Part 5: Herman the German and a Simple Twist of Fate

Morning and the sun is shining again, although everything outside – grass, trees, cars, is covered in whiter than white ice. Time for coffee, than Ann and I are going on a country-lane walk – what that really meant, was that Brigitte wanted me out of the house, so amongst other things, she could do my washing, knowing full well, I’d never allow her to do that, she is so very kind and a lot of fun. The German breakfast , is naturally, very European – breads, cheeses, butter, jams and great coffee, I discover I’m happily forgoing my daily Weetbix (habit of a lifetime) and my body-clock has completely adapted to the German time zone - much to Ann’s annoyance, I’m back to my early morning waking and getting up, but it works out well, in terms of checking emails from home and writing. Ann’s not convinced.

We go walking across the property, the farm is tenanted, so Brigitte doesn’t have to worry about it day to day and just maintains the house as her soon-to-be permanent retirement home. It’s all very picture-postcard pretty, with horses and quaint, but purposeful barns, tall winter-bare trees and small fenced paddocks. It’s very different from the Australian countryside, not just in terms of the vegetation and building styles, but also the sheer constant volume of traffic on nearby main roads and even country lanes, inside the house, double glazing keeps any traffic noise to a barely audible hum, but outside, you’re aware of it.

We come across an oak tree, with a roughly hewn stone monument underneath, Ann tells me the tree was planted to commemorate the end of the wars with France, in 1871, it’s easy to forget that the relationship between France and Germany has long been fractious, with aggression and distrust on both sides.

A little further along the lane, we come across a small memorial, with three inscribes memorial stones, it’s a stark reminder of past history, basically the WW1 Memorial is incredibly similar to any in Oz or NZ, the place names, such as the Somme etc, are all exactly the same, the dead soldiers are referred to as heroes. However the WW11 Memorial is different, the dead soldiers are referred to as victims. I find myself once again grappling with the enormous shadow the Nazi era casts over the German psyche. I’m one of those who has often though that while we should never forget the lessons of the past, we should move on. My own nature, is that if I make an error in dealing with another person, I find a way to say I’m sorry and try to repair the damage, but I don’t go on eternally berating myself, if the other party can’t forgive, or doesn’t want to, I simply will not go on beating myself to death about it, although of course, one continues to regret hurting anybody. But this is so deep, it’s almost as though the German people are afraid of the ‘Beast Within.’ Somehow,  I want to tell the Germans it’s over, stop, we’re all mates, let’s have a bloody drink and laugh. Besides, we are facing a terrible enemy of freedom – the religious extremists utilising the Muslim faith.

We’re not alone in Australia, with the Bondi Riot reaction to the perceived threat of Muslim extremism, all over Europe, communities are becoming more and more right wing, with skinhead, Nazi thugs in England, Germany and even Sweden, while in Egypt, a badly flawed democratic (hmm?) dictatorship is collapsing. It certainly makes the sexploits of the grubby Italian Prime Minister, suddenly seem preferable – how good would it be if all we had to worry about was a distasteful old millionaire who can’t keep his dick in his pants!

I ponder for a while on the way we humans constantly argue, both within and without our tribes. I’m swinging more and more to the belief that Wikileaks has an as yet to be appreciated vital role in bringing truth and openness to our world, whether it’s the bullshit of politicians, or large companies, although so far, Wikileaks is only dealing blows to democratic institutions, it’s about time the really corrupt dictatorships were given the same unrelenting spotlight, the USA is not the Great Satan.

The words of John Lennon’s wonderful song flood my mind:

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

We walk on and the ghosts fade, to be replaced by a purposeful gnome striding along a garden wall with his barrow and round the next corner, a film crew working in a picturesque farm yard, with actors and props.

That afternoon, Brigitte drives us to the monument I had to see Herman the German. Around the same size as the Statue of Liberty, he stands astride an old mountain top, sword held high and his foot squashing a dying eagle (symbol of the Roman Empire). Herman’s name was Arminius and he is regarded as an almost mythical Founding Father of Germany.

2,000 years ago, around the birth of Jesus Christ, the Roman Emperor Augustus decide to conquer / add Germany to the Roman empire, thought to be an easy task, as the natives were disparate tribes fighting amongst themselves. Arminius is credited with organising the tribes into a force that beat three of the best legions of the Roman Empire – the defeated General was forced to commit suicide when he returned in disgrace to Rome. Arminius had been educated in Rome and had served with the Roman Army – he knew their methodology.

Although the event is absolutely factual, around the time of Martin Luther and the Reformation, the symbolism of Arminius grew, however his Latin name was not acceptable  and so he became Hermann. The concept and growing mythology became nationally important during the 19^th century, as Germany fought the dictator Napoleon and the French army. By the end of the Napoleonic wars (1871), German pride and determination not to be ruled / invaded again, had reached its zenith. Joseph Ernst von Bandel then proposed the Hermann Monument and spent the next several years overseeing the construction of the project, with Kaiser Wilhelm officially opening the monument in 1875. The monument actually faces towards France, as a then-important message to the French to bugger off!  The proud von Bandel passed away 12 months later.

