Apple strudel was on my mind as I walked the almost-empty streets in search of a convenience store. The local one was closed, being Sonntag here in Innsbruck, and everywhere else in this time zone I guess.

Innsbruck is nestled among mountains. Some places are perched, others are adjacent, clinging, or sprawled, but Innsbruck is just nestled.

The last time I saw it was just over thirty years ago. I arrived in darkness and left at dawn - having only the time it took to traipse between our campervan and the ablutions block - to wonder in awe at the surrounding peaks. But we were on a tight schedule, and had to say auf weidersehen before the sun had had time to do more than caress the mountains' tips.

Now I am here for a week, and fully intend to absorb the place, along with an apple strudel. Which I found at a charming little coffee house, run by the politest man on Earth. He sprechen sied Englisch extremely well, gracefully indicated the two strudel options - one with marzipan, no thanks - and then offered a choice of a little box or a simple paper bag.

He reminded me of Rowan Atkinson playing the department store assistant in 'Love Actually', procrastinatingly wrapping Alan Rickman's jewellery present for his office flirt.

Having chosen the paper bag and waved away the offer of a massage (spot the fake news) I paid for the strudel and was proffered the change with all the performance of a magician returning my spirited-away watch. I was instructed to have a good day and was thanked for my custom. I only just avoided clicking my heels as I bade Herr Nicemann farewell. Maybe he clicked his.

Walking back along the riverside, I pondered the name, Innsbruck. It means the bridge over the river Inn. The cold winter water flowed gently past, not yet swollen by snow-melt, and I thought you'd have to be mad to go in the Inn at this time of the year. I would certainly be staying out of the Inn.

That said, due to the location of the town in the middle of the continent, summer temperatures can reach almost to the mid-30s, so I imagine a few people do go in the Inn at that time of year.

Later in the morning I checked my app to see what other supermarket options there might be, but only one store appeared to be open, so I set off in the hope of finding some basic provisions. Of course, what the app and Google Maps don't tell you is whether a street is a hill or not, but this being an alpine region, with the road I was on heading for the mountains, I should have guessed.

I puffed my way up and around the Botanical Gardens, and - wearing a borrowed oxygen kit - finally reached my destination. Which was of course closed. I couldn't even buy an orange. In a word, my journey had been fruitless.

On the way back down I saw the rescue helicopter land on the roof of the hospital at least twice, probably taking the famished and malnourished for treatment.

I got back and explained to Catherine that Austria is closed on Sundays, but that we should go into the town centre where we should at least be able to find a cafe. By now Herr Niceman's strudels had worn off.

We set out, crossed the Inn, and before too long came across a trendy cafe called Machete, which enticed us in with a menu of burritos and tacos. And beer and wine, let's be honest.

The daughter ordered tacos, which were suitable dainty, but when my burrito arrived it was of Teutonic engineering proportions. I'd have taken a photo but couldn't find a handy Volkswagen for size comparison.

Leaving Catherine to a second beer, I went In search of a mini-market or similar, for milk and a couple of other essentials. Well, beer and wine, let's not skirt the issue.

You know you're in a winter sports venue when every second store is a ski/snowboard or outdoor clothing and equipment shop. All closed of course, but you get the picture.

I found a small Spar open in one of the main pedestrian areas and ventured in, along with the rest of Innsbruck - the ones who hadn't yet been airlifted to hospital - and jostled my way around the store in the same way dodgem cars go round the track at a fairground.

At one point I came round a corner and collided with a local hausfrau who's said, 'jellybum,' and carried on. 'Err, mmm...' I replied. Thing is, in England I know to say 'sorry,' in France 'pardon,' and in Italy 'scusi,' but I haven't any idea how to apologise in German. Apparently jellybum is what you say. I'm sure that's what I heard.

Anyway, with my bagful of essential supplies and a tummy full of burrito I made my way back to the apartment, glad to have seen a bit more of Innsbruck - even if closed - and delighted to have learned some German.

No if you'll just jellybum, I must go and loosen my lederhosen.