Franconia day one (part three)

Our ICE to Nuremburg arrives in 10 minutes late. That gets Andrew a-fretting. We don't have many minutes to make our connection to Forchheim. Fewer than 10.

I've not bothered reserving seats. As they were 3 euros cheaper than second class, we have first-class tickets. Ah, the vagaries of advanced-booking offers. My assumption that there will be plenty of spare seats is proved right.

"I told you there would be loads of places, Andrew. That's saved me the price of a couple of beers."

"Or bottles of that nasty schnapps."

"Impulse schnapps, Andrew, that's the correct technical term."

It's doing its job well, the nasty schnapps. I'm all cooled down. At least in my head.

"Why don't you try your ipad? There's a sign saying there's wifi."

"Where?"

"That red dot on the window over there."

"Daaaaad, that's where you're meant to break the window in an emergency."

"No it's not, it's the sign for wifi."

"Then why is there a hammer next to it?"

"A coincidence."

"And instructions to hit the dot with the hammer?"

"You may have a point."

To Andrew's relief, they've held back our connection in Nuremberg. And in Forchheim. Before we know it, we're bumbling along the single-track line to Ebermannstadt, our destination for the day. The train is surprisingly full.

I tried to get us rooms here, one of Ebermannstadt's two breweries:

But it was booked up. Instead, we're staying at Gasthof zur Post just over the street.

Our rooms are boiling. Facing the afternoon sun, curtains wide open, has turned them into a sweat box inside a sauna encased in a furnace. Hot. I strain to shut out the sun, but the curtains aren't wide enough.

"That's really stupid, having curtains that don't cover the windows. How are you supposed to block out the sun?"

One of the reasons I chose Ebermannstadt as our base was the presence of a Rewe supermarket close by.

"Let's get ourselves some drinks."

Andrew gives me a look. "I mean water or that apple stuff. Honestly." He doesn't give up on the look.

On the way to Rewe, Andrew notices something. Shutters. All the houses have shutters.

"Maybe our rooms have shutters, dad." Could explain the curtain deficiency.

The Rewe is nice and cool. We pick up some water and apple stuff.

At the till, I start searching around.

"You're looking for that nasty schnapps, aren't you, dad?"

"Impulse schnapps, impulse schnapps. Get the name right."

Andrew is right. About the shutters and the schnapps. The shutters almost black out my room. The sun is blocked, but the room still pulls sweat out of me.

"Let's go for a drink to give our rooms a chance to cool down, Andrew."

"OK, dad, but no more schnapps." Andrew is starting to remind me of his mother.

We nip over the road to Schwanenbräu, where we can sit in the shade. I get myself one of these:

And then another.

The sun slips down while I sip and sup and eat sausage.

When we return, our rooms have cooled. Just enough.

"Good night, Andrew."

"Good night, dad."




Gasthof Zur Post‎
Am Marktplatz 3
91320 Ebermannstadt.
Tel: +49 9194 201
http://www.gasthofpost-ebs.de/




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

Franconia day one (part two)

I realise that I forgot to tell you several important pieces of information about the Tegernsee pub. All, the important information, to be honest. Before we go any further, here they are:


Eden Hotel Wolff
Arnulfstrasse 4,
80335 Munich.
Phone: +49 (89) 55 11 5-0
Fax: +49 (89) 55 11 5-555
info@ehw.de
http://www.eden-hotel-wolff.de

They must have only recentlly swapped to Tegernsee beer, as the photo on the website has the pub branded Hacker-Pschorr.

Where was I? In a pub drinking Tegernsee Helles, that's it. We don't stay long. Too damn hot. And this is just a short walk away:

What a difference trees make. It feels so much cooler now we've nestled ourselves under an enormous oak tree.

We entered a different way from the entrances I used the last couple of times. Never realised part of the garden was waiter service. We scuttle through that to the self-service section. I don't want to waste time waiting for a waiter. We only have two hours or so.

"Do you want a beer, Andrew?"

"Not if that's the smallest size they come in. " He says, pointing at one of these:

He has a point.

"Apfelschorle it is then."

