Wandering back

No need to get up very early. Breakfast lasts until 10. And Peter is picking us up at 11.

We enter the breakfast room at 8:30. There aren’t many others there.

I give the spread a look over. Surprisingly, there is some warm food. Which is a plus. No bacon. There is scrambled egg. And baked beans. Not bad.

I get some cheese to go with my scrambled egg. Recreating a South American breakfast. I’m so imaginative.

Dolores gets herself a boiled egg and some beans. The egg is rock hard all the way through. And cold. And rather green. She doesn’t eat it. I don’t blame her.

“Are your scrambled eggs warm?” She asks.

“Not really.”

“My beans are cold, too.”

The tea and coffee are warm. Which is something.

We don’t rush. Hanging around until 10, drinking coffee and generally chilling.

Back in our room, we prepare for the train. I create one of my “special” drinks by decanting the remainder of my expensive whisky into a half-emptied cols bottle. 

“That should keep me warm inside.”

“Don’t go crazy, Ronald.”

“When do I ever go crazy?”

“Let’s not have this conversation again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t go crazy with the whisky on the train.”

Peter van der Meer picks us up at 11 on the dot. And is soon setting us down at Essen Hauptbahnhof.

It’s surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. I notice that the sandwiches are way cheaper than in Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof. I wonder why that is? I suppose they just charge what they can get away with.

I just hang around guarding our luggage and taking in the vibes, while Dolores does some shopping.

The train to Viersen is pretty full. We’re lucky to get seats. Where we’re jammed in with our luggage. This is fun. 

An awful lot of people get off at Viersen with us. That’s not a good sign. As they don’t leave the station. Looks like they’re all headed for Holland, too. Bum.

When the Venlo train pulls in, it looks full. Very full. Triple bum. We have trouble squeezing ourselves in. Looks like we’ll be standing all the way to Venlo. I think that serves a: fuck!

A bloke has his bag on one of the fold-down seats. He takes pity on me and shifts his bag so I can sit down. Brilliant!! I might make it back to Amsterdam alive.

Everyone is bound for Holland. For King’s Day, which is tomorrow. There’s another stampede at Venlo, as everyone rushes to the platform where the Amsterdam train is.

Fortunately, it’s a much larger train than the one from Viersen. We manage to find a coach that’s pretty empty. With no need to use Dolores’s train elbows. Honed on many a Deutsche Reichsbahn journey, when she was a student. 

Now there’s enough space for me to enjoy my “special drink”, which I haven’t touched so far.

“Don’t go crazy with the whisky, Ronald.”

“No need to worry. You know me.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m asking you to not go crazy.”

“You don’t have much faith in me.”

“I’m just realistic.”

“Cynical, more like.”

The train starts to fill up the further we get into Holland. All going to Amsterdam for King’s Day. The centre is going to be packed. As usual. Luckily, I don’t have to go there.

Fortunately, this train isn’t going to Amsterdam Centraal. Just Amsterdam Zuid and Schiphol. Loads of people get off in Utrecht to switch to a train headed for Centraal. Emptying our carriage out nicely.

“Why are you filming fields again?”

“It’s for a video.”

“One of those that forces people to listen to your horrible music?”

“It isn’t horrible music.”

“Then why will no-one listen to it voluntarily?”

Dolores can be very cruel.

The last part of the journey is nice and quiet. Which is how I like my journeys: quiet and uneventful.

We don’t have to wait long for a bus. Soon we’re trundling into our flat. With the children rushing up joyfully to greet us. I wish. Andrew is absorbed by his laptop. And Alexei is upstairs in his room.

“Is the tea ready, Andrew?” I ask.

“Very funny, Dad. Make it yourself if you want some.”

How charming.

“I suppose you don’t want a cup then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

It’s great to be home. 

 

 

A couple of videos about our trip to Essen.

 

 

 

Away we go

“Do you fancy coming to Essen, Dolores?”

“Why are you going there?”

“I’m giving a talk.”

“Are you getting paid?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Maybe.”

Such enthusiasm.

Dolores had already agreed to come, when she discovered that the trains to Germany were buggered up on the relevant weekend. Some sort of works on the rails. Normally, we could get a train to Duisburg – under two hours – and then have a short hop on the S-Bahn to Essen.

Except the ICE service to Düsseldorf and Cologne is diverted via Venlo. Using that, getting to Essen would involve changing a couple of times. And take getting on for four hours, rather than two and a bit.

“How will we get there?” Dolores asked.

“Good question.”

“An answer would be nice.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Business as usual, then.”

“Haha.”

“Just sort it out.”

“OK.”

Not wanting to invoke the wrath of Dolores, I did some poking around on the internet. And found an alternative route. Taking an NS train to Venlo and then changing to a couple of regional German trains. Not just quicker, but also more convenient. As the tickets would be valid for every train, not just specific ones.

Problem solved. Dolores happy. Me happy.

We leave home around 10:30 bound for Amsterdam Zuid. Now there’s another advantage of this route: we don’t have to go to Amsterdam Centraal. Through the tourist hell of the city centre.

Amsterdam Zuid is more of a commuter station. Currently undergoing a massive rebuilding programme. Sometime in the not-too-distant future the motorway will disappear underground. Currently, cars whizz past just a few metres away from the platforms. Lovely.

The service to Venlo is one of the longest train journeys you can take from Amsterdam, without running of the edge of the country. Lasting around two hours. We settle in for the ride.

I’m so used to stupidly long flights that a couple of hours seems like fuck all. Especially in the comfort of a train. Dolores is playing with her new MP3 player. While I read the latest Viz. I’m feeling quite relaxed. And A true intellectual.

I take some video of the fields.

“People like cows.” I say, defensively.

“You’re weird. No-ne wants to see boring fields.”

“With cows in them. “

“Right. A few cows suddenly make fields interesting.”