Out of interest, the outfit Hermann (yes, the double n is correct, I just call him Herman the German, for a reason I’ll explain later), wears is not historically correct, it reflects the romanticism of the 19^th century and the monument was damaged by bombing during the second world war. In fact it’s fascinating to walk around the park and find statues to the German Chancellor of the time, Bismarck, a name etched on me as a young boy, with the stories (and song) about the WW11 German battle ship, it all becomes real, in a strange way. But most of all, I feel a marvellous affinity with Herman, my proud Scottish Highlander ancestry has always loved the fact that the Highlanders beat the hell out of Caesar’s troops (from memory two legions disappeared never to be seen again. The English might have beaten us with guns, but back when men were men!

As for my naming him Herman the German, there’s a wonderful twist of fate here – way back when, circa 1975, I arrived in Kalgoorlie – well, discharged from hospital after a hell of an accident, as a passenger way out on the Nullarbor – and applied to Brambles for a job as a road train driver. The boss, Andre Geddes, looked at me and said, “I’ll send you down to Anaconda Nickel mine for a week with Herman the German, if he thinks you’re any good, you’ve got a job, if not, you haven’t.” Herman the German was a bloody good bloke, knew more than I’ll ever know about roadtrains, was a great teacher and a lot of fun. I kept the job. I believe that Herman is living happily in retirement down at Esperance. The twist? When we got back to Brigitte’s there was an email from the lovely Keely at Chandler Macleod, I’m going driving road trains for Brambles (these days BIS) at Christmas Creek, when I return, there’s that circle of life again.

PART 4: Cultural Differences, Elephants in Rooms & Adjusting

Sunday evening and we left Warendorf to drive the 75kms across to Lage (Brigitte’s family home). She’s decided to retire there and is gradually readying the place. Ann and Brigitte promise me warmth and hot showers! Hans, (Ann’s dad) doesn’t do heating or hot water, he’s one of those tough Spartan types, with a preference for the bracing.

I’ve actually found it tough, surprising on one level – I prefer things cooler, rather than hotter – I’ll always have the air conditioning set at 20c, rather than 23c, but the biting cold has almost overwhelmed me, to the point where, if we weren’t out,  I was retreating to bed, curled up under a pile of doonas. Showers were the other problem (for me), I’m one of those wasteful creatures, who likes long, hot showers at least twice a day and cold water has never equated to clean in my mind, so cold, or even tepid showers don’t work for me (psychologically). Yet I love a cold shower in the Kimberley, but then that’s a very hot, dry environment.

It’s been very interesting to analyse the question of resources in Germany and Australia, in terms of heating / cooling and water. Here in Germany, water is not a problem – well, it can be – too much, whereas in Australia (specifically my home of Perth), water (the lack of it), is a major issue, there are active government sponsored campaigns aimed at long shower addicted cretins like me! Water is rationed for gardens during the summer months and the actual cost of water is now reflected in consumer pricing, in order to train the population to conserve the precious resource. In fact, Western Australia is building more Desalination Plants along our huge, virtually uninhabited coastline, to provide the water our ever-growing population will need, which segues into the question of energy to run these plants and heat our water.

Western Australia has an abundance of natural gas, most of which we export overseas to Japan, China, Korea and increasingly, India, for their respective construction expansion, but we use natural gas for power generation and domestic heating. We also have abundant coal reserves, which we mainly use for power generation. Tidal power (wave generated) is an intriguing possibility, but we will neve have hydro-electricity. I’m not keen on coal, it strikes me as ecologically irresponsible and Ann gently, but vehemently disagrees with me, on my enthusiasm for nuclear power, I believe it’s the clean answer to the world’s need for power and I’m told by experts, that desalination and nuclear power are the perfect partners.

So in Perth, power generation is increasingly expensive, not to mention that we urgently need to change from using ‘dirty’ coal. The state government has recently dramatically increased the price of domestic power, on a ‘user-pays’ principle, the effect has been dramatic home power bill increases – my November / December 2009 power bill was around $175.00, the equivalent 2010 bill was $375.00! So make no mistake, Perth people are now very careful with power – my hot water’s turned off, in fact everything except the fridge and the security alarm system is turned off while I’m away here in Europe, previously, one would never have bothered.

Germany is reliant on Russia for gas, while it does of course, have hydro, coal and nuclear power generation, but whatever way you look at it, power / energy, is now very expensive in both Germany and Australia. Building methods, such as double glazing, which no German home could do without, are now increasingly being used in Australia. It’s funny, we’re different, but we’re the same in the end – except for me and hot showers! I’ll pay the bloody price!

