Pottenstein still

What to do on a murky afternoon in Pottenstein?  Go to the beer garden, of course.

Beer gardens are great when the sun shines and you need somewhere to cower away from its nasty stinging rays. But on days when the cloud cover barely covers the roofs, they're something really special. Days when your heart rejoices at the wonderful greyness of everything. You'll have to excuse me. I grew up in the 1960's, before colours were invented. My love for monochrome will never dim.

Surprisingly, given the cheery chill and grumpy skies, the beer garden is almost empty. Just a single couple. They look like they've run out of conversation as well as ideas of what to do next. I don't care. I dislike people almost as much as the sun. I'm happy to sit here with just me and the clouds. And maybe the odd spitty spat of rain.

Remember me mentioning the former Wagner Bräu brewery? We'll be getting back to them in a minute.

The beer garden is an open space scattered with picnic tables. Jammed between the shed where the food and drink is served and a small stream. I mean small. A few feet wide and probably not one deep. Yet there are quite a few what look like trout doing the swimming but standing still thing under a foot bridge. I discover why, when a father and young son stop on the bridge and start throwing stuff into the stream. They aren't daft, those fish. When I get myself a beer in the shed I notice they also sell fish food.

Pottensteiner Höhlentrunk is what I've ordered. There's a story behind the beer. But I'll describe it before I get into any long blurb. It's a crystal clear, pale gold, with a big head. Loads and loads of head. It took ages to pour. They've got the Co2 whacked right up again. After 10 minutes swirling it's down to a carbonation level I feel comfortable with and I can actually drink it. Not bad. Nicely hoppy, in a Franconian sort of way. Wort, pepper, tobacco and straw are words that come to mind.

When I go back to fetch a Schlehengeist (sloe schnaps) the bloke serving asks: "What are you doing with my beer?"

"Getting rid of the CO2. My stomach can't take it."

"You should get a Kellerbier. That's not as fizzy." Their other draught beer is St. Georgen Kellerbier.

Given the way he spoke of  "my beer" it seems a good chance to find out more about it. The landlord's family owned Wagner Bräu. Höhlentrunk is his grandmother's beer. When the brewery closed, they got it brewed under contract.

"Where's it brewed?" I ask.

"Buttenheim."

I think I can guess the brewery. The St. Georgen Kellerbier on tap is a bit of a giveaway.

I try a St. Georgen Kellerbier next. It's not quite as fizzy as Höhlentrunk. But still way too much for my taste. But I feel embarrassed about giving it the full swirl treatment least the landlord be looking.

Customers dribble in and out, much like the drizzle. At least it isn't hot.

I have a surprise at breakfast. The guest house is so quiet, I'd assumed there were no other guests. Couldn't be farther from the truth. As I chomp through my boiled egg and sausage, the breakfast room fills up. Not exactly with youngsters. Everyone else is at least a decade older than me. Some look older than the octogenarian serving us.

While I'm waiting to pay, I chat with the granny waitress. She's the mother of the owner. At one point she uses a dialect word and apologises, fearing I haven't understood. I mention the incomprehensible granny at the Zoigl Stube in Neuhaus.

"Oh, those people from the Oberpfalz, they have a really thick dialect. My daughter went to school in the Oberpfalz. She'd come home and say 'my class is full of foreigners, I can't understand a word they say.'"

She then went on to talk about when the Americans turned up at the end of the war. "We weren't taught foreign languages. The only English word we knew was OK." Sounds like a very dangerous answer to give a GI. Depending on your age and sex.

Eighteen euros the night costs. With breakfast. The robbing bastards*.








* They're lovely people



Bruckmayers Biergarten
Am Stadtgraben 1-3
91278 Pottenstein,
09243 924450

Pottenstein

I love German stations. And their shops. Not selling items useless for the traveller like ties or CDs. No, handy stuff: food, beer and impulse schnaps. It seems foolish not to encourage such an essential public service. I stock up on the latter two. Food I can get anywhere.