“More interesting.”

“Than what?”

“A field without cows.”

“You’re weird and stupid.”

There’s a bit of a stampede in Venlo as pretty well everyone on our train rushes to get onto the German one. We’re lucky enough to get seats. Rather crammed in mind, as the carriages weren’t built with luggage in mind.

Everything ran perfectly smoothly while we were in Holland. Virtually as soon as we cross the border, things start going wrong. With our train stopping to wait foe freight trains. We miss our planned connection in Viersen. The train service in Germany has turned to total shit. It makes the Dutch railways look like those of Japan.

It’s a rather desolate station. With half a dozen windswept platforms and not much else. 

“Would you fancy moving here, Dolores?”

“No. I’d rather move back to Eisenach?”

“You’d be up for that then?”

“No. There’s nothing to do there. I just wouldn’t want to move here. It looks shit.”

“Far enough. I wouldn’t want to move back to Newark, either.”

Not unless the only other option was Grantham. Newark’s evil twin. I’d rather move to hell. Or Newark. Not much difference, really.

Luckily, we don’t have to wait very long. Just 15 minutes for the next Essen-bound train. Which is also pretty crowded. We do find seats, though.

We’re being collected at Essen Hauptbahnhof by Peter van der Meer. Owner and brewer of Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt. A tiny brewery in an inner-city suburb of Essen. I send him a message to let him know that we’re running a little late.

We don’t have to wait long for Peter to pick us up and whisk us off to our hotel. My talk not being scheduled to start for a few hours, we have a chance to relax in our room. Though there’s only space for one of us to stand at a time. And getting onto the toilet requires some contortion.

We drop by Lidl for supplies. 

All the essentials. Rolls, cheese and ham for the journey back to Amsterdam. And a bottle of the cheapest whisky. Under 7 euros on special offer. Fuck me, that’s cheap. It would be stupid not to buy a bottle. And I pride myself on not being an idiot. (Not that the kids would agree with me on that.)

“I hope you’re not going to drink all that whisky tonight.”

“No, that’s a sipping whisky.”

“At under 7 euros a bottle?”

“Yes, I’ll last all of today and tomorrow.”

“That’s “sipping”? Drinking a bottle of whisky in two days?”

“Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Fuck off, Ronald. Just drink yourself to death.”

“Sounds like a . . .”

“Fuck off.”

We marvel at bottles of organic wine for under two euros a pop. Almost as good value as the whisky. Wondering why Dutch cheese is cheaper here than at home. And why eggs increase 50% in price when they cross the border into Holland.

A tear comes to my eye when I get to the checkout and see 100 ml bottles of Chantré next to the sweets. It’s the classic impulse Schnapps. Heartwarming to see the tradition alive and well.

We wander down to the brewery around 17:30. And get stuck into some beer. Just to get my throat lubricated for all the talking I’ll be doing. Which is quite a lot.

My talk is on the history of IPA. And Peter has brewed five historic beers to go along with it. 1838 Combe IPA, 1877 Truman P1, 1911 Whitbread IPA, 1939 Barclay Perkins IPA and 1991 West Coast IPA.

The beers are served at appropriate points in the talk. And I actually get to properly drink them this time. Very nice they are, too.

It’s a pretty relaxed talk. With me digressing on wild tangents a few times. With a short break in the middle, I talk for 2.5 hours. Plenty of laughs. And interesting questions. When it goes well, I really love talking. 

Though, let’s be honest, I love talking even when it isn’t going great. Like with my audience of one in Brazil a couple of years back. I just like talking when no-one is allowed to interrupt me. Unlike in most of my life.

I feel pretty knackered when I’m done. But happy. Time for more beer.

A bottle of 1980s DDR Berliner Weisse appears. Such wonderful stuff, even after all these years.

I don’t stay up too late. I’m too old for that nonsense. And I want to be human for the train back to Amsterdam. With Deutsche Bahn, you never know what might happen.



Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt 
Pollerbergstrasse 3
45145 Essen
https://www.frohnhauser-sudwerkstatt.de/

 

A couple of videos about the trip.

 

 

 

The long journey home

Dolores is on tea duty again before I awake.

“I suppose you won’t want any tea this morning.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because of the car journey.”

“What?”

“And pissing yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Give me a cup of tea.”

“That’s not what you said on Friday.”

“I’ve been to sleep since then. As my Mun used to say.”

“What does that mean?”

“No idea. It’s just a general get out.”

“Get out of what?”

“Any responsibility.”

“Perfect for you.”

There’s nothing like a cup of tea in the morning. Worth risking a trouser embarrassment. 

You can guess what I have for breakfast. Don’t judge me. I am briefly tempted by the Nürnberger. But stick with just bacon and scrambled egg.

“You should go easy on the bacon, Ronald.”

“But a br…

“I know. A breakfast isn’t a breakfast without a large portion of heart disease.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Just what you were doing.”

“I’ll get some fruit in a minute.”

“That won’t make up for ten rashers of bacon.”

“It’s only seven rashers. And they’re tiny.”

“Right.”

“It’s OK, then?”

“I said, right.”

“That doesn’t sound like a: right, it’s OK. More like a: right, you believe that if you want.”

“Right.”

“You’re not making things any clearer.”

“Right.”

After we’re done eating, Lars Marius Garshol comes and sits by me. I’ve only seen him briefly so far this weekend. It’s good to have a chance for a proper talk.

We have a fascinating discussion about systems of taxation and how they influence the brewing industry and beer. So fascinating that Dolores goes upstairs to pack before we’re done.

I really appreciate conversations like this. There aren’t many people I can have serious discussions with about some topics.  One fewer since Martyn Cornell died. I have to grab every chance I get.

Just before checkout time I drag myself away from Lars and join Dolores upstairs.

