

ARE YOU KID-DING?

“Because the teachers hate me.” Is the sweaty response from the continuously complaining 14 year old as to why he was in the most difficult hiking group on the school camp. “That way they don’t have me hanging around base camp for three days.” His athletic, teen build and energetic aura hinted at the more likely reason he’d been selected to pound the three day trail from Tidal River, to Waterloo Bay and on to Sealers Cove.

Radiating heat from rugged granitic rock faces smothers conversation as the group of heavily laden Year 8 students trek the path towards Little Oberon Bay. Seeking solace under sheoaks, embracing hints of cool ocean breeze, adjusting and readjusting packs in search of the sweet spot; oversized shoes generate demand for Elastoplast repairs to blistering feet as a steady rhythm develops, fate is accepted, complaints lessen, and grabs into scroggin filled zip lock bags increase.

In a trend soon to be solidified teens become toddlers at the sight of sand, waves and steep boulders. Agility training apparently already required after 4 kilometres, packs are shed, shoes tossed aside, and boulders scaled. Warnings to keep feet dry go unheeded as sand settling in socks create hotspots heading for a fortunately dry Growlers Creek crossing into Oberon Bay.

Along the sun-drenched track to Telegraph Junction black dust clutches perspiring legs and coastal breezes fade. A discontented murmuring amongst students confirms the disconnect between the kilometres to be covered on day one in the camp brochure and distance already covered. The ‘Are we there yets?’ increase as the additional 5 kilometres are added to the day’s agenda. Questions and complaints are unlikely to have been less with Telegraph Saddle as the Trailhead. The hope of a ‘swim’ at Waterloo Bay, keeps eyes peeled on the horizon and determination in strides.

After 15.7 kilometres, tea tree and messmates give yield to the white siliceous sands and the incandescent blue of Waterloo Bay. The outgoing tide seemingly extracting self – doubt and uncertainty, the salt air filling with the prospect of success, capability and confidence. Receding waves lap up vestiges of the ‘impossible’, invigorating the group’s last 1.5 kilometres to the campground as hats, food and clothing are rescued from the inlet crossing scrambling up to Little Waterloo Bay Track.

Excitement builds as tent poles poke and bend finding their correct order and angle, sleeping mats inflate for hopefully the required duration, and pack contents are strewn through sleeping quarters. “Remember no food in tents. Who needs wombats when you have each other!” The initial aversion to hiking and physical exertion dissipates in the steam of boiling noodle packets, apple crumble deserts and hot chocolates. Torchlight hides the reality of the drop toilet experience and lurking native animals hustle tired bodies into bed. As laughter roars and warnings for silence fly, who was it that didn’t want to hike?

Alarms ring early, in anticipation of severe afternoon storms. A speedy pace is set through an ever-inclining understory rich in lichen, moss and blue wrens, with a towering canopy of all things eucalyptus overhead. Shortly before Kersops Peak, pangs for morning tea are aroused by the all – pervading honey scent of the Kunzea Ambigua, strong enough to fool a bear. The view from Kersops Peak temporarily suspends all other form of teen conversation. Xbox has finally met its match in the spectacular vistas spanning the secluded Refuge Cove, misty mountain coverings and the huge expanse of the Tasman Sea.

Teenage egos jostling for position slowly meld into team as ‘can’t’ metamorphosizes into ‘can’. Passing through the once thriving whaling station of Refuge Cove and on to Sealers Cove, the site of a mid 1800’s timber mill sets the backdrop for the evening. Spared from the tent tearing storms and rain ravaging Tidal River, Trangia’s prepare dinners, burning pancakes and bracken simultaneously. Tents without flies bode disaster under the Cumulonimbus heavy skies, whilst guy ropes are set, and drainage dug for the pending downpour.

The final morning brings with it lessons in tent living, leaks and leeches. A crack of dawn departure avoids disaster at Sealers Creek where the tide already runs high. Hope beams wide as a rainbow points in the direction of the treasured trail end. Trudging through the temperate rainforest, ancient fern gullies, across boardwalks and over swamps, Windy Hill marks difficulty completed as the trail traverses towards its close.

Three days leave negativity, suspicion, self – doubt and uncertainty on the track. Telegraph Saddle is reached with ruck sacks lighter and spirits fuller with determination, resilience, courage and celebration of personal triumph over challenge with a request to “Do it again right now.” Personal fortification gradually collected in an environment where the crashing of waves and whistling of birds replace relentless pings of Insta posts and Facebook messages. Where chats lasted longer than a snap and the memories of fun, achievement, and triumph will last so much longer than a Fortnight.

LEAVE IT AND TAKE IT

 

There are stories here of ancient times, deep concealed caves, underground lakes, Jurassic Dolomite outcrops, bloody battles, wayfarers, pilgrims and faith transformed. Peoples have peregrinated through the valleys of the Franken Jura, this Fränkische Schweiz for centuries. We connect with their footsteps and weave our trail in its magnificent history.

Beneath rocky limestone outcrops we leave laughter. On fortress peaks we leave awe. Along rivers windy we leave stories. In deep caverns we leave intrigue. Across rich green fields we leave gratitude.  At town squares we leave time chiming. On train platforms and at house gates we leave friendship. Beneath deeply piled leaves we leave merriment. On a forest edge we leave our final trail.

The Autumn bathed hills, vibrant multi coloured leaf showers, cool morning fogs and long afternoon shadows whisper the befitting message of farewell. It’s time to take leave. Take with you your memories, take with you your inspiration, take with you your experience manifested, take with you your plans, take with you your discoveries, take with you your tomorrow.

“As you set out for Ithaka,
Hope your road is a long one,
Full of adventure, full of discovery…..
May there be many summer mornings when,
With what pleasure, what joy,
You enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time….
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
So you’re old by the time you reach the island,
Wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
Not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
You’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.” Ithaka – C.P. Cavafy