Trechtingshausen and Rudesheim

Mum and Dad came to Germany while I was there. Mum had never been out of Britain because she had no passport – that’s another story.

There was a decision to head towards Frankfurt because Mum had wanted to go on a boat ride. Dad would be almost certain to be happy to see all the Schlossen (castles) that line the River Rhein so – two birds, one stone.

On the way down from the Dutch/German border we hit traffic some way North of Frankfurt. Nothing too serious but things were definitely slow. On a lighter note, a lorry came alongside with a photograph of Linda Lusardi* decorating the rear cab window; this brightened up a dull moment in traffic!

Another decision: Stop for lunch. Let the traffic go.

Pulled in at a place called Trechtingshausen where there was a small café. Walking into the café a gentleman who was on the way out mentioned to me that eating outside was for tourists, it is cheaper to eat inside.

We sat at a table that was close to the railway tracks. The waitress gave us a ‘Speisekarte’ (menu) each that only I could read. I tried to translate but ended up asking for the ‘Tagesmenu’ (the dish of the day). 

The Germans do not do normal tea, only fruit and mint flavoured tea so it had to be coffee. Coffee is something that the Germans excel at making.

A train went past every ten minutes, or so, causing the table to vibrate and Mum to chuckle.

“Should we need to hang on to the plates?” Mum asked.

Soup arrived. Delicious. Mum began gathering her bags.

“Where are you going, Mum?” I asked her.

She thought that was the meal.

Then the round flat pasta arrived with goulash and salad.

Also delicious.

Dad could not understand having salad with a hot meal but enjoyed it anyway.

Mum started gathering her bags again.

Dessert arrived. Fruit pie and ice cream.

Magnificent.

It was also cheap. I liked that part.

We did not have to hang on to the plates but the regular rumbling of rail traffic was entertaining.

So we progressed towards Frankfurt but only got as far as Rudesheim because it was getting late.

In the bar of the guesthouse – Dad had been previously warned about the strength of German beer, a large quantity of ‘Alt’, a dark brown beer, was consumed.

A couple of the locals spoke a little English. The Landlord asked Dad if he had been to Germany before. Dad explained that he had, indeed, visited but he had been at ten thousand feet and there were no lights below.

Laughter and an occasion to be celebrated with more ‘Alt’!

We left Dad in the bar and went to bed.

The next morning there was the Ruedesheim Denkmal to be visited courtesy of the seilbahn (cablecar) that was the same one that had been used in the film ‘GI Blues’ so Mum was taken with the idea that her bum was occupying the same spot as Elvis Presley’s!

Rudesheim Denkmal

Cable Car over the Vineyards at Rudesheim

The following day they boarded the KD (KD = Koln - Dusseldorfer) ferry to go up to Cologne while I drove up the Rhein to meet them there hoping that the ‘Rheinmaidens’ would not ambush them en route.

KD Ferry at Rudesheim

Sunny day, wonderful views, magical castles and good eating.

Drove back along the Mosel River through the icy Eifel mountains. More magnificent scenery.

A mini adventure that Mum remembered years later while she was living here, in Malaysia, with us.

But they never made it to Frankfurt.

*Linda Lusardi: A 'Page Three' girl of the time.

Cutting the Mustard

Ah! English mustard. What better accompaniment to a slice of roast beef could there be than a lovely dab of English mustard?

Not just roast beef but also a smidgin of it smeared on the surface of a steak, too.

A curious side effect is that a tiny portion on the tip of a teaspoon added to your cheese sauce will bring out the taste of the cheese beautifully without the sauce tasting of the mustard. Odd, but true. Sometimes the littlest can be the best!

Quote: “They make the littlest chicken sandwiches, the littlest.” Walter Matthau in ‘Charade’ to Audrey Hepburn.

But who is it that makes the best English mustard? There can be only one name here – ‘Colman’. ‘Colman’s English Mustard’ is renowned Worldwide as the only mustard worth putting on your beef or steak.

I just had an egg sandwich with mayonnaise that had the slightest dash of ‘Colman’s Mustard’ mustard in it. Piquant. Superb.

 The thing is, we take excessive amounts of it. It is a fact. Indeed, even Jeremiah James Colman was asked how he had made such a vast fortune from the sale of mustard, he replied, “I make my money from the mustard that people throw away on the sides of their plate.”

This is a universal truth.

We take too much.

Watch people at a fixed price buffet lunch or, even better, at a free buffet lunch and see how much they can pack on a plate. Now observe how much remains on the plate after they have finished.

A lot.

People are greedy. Colman banked on people doing just that.

Have you ever tried to see how much soap powder you actually need to wash your clothes?

Do you automatically fill the measuring scoop with absolute faith in the manufacturer’s knowing best?

They have calculated how much they can let you have for the price given but allowing for the fact that after a specified number of washes you will need to buy a new pack of soap.