I’d hoped our luggage would be later on the way back, after selling lots of books. All the beer I’ve been given put paid to that hope. Not that I’m complaining. About the beer, I mean. I’m obviously not overjoyed at the weight.

We leave Romrod around 11:30. Christoph seems to have a similar luggage experience to us. The beer that he brought and served being replaced by beer he’s been given.

As we zoom along the autobahn, me and Christoph chat about the conference and beer in general.

It’s getting on for 15:00 when we’re dropped off at Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof. About four hours before our train is due. We dump our bags in the left luggage and head towards town.

Our plan? Not that it’s much of one. Head towards Schuhmacher. Hopefully finding somewhere on the way to have a beer and maybe something to eat.

We don’t get even halfway to Schuhmacher before finding somewhere that looks OK. Barco.

“What do you think, Ronald?”

“They’ve got a Füchschen Alt sign. Let’s go in.”

For a German pub, the beer list is quite long. Six draught beers: Füchschen Alt, Peters Kölsch, Radeberger Pilsner, Mythos Hellenic Lager and Guinness Irish Stout. Not often you see Kölsch in Düsseldorf.

“Ein Alt, Bitte.”

What else would I drink in Düsseldorf? Certainly not Kölsch.

Dolores has a Hefeweizen. No surprise there.

“Do you want to eat? I wouldn’t mind something.” I ask.

“Can do. It seems to be some sort of Greek place.”

“Do you want to share a Schnitzel?”

“That’s not very Greek.”

“It’s what I feel like.”

“What about a souvlaki as well?”

“OK.”

The souvlaki is pretty nice. And only four euros. The Schnitzel is OK. Not huge, but not expensive, either.

“Can you hear the radio?” Dolores asks.

“What about it.” 

“It’s Greek.”

“Is it?”

“Can’t you hear that?”

“No.”

“You’re going deaf.”

“What?”

“Very funny.”

Dolores has been tracking our train on an app. It started in Munich, got delayed a little, then caught up again.

“You never know with DB.” Dolores says. “Something always goes wrong. You’re lucky if your train runs at all.”

She’s had a lot of bad experiences when visiting her sister. Trains that didn’t turn up. Ones that just stopped at the border. Then there were all the delayed trains and missed connections.

“Hopefully, our train will be OK. Like the one out here.”

“That hadn’t travelled hundreds of kilometres in Germany.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

That’s got me worried. I fancy sleeping in my own bed tonight. Any bed, come to think of it.

We’re in no rush to leave. As we still have quite a bit of time before our train.

Around 18:00, we roll up at the station. Where we browse the bookshop before we pick up our bags.

Platform 17 should be it. The board by the stairs to the platform lists trains that all should have already left.

“Why are they showing trains that have already left?” I ask.

“Look more closely. They’re all delayed.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

Dolores checks the app. “Our train is still on time. For now.”

“Very reassuring.”

We find seats on the platform. And listen to all the delayed train announcements. Every train seems to be delayed. There are varied excuses. Sorry, reasons.

The train was prepared late. A police action. Unauthorised personnel on the track. A previous train was delayed. A technical problem.

“At least they’re being imaginative.” I remark.

“I’d prefer the trains to be on time.”

“Don’t be so unreasonable.”

Our train comes up on the board as the one after next. And on time. Hooray! Then disappears again.

Dolores checks her app. 

“It says that our train has already left.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t see it.”

“Unless it left from a different platform.”

Cue mild panic.

An announcement informs us that our train is delayed twenty minutes due to a technical problem. Great. How do they know they can fix it in twenty minutes? Answer: they don’t.

The delay keeps increasing.

“If it’s over an hour late we’ll get some of our money back.” Dolores says.

“That’s something. As long as it runs all the way to Amsterdam.”

The train arrives seventy minutes late. And is pretty full. We a bit of messing around, we find seats. Plopping down with some degree of relief.

I prepare myself a “special drink” for the journey. Drinking half of a bottle of cola then filling it up with my hotel whisky.

“Don’t go crazy, Ronald.”

“You know me.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m saying: don’t go crazy.”

“You have such a distorted opinion of me.”

“Realistic, Ronald, realistic.”

I don’t go crazy. And the trip back is uneventful. If late.

In Amsterdam, it’s raining. Now there’s a surprise. We get a tram straight away. And are soon back home.

Andrew is waiting for us. Without any tea. He’s no Dolores.



Barco
Charlottenstraße 51, 
40210 Düsseldorf.
http://www.barco-lounge.de/ 

 

 

A video, this time with a commentary. Of sorts. 

Talking and talking

Dolores has made tea before I wake. Again.

“Cup of tea, Ronald?”

“Yes, please. No fear of pissing myself today.”

“Charming.”

“Just being honest.”

I’m intrigued by what the breakfast will offer.

“I wonder if there’ll be bacon.”

“Why?” Dolores asks.

“A breakfast isn’t a breakfast without bacon. Not a proper one”

“That’s just your opinion.”

“And that’s all that really counts.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

It does turn out to be a proper breakfast. With bacon and two types of sausage. Dolores goes for the cold stuff.

“No bacon for you?” I ask.

“You know that I don’t eat bacon. Not for breakfast.”

“I thought you might have seen the light.”

“Fuck off, Ronald.”

“That’s not very ladylike.”

“Fuck off.”

I recreate my preferred Brazilian breakfast: scrambled egg and bacon, followed by fruit. That puts me in a good mood. And the coffee gets me perked up and ready to rock.

Someone comes up and tells me that my ride to Villa Raab, where I’ll be speaking, leaves in six minutes. Just as well I left plenty of time for breakfast. We quickly go upstairs and fetch my laptop, And books. Which I take in the roller bag. As they’re effing heavy.

“We shouldn’t have brought so many bricks with us.”

“Very funny, Ronald.”

