Today is one of those days. Since the sun is out and the sky clear and blue, I spent the few minutes I could spare for lunch at Finsbury Circus. Although quite small compared to other notable public parks in London (though certainly not the smallest patch of circus greenery in town), it is a very orderly and calming oasis in the middle of the frantic, tight, and twisted streets and alleyways of the City — and also claims the distinction of being one of the oldest public parks in London, dating to 1606. Surrounded by old buildings (e.g. Salisbury House, also hailing from the seventeenth century), the park consists of a bowling green with an adjacent bandstand and small bar, some grass around the edges for sitting, all encircled about by a ring of mature trees offering shade on bright days and shelter from the bustle of the city.

A quick Google search reveals that the old buildings encircling this city oasis are inhabited to a large extent by Japanese banking institutions, which is a curious discovery since I have come to know that if you want to hear German being spoken in London, you need to head to Finsbury Circus at lunchtime.

I have been holidaying on the same stretch of the Welsh coast for 32 years. The brimming pleasure of first catching a glimpse of the Irish Sea after a long drive west has changed little since those days packed in the back of dad’s car. Now my kids explore the same coves and chase the same waves. We have a list of favourite beaches, all with their own family names; this one is “Stones Beach.” We even remember the rocks and pools — “Naked Pool” evokes a particularly happy geo-memory. “Stones Beach” is actually called “The Point” and lies next to Little Haven in Pembrokeshire. It wasn’t swimming weather — although we have been known to brave winter seas, as nature intended swimming to be done even* — but we clambered over rocks, skimmed stones, and burned driftwood with sweet abandon.

*Think the cover of Nevermind.

I’m speaking of the lame excuse that because there’s a global slowdown, Britain’s current economic wobbles cannot be blamed on the government. This is true to an extent, but the implication of this bit of spin would also damn the government if we stopped to think about it for a moment.

Gordon Brown is constantly trumpeted as the chancellor who brilliantly brought an economic boom to Britain from 1997-2007. And yet, if the economy is so dependent on factors outside of domestic control, and if Gordon cannot be blamed for the current downturn, then there’s no reason to praise him for the good times. Gordon Brown is a cork bobbing on the sea. There are worse things to be, but bleh.

Amongst other curiosities I must tell you of an excavation in a conical hill named Cerrig Twyi which I visited in Caermarthenshire. The hill is five or six hundred feet high and beneath its gigantic form rushes the river Towy with impetuous fury. The excavation alluded to is called Thomas’s Cave and is supposed to have been the residence of Tym Sion Catti a noted robber who afterwards married the heiress of Ystad Fin.

The cave of this Tym Sion Catti fellow — the “Welsh Robin Hood” — was visited by my father when he was a lad. Almost sixty years later, and in memory of my late grandfather, dad and I decided to find the cave again.

Dad by the Towy. The hill is to the left with the “cave” (really the space created by a collapsed rock) hidden in the trees.

Inside the cave. Much of the carved graffiti dates to the 19th century.

The landscape of this part of mid-Wales: hills, remote churches, and sheep, lots of sheep.

Welsh is not a gimmick around here. For many, it’s their native and preferred tongue. For some reason many of the people buried in the cemetery carried the name “Theophilus.”

Last night the Austrian minister of the interior, the mayor of Amstetten, the district commissioner, police representatives and other experts gathered in the ORF show “Im Zentrum” to discuss (well, actually, the minister had been invited to discuss the police shootings of three unarmed Romanians, but developing events necessitated a change of subject) the crime and answer questions like “How could something like this** go undetected for 24 years?”

The response was predictable with the authorities admitting in the face of such an elaborate scheme they were essentially helpless–”Who could imagine that the biological mother was locked in the basement?” “Such a crime is simply unimaginable.” “The culprit created the perfect ruse; his hiding place was perfectly disguised.”

Admittedly the father did coerce handwritten letters from his daughter to cover the odd events surrounding her own disappearance (as well as the appearance of three of her children on his doorstep in the ensuing years)–another tactic the police had never considered before–but was it really the perfect crime?

