Every December, I visit the lakeside hamlets of the Salzkammergut in Styria. They celebrate Christmas in that part of Austria with a spirit that Anthony Hope would have recognised. A giant Advent candle is floated on the waters of Lake Wolfgang, the largest lake in the area; its progress back and forth interrupted only by swans. During the crisp days there are concerts in the square where Mozart used to play as a child, and the Konditorei serves vanilla Kipferl and Linzer torte.
The scenery is like a train speeding backward into another time. Local women look sepia-tinted in fur-trimmed capes worn over woollen dirndls handed down by their grandmothers. Men drive clickety-clack horse-drawn carts, and wear felt hats ornamented with the brush of wild deer. In the evenings, the younger villagers dare each other to plunge into the icy water, hollering with cold, before finding solace in plates of blutwurst and fried potatoes.