The same, quite naturally, goes for dishwasher liquid. I have discovered that I can get more washes from a bottle of liquid by only using three quarters of the amount each time and guess what? The plates are just as clean as they were when I filled the container.

We are convinced that we should use more so that the makers can sell their product more frequently.

It’s not just soap and mustard but toothpaste as well. See the adverts where they load an enormous amount of paste on to a brush. Are they cleaning the teeth of a Great White Shark? A fraction of that is perfectly adequate.

The advertisements convince you that ‘more is better’ – better for them, of course.

Often I see advertisements in shops or a salesman will tell me that there is a special price just for me. Actually, it is more likely to be a special price for them. They are anxious for you to empty your wallet in the shortest time possible into their cash register.

A young lady of my acquaintance once told me she had saved fifty pounds buying a coat. It was, admittedly, a lovely coat. I asked her how much the coat had cost her; she told me it was one hundred and fifty pounds.

I asked her to give me the fifty she had saved so that I could bank it in. She looked at me with a blank expression. It fell to me to explain that she had not saved fifty pounds at all – she had spent one hundred and fifty pounds that she actually did not have, she had borrowed it from the credit card company.

Advertisers and retailers are cunning. They know the tricks. They know that marking a price as nine pounds and ninety-nine pence will cause women in particular to think of the price as being nine pounds and not as ten pounds less one penny!

Colman was wise to this. That is why his product is hot stuff – he knew how to cut the mustard.

Spitting and Sport

For most of my life I have seen no point in spitting. Anywhere. At any time.

I have wondered, even as a youngster, why people, men mostly, do it?

Is it manly? Does it make them feel more ‘macho’? What is the purpose? What is the point of it?

Right now you are, quite possibly, asking if I am some sort of soft, gentle person who knits his own dresses.

You should know that I have boxed, played rugby, cricket, football (badly!) and been an excellent football (‘soccer’ in the USA) referee.

At no time during any of these sports have I felt the need to spit. The need to do so still perplexes me.

I watch footballers celebrating scoring a goal by sliding effortlessly along on the grass in a kneeling position and wonder what it is that lubricates their slithering. Can it be, I ask myself, that there is a layer of mucus coating the turf?

The question of expectorating on a sports field came strongly into my head when, quite recently, I was watching a game of cricket, not involving cheaters, when – heaven forfend, an Umpire cleared his throat to the side of the wicket at which he stood! A cricket Umpire! A man who is exalted above all others. A figure of decency, fair play and moral rectitude! Spat. On the wicket!

The World, I thought, is about to end. Things can get no worse than this.

There was a time when you never saw Rugby Football players spitting. They bled copiously all over the pitch but spit? Never! It just wasn’t done. Not the thing, old chap!

Now? They are all at it.

They are all about cheating, too. How did this happen? It is, whatever else it might be, a game – a sport. There was no need to cheat. You won or you lost by your own merits, or lack of!

Cheating was reserved for Olympic athletes whose determination to win Gold would be driven to any means possible. This included taking proscribed substances.

Now? They are all at it.

Footballers use ‘professional fouls’, as they are euphemistically termed, frequently. They fall down and appeal to the referee for a foul against them.

It happens in all sports. Even cricket. Ball tampering has always been a major problem - it is against the rules. It is seeking to gain an unfair advantage over the opposition.

No doubt there are cheats in equestrian sport just as there are in golf.

This is not just about money – although there is no doubt that there are large sums of cash involved in most sports these days. Rugby football tried, for many years, to ‘keep it clean’ by having amateurs play Rugby Union and professionals were restricted to Rugby League. That fell apart when the Union players started receiving under the table cash and the ‘Powers-That-Be’ knuckled under and allowed Union players to receive cash benefits.

Now cheating is ubiquitous. Sad to say. Even in our beloved cricket there is cheating.

But they never used to spit.

Energy and the Glass Mug

Last night a strange thing happened.

Sitting on the settee watching something on ‘Netflix’ I was holding the handle of a ‘Bodum’ mug in my right hand with the base of the mug resting on the back of my left hand.

We, my wife and I, heard a ‘clicking’ sort of ‘pop’ and my left hand suddenly became hot and wet.

Immediately – because I have the reflexes of a coiled snake, I reached over and put the mug on a tray that was to my left on the coffee table where it gradually emptied out.

First thought? ‘Oh, no! What a waste of tea!’

Second thought? ‘What on Earth happened here?’

There had been no pressure on the mug. The mug was, in truth, probably around thirteen or fourteen years old. The tea had been brewing in the pot for more than ten minutes so it was nowhere near boiling temperature, which ‘Bodum’ designed the glass of the mug to withstand.

Appearances to the contrary, there are no pieces missing. Everything was contained inside the composite plastic framework of the handle. Of course, the glass cannot be removed from the 'frame' now without it breaking up into a multitude of pieces!

Is it possible that my heightened emotions had searched out the nearest weak link to focus my energy upon?

I have no answers.

I have a crazed ‘Bodum’ mug.