Brigitte’s home is a beautiful white cottage, in a rural setting, a few kilometres from the town of Lage. The big house at the start of her lane, was originally her school, where she went as a child, there were two classrooms downstairs and the two school teachers lived upstairs. Her cottage was her mum’s place, she passed away some three years ago and Brigitte is in the process of changing all those things one does, from furniture to bathrooms etc. And yes! Brigitte DOES WARM and hot water. Suddenly I feel human again and, I’ve slipped into European time. It’s taken a week, for my body to adjust, it hasn’t been a problem, more a matter of irregular sleep patterns etc, but now I’m back to me – an early riser, as much as I might want to, I simply cannot lie in bed for hours – except when I’m frozen in Warendorf!

Brigitte shows me a photo of a young man in his mid / late 20s, “That’s my father, I never knew him, I’ve missed him all my life, but especially when I was a teenager girl. My mother was a wonderful provider, but tough, she had to be. Oh don’t get me wrong, our home was always warm and full of food, but I missed my dad, he died in the last days of the war.”

It’s the first time anybody has mentioned the Second World War. It’s not a daily topic anywhere really, but it’s true that as a guest in Germany, one takes special care not to come near the topic. I’m suddenly unsure of myself, not sure what questions to ask, or even whether to pursue the topic. But Brigitte wants to tell me. It was that time when the war was lost for Germany, their forces were in urgent, chaotic retreat, Brigitte’s dad was in the army at that stage close to the Polish border. The Russian army swept through, intent on extracting revenge. A Catholic priest told Brigitte’s family that her dad had been seen running into the church for sanctuary, along with several other soldiers. The Russians pursued them and he was never seen, or heard from again.

I tell her that although my father never really talked about the war to me (or anyone I think), he  didn’t regard the German enlisted man as the enemy, his loathing was reserved for the Japanese, while my uncle (his brother), who fought in the Western Desert, was always open about his admiration for Rommel and the German soldiers. My own feelings are, terribly confused, war, in hind-site, seems so futile, stupid and insane, yet I remember seeing Dachau (between Munich and Ingolstadt), the sheer horror of it all – Hitler and the Nazis and the camps, still overwhelms me. It’s something I’ve never talked about event with close friends, (it so overwhelmed me with frozen horror), other than to say that I can never visit another camp (an Auschwitz for example). But what else could the world do, other than to join forces and stamp out such insane evil? We put the topic gently to bed, although I was not to know that a stranger would force me to again confront the issue the following day.

The next morning is beautiful. THE SUN IS SHINING!! This is the first time I’ve seen the sun for eight days! I’m off. Shoes, coat, scarf and camera, I stride up the lane.

A lovely one hour walk along the roadside, down to the outskirts of Lage, then back across a winter-dormant cornfield, to a small forest. As I walk through the forest, startled deer run off through the bush. I laugh, just like home really, except the deer would be kangaroos. Then I thought, “Hmm, Ann told me they were reintroducing wolves! That could get interesting.” Back at the cottage, the girls serve me orange juice and coffee (all the way from China? – one for the Cohen fans) and I photograph a couple of beautiful tiny birds – a European Robin and a Tit, feeding on the gorgeous Witch Hazel bush in the front garden.

Brigitte creates a wonderful lunch of salmon and pasta and opens a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Now I happen to be one of those people who feels that nobody does Sauvignon Blanc like the Kiwis down Marlborough Sound and this is stunning. Something called Spy Mountain, the product description is German, even the name seems more German than New Zealand, it’s obviously a bulk deal with a German importer, but the price! E2.75 per bottle!!! That’s about $3.25AUS, it’s impossible. The West Australian wineries complain about the Kiwi wines being dumped in Australia at ludicrous prices ($14 - $25.00 a bottle), but here in Germany, the wines are so cheap, wherever they come from – France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Argentina, South Africa, Australia and  New Zealand. And, this is the second time I’ve come across high-level Kiwi marketing – there was the Kiwi clothing in the up-market Munster store, all very interesting when I think about the Australian retailers, most of whom sourcing their products from China, all complaining about unfair competition. Something’s crook in Tallarook, as the old saying goes! But not here in Germany.

I ring my mate Veronica, back home in Perth, to see how she's going in her battle with breast cancer. She’s delighted to hear from me (Perth is seven hours ahead), but is bit tired from an afternoon of Chemo. We laugh about my reaction to the cold – she and her brother are Hungarian and understand only too well the nuances of European weather, she can tell that I’m enjoying myself immensely.

Then we’re off to visit the town of Detmold, some 30kms away. As we close-in I can see a massive statue up on a distant hill. It seems that the Northern Germans and the Highlanders have something in common – they both beat Caesar – defeated and killed the invading Roman Army. This monument is all about that defeat and routing of the Romans, funny that the Roman Church should later get such a grip over Germany.

