Written by Franz Hofer for A Tempest in a Tankard
The last autumn leaves cling to the trees, holding out against the onslaught of wind and the first snowflakes of the season. A dense fog shrouds Vienna’s church spires in mystery. Night has descended, and the last faint warmth of the day has long since faded. I cut through the park and pause at the side of a partially frozen pond where a few ducks seem to be wishing they had followed the geese south.
Spring is a long way off, I think to myself, and make for home where a warming drink of malty goodness awaits.
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