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.

Sort of Zoigling

I see the dirty great hill one last time, walking down it towards the station, luggage in tow. Unfortunately, after descending the dirty great hill the gradient isn't flat. There's another susbstantial bump on the way to the station. In emphasises what torment walking up the dirty great hill would have been.

I take a train north to Pegnitz. Where I get another back south to Neuhaus. Net result: I've gone about 45 km due west. Yes, another Neuhaus. This time, Neuhaus an der Pegnitz. Confusing, isn't it? The area is littered with Neuhauses.

As the train draws into Neuhaus station, I spot something familiar next to the tracks. A brewery. Quite a substantial one, judging by the height of the conical fermenters. How odd. Kaiser Bräu, a sign says. Why odd? I've never heard of them. And I'm not in town to drink their beer. There's a far more special one in town. A communal one. They don't make Zoigl. Well, they don't call it Zoigl. It's exactly the same idea. Private citizens brew in a communal brewery, some just for their own use, others for sale.

On the walk to my hotel I see that special sign. A white and a blue triangle combined into a beautiful, six-pointed star. Looks like somewhere is selling the beer today.

The Pegnitz isn't a huge river in Neuhaus. Walking along its bank to my hotel, I see fish darting around, swimming hard to remain stationary in the surging current. It looks shallow enough to ford under the bridge. Which may well explain Neuhaus's location.

Bags dumped and room checked into, I'm soon back out in the heat headed for my first taste of not-called-Zoigl.

Star aside, there's no sign of any description on the pub's exterior. Nothing so banal as a name. A fag machine on the wall sort of gives away its pubby identity. Inside it looks like a normal, if old-fashioned pub. Several groups of middle-aged men are already marching their way through pints and pork. It seems churlish not to join in.

It takes a while before the woman serving emerges from the kitchen. "Bier?" she calls from the counter. I nod enthusiastically and soon a frothing mug is before me. The few minutes' wait have left me frothing almost as much as the beer.

It's much darker than the Zoigls, a glorious deep amber. It tastes different, too. The fresh, spicy hops are still there, but there's more malt. With a carmelly sort of thing bubbling beneath the surface. This is really nice. If only it were a little less fizzy. They need to adjust their CO2 level.

I wonder how this beer is classified by the style nazis? Let's see, it's amber in colour so they're bound to have called it a Märzen. Even though the gravity is way too low. I must remember to look it up later.

For once, music is playing. The radio. They seem to have some sort of Paul McCartney marathon going on. Bicycle Tyre* limps out as the second beer says hello to my throat. I say hello right back.

There'a a bit of an agricultural smell in the air that's adding brettanomyces aromas to the beer. I can live with that. The flies are more annoying. Keeping them off my bratwurst (excellent coarse ones, full of porky goodness) while I eat them is a struggle. Bugger off you little bastards.

After three, I tire of the never-ending struggle with the flies and go for a walk around town. Maybe I can find somewhere else open.

My hopes are soon dashed. The first pub I find is closed and up for sale. The second looks like a trendy young people sort of place. But that's also closed. As are the two pubs higher up the hill. I do spot what looks like the communal brewhouse, cowering beneath another imposing cliff-top castle.

Right next to it is an impressive Gründerzeit villa. Well, what would be an impressive villa, if it weren't empty and derelict. Mmm. Not the cheeriest of towns. I find other uninhabited buidlings on my walk. Which I abandon and head back to Gasthof Wolfsberg, my hotel. Mostly because I can't find another that's open.

The only customers are a family with several kids, who buzz aound, but in a much less annoying way than those flies. They don't settle on my hands or try to crawl into my glass. I decide that I much prefer children to flies. It's worth saying. Not every adult agrees.


I drink a beer from Kaiser Bräu, Veldensteiner Dunkles. It's not bad, sweeitsh with that indefinable nuttiness you get in a proper Bavarian Dunkles. What I call Lager Dark Mild. The name will catch on one day, I'm sure.

Meal destinations looking distinctly limited, I head back to the unnamed Zoigl that isn't called Zoigl pub. I sit outside in what it Britain would be called a beer garden: a big yard with a few picnic tables. On the next table is a large family group, enthusiastically demolishing pork mountains while pouring an endless stream of not-called Zoigl down their necks. Except for the children. They just work on the pork.

The country smell is even more evident outside. The fly annoyance generally similar. Added to the smell, there's a strange screaming noise, like someone strangling a drunken pensioner in a distant bathroom. It's only then I twig what's going. Despite us being right in the middle of town, there's a pig sty at the back of the pub yard. That explains the smell and the flies.

After the third beer, the flies annoy me less. As the sun begins to set, my spirits soar again. Without even the aid of spirits. Must be something in the air.