I'm heading back to Ebermannstadt* by train. Thence by bus to Pottenstein, my destination. The impulse schnapps is finished before I leave the train. The beer lasts a little longer. A Schlenkerla Märzen. Where else but Germany would you find such a good beer in a railway station kiosk?

The ride is spectacular. Grunting, groaning and occasionally freewheeling, the bus weaves along a road clinging to a wooded hill. Not so much a hill as a cliff, really. Being Bavaria and not the Andes, there are adequate safety barriers. I think. Hopefully the driver won't test them.

Through the trees' legs, I glimpse a silver streak snaking through the valley bottom. Nothing, save a few campsites and farms, interrupts the waving wheat and woods. This is a lovely part of the world. I remember why I want to retire here. After all the growing greeny gunk, Gössweinstein looks like Shanghai when I pass through. In reality, it's barely a town, despite the huge baroque church plonked in its middle.

Pottenstein is as I recall it: tiny, picturesque, glowered over by yet another castle. Looking scarily like the TV Colditz of my youth. The bus stop is virtually next door to my lodgings, Zum Unteren Schmied. Not so much a hotel as a family home. From my room I have a great view of the former Wagner Bräu brewery. A good sign.

Mager is less than 100 metres away. I drop by for lunch. It's stopped being hot. A lead-grey sky hovers over the rooftops, threatening to unleash a hail of rain at any instant. A few hesitant drops shuffle down nervously as I take a seat out the back. I don't need an umbrella to fend off the furious fire of the sun. I need it to keep my food dry. And my beer un-watered.

Sticking with tradition, I order a Dunkles. The waiter brings it and I give it a sniff. Mmmm. Bit metallic. Maybe that's just the aroma. I take a draught. No, it's there in the gob, too. Along with some pleasant liquorice and chicory notes. Not bad. Especially if you don't go hunting for the metallic taste. I huddle closer to the umbrella as the spits of rain turn to full-on flobs. I'm still wearing shorts. Not because of the heat. They're to show off my stunningly attractive legs**.

Last time in Pottenstein the other brewery, Hufeisen, was having its rest day. I'm in luck: it's open today. I hurry to the beer garden at the rear, making sure I get a seat under cover. The sky looks no friendlier than before. Guess what I order? A coffee. 'Course not. I go, as always, for a Dunkles. In comes in a stylish branded glass.

It's as murky as the swollen streams I've crossed the last few days. Bread, yeast and sherbert from the overdose of CO2 are what hit me first. Then more spicy hops. I'm going to have to find a new word to describe the taste of German hops. That must be the 20th time I've used spicy. Grassy. That's a good one. Doesn't mean exactly the same, but it's a word often used to describe hops. It'll do for now.

I notice that they also have a Bierschnaps. A home made one. I can't possibly pass that up. I order order one to keep my beer company. It looks, but doesn't taste, like whisky. Bit bland, to be honest. Does do a pretty good job of warming me up.

The fermenting room borders on the garden. Through the window I can see a thick brown scum spread over the fermenting wort. Good to see that they've stuck with open fermenters.

Being afraid of getting caught in the rain, I linger for a second beer. That's the great thing about not being in a rush: you don't have to rush. I've a whole day ahead of me in Pottenstein. I can afford to take it easy. There's not that much to do. Except to . . . . . but that's for next time.









* All roads - and railways - in the Fränkische Schweiz lead to Ebermannstadt.

* Stunning really is the right word. Everyone who's seen them so far looks stunned. Like they've been given a whack on the back of the head with a club.












Brauerei Mager
Hauptstr. 15-17,
91276 Pottenstein.
Tel: 09243 - 333
Fax: 09243 - 7586
http://mager.brauereien.bierland-oberfranken.de/


Gasthausbrauerei Hufeisen
Hauptstr. 36 - 38,
91278 Pottenstein.
Tel.: 09243 - 260
Fax: 09243 - 7429
Email: hufeisen-braeu@t-online.de
URL: http://www.hufeisen-braeu.de/


Pension Zum Unteren Schmied
Nürnberger Straße 8
91278 Pottenstein,
09243 580
http://zum-unteren-schmied.de/

Country beer

The sun's still pelting down rays when I can put off the walk to Hochstahl no longer. At least there's the occasional brow-cooling breath of breeze. Not that my brow's fevered. Just sweaty.