Markus Raupach, whom I know from Chile, is also in the minibus. It’s nice to see him again.

When I get to the room, they’re unpacking the beer that will be served while I’m talking. Apart from Fullers IPA, all Sam Smiths beers. Nut Brown Ale, Porter and Imperial Stout.

I fire up my laptop and try to connect it to the massive TV. I’ve plugged in the HDMI cable, without any luck. Someone from the hotel comes to my aid. Rolling down the screen to which the HDMI cable really connects. I’m glad it was so easy to sort out.

Ninety minutes are scheduled for the talk. On the history of UK beer styles. Including any questions. I should be able to fill that. Once I get started, I’m hard to stop.

The talk goes pretty well. Though I’m having so much fun rambling on, that I need to rush the last part a bit. I could easily have gone on for two hours.

I shift a decent number of books. Which is good. Dolores is pleased. And that’s what is most important. I never want to piss her off.

The people from the next talk start setting up. Bringing lots of cheese. Rather smelly cheese. At first, I wonder if I remembered to change my socks this morning. Before realising that the cheesy smell is coming from, er, cheese.

We’re taken back to the castle. Where we’ve a few hours before my second talk. We spend some of it in the tent in the courtyard, where we have lunch: Eupener bratwurst and mashed spuds. Not exactly gourmet fare. It fills a hole, though.

My second talk is in a smaller room in the castle museum. Which is in a building about 50 metres away from the castle itself. It only holds about twenty people.

It’s a new talk I wrote especially for this event. On brewing in the DDR. I had so much fun writing it. Partly because I already had pretty much all of the material I needed. Only having to top it up a little with some extra details from Kunze’s “Technologie Brauer und Mälzer”. One of my favourite books and favourite technical authors.

Having Dolores along is handy. As she actually drank some of the beers I’m describing. Every now and again I call on her for comments.

The audience seems quite surprised by some of the information. DDR brewing having fallen out of consciousness and, to some extent, been written out of history. Which is a shame, as it’s an important part of post-war German brewing. Not just a temporary aberration.

I don’t shift as many books after I’m done yapping. But I do have some good conversations with audience members.

“I feel like a lie down now.” I tell Dolores.

“That’s OK.”

“We oldie people need our naps.”

“Speak for yourself.” 

Back in our room, I don’t in fact sleep. Deciding to watch the rugby. The Ireland vs Scotland game. Which is on ITV. Necessitating firing up their iplayer. As the game is most of the way through, I opt to watch the programme from the beginning,

Just one problem. There’s more than an hour of people talking bollocks before the game starts. And I can’t fast forward through the nonsense. Fuck.

I have a quick draught of hotel whisky to ease my annoyance. It helps. But not much.

Eventually, the fat men start chasing the funny-shaped ball around.

Dolores nipped to the local supermarket earlier. And picked up more rolls, cheese and shit. On which we dine lavishly.

“Do you want some of the Korean chicken?”

“Can do. How hot is it now?”

“Like Russian roulette. Some pieces are OK, some hot as hell.”

“I’ll chance it.”

The piece I pick is towards the hell end of the spectrum. About as hot as I can eat with pleasure.

There’s a sort of end-of-event piss-up at the Bürgerhaus. Where home brewers will be serving their beers. It kicks off at 20:15.

It’s a short walk away from the castle. The supermarket is on the way and we drop in. For supplies for the train tomorrow. And some emergency whisky. Got to have some of that.

The Bürgerhaus is very busy. I have trouble making my way to one of the bars. Someone grabs hold of me and guides me to his bar. Where he has a couple of bottles of 1980s Berliner Weisse for me. From the DDR.

We open one of the bottles and share it. For a beer that’s forty years old it’s in incredible condition. Not oxidised at all. And very complex. Really rather wonderful. The other bottle I get to take with me. Which is so cool.

Moving along, Markus takes me to the bar where the brewer from Lemke is. He has a bottle of Bock-strength Berliner Weisse for me.

“I’ve been trying persuade someone to brew one of these for years. Without any luck.”

I’m so happy to get my hands on one. Dead intrigued as to how it will taste.

It’s all a bit too crowded for me in the room where the beers are being served. I’ve been standing too long, too. Fortunately, there’s seating in an adjoining room. And a couple of free seats. Me and Dolores sit down.

No need to get up and fetch beer. People keep bringing it to me. Like a yummy Stout that’s a couple of years old and brewed to one of my recipes. And a very good Barley Wine brewed in collaboration with Henry Kirk. Christoph brings over his Session IPA, which he’s serving via handpump. Very tasty, too.

People also drop by for a chat. It’s all very sociable. And lots of fun. Dolores seems to be enjoying herself, too. Finding plenty of people to talk to. I’m glad she isn’t getting bored.

I’m given a bottle of home-brewed Berliner Weisse. It’s getting to be quite a Berliner Weisse evening. Which is no bad thing.

We leave at around 11:00. I can’t be doing with late nights anymore. It’s been a long day, too. With my first beer at 10:00. I need some rest.

“What did you think of the weekend, Dolores?” I ask as we walk back to the castle.

“I enjoyed it. The atmosphere was really good. Everyone was very friendly.”

“What about the beer?”

“Most of it was good. And it was free. I liked that.”

“Free beer tastes the best.”

“Exactly.”

“You weren’t bored?”

“No. There were plenty of people to talk to.”

“That’s good to know.”

It really is. The last thing I want to do is piss off Dolores. That never ends well.

The castle looks magical in the darkness. A patch of the outer wall illuminated blood-red.

Emergency whisky is my slumber helper.



Bürgerhaus Romrod
Zeller Str. 9, 
36329 Romrod.
 

 

A video of my time at the Heimbrau Convention.

Romrod bound

Dolores has already made tea when I wake up. 