Detmold is, seemingly, like every German town, utterly beautiful, with its wonderful old buildings, I’m utterly entranced, We walk through the central parklands of the local castle (still lived in by the same family from a century or two ago), Ann points out a bust of Brahms, “He used to live here for a while, I’ll show you his house.” Suddenly there is that amazing connection with real history and of course, the home of classical music, just think upon who the Germans have given us – Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, stunning really. A gift of music from true gods.

We wander into the town square, with a lovely old fountain and a beautiful old pink building that is now the town hall and tourist centre. I have to take a picture. As I point the camera at the fountain, an elderly chap (in his mid 80s), poses in a mad pose, with a whimsical grin on his voice. He’s telling me something, but quickly realises my paucity of German. He falls into excellent accented English, “Do you realise that this is where the Hitler Marches were held and he gave some of his speeches? The town wanted to take the fountain down, but they’ve decide to leave it.”

There’s no malice, or obvious intent in what he’s saying, other than a wish to politely inform me. I’m taken completely by surprise and look to Ann and Brigitte for help / advice. I have no idea what I should do – ask him more? Let it go? I instinctively like the guy, the grin on his face – oh yes, he knew what he was doing – appeals to me, I recognise another larrikin.

Ann takes my arm, “I’m sure he’s not a local,” she said, “they would never have brought that up. I think he’s from Berlin, he’s very well educated, look, he’s looking back to see how you’re coping.” He was. I told Ann that I would actually like to sit down with him, so would she, but by then, he was gone. So there it was, the Elephant remains in the Town Square, a real ghost. I need to move away from the Square.

There is a wonderfully mad large sculpture outside the regional museum – it looks part dragon, part horse and there is a falling rider, with four faces, on the horse. It turns out to be an interpretation of the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and was sculptured as a reaction to the fall of the wall in Berlin. It’s amazing. Next, there is an old – old? Try 1671! Drinking fountain, with an outrageous modern sculptured frog ( a la Wind in the Willows), he reminds me of another great Perth mate, Peter Briggs, who always reminds me of Toad of Toad Hall, in fact he revels in it, his home is named Toad Hall.

Then we walk along a lovely little lake, it’s close to a major music conservatorium, a guy dressed in semi-mediaeval costume, sits down by a large tree and begins to play an instrument of wind, that sounds a little like the bagpipes. Ann tells me it is an ancient instrument called a Schalmei. I find it quite enchanting and a real reminder that I am lucky enough to be in one of the cradles of our civilisation.

On the way home, we call into a supermarket – I’m going to cook tomorrow night – I need to repay, in some small way, this utterly splendid hospitality and unquestioning welcome, the Aschenbrenner family and Ann’s friends have so freely given. As we walk around the grocery aisles, I am shocked to discover how much cheaper food (processed and non-processed) is than in Perth, the difference is probably in the region of 30% cheaper! Not to mention that Ann has long been shocked at the price of restaurants and cafes in Perth, compared to Germany. She’s right.

Part 3: Munster

I live in a very modern city, where unfortunately, during a previous 1970s based economic boom, most of Perth’s old, (relative to European colonisation of Australia – 1829 for Perth), buildings were torn down and replaced with modern steel, concrete and glass. Clinical and antiseptic in look, a side effect, was the creation of ‘wind tunnels’ along the streets of one of the world’s windiest cities and an almost complete lack of character. Thankfully the port city of Fremantle (14kms down the Swan River from the Perth CBD), avoided this fate, her old buildings were conserved and face-lifted, the result being that Fremantle (Freo to us locals) has character and ambience, while Perth is clean, modern and yes, very pretty, but lacking in style and character, something is missing.

Of course, what Australia offers, is a land beyond ancient. When one visits Europe, you’re aware of how young the land is, positively immature compared to Australia. Yes, it will be another thousand years before Australians can realistically hope to offer visitors genuine historic buildings, but Europe can never offer the sense of timeless age and Earth-mother knowledge the Great Southern land imparts to perceptive visitors. It’s all about that sense of place and of course, each place is so very different.

Some places, where the people must dwell and live with impossibly harsh winters, build hard, bleak stone-walling buildings, facing aggressively off to the snow and ice. Scotland is a perfect example, with the notable exception of Edinburgh, bleak, grey / black granite buildings, with small windows, (think Aberdeen), offer no hint of vibrant life, only on entry into a building, do they come to life and tell a human tale.

The Germans, on the other hand, have perfected an undoubted art of giving the exteriors of their old (and new buildings) a charm and elegance, using colour and cultural architecture. The streets of Munster are an absolute treasure trove of charming ambience, colour and history. Everywhere you look, there is a photographic opportunity, the human history envelopes you, it’s utterly intoxicating, medieval narrow, cobble stone streets are not replaced with tar and cement, they are repaired, the cars must cope.

