I will never complain about parking in my garage again.

This old, former vintner's chateuax that we call home has three levels, and depending on where you are standing in the house, because of the slope of the land, you can be below grade but still look out the window and see sunshine, or be on the top floor and yet at ground level with the neighbors (which is less than desirable when I am changing clothes and the little Hungarian boys are playing in their yard, if I'm not cautious).  You'll just have to visit to understand.

In recent days we have had rapidly melting snow and high winds. Owing to the unusual topology of the house and surrounds, we experience some weather more intensely up here.  The large pine tree in our yard sways something fierce, and the winds gust up from the terrace into our bedroom like nothing I have experienced. I think these are foehn winds, somewhat like Le Mistral in Provence but not quite as romantic.

The other night, large chunks of melting snow sliding across our terra cotta tiled roof sounded just like I would imagine an invasion to sound. I was probably over exaggerating--it was the middle of the night, in my defense--but I was convinced that stone martens had sneaked in from secret corners of our wine cellar to terrorize me.

Photo courtesy of the Internet. Most thankfully this is not my car. 

Now wherever did I get this crazy idea, and, what the heck are stone martens? One of my girlfriends here in Vienna, who has but a carport and not a garage, lives along the vineyards and has experienced on our colder days the joy of starting her vehicle in the morning, only to have these weasel-like mammals scurry out from beneath the hood, where, apparently, they like to snuggle at night while fluffing up vehicle insulation with their teeth.  I was convinced the martens were slumber-partying in my wine cellar, of course.  You can imagine the conversation in our bedroom that night:

Me. What is that noise?

Tony. It's the wind.

Me. No, that noise.

Tony. It's the snow melting.

Me. No. The ramparts have been breached. Something is in the house. Go check.

Tony. And what am I supposed to do? Zzzz...

Some Eagle Scout I married.  The following day I consulted The Google and learned that martens generally do not prey on hares, and can be hunted by fox.  Having seen fox around the streams here (much to Clayton Theodore FOXhound's delight) and these hare tracks in the vineyards over our snowy spell, I am pretty sure stone martens weren't in our wine cellar the other night.  I am not taking any chances, however, wondering if these little weasels are licking their chops at the thought of some tasty Swedish vehicle insulation, and so I shimmy my car into the garage space every night whether it fits or not.