“No tea for me.”

“Why not, Ronald?”

“I don’t want to be bursting for a piss in the car.”

“Charming.”

You have to think of these things when you’re my age. Especially when a long car journey is planned.

With the hotel breakfast a bit pricey, we’re dining on our Lidl purchases. Rolls, cheese and sliced meat. It’s full of cheapy goodness. Dolores tries the washed Korean chicken.

“It’s not too bad now. Just about edible. Give it a try.”

“Not for breakfast.”

“Because it will make you want to piss?”

“Very funny.”

Once checked out, we take seats in the lobby next to the window to wait for our lift.

“Do you know what Christoph looks like?”

“No. I told you we’ve never met.”

“You might have seen a photo.”

A car pulls up outside bang on the planned time of 11:00. It’s Christoph Riedel. Our ride to sunny Romrod.

Getting all the luggage to fit is a bit of a challenge on account of all the beer in the boot. But we manage it. Soon we’re rocking through Düsseldorf. Its streets bustling with traffic. And bristling with red lights. It takes a while before we pop out onto the motorway.

As we race through the German countryside, I chat with Christoph about beery things. History, mostly. It fills the time nicely. As we have a way to go. Three hours or so.

Halfway there, we stop for lunch. At a service station. This being Germany, there’s a pub and beer garden. Though it’s too chilly for the latter.

We sit inside. Where it’s kitschly rustic. In a fun sort of way. They seem to be big on Schnitzels. Which is what Christoph and Manuel order. With chips. Dolores goes for a Schnitzel on bread. While I opt for a Strammer Max. And a regional Pils.

The food is pretty good, and the portions generous. Not stupidly priced, either. Not bad for a service station. Though having to pay a euro for the bogs is annoying.

As we get closer to our destination, it’s very rural. Looking very much like Thüringen, with half-timbered villages. The trees are just sprouting green fingers, in bright contrast to the dull browns and greys of the surrounding fields.

We park a little away from the castle and approach it on foot. The towers loom majestically over the town. In a beautifully gothic way. Dead impressive.

We’re staying on the first floor. Not in a tower, sadly. The walls are a metre thick, though. And it’s up a stone spiral staircase. Still pretty cool.

Once we’ve stashed our stuff, we go for a wander. Let’s be honest: in search of beer. It takes a little while. As they haven’t really started serving yet. Eventually someone comes up and offers us some. A rather nice strong Stout. A good start.

There’s a reception for the speakers in the hotel restaurant. For which there’s a cask of Roppelt Kellerbier. Oooh. I’ll have some of that. It’s very fizzy. My first glass is mostly foam. Nice tasting foam, mind.

We wander into another bit of the castle. Where more beer is served. And some rather nice cheese. Dolores gets a mirabel beer which she rather likes. Chatting with the brewer for a while. She seems to be enjoying herself. I’m relieved. I had worried that she’d be bored. Or hate all the beers. Or both.

The evening passes as we pass through various rooms. Drinking various beers, mostly home-brewed. And mostly pretty tasty.

As pleasant as the beers are, and the people we chat with, we don’t stay out too late. My first talk tomorrow is quite early: 9:45. I want to have a leisurely breakfast, too. I’ll need to be up by 8:00.

I start typing up notes back in the room.

“Are you writing lies again, Ronald?”

“No. Just improving the truth a little.”

“Isn’t that just another way to describe lying?”

“Not at all. It’s just a better version of the truth.”

“It’s still lying.”

“Maybe technically.”

I have a whisky nightcap, obviously. Purely for medicinal purposes. Not because I’m a pisshead.



MAXI Autohof Mogendorf
Im Reimersheck 3, 
56424 Mogendorf.
https://www.maxi-autohof.com/mogendorf/
 

A video of the day.

Taking the train

 “Do you want to come to Germany with me, Dolores?”

“Where to?”

“Romrod.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“Somewhere in Hessen.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll be staying in a castle.”

“OK, then.”

“Why are you going there?”

“I’m speaking at a home brewing convention”

“What will I do?”

“Help me sell books.”

“You mean you might actually earn some money?”

“Hopefully.”

“How will we get there?”

“I’ve been offered a lift from Düsseldorf.”

“Great, we won’t have to depend on Deutsche Bahn.”

That seemed to swing it. To avoid any surprises from DB, we decided to take the train to Düsseldorf the day before our lift. And to stay a night close to the station.

Our train is at a bit past 14:00. Meaning I can leave some of the packing until the morning. Our luggage is quite heavy, on account of all the books.

“Better to have too many than too few.” I remark.

“Easy to say when you aren’t carrying them all.”

“Some are in my bag.”

“Some being the important word.”

“I’ve got almost half.”

“The important words there are ‘almost’ and ‘half’.”

We take the tram to Centraal Station and wait patiently on the platform for a while. Towards the end of where the train will be. As we don’t have seat reservations.

“I suppose I’ll have to find the seats.” Dolores remarks. ”As usual.”

“You are good at it. After all that practice as a student in the DDR.”

“You always bring that up.”

“Because it’s true, Plus, I’m old and feeble.”

“Feeble in the brain.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,”

“I know.”

The train isn’t that busy and we can easily find seats. It’s not that long a journey. Just two- and a-bit hours. If the train runs the normal route. And isn’t delayed.

In case I get too thirsty, I’ve prepared a drink for the trip. Two half litre cans of Gulpener Gladiator decanted into a litre plastic bottle. It keeps me hydrated for the duration.

Everything runs like clockwork in Holland. Once in Germany, we’re either bombing along at 200 km per hour, or crawling, at near walking pace, where they’re fiddling with the line. It doesn’t delay us too much, and we arrive in Düsseldorf just a few minutes late.

