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/

Bamberg

I used to tell my kids that it was bad luck to walk past a pub that was open. For a while, I think they even believed me. Maybe that's because I so rarely walked past one. I'm a sucker for pubs. Or a total pisshead.

The most direct route from Bamberg station to my hotel leads virtually past the door of Fässla. I don't want any more bad luck. I've already had enough.

Fässla is filled with the usual early morning crowd: the retired, the injured, the unemployable and the odd bloke working shifts. I feel right at home, fitting into a couple of those categories. I kick off with a Lagerbier. Well I'm not going to drink Pils, am I? Not in Franconia. And that's the only other draught option.

I struggled to categorise Fässla Lagerbier, back in the days when I still bothered with that sort of thing. It's quite like a Helles, except for the colour. Polotmavy Lezak is probably the best fit. As the name suggests, not exactly a German style. Those few hundred metres from the station have given me a thirst (walking downstairs in the morning gives me a thirst). The first half of my half litre has disappeared before I even have time to think about sniffing it, swirling it around my gob and trying to pick some words to describe it.

I go in search of the words while I drink the second half of the half. Caramel, mint, pepper - I've used all of those before, haven't I? Lovely hop character. That spicy, peppery thing that German hops do so well and I describe so poorly. Perfect for a pre-noon pissup. The whole half litre disappears in a few minutes. The waitress shows no surprise when I order a second. She probably thinks I'm a lightweight. I am, in every sense, compared to my drinking companions. I'd show you photos, but, you know, they aren't the sort of blokes you snap without asking.

Bags dumped, lunch is on the agenda. True to tradition, it's in Schlenkerla. For a couple of reasons. Firstly it's, er, tradition. Secondly, I fancy some scrunchy pork crackling goodness. Thirdly, there's that exquisite beer, darkly brooding, splashing happily as it escapes the wooden cask. Smoky bacon. That's all the description you're getting. You know what it tastes like. Why let my incompetence taint your memory?

I've read a lot about the gruffness of the waitresses ay Schlenkerla recently. Can't say I've ever noticed it, myself. Sure, they aren't as chatty and friendly as those in quiet country pubs. But this is a busy town pub. And they're busy girls. I'd rather they get on with their job and bring me beer pronto than they pretend I'm their long-lost friend. My waitress does exactly what I hoped. A new beer appears soon after the final drops have been sucked from the last. And the crackling porky goodness appears on cue.

Have I mentioned how hot it is? I'm wearing shorts, it's so hot. The posh ones I bought in Target last year. Not had much chance to wear them since. Their black colour highlights the paleness of my legs. Pale except for those funny blue veiny things. A bit like Stilton cheese, my legs. Though not quite as appetising.

I've not been to Klosterbräu in a while, so I mosey over there. Have I mentioned how hot it is? It's so hot that I sit inside, where it's cooler. It's a charming room, if you like that folksy Bavarian type of thing. I do. Especially when the woodwork is stained with age and the seats have been sanded by the arses of generations. It's between meal shifts and the waitresses are eating, chatting and wrapping cutlery in serviettes. Very homely. As are the waitresses, motherly matrons in aprons, smiling and laughing. One of them brings me a Schwärzla.

Klosterbräu's beers are funny things. I adore their Maibock: a worty, spicy powerhouse. Braunbier (another unclassifiable) and Schwärzla are subtle symphonies in bottled form. Yet draught in the brewery they tap they almost always diappoint. Way too much CO2 blankets and muffles the delicate malt flavours, making them bland. It's the same story again today. I wish they'd get their act together.

When I visited Bamberg more than a decade ago, I wondered why there were so few tourists in such a beautiful town. Now I just wish most of them would fuck off. Groups of baffled oldies stumble behind their guides. They're from cruise ships. The ones that cruise Europe's rivers. I wonder if they know where they are? Well, other than in Germany. Though for all I know, they may think they're already in Austria.

There are quite a few in Zum Sternla. Tourists, I mean. But they're quiet and discrete. I'll let them live. For the first time in days my waitress is under 50. Almost under 20 this one, truth be told. Watching her walk to and fro is a nice distraction from the heat. Did I mention how hot it is? She brings me a half litre of Mahr's Ungespündet and throws in a smile for free. I almost forget the heat. Especially while the yeastily spicy Mahr's is gurgling down my throat. Emptying it is a good excuse to catch the waitress's eye again.

Not having been there in years I drop by Hofbräu. Thoughts of eating evaporate when I see the prices. They're having a larf, aren't they? This isn't Tokyo. I'm sitting outside. It's a little cooler now, but I still require some internal cooling. I order a half litre Zirndorfer Hell. Actually 0.4l. Cheeky bastards. Pulling the small glass trick. I don't think I'll be coming back soon. Though the Zirndorfer is pretty good.

Zebedee time.






Brauerei Fässla
Obere Königsstraße 19-21,
96052 Bamberg.
Tel. 0951 - 26516
Fax: 0951 - 201989
Homepage: http://www.faessla.de/



Schlenkerla
Dominikanerstrasse 6,
96049 Bamberg.
Tel. 0951 - 56060
Fax 0951 - 54019
Email: service@schlenkerla.de
Homepage: http://www.schlenkerla.de



Klosterbräu Bamberg
Obere Mühlbrücke 1-3,
96049 Bamberg.
Tel. 0951 - 57722
Fax 0951 - 59294
Email: mail@klosterbraeu.de
Homepage: http://www.klosterbraeu.de



Zum Sternla
Lange Straße 46,
96047 Bamberg.
Tel. 0951 - 28750
Fax 0951 - 2084340
Email: zumsternla@t-online.de
http://www.sternla.de/


Gaststätte Hofbräu
Karolinenstraße 7,
96049 Bamberg.
Tel. 0951 - 53321
Fax: 0951 - 5190258
Email: hofbraeu.bamberg@t-online.de
Homepage: http://www:hofbraeu-bamberg.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