Cars? Surprisingly, for a nation that excels in fast, big, luxury cars and offers some of the world’s greatest motorways (superb, fast autobahns), Munster is not a city of cars. Oh yes, they’re around, but it’s the ‘shopping basket’ little car that is king, but God, they’re all dark, grey, silver or black. It’s as if Munster people are emphatically stating, “We are a serious people, we don’t do colour,” yet their buildings say quite the opposite. Oh there are some coloured cars – noisy Mercedes Benz diesel taxis, in the most dreadful, bland, awful, tasteless beige! All very disconcerting for a car lover like me – I wonder what the reaction would be, if I drove my bright yellow, black racing striped Falcon through Munster?

So, no cars as such, what do they use for transport? Trains? as I’ve mentioned before, a fantastic train service. Buses? Yes, plenty of those, travelling impossibly narrow streets, fighting a losing battle with the dominant mode of transport – bicycles! Yep, riding along on my pushbike honey. And make no mistake, there are some honeys riding their bikes along the streets of Munster.

The ladies seem to have perfected the art of combining elegance, fashion and sensuality with riding a pushbike. And safety helmets are not legally demanded. As Perth people know, one of the greatest negatives against pushbike riding, is the legal requirement to wear safety helmets which make everyone look stupid, so many don’t ride, which is a shame. Here, even on the darkest windswept winter’s day, Muster people ride just with earmuffs, or sometimes balaclava type cloth head gear, but most of the time,, the gorgeous ladies just have their hair tied back in a pony tail, it’s all quite delicious.

The downside is that bikes are everywhere, parked everywhere, taking up every free space in laneways, street corners, building sides etc. There are specific bicycle paths and heaven help you if, as a pedestrian, you step into them! Make no mistake, here in Munster the bike is King, Queen and Ruler!

The city topography is almost perfect for bikes, much like Christchurch in New Zealand (known as Bicycle City), it’s basically flat and Munster is also a university city, so it all makes logical and ecological sense. Ann tells me there is a social downside, in that bicycle theft rates are high, so high that Munster registers very high on German crime rate statistics, purely because of the abnormal bicycle ownership and consequent theft.

Munster has another connection with Christchurch – churches and cathedrals, although Munster is traditionally a Roman Catholic stronghold, indeed there is an horrific reminder of monstrous medieval Catholic practices right in the heart of the city. Hans pointed up above the clock on Lamberti Church in the main square, at three large cages suspended on hooks. 500 years ago, would be Protestants were tortured with fire, then left dead, or to die and rot in the cages, as a gentle reminder to the good people of Munster that Catholicism was the natural order of things. I guess in a city this old, there will always be dark passages, speaking of which, yes, the city was heavily bombed during the second world war, as there was a large Luftwaffe base in the town, but they rebuilt the old buildings which is marvellous.

Food and wine? My word, in abundance and cheap! Eating and drinking in Munster really brings into perspective the atrociously high prices we pay in Perth and you can buy very pleasant South Australian ‘quaffing wine’ for $2.50AUS!  Munster people are shocked when Ann and I tell them what dining out costs in Perth. Then there are house prices and rents, far, far below Perth prices. I am confronted with the fact that no matter what that uninformed, vapid New South Wales Premier may think. Perth is a very, very expensive city to live in, compared to much of Europe, all a bit of a shock to a complacent Aussie.

Eating is very much a cultural exchange experience – it’s not done to feed the body, rather feed the soul, the main meal may well be at 2.30pm, after a breakfast at 9.00am of bread, cheeses and coffee, all very civilised. The only real surprise is the obvious lack of interest in wine, it’s there, everybody likes a glass, but the drink is beer. I’m finding that my hosts make special allowances for me (as a non- beer drinker) and ensure there is wine at the table for me.

The language barrier (mine, not the people I’m mixing with – they all speak English in various degrees of proficiency), is proving to be a non-event and, as I’ve discovered previously, I am very comfortable with German people, I like them and really feel at home with them – although socially, my complete lack of interest in soccer might test some!

Yesterday (Saturday), it was bleak, cold and wet, I wondered about going outside. The previous day, Ann and I had stayed the night at her apartment in Munster, venturing out in the morning to visit the Picasso Museum – I digress, there was an exhibition of the artist Paul Klee on, but it was mostly pen and ink. I like his colour work, but came away from this exhibition slightly bored and disinterested, thinking he needed to get a life. Serious Klee scholars would no doubt find the exhibition wonderful.

Anyhow, back to the story. After we came out of the exhibition, we went to the chain café Nord See,  a great example of how cheap good, pleasant food is in Germany – fresh, fresh battered fish, beautiful salads, two side bowls of different dressing, a desert, plus a glass of wine -  less the $10.00AUS. Sure, it wasn’t the Ritz and the décor was screamed IKEA, but value for money and fresh food, you bloody beauty!

But, as we came out onto the street, the cold winter finally got to me and I asked Ann of we could just go back to her place and rest. Hibernation was beginning to strike me as a great concept – wake me when spring is here. It was quite a mental effort to get going again later that afternoon to catch the train back to her dad’s place in Warendorf (about 25kms away).