Once checked in, we nip to the Lidl over the road for some supplies. Important stuff like cheese and whisky. I first grab a bottle for 11 euros. Until Dolores points out the one for 7.99 euros. No point throwing money away.

At the checkout, I notice the bloke in front of us has the same whisky.

“He must be a connoisseur like me.”

“Old drunk, more like.” Dolores replies.

“Charming. You think so highly of me”

Shopping dumped in the hotel, we leave again in search of food. Something Asian. As there are lots of Asian restaurants close to the station. We start wandering in the vague direction of the city centre. And come across a Korean place. Sojubar.

“What about here, Dolores?”

“I don’t know. Is there a menu outside?”

“Yes. Here.” I say pointing out an A-board.

“Finally, you’re some use.”

“Thank you.”

Being reasonably priced, we enter. Even though it’s not quite 18:30, it’s quite busy. Which is a good sign. Lots of young people. Not sure if that’s a good sign or not.

 Time for drinks. Dolores opts for a Hefeweizen.

“Ooh, look. They’ve got soju.” I say.

“It is called Sojubar.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.”

“I’m surprised. You’re usually remarkably observant when it comes to alcohol.”

“I wonder which soju I should get?”

“I’m guessing strongest one.”

“The most traditional one.”

“Is that, by any coincidence, the strongest one?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Dolores orders a Bibimbap. A bowl of vegetables and meat. While I fancy fried chicken. Still having soju on my mind, I order Soju Go To Hell. And beef kimbap. 

My chicken is quite spicy. Very spicy. Way too fucking spicy.

“This is a bit hot.”

“Why did you order it?”

“Because it has soju in the name.”

“Didn’t you see what it says on the menu? The hottest fried chicken in the world.”

“No.”

“You should pay more attention.”

Dolores isn’t wrong. But I don’t admit that.

I manage to eat one piece of chicken. And my mouth is on fire. The rice in the kimbap helps a bit. A bit. It’s a while before I dare try any more of my soju.

“I’ll pack the chicken up and we can wash the sauce off in the hotel.”

“Good thinking, Dolores. I wouldn’t want to waste food.”

Or destroy my mouth. I don’t say that bit out loud.

When we leave, noticing Oststrasse U-Bahn station, I say: “We must be close to Schuhmacher Do you fancy a beer there?”

“OK.”

Dolores is so wonderful. I can’t imagine a better partner. Especially as she appreciates a good beer. Definitely a keeper.

Schuhmacher is only a short walk away. The main room looks busy. And we only want to drink. So we sit in the small room at the front. It’s sort of like a public bar. Soon glasses of Alt appear in front of us.

I do like a good Alt. And Schuhmacher’s is a really good one. A malty backbone overlaid by a good dose of bitterness. Fresh and very drinkable. Especially as it’s served by gravity from a wooden cask. The way god intended.

We only stay for two Not wanting to be out too late. On the way back, we manage to get a bit lost. But not for long.

Things don’t go so well with the chicken washing. The sink won’t drain and fills up with a red, greasy mess.  After carefully bailing it out and cleaning it up, Dolores goes to reception and tells them about the blockage. After a short inspection, it’s concluded that the sink can’t be quickly fixed and we’re moved to another room.

We don’t stay up too late. Even though we don’t need to be up that early. We’re being picked up at 11:00.

The cheapo whisky works its wonders. Slumber soon embraces me.




Sojubar Dusseldorf
Charlottenstraße 49, 
40210 Düsseldorf.
https://www.sojubar.com/dusseldorf/


Brauerei Schuhmacher
Oststraße 123, 
40210 Düsseldorf.
http://www.brauerei-schumacher.de/

 

A video of the day. 

London called

And I answered. Well, I went there, at least. Along with Dolores, on our traditional December trip.

No blow by blow account this time. Just a few photos and observations.

Staring with the really important stuff. Most expensive pint? 7 quid forty for a pint of Landlord in the Marquis Cornwallis. Fuck me. That's as bad as Amsterdam. It was a pretty good pint, mind.

Most annoying? Two pubs where there were handpumps with their clips thew right way around, but none of the beers actually on. This happened at the Rocket on Euston Road and the Nags Head on Camden High Street.

I was struck by how much Landlord there is in London. Even our hotel stocked it. (At just 4.95 a pint and in surprisingly good condition.)  Which is good news, as it's a beer that's up to Dolores's high standards. She's quite fussy when it comes to beer. More so than me. Traditional cask Bitter is her thing. London Pride being her favourite. Though she's more than happy to drink Landlord. She wasn't as impressed with Shepherd Neame Masterbrew. Thin, in her opinion. She switched to cider.

Most of the cask was in decent condition. Other than a couple of pints in the Euston Flyer. Where both my ESB and Hophead were past their best. Though not vinegar.

All the pubs we visited seemed to have plenty of custom, even in the afternoon. We were in central London, though. Mostly in pretty touristy bits. I'm sure that it's not typical of the country as a whole. Or even all of London.

Everything seemed a good bit more expensive than last year. Which I suppose is to be expected.

And what of breakfasts? I hear you ask. A proper full English every morning. Fried eggs, bacon, tomatoes, toast, tea and orange juice. The perfect start to the day.

I got to eat a pie, too. With mushy peas.

To complete our seasonal bliss, we attended a one-man performance of A Christmas Carol in the Charles Dickens house. Very impressive. 

Back home

We rise a little earlier today. Around eight. As we need to check out by eleven.

I haven’t had the greatest of nights. I’ve been coughing like crazy. It’s a surprise I have any lungs left.

A breakfast of bacon, eggs, tomato, toast and tea.

Dolores fetches my usual breakfast. It’s the breakfast I always have in Britain. When I can. Egg, bacon and tomato. With toast, too, of course. I wouldn’t want to disrespect the eggs.

Back in our room, we just about have time to pack before checkout time. And for Dolores to make sandwiches for the train. She’s always thinking ahead.

