Once again, I have set forth on holiday and felt the need to take notes and then inflict my musings on the Internet in the hope of an elusive but lucrative book deal. Since one of my friends has become a Published Author (the capitals are his), I have been seething with resentment and envy and wait to be discovered by some publisher who has been stranded in a dark corner of the internet due to their triple addiction to Opal Fruits, Emmerdale and the Great British Sewing Bee. This may be a forlorn hope, but it gets me through the long dark winter nights.

Anyway, to return to a more fruitful line of thought I’d better explain how this came about. After the completion of A-Z, I was at a loose end as to what to do this year. I spoke with two of my friends – the Published Author and his Long-Suffering Wife (her capitals) – about a trip that I’d been planning which involved driving from Lands End to John O’Groats and visiting various places on the way. This was to take about 10 days. After some discussion we decided that we were only seeing half of the country and so a far more grandiose plan was hatched which required a total of 21 days, to be done over two years. I definitely want to do this, but I had a few concerns financially. I retire next year and while it is clear that I will have to find another job, it is far from certain what my financial situation will be. As a result, I asked them if we could defer it for a couple of years.

That left me without a planned holiday. I have visited very few places in Europe and so I thought that it would be a good idea to approach it in the same way that I approached A-Z. I had a look online and, before sanity could leap forward and stop me, booked my flights and hotels. The plan was simple: three European destinations in 10 days. What could possibly be a problem about that? Well, two things sprang to mind almost immediately: (1) Covid; (2) It’s just plain stupid. Recklessly, I decided to ignore both of these minor concerns. After all, I’d just spent 5 years travelling around England on my own. The only major difference is the language and, despite my lack of fluency in all three relevant languages (four, actually, but more of that later) I would surely be able to cope. After all, I’d managed perfectly well in Wales, Cornwall and Yorkshire!

All the bookings got done in September last year, and I scheduled the holiday to run from late May to early June. That way, I would get paid part of the way through and I could spread the finances. I also have a credit card that I put one of the hotels on just to make sure there weren’t any problems. Armed with that, I then plunged into the things that now have to be thought about when travelling abroad: Covid Pass, Passenger Locator Form, toiletries in 100ml containers, secure wallet. I rounded it all off with a sneaky holster style thing that would allow me to carry my valuables around with me – perfect as long as I would be wearing at least two layers. (As it happened, it never got used – partially because it was always too warm).

Before all that was done, I’d had to navigate my way through the seat booking system on the plane. On all three I went for extra legroom, and on Easyjet opted for Priority Boarding. Then I found that different airlines have different sizes of allowable luggage in the cabin. I ended up paying for a small bag to be put in the hold, but as the holiday approached decided to go with cabin bags only to stop that enthralling wait in the Arrivals lounge as your luggage takes the OAP equivalent of an Alton Towers thrill-ride.

As usual I packed well in advance … about 2 hours before leaving home. I ended up taking the same bags as I took to Jersey. Consider briefly that I went there for three days, and this time I was packing for 9 days. I was going to travel wearing boots and was packing my trainers. Why I didn’t just take my trainers, I don’t know! This gave me my first packing issue. I put them in the suitcase, at which point it was half full and it was clear that my clothing wouldn’t fit. So the trainers got stuffed into my backpack, and everything else carefully folded into the case, and zipped shut. And then re-packed as I’d forgotten my shorts. And then re-packed again after someone texted me to make sure that the Age-Appropriate Hoody was going with me. I had already made a significant reduction in my normal packing by only bringing one book with me: Independent People by Halldor Laxness. Well, we don’t count guide books do we? We do? Oh, well I had four books then. And several on my iPad.

Everything gets packed in good time and I head down to my friends who are giving me a lift to Heathrow. Heathrow now charges £5 for the pleasure of dropping someone off, so the day starts with an argument about me paying the fiver. I end up sneakily leaving it in their kitchen and we head off to the airport.

I wander in and am immediately accosted by a “helpful person” who directs me to the end of an unfeasibly long queue. This is apparently the “fast track” that we go through if we aren’t booking luggage into the hold. As the line inches forward, the staff amuse themselves by making up rules. The man in front of me is wearing a very smart light blue suit, but seems to have no shirt on underneath. One of the staff yells at him to get his attention and tells him to put on a shirt. To my surprise, he shucks of his jacket and rather shame-facedly gets a shirt out of his suitcase and puts it on. I am now concerned that there may be other clothing rules in play that I am not aware of. Luckily, this seems to have just been a ploy by the staff member to get a good look at his bare torso. Of course, the poor guy is now stuck in line with everyone who has seen this happen. Luckily most of us are English, so nothing is said.