Back to yesterday morning, Hans rang Ann and suggested I might like to see what he was working at and would be round to pick me up within about 20 minutes.  Sure enough, there he was 20 minutes later, waiting for me … with a rifle!  “Shit!,” I thought, “The bastard’s going to shoot me!” But no, although he is a hunter, he also understands the value of conservation and is running a private conservation programme for a multi-millionaire landowner friend of his, with about 150hectares of farmland and forest, just out of Warendorf.

It was fascinating, although bloody cold on the John Deere and the buildings! Look at the photos, fantasyland, like something out of Hansel and Gretel, with a touch of Salvador Dali. I’ve gotta meet this bloke and will, at Hans’ 70^th birthday next Saturday. He runs Highland cattle as well, indeed the ‘boys’ seemed to recognise me, but then I love working with cattle.

Last night was very special, Hans and Brigitte threw a Welcome Party for me, with Ann inviting close friends to come and meet the lunatic Australian bloke she’d got mixed up with. I wondered whether anyone would turn up – back home in Perth, we’d NEVER come out in weather like that, but these tough bloody Germans! In they rolled with presents of wine, Brigitte and cooked a sensational chillie curry, with accompanying salads and garlic bread. Yep, everyone drank beer, except yours truly. I had met three of the girls the other night, but not their partners and other ladies. It was almost 2.00am before we staggered into bed, after Holger had told me where the castles were – I WANT TO SEE CASTLES!! – and I had introduced them all to Malt whiskey. Most agreed that their liking for decent malts was probably still some years away (what were they inferring??), all agreed the Glen Morangie was special and a couple – Holger especially, were very taken with the Laphroig.

And now it’s midday Sunday, shortly I’ll take a wander around the narrow lanes of Warendorf, shoot a few photos, then this evening, we’re off to the country, for a night or two at Brigitte’s country home. I couldn’t live here, the winter is just too much for me, but I could sure as hell spend several months here each year, it feels very comfortable and welcoming.

HERR ROSS VISITS GERMANY, ENGLAND & FRANCE

How did I leave Perth? A last minute argument with Telstra about a bill, then Customs! Dear God. I know you can’t take liquids into the plane cabin; all I had was a small Fess nasal spray (50ml), so I placed in the mesh side pocket of my camera / computer bag.

“Stop”, screamed the tubby middle aged, uniformed tart, “You’ll have to go back through!”

“Why?” I replied.

“You’ve got liquid here!” she pointed to the Fess.

“Yes, I know, it’s less than 100ml, that’s why I put it there, highly visible, so you could see what it was.”

“You’ll have to put it through again, so we can see what it is,” she demanded.

“You know what it is, you can see it,” I replied. By this time, the queue’s getting longer. “Go back through!” the stupid cow demanded.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said, what is it about people like you?”

A female Asian tart-in-uniform told me not to swear, I replied that if she’d read the newspaper in the last couple of days, she would have read that a Perth Magistrate had declared it was perfectly OK to swear when confronted with stupid authority, would she like to test the fucking ruling? Apparently not. I had visions of the WA Police Minister with crazed bloodshot eyes, demanding people like me be shot at dawn. I know, I know, I just cannot cope with mindless authority, something Australia  and the USA seem to excel in. “Get me out of here,” I screamed to myself. Qantas did, an hour late. The Captain apologised, a thunderstorm in Singapore, combined with only one runway in use at Changi, had delayed the plane coming in to Perth. By now, 30 minutes into the flight, I was looking out over the salt ponds at Useless Loop – I’d driven for Brambles there in years gone by.

Qantas? You thought I was flying Air France. I was / am, but they code share with Qantas to Singapore and although I’d paid for Premium Economy, you only get an Economy seat on the Qantas leg, however there was nobody beside me, so it was OK.

Darkness closed in, little did I suspect that the WA sunshine was the last sunlight I would see for a looong while! The good thing about the delay out of Perth, meant that there was only a 45 minute wait at Changi to board the Air France flight. I popped into a duty free to buy a malt for Ann’s father, (as most of you know, you can’t take duty free booze into Changi, they take it off you and insist you buy theirs!), however, with the current exchange rate, it’s worthwhile buying duty free at Changi – a $79.99 (Singapore) bottle of Glen Morangie cost $53.00 AUS!

On to ze Frog airline and a very sexy air hostess, in a severe sort of way – I KNOW she had a whip somewhere. What was Premium Economy like? Well the legroom is excellent, but the seats are weird, in the same way that French cars work - they don’t, if you know what I mean. The seats are a pod system, that supposedly lie down. They don’t, they sort of slip forward under the next seat (almost), although they have an excellent leg rest, BUT, it’s almost impossible to get comfortable, nowhere near as good as the Qantas Premium Economy seats. I spent a fair bit of time walking around the plane, as my bum was numb and discovered you would NEVER fly Economy with Air France, the tiny seats make Qantas look generous. The Airbus was also (unusually) bloody noisy,  but it stayed up and the food was sensational. The wine less so – obviously French and virtually tasteless in that bland European way. The bloke next to me was Norwegian, an IT expert, he’d just spent  three weeks in Melbourne and had fallen in love with Oz, he was heading back to tell his wife they were moving as soon as possible.