* I remember crazy Shane learning how to play it, back in 97 Brudenell Road, Leeds. He drove us all nuts strumming it constantly on his acoustic guitar. I could happily never hear it again. Even after more than 30 years.






Kommunbrauer Paul Reindl
Unterer Markt 3
91284 Neuhaus.



Gasthof Pension Wolfsberg
Postheimstraße 14
91284 Neuhaus,
Tel: 09156 998923
http://www.gasthof-wolfsberg.de

 

Still Zoigling

That hill. That dirty great hill.

There's one advantage to stying in Neuhaus. It's down that dirty great hill to get to Windischeschenbach. Of course, you have to come back up it to sleep. But that's a problem for later.

Two Zoigl Stube are open in Windischeschenbach today. More than enough to tempt me down the hill. The sun is still shining. Moving the temperatue from too bloody hot, to unbearably bloody hot. At least I'm walking downhill. The woods leading down to the river look cool and tempting. Until you see the precipitous slope. Wouldn't fancy trying to walk down that. At least the trees would break your fall, should you slip. Probably break a bone or two, as well.

It's after midday so Windischeschenbach's main drag is almost deserted. Only the ice cream shop is open. I wonder why that might be?

Walking through town I smell that unmistakable smell. Wort boiling. I remember the communal brewery being just off the main drag. And around the next corner, there it is. A trailer parked outside receiving the spent grain. I can't miss taking a snap of that.

At the door of Zoiglstube Fiedlschneider I realise that I've made a slight miscalculation. It doesn't open until 14:00. And it's not yet one. Not to worry, Schloßhof is just around the corner.

For some reason it strikes me as posher than the other Stube. Not sure why. More up-market courtyard, I guess. Picking a spot in the shade, I wait for the Zoigl to roll by. It doesn't so much hit the spot as give it leathering. Time for me to disappoint with tasting notes again. The beer is as golden and hazy as the humid day itself. And bitter as the thought of having to walk up that dirty great hill later. I treat myself to a second. Just to make sure if it will hit that spot again. The spot is left battered, broken and bloody.

A pair of middle-aged cyclists appear, looking as red and sweaty as I feel. Rather them than me on a day like this. The heat and hill combination must be a thrombie's dream. I don't believe in giving him a sniff of a chance.

I'd have had a third. But I couldn't get that hill out of my head. At the bus stop, I discovered I'd just missed the last bus of the day. Damn.

A taxi came to my rescue. For just six euros I dodged the agony of a climb up that dirty great hill. Money well spent.

The Zoigling wasn't yet done. Because my hotel, Waldnaabtal is one of the few places to permanently offer Zoigl. Their own Zoigl. One of seven Zoigls for sale in Neuhaus. (The six I mentioned yesterday are the ones brewed by private families.) That was my dinner destination chosen.

Waldnaabtal gave me my first taste of Zoigl, four - or was it five? - years back. I was a little disappointed. Too much fizz and not enough character. But weird dalek-like glasses. I give it another try. I hate to say this. I really hate to say this, because it makes me sound like a rating fascist. It's got the buttery note I associate with diacetyl. I like a bit in a Lager. Fills out the body. But not this much. It's still too fizzy. Disappointing as Zoigls go, but by no means bad.

It's a different experience drinking Zoigl in a normal pub. Quite a nice normal pub, but without the charming informality of  a real Zoigl Stube. Not the same thing at all. Even though Waldnaabtal is clearly a family business, too.

I eat liver. That's true both as a general statement and as a specific one about this evening. It's quite nice. Not too heavy. I couldn't take a big Haxe type lump of pork in this weather. Far too hot for that.

I'm not staying in the main part of the hotel, but an associated holiday flat down the street. Or rather up the street. The day ends with a short climb. At least I dodged the big climb.






Zoiglstube Fiedlschneider
Stadtplatz 15
http://www.fiedlschneider-zoigl.de/


Schloßhof Zoigl
92670 Windischeschenbach,
Tel: 09861 2660
http://www.schlosshof-zoigl.de


Zum Waldnaabtal
Marktplatz 1
92670 Windischeschenbach, Deutschland
Tel: 09681 3711
http://www.waldnaabtal-hotel.de

apple, apple, Apple

I took Lexie to see the new Spiderman film yesterday. In 3D. It was so exciting. I've not seem a 3D film in the cinema before. So impressive, it almost distracted me from my beer.

"Do you want to go to the pub, dad?" Lexie asked as we left the cinema. Are popes made out of wood?

"Could do."

"What about Wildeman?'

"Fine by me."

Half way down my pint of ESB, Lexie asked: "I like that theatre pub, would you like to go there when you've finished your beer?"

"I know why you want to go there."

"No, it's not that dad. They have a nice sculpture there." Short pause. "Can I have an apple juice with six ice cubes?"

