For me, there was no place more beautiful than the Ziller valley, a region of stark mountains, forested valleys, waterfalls and lush, flower-strewn meadows in the Austrian Tyrol.

This was my fourth trip to Mayrhofen, a walker’s paradise with a near infinite number of trails and pathways. I was comfortable here. I could speak some decent conversational German and I liked my own company.

It was my fortieth birthday. I decided to celebrate by hiking well off the beaten track on a barely discernible and slightly perilous mountain path where tourists fear to tread. I’d become friendly with the locals and one of them, Matthias, suggested this little-known route. As I left, he said to me somewhat cryptically, “Hey, Tim, watch out for the dark angel!”. I smiled and waved. Tyroleans have an odd sense of humour.

I found the path, unmarked, unsigned. It was narrow, little used, and slowly changed from loose earth to bare rock as I ascended. The vegetation became scrubbier, the coniferous trees smaller, and the ‘wanderweg’ more difficult to negotiate. But the views of the surrounding mountains and the glacial valley on my horizon left me gasping with delight. I drank my fill from the ice-cold trickle of small waterfalls on the way.

Struggling for breath, I arrived, sweating, at my destination. I reached a crest of rocks and beyond, was an astonishing sight. An upland pasture, lush with grass, fed with water from higher peaks. A tiny wooden shack lay off to the side and cows were quietly grazing, the bells around their necks gently ringing in the thin mountain air. Matthias had told me about this but it seemed strange, unearthly, unexpected. As I was soaking in the scene, I was distracted by a darting movement above. I glanced up as a small piece of falling rock struck me on the side of the head. The light of the day turned to dark…

When I came to, I found a woman’s face over me. She was in her mid-thirties, her face well tanned. Her soft brown eyes scrutinized me. Her rich dark hair cascaded over her face like a Tyrolean waterfall. She pushed it back with one hand.

“Hallo. Wie geht es dir?”

I smiled. “Dark angel. Nice to meet you.”

“Ah, English. You a long way from touristen walking, yes?”

“Yes. A long way. How does my head look?”

She brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at it. “You will be fine, English. Come. I mend you.”

My dark angel reached out and hauled me to my feet with a surprisingly strong grip. “I am Traudi. I am….er, kuhe woman here.”

“Kuhe?....ah, cows. You look after the cattle up here?”

Traudi didn’t respond. She sized me up, considered me healthy enough to walk, and just said “come.” Then she strode ahead of me at a brisk pace, I was expecting to see a local girl in full traditional garb but she was dressed in t-shirt and jeans and light walking boots. She led me to the shack with large flat rocks on its roof. It looked as if it had stood there for a century. Two or three of the pretty Alpine cows were hanging around the hut, most likely for shade. I sat down on a bench outside and one of the cows began licking the salt from my shins, the mellifluous sound of its bell thumping the grassy ground.

Traudi emerged, carrying a wet cloth and a bottle of schnapps. I looked at her in alarm.

“Jesus, you’re not going to pour that over my wound, are you?”

She laughed, a little caustically. “No, English. I not have many visitor here. We drink.”

Traudi dabbed what was little more than a graze from my head while pouring some schnapps into a couple of small dirty glasses. I took a quick gulp. It was a little course but welcome. I glanced around at the rich green pasture, about fifteen cows idly grazing.

“Where did you learn my language, Traudi?”

“In school. But I am not so good. My brother speak it very well. He uses this”, she points to her head. “And I use this”, she indicates her hands.

“So, you live here? This is what you do?”

She shrugged. “For one season. When cold weather comes, I move cows down mountain. We do this for many hundred years.”

“On your own?”

She looks around in an exaggerated manner. “You see other persons?”

“How do you feed yourself? What do you eat?”

She indicated her surroundings. “I eat grass. Like cows.”

I was dumbfounded for a moment. She laughed, tilting her head back.

“Idiot English. My mother or brother, they bring food up wanderweg. I need not much.”

I took another swig of schnapps and glanced at her for a moment. She looked quite alluring with the sunshine lighting up her face, her skin healthy from months of Alpine air and a smile which could light up the darkest of days.

“So, Traudi” I said. “Don’t you get a little lonely up here? With no-one to talk to? Bist du allein?”

She sized me up in a flash. “I talk to my cows. They are my friends up here. Away from the Deutscher and English idiots in town”. She raised her eyebrows.

I got the message.

Traudi never did ask me my name so I didn’t offer it. She spoke to me in her faltering English of her summer existence in the 2,000-metre-high mountain pastures, tending her charges, basic animal husbandry and self-sufficiency. There was no internet connection up here, nor did she care. Her main comfort was a handful of novels in the cabin, all German authors. She made no further mention of family. Traudi seemed as naturally attached to this land as the forests and rushing waters. I had no idea what she did during the snow bound winter.

I talked to her in my broken German and basic English of my own life back in Brighton as a school-teacher but her eyes kind of lost their sparkle.

After an hour, it was time for me to go. Traudi led me back to the path.

“So, English” she said, glancing upwards, “no more rocks, nicht war?”

I grinned. “No more rocks.”

Her hands were on her hips. Clearly, no hugs or light kisses.

“Bis später” I said, hopefully, though I knew I would not be seeing her later.

“Tschüss“ she replied, then turned away.

* * * * *

Later, I was supping a half litre of Zillertal bier with my friend, Matthias, and telling him of my adventure in pastures new. I thanked him for his advice on its whereabouts.

Of course, I couldn’t help mention my attraction for the striking dark angel and how I was politely rebuffed.

Matthias laughed. “Just as well. You could have been my brother-in-law. And your German is terrible!”