Finally, I get to the front of the line (ok, it was only about twenty minutes, but it seemed longer). There I scan in my boarding pass and join a second queue under a sign cheerfully telling us that it will “only” take 29 minutes to get through security. The line heads forward at the same glacially slow place, interrupted only for people in wheelchairs to be whisked past. There are a variety of signs telling us to empty our pockets, take out iPads and electronic devices, remove jackets and take out our bag of toiletries. As a result, by the time I get to the security desk I feel as though I’m completing a juggling challenge on some particularly ridiculous reality show. After all the signs, they haven’t mentioned watches or belts. As a result the line keeps halting as they have to tell people when they get to the scanner. So, they get added to the items that I am juggling. I put them on the conveyor belt and still get stopped – by my boots. They get removed and then I get to stand in the machine with my hands in the air while the staff look on and make disparaging comments.

Eventually, I get through and recover my luggage – half of which is missing. A very polite lady apologetically checks my toiletries and then with one mighty stagger (I’m still juggling everything), I am through to the departure lounge. It’s taken just under an hour since I was dropped off to go approximately 200 yards. However, it’s time to start the holiday so I wander down to the Wetherspoons for my first highly nutritional meal of the holiday – scrambled eggs on toast. I wash it down with a Pepsi Max, as I’m absolutely roasting.

While I’m eating my breakfast and contemplating my 2 hour wait for the plane, I’ll use the time on a sidebar about airports – specifically departure lounges. Are they all kept at a very high temperature or a high humidity? Because at every one I visited on holiday (including the Eurostar departure lounge), I ended up sweating as though I’d just run a mile. (Which, for me, is a LOT!). Weirdly, I didn’t have the same effect in arrivals lounges. It could be psychosomatic and is part of my nerves around flying …. but why did it happen at bloody Eurostar? It’s very odd and definitely meant that I had an uncomfortable time in the queue at Heathrow. The only thing I had to wipe my face was my handkerchief which was absolutely sodden by the time I got to the Wetherspoons. I seemed to have acclimatised while finishing off my breakfast.

Heathrow tricks me into thinking that things are moving forward by announcing the departure gate an hour prior to the airplane leaving. I obediently head down and grab a seat and wait…. and wait. My wait is briefly broken by the entertainment of a woman who felt the need to play all of us some music on her phone. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but I mentally filed it under “God Awful”. While the staff pretend to be doing something very important (i.e. wait for the plane to turn up), they repeatedly tell us that it is a “very busy flight. Your hand luggage may have to go in the hold.” I’d been warned about this by friends who went to Lisbon recently. I take a firmer grip on my case. Much to my surprise, I go straight through and am soon in line to get to my seat. This is, of course, delayed by people who insist on standing in the middle of the aisle while rooting through their luggage for the handkerchief that they must absolutely have right now and has (of course) slipped down to the bottom. Despite this, I’m soon sat in my seat by the emergency exit with my bag under the seat in front of me and my rucksack in the overhead bin. Ahhh – first hurdle over. I think that I’m going to be lucky and not be sharing the row, but I’m soon joined by a pair of American students. They’re not actually travelling together, but both seem quite friendly.

The cabin staff give us time to settle down before telling us that we’re not allowed to store anything under the seat in front. By that time, none of the bins near us have any room in, so I end up stowing my bag halfway down the plane and on the other side of the flimsy curtain that will later be drawn to shield higher class passengers from us hoi-polloi.

It’s about now that I remember that I dislike flying. I used to be fine with it but when I was working for Fujitsu I travelled up to Edinburgh with a colleague who used to be an Aeronautical Engineer. He was a remarkably bad flyer because, as he kindly explained to me, “I know everything that can go wrong.” And that’s when I started to hate flying.

Despite that, we have an uneventful flight. The student beside me makes a desultory attempt at conversation, but is far more interested in the game on his phone. As am I. I do get a little confused when the pilot announces that we’ll be landing in thirty minutes, although they might take a “short cut”! A short cut? Seriously, how the hell does that work? I’m still mulling on that one when we land at Berlin Brandenberg Airport.

I then have to negotiate passport control. I’m very tempted to try the European route as I still have a euro passport, but decide I’d best be sensible and join the longer queue. This moves pretty quickly though and I soon get to try out my German for the first time. He is visibly unimpressed, but luckily not offended and I’m soon through and heading out of the airport.

I’ve decided to head to the guest house so that I can dump my bag and then maybe head back into the centre of Berlin. The journey isn’t exactly straightforward – train to Sudkreuz, Ringbahn to Hallensee and then a bus. I’ve found all this out from Google Maps – something that I will rely on a lot over the coming days. Though it lets me down immediately by guiding me to what looks like the centre of a large office block. It takes me a little while to work out that the station is underground (largely due to the lack of signs) and I eventually head down to the platform. I haven’t deciphered the way the trains are referred to yet and manage to miss my first train before working out where I need to be to catch the next one.

