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!

There is a fair degree of rivalry between the cities of Cologne and Düsseldorf, situated just 30 miles apart on the Rhine. The former prides itself on its history (it dates back to Roman times), the stature of its famous cathedral, and its relaxed easygoing lifestyle. However it was the latter, Düsseldorf, that was made capital of North Rhine Westphalia after World War II, not its larger neighbour. It has since become a major financial centre and, in the Königsallee, boasts one of the most exclusive shopping streets in Germany.

So you may not be surprised to hear that both cities strongly disagree on another very important issue: the preferred style of beer. In Cologne the locals drink Kölsch, a pale yellow, soft refreshing drink, not too dissimilar to standard German pils, lightly hopped and with just a touch of wheat malt. Düsseldorfers though prefer Altbier (commonly shortened to ‘Alt’), a copper-coloured, malty, very hoppy ale that has a dry and crisp finish.

Both cities are very proud of their respective beer and its heritage. Kölsch is protected by EU regulation and can only be brewed by 24 breweries, in and around Cologne, set out in the Kölsch Convention of 1986. No self-respecting resident of Cologne, when flying in or out of their shared airport (DUS or Düsseldorf), would contemplate indulging in an Alt; that would be an act of betrayal.

Where to drink it

Anyone visiting Cologne Cathedral will pass Früh am Dom, possibly the largest and most well-known of the Kölsch breweries. Whilst their beer is no longer brewed on the premises, it remains the busiest beer hall in the city, with a capacity of 1,000 and selling the equivalent of 850 litres of beer per week.  Other renowned brewers are Sion, also in the Altstadt, and Paffgen, which is reputed to be the best Kölsch in the city.

In Düsseldorf, a city renowned for having ‘the longest bar in the world’ in honour or the profusion of pubs, bars and restaurants in the Altstadt, there are no restrictions on who can brew Alt. However production is now centred on four breweries in or near the city centre, the most famous of which is zum Uerige (‘grumpy’ in the local vernacular, allegedly named after the original owner in the 1860s), a cavernous beer hall with many interlocking rooms leading off it. Other brewers include Zum Schlüssel, the Brauerei zum Füchschen and the Brauerei Ferdinand Schumacher, which is the oldest brewer of Altbier in the city, having been brewing continuously since 1837.

There are however a couple of similarities between the two cities. The beer is served by a Köbes (waiter) in both and comes in small 20cl glasses. Alt and Kölsch are designed to be drunk fast and fresh. Once emptied, your glass will be replaced by a full one within minutes by said Köbes. Both are top-fermented, too, in contrast to the bottom-fermented pils enjoyed in the rest of Germany.

But despite these shared characteristics, no two other cities in Germany, especially ones so close geographically, have such a healthy rivalry when it comes to what is consumed in their beer halls. – Mark Arrol

One of the times when I feel most at home in Germany, when I almost forget that my Heimat lies in London, is Karneval (Carnival) the festive season leading up to Shrove Tuesday and the beginning of Lent.

Why Karneval? Why does an essentially Catholic tradition which baffles many Germans make me feel so at home? It’s hard to explain but, besides the sheer amount of fun, I think it has a lot to do with feeling like an insider.

I too was caught completely off guard by my first ever Karneval and thought all the people running around in clown costumes and all the women trying to cut off my (rather pricey) ties were absolute lunatics. Three years down the line, though, and I count the days until Rosenmontag and Veilchendienstag, on which Cologne and Düsseldorf, two of Germany’s largest cities, grind to a screeching, hooting and hollering halt to make way for mile-long parades and a street party of epic proportions.

Yes, on reflection, a lot of the attraction of Karneval is initiation. It is, for example, knowing someone in Cologne who has a flat overlooking the route of one of the smaller, less touristy local parades; it is being welcomed by them at eleven in the morning with a party popper, a bottle of Kölsch beer and a big, slightly ironic grin.

We sat on the window ledge with our legs dangling out, waiting for the parade to start. The street started filling up, almost everybody was in some form of colourful, ridiculous or revealing costume. Suddenly, a troop of mock-Napoleonic soldiers dressed in blue and gold rounded the corner and the first float was ambling past. Within seconds, the air was filled with ticker tape, glitter and flying sweets, and the crowd below went wild.

Some of the floats carry a healthy payload of chocolate and miniature plastic schnapps bottles. “Over here! Over here!” we yelled: “Bützje, Bützje! Kamelle, Kamelle!” or: “Give us a kiss and give us a sweet!” We got more than we bargained for, though, as a silo of schnapps slammed into us at high velocity and a 200g bar of chocolate hit Christian in the face, sending him flying back into the room and causing no small level of amusement to one of the girls on the float.

