My latest escapade back into Deutschland was… a bit disappointing really. The hostel (nodded to in previous post) set the initial tone – one akin to a perpetual headache  – but I won’t bore you with the details. (Just a few quickfire bullets to set the scene: extremely rude and annoyingly good looking Romanian receptionist; full-to-the-brim fridge of old forgotten food; the bed bug scare of 2017.)

And now for the city. To me, Munich felt like just another big city. From it I didn’t get a sense of charm or personality, just a handful more bier gartens than usual and an abundance of laiderhossen-clad legs in the main square (the city celebrated its 862nd birthday while I was there, and I think they use any excuse to don their famous trouser). The biggest and most renowned brewery, Hofbräuhaus, was a huge indoor chamber of ornately decorated curved cream ceilings with dark wooden panelling; old fashioned streetlamp-esque light fittings hanging down from the high arches; an expanse of great long wooden tables and benches set out in dozens and dozens of rows; and crammed full of thirsty / hungry / merry / replete Bavarian beer lovers and wide-eyed tourists. Beer by the bucketful splashed here, there and everywhere; gigantic mega-portions of meat-based German delicacies were scattered across the tables at varying stages of demolition; and a jolly, beer-bellied brass band took centre stage to cheer on proceedings. I imagine if you’re a hungry, meat-loving beer enthusiast in the depths of winter this would be your holy sanctuary. (Being more of a wine-drinking pescetarien in what felt like the peak of a European heatwave, I decided to decline on a hearty portion of whole roasted knuckle of pork and litre of Hofbräu Dark.)

A little out of town is the BMW Welt (not quite sure what the heck ‘Welt’ means) and museum, where you can pretend you are an extreme off-road motorcyclist, the owner of many a swish new model of BMW car, and shopping for your latest Rolls Royce to add to the collection, all in the one convenient visit. A little too embarrassed to clamber onto one of the fierce looking motorbikes (I was wearing a pink bardot top under a twee denim dungaree dress after all), I did make sure I sampled some of cars (one of the few girls getting into the driving seats in a roughly 20:1 male:female visitor ratio, and inspected the roped-off Rolls Royces scrupulously (in my expert opinion they looked pretty freakin’ awesome). After a morning of automobilic day dreaming I headed to next-door Olympiapark for lunch and a chill in the sun. Tumbling hills of bright green grass surrounded a large, glistening, pedalo-filled lake; a pretty acceptable view with which to enjoy my sandwich and rest my legs (impersonating a filthy rich car shopper is tiring work).

Along with the UK, the temperature in Munich was ever-increasing so for my last full day in the city I decided to explore Englischer Garten (when I say explore I mean find a nice spot for which to conduct an exhausting day of lying in the sun) (it’s a hard life). The garden was INCREDIBLE. Acres of grass, woodland, rivers and waterfalls intertwined to create a chunky slice of paradise away from the stuffy centre of the city. (Of course in the epicentre of this natural haven was an extensive outdoor beer garden.) The streams rushed by at such a pace that there were a number of surfing spots where amateur surfers came to practice their skills, lining up along the bank and in quick succession taking it in turns to ride the narrow waves for as long as they could before being swept away then clamouring back up to rejoin the back of the queue. It was fascinating to watch. All of them clearly talented, you got the egotistical know-it-alls who hogged the limelight with one too many turns, and then the unfortunate cringe-inducing non-starters who were swallowed up by the rapid current almost as soon as their boards hit the water. But they were still having a great time! After watching them all go I am definitely going to take surfing lessons in Portugal… Here’s to being a wetsuit-wearing cringe-inducing non-starter!

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Postscript 

Am starting to feel a little poor and lonely. If any of my lovely, loyal and generous readers (did I mention that you’re lovely?) would like to send a gift – perhaps a handsome, charming gentleman (nationality unspecified) to take me out for a candlelit romantic dinner for two – it would be gratefully received. (You could even share the postage cost of my ‘lost’ interrail tickets being sent to me in Budapest which, it transpires, I did in fact leave (BY MISTAKE) at my dad’s windmill, for him to find 6 weeks after I left the UK… Ooooops 🙈)