The night went on and on and on, you all know the story if you’re done the Perth to Europe leg. Occasionally I saw the flickering lights of aircraft out in the night sky but nothing else, then it was 5.30am Paris time and we were descending into the city of romance. I looked out the window, hoping to spot a triumphant tower, or Monsieur Eiffel. Nothing. What I got was cloud and mist, all the way to ground zero, visibility was practically nil. Well, it is winter time!

As with Changi, I didn’t need to go through customs, (transferring to a Frankfurt flight), but my boarding pass and passport were checked four times and stamped once in a very pleasant, welcoming manner. I’d made two mistakes in my chosen clothes – firstly I’d not bothered with a belt on my jeans, I must have lost a little weight recently – every three metres, my jeans fell down, so I walked along with one hand carrying my camera bag and duty free booze and the other hand hanging on to one side of my jeans, stopping every 20 metres to hitch everything up again! You get the picture. I’d also worn a ‘Perth heavy’ long sleeved chambray shirt, knowing it would be winter in Europe,

Perfect … almost.  The jacket I knew I’d need if I went outside, was still lying on the bed, where I’d put it during the Telstra phone debacle. And we needed to go outside to get to the Frankfurt connection, firstly to catch a small bus, then to walk up to the aircraft. It was FREEZING, snow and ice everywhere and everybody dressed in clothes to cope with a Siberian winter … everyone that is, except yours truly. I tried to look Aussie Tough and pushed everyone out any queue so I could be first inside the bus and the plane. Up, up and away! Ze Fatherland here we come.

The plane broke through the clouds into the winter sunshine. An hour later, we dove back through the clouds again. Frankfurt was exactly the same as Paris, grey to sea level, nothing to be seen except landing lights, buildings and aircraft in a grey, grey swirling mist, all very different to the 40c+ of Perth! 

I steeled myself for the German Customs / Immigration people, who would no doubt make the Perth tarts look friendly and got a hell of a shock. NOTHING! NOBODY! NO CUSTOMS TO GO THROUGH! Just a sign saying ‘Anything to declare, this way.” I walked through the exit, straight into a machine gun carrying policeman. He ignored me, Ann came running over. I was dumbfounded. I later read that the European countries, Australia and England let each other know who’s where and what, the Germans already know you’re there and don’t feel the need to grill you to death. Amazing. As I said to Ann, “If this was Australia, or the USA, I’d be on the floor with a thousand guns pointing at me … and the WA Police Minister in a bloodshot-eyed frenzy screaming in the background. Welcome to Germany!

Part 2

Ann looked at me, “You can’t go outside dressed like that, you’ll freeze to death!” I replied that I was just about to open my suitcase and get out a warm coat, then I noticed the dog. There, in a Frankfurt Airport café, was a woman sitting with a dog at her feet. Nice dog. Nice woman, but! Oh well, I’d heard it was far worse in France. Then I noticed there wasn’t the smoking I’d seen so much of in German airports previously. Ann told me they now have dedicated smoking areas, which, for a non-smoker like me, is far more civilised.

We were travelling to Munster by train, a 200km plus trip from Frankfurt, I’d made a mistake when I booked the trip, not realising that Dusseldorf was a lot closer, but it turned out to be a good mistake … visually … for me, not Ann!

We caught the shuttle bus across to the station and my first real blast of the German winter. Bracing? It was like nothing in memory. Snow I know (I’m a Kiwi) and a couple of years ago, I stood in short shirt sleeves, in the snow in Colorado, but this was breathtakingly (literally) cold. “I told you,” Ann smiled, “We’ll have to buy you proper German winter clothes, or you won’t survive.” I began to understand, as we stood on the train platform with the wind from hell blowing through my very bones.

I was studying the architecture of the station – very similar to the airport and something I was familiar with, in my previous life as WA marketing manager for Audi. The steel and glass honeycomb design that Audi insisted upon for dealerships in Australia, not understanding, (or perhaps wanting to understand,) that the Australian climate meant that soaring overhead glass was not a good idea. But here in Germany, it makes sense, months of low, or no sunshine and you want all the light possible, it’s perfect for the climate, assuming it’s double glazed. This was the start of my understanding that I was now in a very different world to mine.

The train. Fantastic. I love trains, it’s THE way to travel … well, driving is de reguer for me of course!...  flying is so boring and a bloody pain with all the imposed officialdom, if I had my way, I’d never fly anywhere, but of course, time is the issue. The Germans do train transport incredibly well. Ann complains that the trains are often never on time, but the combination of a vast network and vast numbers of people, mean that there will always be the odd delay. You can buy a coffee, or meal, even on suburban commuters, brilliant and we had free entertainment on our train from Frankfurt to Munster. The on-board announcer (“next stop,” “coffee,” etc),  was as camp as a row of tents. Gay? This ‘guy’ was Queen of them all – “Hellooooo,” in the best Cabaret tones, “You can buy a coffee now, it’s sooooo nice.” He would even say, “Bye, bye” as people got off at their stops. Ann told me that other passengers were laughing and enjoying the show as well.