It was completely surreal, a moment of inadvertent comedy timing in the midst of a city in chaos. Yet that is just the point: experiencing a city at its maddest, seeing it drunk, dressed up, from a precarious windowsill is just the way to make you feel like you have lived there all your life.

At the end of the day, though, I’m afraid that I’m clutching at straws trying to describe what Karneval is like. It can only be experienced, not explained. So if you’re missing your initiation this year, put the end of February in your diary and start thinking of a good costume.

Information on Cologne’s Carnival is on their official tourism website.

Brian’s videoblog, and his book.

Fast, sleek and efficient, Germany’s trains are the epitome of hassle-free travel. Eating up the journeys at speeds of up to 320 kph, DB trains are modern and comfortable with both open-plan seating and six-seater compartments with onboard announcements usually given in both German and English. High speed ICE trains have a restaurant car where you can sit for a meal and a bar buffet where you can buy drinks and snacks. Some services even have WiFi with power sockets for laptops and mobile devices around tables. If you have a first class ticket you can even relax in a private lounge with complimentary refreshments before boarding your train, in stations including Cologne, Berlin, Dresden, Frankfurt, Munich and Nuremberg.

Getting to Germany from London is also faster than you would think. A journey to Cologne for example, takes around four and a half hours including Eurostar check-in.  Unlike with flights, there is only a 30 minute check-in for the Eurostar and no real weight restriction (beyond what you can feasibly carry). The journey through the Channel Tunnel to Brussels takes around an hour and 50 minutes and then the connecting high-speed ICE service to Cologne leaves from the same station. There are other connections to other destinations in Germany either direct from Brussels, or via Cologne.

Compare this to the equivalent journey by air, and the time difference is very slight. In the case of Cologne, for example, the flight itself would take around an hour and 10 minutes – though that would not include travel to your London terminal, the two hour check-in, collecting bags at the other end and then the 30 minute journey by public transport to get from Cologne-Bonn airport into the centre.

And once you’ve decided on a rail-based option, then it opens up lots of travel possibilities where the getting there is all part of the fun. Why not spend a day in Paris, for example, and then take one of the high-quality City Night Line services overnight to Munich or Berlin?

If you are looking for scenery, some of Germany’s railways travel through stunning rural landscapes. For example, there is a high speed service direct from Brussels to Frankfurt but you can also choose to change in Cologne and take the slower, more scenic route along the Rhine Valley, past fairytale hill top castles, vineyards and the famous Lorelei Rock.

Travelling by train is a wunderbar way to explore!

I’m still at a loss as to why it fascinated me so. Forty years ago, in the west of Ireland, Mass was the centre of every Sunday, but I looked forward to the German language programme on the TV; the ‘filler’ for that time of the day that could never attract advertising.

My siblings donned their Sunday best but I squatted on the floor immersed in the images and sounds emanating from the box in the corner, enthralled by the regular rhythm of hochdeutsch, transfixed by the sun-soaked, cobbled streets of medieval cities.

I seem to have drifted after that. I envied the girls attending the local convent school; they could choose German; in the Christian brothers I was caught between Latin and French.

Then Cologne happened. I say ‘happened’ because it hit me like a hurricane. I was only 16, and abroad for the first time with my school. The people I met there were universally helpful and polite. Everyone seemed to speak my language, while I was ignorant of theirs.

At the time, Ireland was a basket-case. My father was unemployed, and the emigrant boat beckoned. In Cologne, I looked askance at the cleanliness, the punctuality, the opulence of a country dripping with prosperity. I resolved not to get jealous, but to get even.

What happened next was inevitable: the degree in German History and Politics, the college holidays working in Munich, the thesis on Konrad Adenauer. I even tried to learn German again, but with only limited success. It’s not easy learning German in Dublin.

At 26, I ditched my teaching job and bought a ticket to Vienna, where I had found a language school that wouldn’t break the bank. I had decided I was going to learn the language even it killed me. I avoided English-speaking expats, the loneliness had me crushed and was for a while was so short of money that I was reduced to stealing potatoes at the end of my shift in the restaurant where I washed up. I truly climbed the Nietzschean hills, fighting my way through the briars before eventually enjoying the view from the top.

And what a view: the books, the newspapers in German, the ease with which I found employment once I could converse.