"Not here. I'll think about it over another rogge jenever. Maybe in the next pub."

De Balie. That's the pub Lexie meant. It's the only decent place on the Leidse plein. We got the tram there. It is on the way home, after all.

It was almost deserted inside. Most customers were sat outside.

"Can I have some apple cake, dad?" I'd already ordered him an apple juice. A dead posh one. Luckily de Balie is one of the most reasonably-priced places in the area. "OK lexie."

Two mouthfuls into his cake, Lexie remarked: "Look, dad, apple, apple, Apple." Pointing at his juice, cake and then the buidling next door. The bloody Apple store.

Only a hard-hearted heathen could have refused him his ticky-tacky fun.

The atmosphere inside is weird. Like a dystopian science fiction film, set in a creepy future full of brain-washed slaves.

"Do you need any help?" one of the slightly scary acolytes asked as Lexie played with an iphone.

"No. My soon is trying to convince me to get an iphone. We're going through a series of tests and don't want to be disturbed." He fucked off, but threw us a few funny looks as he departed.

I let Lexie play a little longer before dragging him home.

On the tram, I told Lexie of my Brave New World vision. "It is quite creepy in there, dad."

More Zoigling

If day one had been all about Zoigl, day two was even more so. First the look around Falkenberg's communal brewhouse. Then on to Windischeschebach and Neuhaus, separated only by a piddling little stream and a dirty great hill.

My hotel is in Neuhaus, only a monstrous climb away from Windischeschenabach railway station. I thank Stalin that I was offered a lift. Don't want to throw a thrombie so early in the trip. Especially not while there's more Zoigl to drink.

There's a whole row of Zoigl Stube on the Marktplatz in Neuhaus. It's not really what I'd call a market place, more of a wide street with pretensions of grandeur. Doesn't look like it ever sees any market stalls. Then again, there is all that Zoigl. That stuff I'd crawl over broken glass naked to get my hands on.

Happily the Stube whose turn it is to be open today, "beim Käck´n", I haven't been in before. Like many, it's in the courtyard of a house. Long before I get to the archway leading to it, I can hear the buzz on conversation and the occasionally clink of a glass or plate. The tell-tale sounds of delight.

Thankfully there's a seat in the shade. The sun's already reddening my face. Especially my nose. Making me look even more of a pisshead than I am. The Stube's about half full. Not bad considering noon has not yet nooned.

Prices in the big city of Neuhaus are more than in Falkenberg. At 1.70 euros the Zoigl is a full ten cents dearer. The robbing bastards.

The landlord stops for a chat when he brings my beer. Filling me in on the local Zogling scene.

Six of Neuhaus's Zoigl brewers sell their beer. Another 17 or 18 just brew for themselves. Specific houses - the older ones in the vicinity of Marktplatz - have brewing rights*. Zoigl brewers pay the normal tax on beer they sell. For someone brewing so little, that won't be a stack. Germany has a sliding scale of duty.

The landlord tells me that he brew 42 hl eight times a year. I make that 376 hl. Peanuts. The beer is served directly from the lagering tank**.

This particular Stube is quite old, having been around 28 years. The whole Zoigl Stube thing, according to the brewer/landlord, only started after WW II.

Slurping the sense of social cohesion along with the beer, I glanced at the menu. Bits of cold meat and bread, most of it. Right down my Strasse in this heat. I bet you're expecting a description of the beer, aren't you? Here goes. Might not be the one you wanted.

Discrete and friendly as the surroundings. Satisfying but undemanding, like a short stroll through the countryside to a thatched pub***. Bitter and spicy, if you want flavour words. I don't have more. My intellect is lying down on the back seat, letting emotion take the wheel.

A woman, well past pensionable age, the brewer's mother I guess, drops by my table for a chat. She's very friendly and chatty. Just one little problem. Her accent is so thick you'd need a ton of semtex to blast through it. I nod and mumble "Ja." when it seems appropriate. It's a humbling experience. I thought I could understand spoken German. If only Tatort were more often set in the Oberpfalz.

A few hours slide away. Like the locals after getting their bottles filled with to-go Zoigl. Soon it's time for me to slide away. Not back to the hotel for a kip. Better than that. Down the big hill. To the bright lights and bustling streets of Windischeschenbach. See you there.


"Grüss Gott." Remind me to tell you more about that.





* I want one of those houses. Dolores agrees on retiring to Bavaria. Why not go the whole hog and Zoigl?

** That's the one area where Zoigl disappoints. No-one seems to do it Bayerischer Anstich any more. Too much fiddling about, I guess.

*** Other words came to mind. But I'm no Swiss Tony.




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Zoiglstube "beim Käck´n"
Marktplatz 18,
Neuhaus