Checked out, I remain guarding our bags while Dolores goes to the supermarket to buy contraband. Joints of meat, crumpets, cheese. Stuff you can’t easily find in Amsterdam.

She returns with bulging bags of goodies. Everything we want to take back to Amsterdam.

Once the stuff has been absorbed into our luggage, we do what comes natural. Which is to trail down he pub. The Euston Flyer, again. As it’s on the way to St. Pancras. It makes lots of sense. And Dolores wants a couple of farewell pints of London Pride. Everyone wins.

A pint of London Pride and a pin of ESB.

“I haven’t been coughing as much today.” I say optimistically over my pint of ESB.

“That’s good, Ronald.”

“Maybe I’m over this cold.”

“It didn’t sound like that last night. I expected to find bits of  your lungs all over the duvet this morning.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Relieved. I think.”

“That’s reassuring. Really, really reassuring.”

I’ve prepared a special drink for the train journey. I’ve decanted my half bottle of whisky into the remainder of my litre of cola. So much more dignified than swigging whisky straight from the bottle.

“Do you want to eat something, Ronald?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” It is about 5 hours since I ate breakfast.

“What do you fancy?”

“I wouldn’t mind a pie. But that comes with mash.” I’m not a big mashed potato fan.  “Would you eat my mash?”

“No.”

“I thought you liked mash?”

“Not from a packet.”

“It won’t be from a packet.”

“I prefer my own mash.”

“You really don’t want to eat my mash, do you?”

“No.”

No pie for me, then.  “I’ll get a sandwich.”

A fish finger sandwich.

Which I do. A fish finger sandwich. Which comes with chips. Dolores just gets some onion rings.

“How’s your sandwich, Ronald?”

“Quite nice. But it isn’t a pie.”

“There’s more to life than pies.”

“Is there?”

The sandwich is pretty good. The fish fingers are solid lumps of fish. But it’s not a pie. My pie needs have remained frustratingly unfulfilled this trip.

We have a second pint. Pride and ESB again.

“You know that they’re the same recipe?”

“Really?”

“Yes, they’re brewed together.”

“How does that work?”

The bar of the Euston Flyer.

I explain parti-gyling to Dolores. It fills in the half hour we have left in the pub quite nicely. I think I may have lost her half-way through. When she starts messaging the kids. But I believe I got over the basic principle of the technique.

I start coughing as soon as we get to St. Pancras. It gets worse as we queue for all the formalities. Ticket check, security, two lots of passport control. Not much fun one-handed.

Then the standing. As all the seats are occupied until the next Paris train boards. I find standing so much fun nowadays.

The train is totally full. At least, our carriage is full. Even before we’ve left the station, I’m coughing up a storm. With occasional echoes from other passengers. I must be making everyone’s journeys.

I’m sitting peacefully on the bog, when there’s a tapping on the door. Presumably the conductor.

“Yes?” I say.

After more tapping, I hear the door being unlocked. I quickly pull up my kecks and make myself decent.

It is the conductor. And, from the look on her face, it’s clear that I’m not who she’s looking for. Dolores tells me that a bag thief, pursued by the bags owner and the conductor had run past.

“How dramatic.” Dolores says.

“Almost as dramatic as the conductor catching me with my kecks down would have been.”

After Brussels, the train is much emptier. And we move to roomier seats. Where I finish off my special drink just as we pass through Schiphol.

Amsterdam seems very quiet as we snake through it homewards in a No. 2 tram. Even though it’s only 23:30.

Andrew is awake. Not sure if he’s just got up or is about to go to bed. It’s midnight. And I’m still coughing.



The Euston Flyer
83-87 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2RA,
https://www.eustonflyer.co.uk/


 

Monday, Monday

We start our day at around nine again. With tea, made by Dolores, of course.

It’s getting on for ten when we stumble down to breakfast. It’s fairly quiet once more. Where is everyone? December is usually a busy month for the hotel.

A breakfast pf eggs, bacon and tomato.

Some of the foreign guests make bizarre breakfast choices.

“No-one British would have salami with bacon and eggs. It’s weird.”

“People from abroad don’t know that.”

“They should read up on the British breakfast rules before they travel. “

“Really?”

“Yes. So they don’t embarrass themselves at breakfast time.”

“Who’s checking them? The breakfast police?”

“If it was up to me, yes. Otherwise, it’s complete anarchy.”

Few around me seem to have consulted the English breakfast rules. Including Dolores. I’m sticking with an approved breakfast: bacon, egg and tomato. Nothing inappropriate on my plate.

We have a plan for today. The British Library. We head that way around noon. After a while of dossing around. 

The entrance of the British Library.

A couple of exhibitions have attracted our interest. One is about a silk road town in northwest China. The other on medieval women. We plump for the former as the latter is more expensive.

The exhibition is based around scrolls found in a cave around 1900. Thousands of them, in a variety of languages, dating from around 1,000 years ago. I can read the odd character in the Chinese texts. Mostly numbers. Those three years spent studying Chinese weren’t a total waste.

“Is this all there is? Just this one room?” Dolores asks, disappointed.

“Looks like it.”

“That’s no very much for eight quid.”

“Only six quid for me, oldie person.”

As we sill have time, we take a look at the free, permanent exhibition. Which has some really cool stuff. Like a Magna Carta. And, in the British Museum tradition, objects looted from all over the world.

Where to now? The answer is obvious: the Euston Flyer. It’s just over the road. I would be stupid not to drop in.

“A pint of ESB, please, Dolores.”

Obviously, she’s drinking London Pride. What else would she have in a Fullers pub?

Euston Flyer hand pumps.

It’s a bit after 15:00. And, being between the lunch and evening sessions, the pub isn’t very full. Though there are odd groups scattered around he interior. As quiet as we’ve seen a pub, so far.

