WRITING the first diary piece from a tour is always difficult because the only experience you have in that given country is usually the journey from their airport to your hotel.

That being the case, I hope Austria gets a little simpler to negotiate in the next 24 hours – or you might need to send out a search party!

After my connection in Munich Airport was tackled with the skill of a seasoned traveller, I made a right bratwurst out of myself in Graz by walking straight off the plane, through a door and ending up back outside.

I’ve never experienced an airport so relaxed. No customs, no need to flash your passport, a baggage carousel so small I completely missed it.

Tail between my legs, I had to beg two policemen to let me back through the one-way doors and fetch my suitcase.

Next up was the train station. Here my task to get into the city centre was made tougher by the most complex ticketing system I’ve ever seen in my life. It has something to do with zones, like the Crystal Maze, but instead of Richard O’Brien I was being harassed by an Italian fella who was having just as much difficulty as me deciphering which ticket to buy.

Thankfully, an Austrian angel arrived just in time.

Back on the second flight I was sat next to a young lady who was really frightened of flying.

Me, being the perfect gentleman, struck up a conversation. Her English was as bad as my German, so it basically revolved around me naming Austrian footballers and her nodding in agreement.

“Emanuel Pogatetz!” said I, struggling desperately to think of a second. She smiled a smile of recognition. “Erm, Toni Polster?” Not so much recognition this time. We’d just gone over a bump and she was grabbing the armrests like she was being electrocuted.

Once again, being the seasoned traveller, I reached for my bag. Mint imperials, I thought, they’ll cheer anyone up.

Perhaps it was the sugar rush but she calmed down from there and I found out her name was Anna, she is studying some type of socialism, and she is visiting her boyfriend.

Wouldn’t you know, just as me and the Italian bloke were about to come to blows at the station ticket machine, she turned up, pressed a few buttons and now I am typing this from the (relative) comfort of my hotel room.

Unfortunately, I didn’t take much notice. Tomorrow morning I have to hike up to Wanderers’ open training session in Palau.

If this proves my last instalment – tell my wife and kids I love them.