These days, I work as a tour-guide, trying to inspire in Germans the same admiration for Ireland that I feel for their country. And not just Germans; on one occasion, I accompanied an elderly Romanian couple to our national museum. We stood around awkwardly until the gentleman broke his silence with: “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” It turned out his village had a large German-speaking population. So there we were: the Romanian in his 80s and Irishman in his 30s, communicating in German.

I return to Germany every year, where I have made many friends. My family find it weird and they have a point: how many people do you know who grew up in a little village in the west of Ireland, heard German only from television, started learning at 23 and not only mastered it but developed a deep love of the country and its people?

It’s a funny old world.

During the research for my new travel book Tales from the Fast Trains: Europe at 186mph, I made three trips to German cities, travelling from London St Pancras. The first was to Frankfurt, with an ICE train from Brussels for the last leg of the 5hr 56m journey. It arrived seven minutes late, and as we pulled into the Hauptbahnhof, a steward very politely announced in English: “We are very sorry. Zere was a problem with ze high-speed line in ze run up to Liège.”

My girlfriend and I were taken aback – delays of much more than seven minutes go without apology back in Britain (as any British traveller knows only too well).

But, for me, catching trains in Germany has always been a punctual affair; I remember travelling by train between Nuremberg, Frankfurt and Cologne to report for The Times on the England football team’s venues before the 2006 World Cup and being flabbergasted by the way we moved away precisely on time.

On this occasion our weekend in Frankfurt – seeing Goethe’s old house, drinking Ebbelwoi (apple wine), climbing the Frankfurter Dom – was also memorable for a tour we took of the red light district around the Hauptbahnhof. We met our guide at the station, learning from her of the importance of trains when Bismarck was unifying Germany in the 1870s, and then going on a tour highlighting the problems of prostitution and drug use in the streets nearby. Junkies literally injected right in front of us. It was a sad and shocking experience.

There weren’t junkies by the station in Cologne, where I arrived bang on time with an old university friend: 4h 9m from St Pancras. Cologne seemed like a perfect high-speed weekend destination, right next to the station, with so many fine art galleries, history museums and Brauhäuser serving cold Kölsch (Cologne beer) close by. There are plans for direct services on ICE trains from 2013, and I’ve got little doubt that 186mph tourism from the UK will really take off soon.

My third journey was actually by slow train for a short day-return hop to Trier after travelling down high-speed tracks to Luxembourg. What a lovely little city… and so unusual to see so many Chinese tourists heading for the house where Karl Marx was born in 1818. Like all the other trains, the Trier service arrived and left just as scheduled.

If only, if only, if only… it were the same in Britain.

Tales from the Fast Trains by Tom Chesshyre is published by Summersdale, price £8.99

Yes, you did read that right, for the unappetising-sounding Nonnenfürzle literally means ‘small fart of a nun’. Tempted? In fact you should be, because this is actually a very nice choux pastry traditionally eaten around Carnival in a number of German regions, and only in Swabia known as Nonnenfürzle. The dish was actually called Nonnenfürtchen from the old German word nunnekenfurt which simply means ‘best made by nuns’. Some joker thought Nonnenfürtchen could easily be turned into Nonnenfürzchen by substituting one letter (Fürzchen = small fart). Anyway, the dish has nothing to do with bodily functions and tastes very lecker.

Another very old recipe for a dessert is Rostige Ritter or Arme Ritter which translates as ‘rusty knights’ or ‘poor knights’ respectively.  The main ingredients are old bread rolls softened in milk, and similar recipes can be found all over the world, including the UK’s ‘poor knights of Windsor’.

Moving on to some more hearty stuff, a peasant dish that had its moment in the limelight a few years ago is Saumagen, which literally means ‘sow’s stomach’. Let’s just say it’s the German version of haggis and, if well made, is absolutely delicious. It is local to the Palatinate (Pfalz) region and was made famous by former chancellor Helmut Kohl, himself a Pfälzer, who had the dish served, (albeit it in a very refined way), to all of his state visitors from Gorbachev to the Queen. And we’re not aware of any complaints so here we go.

Moving a bit further north, Cologne is another good place for local grub, including the bizarrely named Halver Hahn, which translates as ‘half a cockerel’ but is actually a bread roll with butter and Gouda cheese. There are all sorts of myths about the derivation, but they’re too long-winded to be worth repeating here. Equally odd is another Cologne favourite, Himmel und Erde (heaven and earth) or Himmel und Ääd in proper Cologne vernacular, consisting of potatoes and apples mixed together and eaten with black pudding, onions and bacon. Not heavenly at all if you are a dieting vegetarian.

