AFTER the travelling ordeal of the first two days in Austria, it was time to welcome them to my patch yesterday.

With the lads and staff on day off, quite a few of them ventured down into Graz for a spot of golf, some go-karting or a bit of shopping.

I agreed to meet up with the press team and go for a bite to eat, the only problem being, none of us knew a decent rendezvous point.

On my first night I crossed a beautiful little bridge, which like the one in Paris had lots of padlocks decorating the sides. I suggested we head there. Little did I know there are eight bridges crossing the River Mur, so the chances of Dan Houlker and Co finding the correct one first time were minimal.

For about 15 minutes we exchanges phone calls thus.

“I’m in Srangergasserplatz, where are you?”

“Don’t know. I’m in Ludicrousstrasser, do you know where that is?”

Then we cracked it. Way in the distance I spotted Dan in the middle of a bridge and – reminiscent of the scene of a cheesy rom-com – our eyes met.

Crisis averted, we set about finding somewhere for a bit of grub. We did, eventually, but it proved more difficult for Dan to find a table he was happy to use. Too windy, too small, too circular, it was like dining with Goldilocks.

Fair play to him, though, he picked up the tab. I won’t have a word said against him now.

After leaving Dan, Craig and Paul I headed back off to start filing copy for the paper. It was only a half-mile back to the hotel but it took me three times longer to walk than it should because of an army of Austrian chuggers.

Chuggers, in case you’re not familiar with the phrase, are those god awful people who harass you in Bolton town centre in the name of charity.

I donate plenty to good causes but their aggressive sales pitch just gets my goat.

And these Austrian ones are something else. They actually leap out at you!

I was innocently walking along, contemplating how to try and embarrass Dan in my diary, and then BOOM! Some guy in yellow spandex is in my face shouting (obviously) in German.

I went into full Hugh Grant mode: “Ah, erm, golly, y’see, actually, I’m, erm, yes, well, English.”

But even that didn’t stop him. He just started chugging me in English, as if I could conceivably be convinced to sign up and donate regularly to an Austrian charity.

And once I’d got past the first one, another two appeared from nowhere. It was like Gladiators, without the foam pillow.

I miss regular chuggers. At least you can tell them where to go.