Tired as I was, I could not take my eyes off the view outside. We were travelling alongside the Rhein and although the day was gray, as was the water, the mountainsides of dormant vineyards on impossible slopes, the ruined castles and stunningly picturesque villages were simply overwhelming. I know I have to come back in the summer (do they have sunshine I wonder?). Not for me the riverboat cruise method, I’d drive, so I could stop and take it all in, visit a ruin, walk along a tiny vineyard, stop for coffee in a little village, the area is that beautiful. All the while, barges, (admittedly nowhere near as big as those that ply the Mississippi) sail past, flying Dutch, German and French flags, leading me to notice the paucity of private boats  and yacht clubs, I only noticed a couple of very small yacht / boat clubs, very different to Australia (and New Zealand), I wondered whether it was the weather, boating in the winter would not be a pleasure.

As I continued to marvel at the German rail system, I also began to understand why they could sustain such a system, there are large towns every few miles, they have a large population in a relatively small country (compared to Australia).  Using Perth, Western Australia as my reference point, while Perth has a population of just over 2 million people, the city is spread over a radius of about 65kms in width (east to west) and 160kms (north to south), to the east, the next major town is Kalgoorlie, (600kms away), to the south, the next major town is Bunbury (160kms away) and to the north, Geraldton, (600kms away). In case you’re wondering, there ain’t nothing to the west, except the Indian Ocean, next stop South Africa and that would be a bloody long rail tunnel!  The tyranny of distance and low population are the double whammy that will probably always make it economically impossible to sustain a public transport system (in Perth) like the German example. It’s different on the east coast of Australia (Melbourne, Sydney and to a lesser extent, Brisbane), but private transport (the car) will remain king in the West for a long while yet, by virtue of enforced necessity.

Munster. We alighted from the train, to be met by Ann’s beaming mum (Brigitte) and slightly hesitant dad (Hans) – how do you be a stern, appraising father with a bloke close to your own age, not to mention the barrier of language? My German is almost non-existent, but fortunately Hans and Brigitte have enough English to overcome the issues, not to mention that Ann’s English is brilliant.

We left my luggage in Hans’ car and walked to their local watering hole – the Stuhlmacher, named after the family that’s owned it for about 250 years, although it’s been a meeting place / pub for Munster people for at least 800 years! The town has been around as a major trading place since circa 850AD, which rather puts European history in Australia in perspective!  And the history is utterly compelling.

Although my roots are the Highland of Scotland – the Ross’s left Rothes (on the Spey River), for New Zealand, in 1846, having moved from their home at Tain approximately 100 years before that (I traced my family back to approximately 1462 in Tain some years ago), so there is no real connection with Germany, there is a growing sense of understanding how history has shaped the destiny of my family.

The pub was wonderful, olde-world and the company inviting and accepting – apart from my first obvious failure – I don’t drink beer and it seems the Germans do, in vast quantities … in the middle of bloody winter! I have no idea how they mange it, not put to fine a point to it all (too much information), my bladder would never last! I didn’t feel like a wine, so I settled on a Jim Beam (bourbon) and coke. Hans explained that this had been his family’s hotel since he was a boy, he’d been coming here for over 60 years and they welcomed and farewelled everybody at the pub, as a tradition, it suited me.

We then drove the 25kms or so to the village of Warendorf – famous for its horses and where Ann’s parents have their respective homes. We were stating at Hans’ place in the centre of town. Utterly picturesque, Hans’ home is relatively new, about 20 years old, although you’d never guess it from the outside. There are strict covenants about new buildings, to ensure the character of the town remains intact, so form the outside, the house could be two hundred years old, but step inside and it’s modern, quite Scandinavian – Hans has always liked Sweden … and Swedish girls.  Shh!

Stairs! The Germans do stairs, in a big way, everywhere, very similar to Scotland, I must admit, I prefer our Australian one level, big, open plan type housing, but then that’s a design absolutely suited to our climate. Here in northern Germany, the long, cold, dark, damp, winter, means that every room has to be heated and that ain’t cheap, so small rooms are the way to go, with doors closed to isolate the area being used. It all makes sense and I learn that these days, Germany is very reliant on Russia for its natural gas, if the flow stops, Germany freezes.

Freezing? As I write this, I’m sitting in pyjamas – I haven’t worn pyjamas since about the age of 12, plus a dressing gown, with a sleeping blanket wrapped around me and it’s 9.16am, so time to brave the shower, then perhaps sit with a wine (Hans does a wonderful mulled wine) and write more later.