There are those that accuse Augustiner beer of blandness. They're talking out of their arse. Subtlety and blandness aren't the same. That misunderstanding is behind the undervaluing of German beer by many geeks. It's not in their face enough. More fool them. Because they miss out on the joy of chomping great lumps out of a litre of Edelstoff. The perfect refreshment for a sweaty dad.

"This is just perfect, Andrew."

"I can see how much you're enjoying it from how little's left."

I used to think a litre was too much. I'm starting to change my mind.

"Time for another - do you want another of those apple thingies?

"I'm OK, dad. Get yourself another one, though."

I've brought him up well.

My meatballs are rather disappointing. Too salty, as is the potato salad.

"Probably not such a bad idea, eating more salt in weather like this, Andrew."

"You've always got an excuse for everything."

He's not far wrong, there. Back at the Bahnhof all bagged-up, I head for a kiosk.

"What do you want to buy dad? We've already eaten."

"Something to cool me down on the train." I buy the first impulse schnapps of the trip.

"That's not going to keep you cool, dad."






Augustinerkeller
Arnulfstr.52, Ecke Zirkus-Krone-Str.
80335 München-Neuhausen.
Tel. 089 - 594393
Fax 089 - 5504415
Email: arnulfstrasse@augustinerkeller.de
http://www.augustinerkeller.de/

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/

My hols

Just back from Germany. Eleven days of drinking that liquidy stuff with the foam on top. And that alcoholly thing going on. Beer, that's the word.

A series of posts, recounting in tedious detail every last beer and impulse schnapps a poured into my poor tormented body, were planned. I even took notes.

But there's been a technical hitch. I hadn't screwed on the top of that bottle of impulse Obstler I grabbed in Salzburg station before getting on the train to Munich. I noticed the stain when I put my bag on the seat in Weisses Brauhaus. Then the smell. The heart-wrenching smell of spilled alcohol. I sobbed quietly through two beers.

Giving me an eau de pisshead air wasn't the only downside of my top-attachment laxity.

I'm an old-fasioned sort of chav. I wear spats, drink laudanum and have an aspidistra in my front window. Before every expedition into the Urwald of Lager, I prepare a printed guide. All the information -  pub adresses, maps, bus timetable - in one place. The spaces inbetween I use for notes. None of this ticky-tacky digital shit for me.

I wouldn't put valuable information on a phone or tablet. Especially not when I'm hanging around in pubs. Too likely to get lost, broken, stolen, drenched in beer. Good old-fashioned paper is far safer. What can happen to that? No-one's going to nick it. And it can't get broken.

Not unless you drench it in schnapps.

I'll be working from memory. Poor fallible, distorted, fading memory.

Bayreuth to Munich

Some effing café 11:00

Mike's tapeworm is active again and he's dragged me into an effing café close to the station. I'm waiting for the Weihenstephaner pub over the road to open.  Mike wanted to drag me all the way back to the main square to save 1 euro on a sausage. It's tipping it down. Luckily, he's seen sense.

Just 30 minutes to wait. At least they sell coffee with stiffeners here. Pharisäer, I've had. The rum in it has taken some of the chill out of my bones. Some of the chill from the death walk uphill through the rain.

Mike has organised all of the trip. That's why I need the eye-opener. Today and every other day. Let's face it, if I didn't need to concentrate for my work, I'd have one every morning.




Restaurant Weihenstephaner 11:45

Finally. We're in a pub. A kitschy Bavarian type place, but it's a proper pub. Selling Weihenstephaner beer. You probably could have guessed that from the name. We're just about leaning on the door when they open. We're the first customers. I don't care. I hate people. Especially in groups of more than one. Shit. There are two of us.

As it's lunchtime and I don't have a tapeworm I just order a Bauernteller. Perfect for picking. Here's a confession: I don't much care for big meals when beer is the primary object. Just fills up valuable beer space in the stomach. Especially dumplings or spuds. Whereas a Bauernteller is just grown-up nibbles. The meaty meatiness of it combines perfectly with a Helles. Or a Dunkles. Or anything else German and beery you can think of. I order a Dunkles. I still can't help but think of it as Dark Mild.

Weihenstephaner Tradition Dunkles: Nutty. Not clack, just nutty.

