God, this is late. Very late. The holiday ended more than two months ago and I still have finished writing about it. My life is just too interesting.
73 euros. That's what we paid for two single rooms, dinner and breakfast. The robbing bastards. We're just waiting for the train to Marktredwitz. Then one more change and on to Bayreuth. Mike's still excited about yesterday. We drank in three butchers and had real Zoigl. For him, it doesn't get much better.
Anspitzer. That's the German word for pencil-sharpener. Mike spotted one in the post office opposite Markredwitz station. Hence the nice clean lines of these words [in my original notes]. (I've been making do with peeling back the wood with my fingernails.) Still next to impossible to read, due to my shit handwriting, but at least the strokes are nice and sharp.
First beer of the day, excluding that Mönchshof Bock on the train. This is more like a proper town. People, pubs. As we were checking in, I realised that where we're staying, a dependence of Goldener Löwe, is in the little pub guide I've put together for the trip. A restaurant called Spiegelmühle. It clearly isn't operating as such any more. It's also in my Bayreuth pub guide on the web. More bloody editing to do when I get back.
Stöckel-Brau Dunkles Landbier: beery enough, for the moment.
The football will be starting soon. They have a big screen outside where we're sitting. Argentina will be playing.
"Mike, don't you think Maradonna looks a right twat in that beard?"
"Yeah, he does look sort of ridiculous."
"Darf ich Bratkartoffeln statt Pommes. That's what you should have said, Mike."
"He understood me, so what does it matter?"
"I guess I'm too much of a perfectionist."
"That's quite an impressive sausage you've got there, Mike." You can never go wrong with a sausage joke.
"I'm looking forward to my next beer, because I don't like this one very much."
"I'm always looking forward to my next beer, Mike."
It's still early in the day. More pubs, more beers to come, I hope. Perhaps even an argument or two to spice things up. Who knows.
Argentina win, despite Maradonna looking like an idiot.
Pub Life: Hit & Run - A man of indeterminate age, somewhere between 30 and 50, strides up to the bar: ‘Shit, man, have I had a rough day.’ The baby-faced, slightly sleepy barm...
5 hours ago