A Small Corner of Germany
We’re looking for a small corner of Germany; not easy without Sat Nav - or at least a map. We’d been given directions - but hadn’t listened...
... and now all we have is a scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it: Hell will mend us.
“We’ll find it,” Jim says with brash confidence. “Can’t be that hard – it’s a small village.” We’re all in fine form. Jim has already had a few jars with an old school friend before leaving – and the two have slipped back with surprising ease into adolescent silliness. Jim’s longsuffering wife smiles benignly as she drives through the frosty night, nose pressed to the window screen, peering into the darkness through steamed glass.
The road curves through undulating countryside, dusted white. At last, we turn left into the village; a tangle of tiny lanes dipping and rising and criss-crossing the rolling hills.
“I think Chris said to turn left at the
Lokal.” I suggest helpfully. “No, wait, I think she said the
Kirche. Oh, hang on, was it the
Schule?” We dissolve into giggles and by some extraordinary stroke of good fortune we stumble upon the house.
Outside the front door, a box is spilling over with bottles of
Pfälzerwein, wine from the Pfalz area, situated in the Rhineland-Palatinate. The famous Romantic Road winds its way through this area, dotted with ancient villages and lined with vineyards.
It’s a crisp, clear night. Overhead, Orion is poised for the kill and Taurus the bull is pawing the heavens.
A warm glow beckons from within. Chris opens the door. “
Guten Abend. Willkommen,” She cries. Inside, the smell of
Wurst, spicy beans and
KartoffelKäse fill the air.
Pfalzvolksmusik is playing in the background.
Old friends gather together, and we rise our glasses of
Sekt: “
Prost. Zum Wohl.” Next to me is Karl from Cologne, who makes a living from the Christmas markets. We are never sure what he does the rest of the year. On the other side is Lydia from Northern Germany. Her father had been executed by the Nazis for refusing to go to war. Later, a British fighter plane had casually offloaded its remaining bombs on the way back to Blighty, destroying half her home as she crept under the table in the cellar, a terrified four year old.
It’s time to start the
Weinprobe, the wine tasting, and it’s a serious business: First, the whites. Richard demonstrates how to swirl the liquid round the glass, breathe in the bouquet and swill the wine around the mouth, allowing all the flavours to diffuse.
Then we eat: juicy tomatoes smothered in coriander, dark German breads, sausage, casseroles of beans and cheese-crisped potatoes, finishing with
Käsekuchen, a deliciously thick homemade cheesecake moistened with tangy lemon juice.
Now it’s time to sample the reds. Richard gives us a history and description of each one. We nod wisely and pretend we know our wines:
“
Ach, Ja. Der ist Kräftig… rund… fruchtbetont… aromatisch…körperreich.”
“Oh, yes. This one is strong... smooth... fruity… aromatic… full-bodied.”
The evening draws to a close. We leave with light heads, a belly full of wine and our hearts warm from our
Freundschaft.
“
Dankeschön. Tschϋs. Auf Wiedersehen. Mach’s gut,” we cry, leaving this small corner of Germany…
… and this small corner just happens to be a cottage of Germanophiles in the heart of England.
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