The ESB is rather nice. Malty and full. Being cask, it slides down a treat. With none of that distracting fizz or chill. Why does anyone ever drink beer that isn’t cask?

We don’t go crazy. Only saying for a couple of pints.

Dolores spotted a fish and chip shop when wandering around the other day. And I really fancy pie and chips. So off we trail.

“We’ve no pies today.”

Bum. We’ll have to make do with fish and chips. Which is what we do.

On the way back to the hotel we drop by Waitrose. Where we trail the lovely fish and chip smell behind us.

“Why do you need more whisky, Ronald?”

“For the train tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to die of thirst.”

“Right. You could drink that cola you bought the other day.”

“I will do. Just with some added knives.”

The fish and chips are pretty good. The fish well cooked. And a decent portion of chips. One between the two of us is plenty.

I finish off my litre of cheap whisky watching Match of the Day 2.




The Euston Flyer
83-87 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2RA,
https://www.eustonflyer.co.uk/

 

Sunday London

We rise at around nine. Well, I do. Dolores has already made tea. She’s such a wonderful woman.

After a bit of pottering around, we head downstairs for breakfast. It’s surprisingly quiet.

“What do you want, Ronald?”

“A fried egg, two rashers of bacon and some tomato.”

A breakfast of bacon, egg, tomato, toast, orange juice and tea.

I wouldn’t usually have Dolores collect my food. But it’s a bit tricky going to the buffet with one hand out of action. She also gets me some tea. Nice strong tea with milk. That’s the English way.

“Do you have your phone? I forgot mine.”

“Why?”

“I need to photograph my breakfast. For my blog.”

“That’s weird.”

“My readers expect breakfast photos. Especially one Canadian blogger.”

“They’re weird, then.”

“A specialist interest group is how I would describe them.”

Back in our room, we laze around for a while.  We’re in no rush. We literally have all day.

“What do you fancy doing today, Dolores?”

“Not much. We could go to that pub.”

“Which pub?”

“The one you went to with the kids.”

“The Swan?”

“I can’t remember the name.”

“It sells Old Puke. That’s why I went there.”

“Sells what?”

“Old Peculier. A strong beer.”

“Now there’s a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you want to drink a strong beer.”

“It’s a classic English beer.”

“Yeah, right. A classic that just happens to be strong?”

“Exactly.”

Then Dolores makes that noise of hers. Still not quite sure how to describe it. Or what exactly it means. I’m sure it’s something positive. It has to be positive, doesn’t it?

The eight handpulls in the Swan.

The Swan isn’t too busy. Though quite a few tables are reserved again. Pubs definitely don’t seem to be suffering as much as in the Midlands. Or maybe it’s just busy because it’s Christmas.

“What’s a nice Bitter.” Old Puke isn’t Dolores’s style.

“Greene King IPA.”

“I want a Bitter, not an IPA.”

“It isn’t that type of IPA. It’s like an Ordinary Bitter.”

“Why is it called IPA, then?”

“Because the term was used totally randomly in the past. At least in the UK.”

“What was the point of the name, then?”

“That’s a question I’ve often asked myself.”

Dolores gets herself an IPA. Along with an Old Peculier for me.

“What do you think, Dolores?”

“It’s fine. Just like a Bitter.”

My Old Peculier is pretty nice, too. I’m glad I was told about it being on sale here after the Museum Tavern dropped it. Which left me heartbroken. I look forward to a few pints of Puke when I’m in London.

We stay for two pints. Then Dolores wants to move on. To ‘Spoons. Shakespear’s Head, to be precise. It’s not far away. Just past Holborn tube station.

Wetherspoon crowd.

As is usual for a Wetherspoons, it’s quite busy. But not totally full and we can find seats.

“A pint of Abbot, please.” I say, pre-empting Dolores.

She gets herself a Greene King IPA. Mostly because it’s so cheap.

“It’s only £2.79. How can it be so much cheaper than in the last pub?”

“Because this is a ‘Spoons.”

Dolores's Greene King IPA being pulled.

Lots of people are milling about the pub. Many of them eating. The couple on the table next to us get a weird flat thing. That looks like it has brown sauce all over it.

“What’s that?” Dolores asks.

“A pizza, I think.”

“That’s a weird looking pizza.”

Realising that there is another set of handpulls, I go and have a look at what they’re offering. Ooh, there’s Black Beer: Portobello Market Porter.

“I’ll have a pint of Porter, please.”

“OK”

Frugal as ever, Dolores sticks with Greene King IPA. The Porter is nicely roasty. But no so much that it’s like licking an ashtray.

We had considered a cheap Chinese lunch. But the offers are only available on weekdays. Looks like it’s sandwiches in our hotel room again.

In the early evening, we wander out again. Dolores suggested the Norfolk Arms. But that’s full. Instead, we go to the Lord John Russell. Which has some free seats.

Drinkers drinking in the Lord John Russell.

Lots of Guinness is being drunk. By fairly young people. Including quite a few women. Guinness definitely seems to have got more popular.

My beer choice is easy: “I’ll have a Landlord.”

Dolores joins me. It’s in fairly good nick and slips down a treat. Cask is so easy to drink. Which is why I love it.  No chill and fizz to get in the way of the fun.

We only have the two pints. Then it’s back to the hotel. Where whisky and yesterday’s Match of the Day await me. And a can of cider awaits Dolores.

I cough myself to sleep just after midnight. Waiting for the whisky medicine to work.


The Swan
7 Cosmo Pl,
London WC1N 3AP.
https://www.greeneking.co.uk/pubs/greater-london/swan


Shakespeare’s Head
Africa House,
64-68 Kingsway,
London WC2B 6BG.
https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn


Lord John Russell
91-93 Marchmont St,
London WC1N 1AL.