The Bauernteller is very nice. Especially as I don't rush it. I've budgeted, stomach-wise, for a minimum of 4 half litres of this delicious brown stuff. And I hate missing targets. Must come from my days in management.

Brill! They have proper aged schnapps. I've never seen that before. Not in Germany. They're between 3 and 8 tears old. I'm so impressed, I take a photo:

The waitress isn't too happy. Doesn't like me photographing the menu. Until I explain why. Then she just looks at me in pity. I much prefer being the object of pity rather than anger.

When we leave the streets are deserted. Germany's game has just started. Eerily quiet. That's how I'd describe it.


I would be pissed off. But I've a bellyful of Bauernteller and Dunkles. And I've already stocked up with impulse Schnapps for the train.




Restaurant Weihenstephan
Bahnhofstraße 5,
95444 Bayreuth.
Tel: 0921 - 82288
Fax: 0921 - 853425

Mitterteich

Hösl Bräu Brauerei Gaststätte 17:08

Cool. We've left the Zoiglstube and come to a brewery tap. And the brewery is right behind me. Cool, cool, cool.

Hösl Bräu Dunkles: beer, good, beer good, full, ness. It has that Dunkles taste I've never been able to pin down better than "nutty".

Mike is having trouble working up any enthusiasm for the brewery tap. The Zoiglstube has all awed him out. He's in a state of shock. Bit like going to Florence, I guess. I'm still in beer fan mode, snapping photos of the brewery and pub.

On the way to the bus stop, I notice a shop with a couple of Zoigl products. Beer and schnapps. I can't resist. Call it an impulse. The beer, it turns out, isn't a genuine Zoigl. Just a Kellerbier from Brauerei Würth in Windischeschenbach. (It was still pretty good.)

Our bus is a coach this time. Or dog coach. An unmatched trio of dogs are running loose. Clearly they belong to the driver. None of the other passengers seems concerned. To me, it looks like the smallest dog could easily get trapped under the brake pedal. It's sitting very close. Now wouldn't that be a weird way to die? Killed by dog.

The bus stops virtually outside our hotel.

We dine at the hotel. I saw enough of Wiesau earlier. The beer and food are fine. But it all seems a bit flat after the Zoiglstube. I guess life's going to be all downhill from here on.

Hösl & Co Brauhaus
Bahnhofstr. 1,
95666 Mitterteich.
Tel.: 09633 - 92220
Fax: 09633 - 922222
E-Mail: hoeslbraeu@t-online.de
http://www.hoeslbraeu.de/

Bad Berneck

Bit of a disaster this morning. The only bus from Trebgast wasn't running. Just today. I can't blame Mike for that one.

Mike came up with various crazily complicated alternatives. Like walking to the next village. I suggested a taxi to Bad Berneck. We had to change buses there anyway.

We drop by a supermarket. It's right opposite the bus stop. I get two bananas, razors and a bottle of impulse schnapps. I can't resist. It's so tempting. Standing there, winking at me seductively. I wonder what the girl on the checkout makes of my purchases?

There's a sign for Markt. Historic, it says. We head for it. The street is a bit creepy. Most of the shops are empty. Except for photos of local railway lines that have closed. Cheery stuff.

The Markt doesn't seem anywhere close. And the decorative pavement, with all its cobbles, is starting to knacker the wheels of my suitcase. I say my suitcase. I've borrowed Lexie's. I don't think he'll be very impressed if I break it. Plus Mike has s toileting requirement.

"Let's go back to the town hall, Ron. They're bound to have toilets there."

While Mike's inside, I swiftly knock back my impulse schnapps. It is 9 am, after all. Nothing weird about that.

We drop by the supermarket again on the way back to the bus stop. I noticed earlier they had some decent beer. And there's still half an hour before our bus to Bischoffsgrün arrives. Ah, the guilty pleasure of sitting in a bus shelter drinking straight from the bottle. Like I'm 16 again.

Krug Bräu Lagerbier: guiltily good. Full of morning goodness.

The bus arrives on the dot.  Bischoffsgrün here we come. I wonder if it's as exciting a place as it sounds? Guess we'll find out soon.