Finding my way doesn't stretch my direction-finding talents. Regular signposts saying "Brauereienweg" mark the way. The woods are a dark draping of green, engulfing me in cool silence. I don't tarry. Too worried about murderous pagans hiding in the bushes. Sometimes my imagination is just too damn vivid.

Past ther woods there's no respite from the relentless rays of the sun. Just as well it's not far - under 2 km in total. It would be a pleasant stroll. If it weren't boiling hot and I didn't have my luggage bumping over the gravel path behind me. Soon the the slate dome of Hochstahl's church comes into view. Not far to go now.

Brauerei Reichold, my destination and resting place for the night, is a doddle to find. It's on the village's only main road. The tables outside are already half-full with rosy-cheeked outdoor types. Florid describes my complexion better. Time to dump the bag and get knee-deep in beer. Metatphorically speaking. There's a spot in the shade with my name on it.

When a waitress drops by, I have my order all prepared: "Ein Dunkles, bitte." There's no Dark Lager in my guide. Must be a new beer. It's a pleasing shade of bovril brown. Much Like my gravy. It doesn't taste like my gravy. It's a sweetish assemblage of mint, nuts and more of the signature peppery hops of the region. I like it. I like it even more as my glass empties.

This spot is gorgeous. Only the distant sound of the firemen's brass band rehearsing over the way interrupts the gentle chirruping of birds. Except for when some prat powers past in a Porsche. Or a biker does a racing turn on the sharp bend next to the pub. I heard the leather knee guard of the last one scraping the tarmac. Keep in down will you? Can't you see someone's trying to get sozzled here? I need all my powers of concentration.

I try the Zwickl next. I've not had an unfiltered beer since, oh, yesterday evening. It's nice enough, if a tad bland. Yeast, tobacco and yet more spice are about all I get. I preferred the Dunkles. Odd it should be a new beer when several breweries in the area brew nothing else.

The toilets are a disappointment. They don't look, or smell, like they've been washed down with piss like at Kathi-Bräu. They even have dolphin videos in the urinals. That's just so wrong. The countryside is all about the smell out shit and piss. Without it, you may as well be in the city. Hang on a minute. Much of central Amsterdam smells of piss. And there's dogshit all over the street. Forget I said that.

I eat inside. Calimari, if you're interested. Time to give the pork a rest. You can have too much of a good thing. Apart from beer, of course. You can never have too much of that. Which I try to prove while the colours distort and deepen as the sun ducks down its head. Time for bed.

Brauerei Gasthof Reichold
Hochstahl 24
91347 Aufseß,
09204 271
http://www.brauerei-reichold.de

 

Beer country

Things are becoming complicated. Getting from Neuhaus an der Pegnitz to today's destination, Hochstahl, is no easy feat. It starts with a train to Pegnitz, then a bus to Ebermannstadt. Where there's a bit of a walk and a wait.

Ebemannstadt has two bus stations. One next to the station for normal people and another really just for schoolkids. Which is over the other side of town from the train station. Just as well Ebermannstadt hadn't quite hit metropolis size yet.

The walk between the two bus stations passes conveniently past a Rewe and (almost) the town's two breweries. I stayed in Sonne a few years back and, having liked the beer, it seems a good enough place to quench my thirst. Or rather would have been, as it's shut. Schwanenbräu, the other brewery may seem a good second choice. But their beer didn't impress me before and it isn't the cheeriest of pubs. I went instead next door to Resengörg.

I go for a Hetzelsdorfer Dunkles Vollbier. At amber, it's not that dark. Doesn't have the nutty goodness I go for in a Dunkles, either. But it's wet and has a cheery sprinkling of spicy German hops. It'll definitely do in the circumstances.