Part of my confusion has been caused by the fact that I’ve walked onto the platform without going through any kind of barrier. This is the same for all the stations that I used while in Berlin. In fact, no one ever asked to see a ticket. I had bought one beforehand – its called the Berlin WelcomeCard and you can download and print it yourself. It gives free travel on busses, trams and trains throughout Berlin and reductions at certain tourist venues. Well worth picking up for peace of mind if nothing else.

Anyway, the train arrives and to my surprise it’s a double decker. First class seems to be upstairs, so I plonk myself in what seems a very luxurious seat downstairs, opposite a young lady who gives me evils over her mask. It takes me a while to work out why – masks are mandatory on public transport in Berlin. Somewhat shamefacedly, I slip mine on and return to concentrating on getting off at the right stop. Which is pretty straightforward as Sudkreuz is the first stop.

This is helped by an announcement as the train pulls away. It is hugely long and seems to come in three acts with at least one intermission. I have absolutely no idea what has been said. Luckily, he then announces in English “Dear passengers, welcome to the train to Rostock.” Wait – is that it? I know he said a darn sight more than that in German. I feel cheated. A bit like watching a subtitled film and when a character yells “Merde! Merde! Merde! Merde! Merde!”, the subtitle just says “Damn!”

Sudkreuz comes up after about twenty minutes and I start the hunt for the Ringbahn. This turns out to be simple – I walk up the stairs to the platform and there the train is. I’ve worked out by now that the Ringbahn is a circular rail route that goes all the way around Berlin and, unlike the Spiral Line in London, is an actual circle. It’s pinned on four stations: Sudkreuz, Ostkreuz, Westkreuz and …. can you guess the fourth one? Yes, of course it’s Gesundbrunnen. Apparently they wanted to change the name to Nordkreuz but people objected.

The problem then is working out which way the train is going. The ever practical Germans have a solution and the front of the train has a symbol on it:

.. which indicates which way around the Ringbahn the train is going. Simple.

The train is much more like the underground trains I’m used to – and by that I mean, shabby. As we head around to Hallensee, I’m surprised by the sheer volume of graffiti adorning walls and bridges on either side of the track. They either don’t clean it off and this is the accumulated graffiti of years, or there are massive gangs of youths roaming the streets with spray cans. I’m not sure which is true, but during my time in Berlin, I find there is a lot of graffiti – on monuments, walls, and the upstairs of busses. Given the fact that all the busses have CCTV and the drivers are very aware of people who aren’t wearing masks, this surprises me a lot. But on this journey it unsettles me a bit – I’m starting to worry about the hotel I’m staying at. This is the most salubrious of the three places I’m staying and the areas that we’re travelling through do not fill me with confidence.

I shouldn’t have worried. The hotel is in Grunewald, which is quite an affluent suburb of Berlin. At least I assume it is, judging from some of the houses that I walk past after I get off the bus.

The place that I’m staying is the Hotel St.-Michaels-Heim. It’s quite impressive as I walk up to it and not quite what I was expecting (in a good way).

It’s an odd setup in that one end of the building is a hotel, while the other end is a hostel. I’m at the hostel end, which is cheaper and which means I’ll be sharing a bathroom. What I didn’t realise was that I’d be sharing a bathroom with the entire floor! The bedrooms are clean, but basic – I had to make my own bed. Oh, the horror! However, it’s quiet and comfortable and the friendly receptionist assures me that the bar is open.

I sort my things out and then head down for a medicinal drink. On the way, I pass the on-site church (not a chapel, it’s a church!) and the frankly rather impressive entrance hall.

The bar is outside on the terrace and there are a large group of people here who are clearly having a very good time. Once the staff realise that I’m not part of the group, they reassure me that the bar is open and I’m soon sat down with a very nice Pilsner lager. I sit there, updating my notes on the day and enjoying a leisurely pint. I can see that several tables are being served pizzas, so I decide to try and get one of these traditional German meals for myself. I then get told that these are not pizzas, these are Flammkuchen. What the hell – I want to try local food while I’m away. So my second pint is accompanied by a ham and mushroom Flammkuchen. Which is a little odd. It’s basically a crisp pizza. Except that the tomato sauce is replaced by a scraping of creme fraiche (or something similar) and the toppings are scattered on top. As a result, they are remarkably mobile and if you’re not careful you end up dropping them – which explains why the local sparrows are remarkably brave and hop around between my feet picking up scraps of food. (Brave, but not stupid – as soon as I grab my phone, they go all shy and bugger off). It’s not exactly haute cuisine (or whatever the German equivalent would be) but it certainly rounds off the day quite well.

It’s early enough for me to head into town for a proper meal, but I’m actually quite knackered. So I head up to my room and browse through the literature they’ve left. That’s when I find out one of the odd rules of the premises: you are not allowed to play card games. Apparently the hotel is owned by a religious order and although they’re happy with people drinking alcohol, card games are banned. While wondering how they would know I would be playing cards, I drift off to the sound of trumpets from a room somewhere below where some form of group is clearly having a practise.