In a country that requires its citizens and visitors to report address changes to the police within three days of moving, keeps track of who pays TV tax (and visits those who don’t) and generally plays an active role in maintaining law and order, it is hard to believe that a bureaucratic failure of imagination is solely at fault. In fact, I suspect that Austrian susceptibility to their pet biases vis-a-vis non-mainstream religion kept the police and other authorities from even stretching their imaginations (or even conducting a more than perfunctory investigation) in the first place. As the AFP reports:

A letter was sent to her parents asking that they stop searching for her and local authorities concluded she had been seized by a religious sect.

Austrians tend to be very suspicious of religious cults but at the same time apparently quite gullible as long as their suspicions are confirmed. When the family told their neighbors and authorities that the three adopted children had no mother because she had fallen in with a sect, the response seemed to be: “Well, makes sense to me. I guess we can put this one in the cold case.”

I suppose that as long as citizens place some political value on privacy, there will be limits on the state’s ability to take any and all actions that might have been necessary to solve this case earlier. Still, I can’t help but be a little dismayed that the purported letter calling off the search wasn’t met with more scepticism and an increased resolve to get to the bottom of the missing person case. Being spirited off by a sect is a possibility that should be investigated, but not accepted as a plausible explanation for two and a half decades of absence. Clearly the danger is often closer to home.

*The first being Natascha Kampusch in August 2006.

**In a nutshell, father locks up then-18-year-old daughter in basement in 1984, reports her missing, impregnates her around six times, keeps three of the resulting children in the basement and adopts the other three, claiming they had been left on the doorstep by the missing daughter. When the oldest child in the basement comes down with serious illness, a trip to the hospital uncovers the mess.

Somewhere north-west of Builth Wells:

We dumped the car outside of this remote Calvinist chapel (Soar y Mynedd):

Dad couldn’t resist stoking his inner Welsh preacher:

After a night harassed by sheep, we awoke to cold, driving rain:

My boys carried their own gear and only grumbled once their feet got wet:

We spent the second night by the coal fire of Tyncornel youth hostel …

… and awoke to snow:

Pics after the jump.

So what’s the deal? Are waves of neon hat-wearing youth sweeping across your city, or is it a Viennese fad only?

While most travelers will no doubt opt for English as their vehicular language of choice, the Austrian subsidiary of German soap and glue giant Henkel KGaA has rolled up its sleeves in the interests of Völkerverständigung and produced a mulitlingual Fan Guide for those who want to immerse themselves in the Viennese idiom (which is too bad if you have tickets for France vs. Italy in Letzigrund Stadion ’cause there’s no Swiss German guide, yet).

Here you will find useful phrases to avoid “Vaständigungsschwiarigkeitn” (Verständigungsschwierigkeiten/Communication Problems) like “Dånn såg’s hoit åuf Piefkinesisch!” (Dann sag es eben auf Hochdeutsch!/Then I’ll say it again in standard German!) or “Då! Bist schasaugert?” (Da! Siehst du schlecht?/Are you blind?).

Vienna has a lot of sights, so getting around is also important: “Is des a Hatschara bis zum Museumsquatia?” (Ist es ein langer Fußmarsch bis zum Museumsquartier?/Is it a long walk from here to the Museumsquartier?).

It’s also world famous for its desserts–”I bin a echta Möspeis-Tiger. Wås håm’S n ois?” (Ich bin ein echter Süßspeisen-Fan. Was können Sie denn alles anbieten?/I really like pastries, what do you have on offer?)–and coffee: “Bringan’S ma a Melånsch/an Franziskaner” (Bringen Sie mir bitte einen Kaffee mit Milchschaum/Schlagsahne/I’d like a coffee with frothy milk/cream).

During a game you might hear “Schåu, da Schiri und die Outwachla!” (Schau mal, der Schiedsrichter und die Linienrichter!/Look at the referee and the linesmen!) and after Austria’s first match against Croatia “So a Palawatsch/Remasuri!” (So ein Missgeschick/Durcheinander!//What a blunder/mess!).

There’s more, so be sure to check out the guide and pay a visit to Wien this summer! Oiso dånn, servas!