On the way to the kiddie bus stop, I drop by Rewe. I'm imidiately convinced of the justness of my decision. The air conditioning is turned up to twelve and it's pleasantly chilly. I stand a while by a freezer cabinet to take full advantage. I can't shelter long. I've a bus to catch. And what do you need for a bus journey? Impulse schnapps. I grab a couple of beers to wash it down.

It's not that far to the bus station, but I'm still sweating like a pig when I arrive. The assembled teenage hordes jab me some funny looks as a sidle up to a bus stop. Even funnier ones when I spend five minutes struggling with the top of my impulse schnapps. I'm sweating like a whole pig sty by the time I finally get it off.

I only have chance for a couple of soothing gulps before my bus arrives. I'm all but trampled underfoot in the charge that follows. By the time I finally squeeze my way on, all the seats are taken. I can stand. Not quite that aged and infirm yet. Not sure I can stand the heat. The bus has no airco and the only ventilation is from the skylights. That only works when the bus is in motion. And you stand in exactly the right spot. I pray for the bus to move, while standing in that spot.

My eyes are firmly fixed on the woods and fields bobbing past the window. Don't want anyone mistaking me for a paediatrician. The bus bounces around the backwood villages of the Fränkische Schweiz, the crowds of kids thinning as they jump off in Somethingdorf and Anotherberg. Most aren't more than a few dozen houses. Some are down a dead end.

When only a few kids remain, Heckenhof comes into view. Or at least the turn off for it. The bus doesn't venture into the village. Just too damn small. Two schoolkids get off with me.

The walk is neither long nor particularly difficult to navigate. I told you: this place is tiny. Barely worth the name village. Or even a Prince of Denmark. Yet I still arrive at Kathi-Bräu's beer garden with sweat running in rivers down my back. Bloody weather.

I sit in the shady garden, picking a spot likely to be untroubled by the sun's rays for the next few hours. I'm not going anywhere soon. Not after the trouble it's taken to here. What to choose?

Piece of piss. They only have one draught beer, a Dunkles. And you've probably learned by now that I'm a Dunkles sort of bloke. Kathi-Bräu's is a fetching mid brown hue, topped by a head like whipped cream. Mmm. Yes. Full of Lager Mild goodness. Some sweetness, an undertow of caramel and more of the magic dust of German hops scattered over the top. Slight hint of sourness, though, lurking like a naughty child at the back. I manage to ignore it. Just as naughty children should be ignored.

Once enough Lagery coolant has flowed over my tongue, it's time to check out my beer garden companions. They're a diverse bunch. Pensioner couples out walking or cycling. Dog walkers. Bikers (the motorbike type). Lots of bikers. Who are also surprisingly diverse, at least in terms of age, ranging from mid-twenties to mid-seventies. Why are oldies out here having fun instead of cowering in a workhouse, eking out their final days in poverty? Bloody welfare state.

The sun slides around the sky, beer slides around my mouth, lumps of pork occasionally following it. The birds do their twittering, rather that the twits into their mobile phones. All is peace, harmony and quiet. Except for the teenage boy that keeps riding past on his bike, goading next door's dog, which goes crazy every time he passes. Not a lot to do for teenagers up here, I guess. The adults doubtless dance naked and perform human sacrifices in the woods when life gets too tedious.

I think of the walk. Though the woods and across the plateau to Hochstahl. I hope no pagans are lurking.











Sonne
Hauptstrasse 29,
91320 Ebermannstadt.
Tel: 09194-767-480
Fax: 09194-767-4880
E-Mail: info@brauerei-gasthoft-sonne.de
http://www.brauerei-gasthof-sonne.de/


Hotel-Gasthof Resengörg
Hauptstraße 36,
91320 Ebermannstadt.
Tel. 09194 / 73930
Fax 09194 / 739373
http://www.resengoerg.de/


Schwanenbräu
Am Marktplatz 2
91320 Ebermannstadt
Tel: 09194/209
Fax: 09194/5836
Email: dotterweich@schwanenbraeu.de
http://www.schwanenbraeu.de/


Kathi-Bräu
Nr. 1
91347 Heckenhof.