France may have a reputation for village boulangeries, but in my experience many of the latter have been driven out of business by local supermarkets. Germany, however, has very much preserved its local bäckerei, which are still village hubs all over the country. Not only are these places great for all kinds of bread – brötchen or bread rolls alone usually come in over a dozen different types – but they also serve good and inexpensive coffee and many also offer simple and nourishing meals, with some sort of stand-up counter or limited seating. In short, they are a bargain.

And Germany acknowledges its bread experience in a couple of museums: in the south, there’s a Baden-Württemberg’s Museum of Bread Culture in Ulm, on the banks of the Danube. In the north, there’s Lower Saxony’s European Bread Museum in Ebergötzen, not far from Göttingen.

This is not the place to detail Germany‘s complex beer culture, with all the beer varieties, beer halls, beer gardens and beer festivals, but it is worth pointing out a couple of interesting beer experiences. In Düsseldorf, for example, you can take a tasting tour of the traditional breweries in town which still make Alt-bier, old beer, which is similar in colour and taste to British ale. It’s a real contrast to Cologne’s delicate pale kölsch,  just a few miles away.

Down in Bavaria there are tours of the famous hop fields of Hallertau, run by Elisabeth Stiglmaier. Plus all the beer-making Benedictines, as in monasteries such as Weltenburg by Regensburg, Andechs south of Munich, and Ettal down by Oberammergau. They all have their own breweries and beer gardens.

For a high density of local breweries and a truly nourishing smoky beer (Schlenkerla), the place to be is Bamberg. And no true beer pilgrims should miss out on the Zoigl villages of eastern Bavaria, where the concept of homebrew is taken to a whole new level.

Prost!

In a long career in travel, both before the re-unification of Germany, I never saw the Berlin Wall, nor even the Iron Curtain. They would always be there anyway, wouldn’t they? I could always go and see them next year.

Then, suddenly, in 1989, everything changed, and it looked like my chance had gone.

In 1991, after some years of building up my portfolio of itineraries, I decided that it was time to look into offering a walking holiday package in the east. So, one day that summer I was driving north from Bamberg, even though evening was setting in. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the single carriageway opened out into a huge area of tarmac, with high poles reaching to the sky.

Most of the traffic totally ignored this place, but a number of cars, mostly not German, had stopped and a few people were wandering around. It was several minutes before I realised that this must have been a border crossing point. Some equally puzzled Italians asked me if I knew what the place was; they had come to the same conclusion.

On the grass verges were large warning signs “Do not enter ‑ Landmines”, helpfully only in German.

By now I was looking for somewhere to spend the night, so turned round to stay in the Bundesrepublik. Having found a pleasant Gasthof in a small north Franconian village, I found myself sharing a table with a father and son from Aschaffenburg. They had spent the day cycling back and forth across the former border, and recommended that before continuing to the Harz I should visit a small town called Ummerstadt. As the evening wore on, the father started to wonder about how the recent changes would affect this area in particular. “Both sides of the border, these communities were on the very edge of the world. Suddenly they are right in the heart of it.”

Although my map showed no roads leading to Ummerstadt, it was at least signposted. There was a sudden deterioration in the road surface as I crossed the former border and entered the town. There was no traffic. I continued into the centre, into a large open market place surrounded by attractive, well-kept half-timbered buildings. Apart from my car, there was just one motor vehicle there, a Trabant. The shops looked like a film set for the 1930s. It was a place where time had stood still.

Eventually I continued on to the Harz, albeit with little help from any road signs. Since then I’ve often wondered what Ummerstadt is like today, now that that sleepy little place has moved from the edge, to the heart, of the world.

Walking Holidays on the Harz Witches Trail.

While on my flight back to Europe from Borneo/Malaysia this September, I was rummaging round the in-flight entertainment system and came across a mini travel guide for Germany, edited by Rough Guides. The German locations that the authors recommended as insider tips particularly worth visiting were Bamberg and Würzburg, two towns in the Bavarian region of Franconia which is my Heimat and where I come from.

I was born in Ebermannstadt which is located in the triangle formed by the towns of Nuremberg, Bamberg and Bayreuth, the so-called Fränkische Schweiz (Franconian Switzerland). This is where I grew up, in a playful, romantic landscape, characterised by valleys deeply carved into the Jurassic rock, and scarce plateaus 500 metres above sea level.

People associate Bavaria with the Oktoberfest, white sausages and politicians who think of themselves as being the best, and for whom it’s not unusual to be labelled as Großkopferte (big headed ones). Even if Franconia is indeed located in Bavaria, Franconians are actually not too happy about this association. They’d like to be independent, and at least emotionally and mentally they are. People are very much down-to-earth here, understatement is a character trait, and whoever lumps Franconia together with the entire federal state of Bavaria is likely to get a gruff remark in return. If you want to insult a Franconian, simply call him Bavarian. Admittedly, there’s a bit of a minority complex at play.

Although there’s hardly a region in Germany with more castles and ruins on such a small surface. Potato fields, grain fields, and forests dominate the landscape. It is not only my home but also that of potato dumplings that are even being fed to toddlers, therefore starting a life-long love affair with this specific dish. During my prolonged stays in various corners of this world as a travel writer and publisher of travel guides I have occasionally been overcome by a culinary ‘missionary spirit’, grabbing a grater and potato tubers in order to dish up some proper potato dumplings to my local friends.

Unfortunately, each time my enthusiasm has been disappointed: they don’t seem to like Kartoffelklöße, the Franconian’s beloved potato dumpling, in other parts of the world. With one exception; Maria, the Spanish wife of a good friend of mine, who has taken to them. But she’s also come to terms with other German customs and now lives in Düsseldorf!

If you want to give the Kartoffelklöße a try (and have someone to help you with German recipes), Michael Müller’s ‘Gscheitgut’ is a new Franconian cooking book and cultural guide. His ‘Fränkische Schweiz’ (Franconian Switzerland, also German only) was – when published more than 25 years ago – one of the first German travel guides dedicated to an individual German region.