Autumn above the City: Normafa

There’s a certain pattern to autumning in Budapest if you’re into catching the best lights and colours as they spread slowly over the city. Phase one, occurring as September turns into October is mostly a lull, when nothing seems to be happening, the temperature decreases but the trees seem adamant to keep their zesty summer shades.  But then suddenly yellow creeps on them as October progresses and there comes the next stage, late in the month and somewhat flowing over into November when all is aflame with the most varied hues of gold, rust and crimson. Then the end comes just as suddenly- at one point in November you just realize that everything is barren, it’s foggy and cold and you might have wandered into a very moody Gothic novel.

The bit in the middle is obviously the most exciting but also the most demanding- by the grace of the powers that be you need to have some sunny days, ideally during the weekend, so you can explore the city’s tree-proner areas. On the first such weekend this year we decided to venture on perhaps the most classic Budapest urban trek: Normafa.

Normafa is close enough to be vanquished with minimal effort, yet the trip can be peppered with various small pleasures: the cog-wheel train (though beware of old and partially deaf gentlemen loudly discussing their ailments, dead acquaintances and, naturally, romantic conquests), the children’s railway, the famous Normafa rétes, the Erzsébet lookout (which is technically on Jánoshegy already, but you can reach it by leisurely walking through the forest) and the chairlift (also at Jánoshegy, but see above.)

Having been there plenty of times it’s perhaps odd that I never really gave the name a thought- Normafa was always Normafa, because, well, I had no idea, but it looked like the most Normafa-est place on earth and that was good enough for me. This Winnie-the-Pooh-ish peace with the world was brutally interrupted by my almost falling over a wooden sign which, as it turned out, had been erected to commemorate the original Normafa, an impressive beech tree which had once towered over the area before being struck by lightning on June 19, 1927.

This was indeed a rather operatic exit for a tree which was rumoured to once have given shade to King Matthias himself, and somehow suitable, since it got its name from a soprano bursting into an aria from Bellini’s Norma under its shade. You might think it oddly fortuitous that a soprano would just happen to be there and even feel inclined to sing, but the place was a beloved hang out of National Theatre’s actors and Rozalia Klein had just received a gift from her enamoured public, hence the delighted outburst.

I then thought of what could make me attack an aria from Norma and I realized absolutely nothing at all ever in the history of time, but then I thought Liverpool winning the title would perhaps inspire me to offer my own rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone, and that’s not going to be good for anyone. In case people reading this might jump to the conclusion that it’s best if Liverpool don’t win the title, you are much mistaken, I will just promise that should the title be won, I will retreat to Normafa and merrily keep very very very quiet- most likely only until a very very very small and very very very angry dog in a ridiculous coat will decide biting my ankle is just the thing to do on a lovely Normafa day. 

Fog Moves in Mysterious Ways

I like to take proverbs (and mostly anything) with a pinch of salt, but it's dawned on me recently that I quite agree with the Romanian one stating that you know a good day by its morning. Which in my case, in utter conflict with everything my younger self believed in, is an early morning. Possibly a disgracefully early one, which in winter involves freezing on pitch dark streets and then warming your numb limbs in the empty office to the pleasant hum of the dispenser warming the first tea water of the day.

I had planned this morning to be the same, but, as every so often, fate mercilessly intervened, setting my whole day on an awkward trajectory that culminated with an hour long wait to reach a stammering call center assistant, or, pardon my rudeness, service professional, who most likely judged me by the stupidity of the issue with which I was ruining his day. (Infernally stupid would be a mild way to put it, so I valiantly accept his assumption.)

Before I ramble into further nonsense, let me return to the reason of this veering off orbit: as I peacefully approached Andrássy avenue, I noticed something odd. I couldn't see a damn thing, although, according to my wise weather app, the sun should have risen. Well of course, fog again! I had waited for this fog, on other days, days for which I had no grand designs, besides shooting the fog. And were they splendid days- of unfiltered, uninterrupted, undisturbed sunshine. And no fog. But now it was all around me, thick like insolent candy cotton. So I decided to go wherever it would call me. 

Island in the Fog

One of the most exciting things about going to Óbudai island when it is not ’THE’ island is stop in your tracks, intently stare down some bushes and ferns, and over-excitedly go ’oh, this is the Colosseum!’. You might even shriek a little to accompany your discovery, thus scaring stiff the occasional random dog or squirrel roaming about with no care in the world. (Before your appearance, that is.)

This Saturday the excitement was doubled, as the fog was so thick, that a) you saw no shrubs and trees until you nearly bumped into them and b) any shrub/tree could have been any venue after a while. The contrast between the festival ready main stage area and it’s ’everyday” counterpart reached tantalizing heights, with everything being pretty much one continuous mass of milky white mist. With a dog in it, most likely, a dog you could not see, only hear the pitter-patter of its tiny paws bringing the possibility of an invisible drool assault ever closer.

As a result of this we wandered off to the beach in something of a daze- Alice in Wonderland feeling reloaded, with the end result being an arrival to what could have very well been the surface of Mars when it still had water.The Danube is so low these days you can wade in to what in more plentiful days is almost the middle of the river, and listen to the ghastly calls of crows and seagulls (yes, I am being over-polite here, their noises sounded decidedly more sinister than a call) and get slightly surprised when a tugboat dignifiedly emerges from the fog. For some reason this actually felt like a perfect setting for a Jamie XX song, so here, a first name on my wishlist for next summer. 

Given this special foggy day, and the accomplishment of having made it to the island at what is a horrifically early hour even on a weekday, but more particularly so on a Saturday, we took a truckload of shots, almost as if we'd been out on normal Sziget duty. Come to think of it, we might never have been on the island quite at this impossible hour- yes, we are of the weak minded sort who go home to have a relaxing night's sleep away from the madness. There's that one time though when our friend was disassembling his Mazda in the parking lot after a Manu Chao concert, and that might have been at dawn. But more of that in a 'what happens on Sziget most definitely does not stay on Sziget' post, let's stick to some intensive visual coverage of the island in the fog.