While Himmel und Ääd can be understood even if you’re not from Cologne, there are some regions where you’re going to need to know the local vocabulary to unlock the menu. In the Saarland, for example, the delightful-sounding Dibbelabbes is dialect for the word Topflappen, which means oven cloth, and the dish it describes is a kind of hearty pancake.

In Frankfurt and the whole Rhine Hesse area they eat Handkäs mit Musik, ‘hand cheese with music’, another one that requires some explanation. The dish is a very specific local sour milk cheese that is marinated with onions. The music bit, allegedly, refers to the sounds that might be produced after digesting the onions; blame any nuns sitting nearby!

As in the UK, there’s been a recent trend in Germany to rediscover old dishes and recipes with young restaurateurs giving them a 21^st century spin. In Berlin, the starting place for all things cool, the focus has been on regional products and reinterpreting German cuisine. At the Heinrich restaurant in Mitte, for example, the owners have researched old recipes from the 1920s and 1930s to put together a menu with dishes “we love from our parents and grandparents”. The bestseller is ‘Proud Heinrich’, fried sausage with mashed potatoes and a dark beer sauce. Yum, I’d have that. And a Nonnenfürzle for pudding.

More food -related Wunderbar links: German Wine Route (for sampling the Saumagen),  culinary city tours in Speyer, Black Forest gourmet heaven, cabbage culture in the north, seafood and salty humour, coffee & cake

Your recent tweet-led tour of Cologne should have made you a real insider. So enlighten us, why is Kölsch served in such small glasses?

Well, according to a number of people, it’s to keep the stuff optimally fizzy. A flat Kölsch is a bad Kölsch. The smaller the glasses the less chance it’ll go flat. However, I was told another reason, which I slightly prefer: Kölsch is seved in tiny glasses to allow the drinker to flirt with the bar man/woman more. Makes sense.

Any intriguing Cologne details that baffled you/made you smile?

I really like the love locks on the Hohenzollern bridge. From what I understand, this is a relatively new phenomenon [Note: since late summer 2008,  couples put padlocks bearing their names up on the fence of the bridge to symbolise their love, a custom which is spreading around the world]. Visually it’s beautiful. But the cynic in me wondered what happens if a couple divorce or fall out of love – do they have to go down there with bolt cutters? I also wondered why the staff in some of the more famous beerhauses were all older than 40 and male. Is it a rule?

A lot of the tweets had to do with food and one of the recommendations took you to the Chocolate Museum. That must have been a tough assignment!

I didn’t get to stay long, as I was hurried along, but it was great. The geek in me was transfixed by the working factory parts in the back – watching the mechanized production line from liquid chocolate to packaged Lindt boxes. The glutton in me enjoyed dipping wafers into the chocolate fountain on site.

Cologne is known as a city with a fairly relaxed vibe. What was your impression?

The same. People were very friendly and easy-going. One thing I’ve never experienced before: a Moroccan immigrant taxi driver telling me he thought Cologne was the best city in the world! Taxi drivers, in my experience, usually moan about their city.

Any other destinations in Germany you’d particularly recommend?
I’ve loved spending time in Berlin and Dresden, especially in the summer.

Please complete: Germany is Wunderbar because …

… everything works.

NB  If you know why all the waiters in Cologne’s Brauhäuser – the so-called Köbes –  are male and over 40, let us know!

Benji’s complete Cologne Twitrip in the Guardian

The Wundermeisters also contributed to the Guardian’s Germany week, with a top twenty

Equally, I am sure that I am not the only Brit who feels an element of guilt when visiting a German city, and witnessing its unappealing architecture.

After all, we are partly (along with our Allies) responsible for unleashing aerial bombardments that pounded many urban centres to dust, and sometimes without much in the way of specific justification. Accordingly I was delighted to go to Dresden, some years ago, for the finishing of the Frauenkirche, the last big piece in a painstaking jigsaw of reconstruction. Dresden today is a great place to go for tourists, but the cost of that jigsaw was huge, and the picture it now presents is one that belongs to a previous incarnation of Germany, a Germany of electors and margraves. Pretty, but passé.

Cologne is a different story. It doesn’t photograph well, anyone can see that. Downtown is mainly low-rise blocks from the 1960s and 1970s, lumpish and turgid, of no particular architectural distinction. There’s a bit of the old city down by the riverside, along the Buttermarkt, with overhangs and cobbles, which gives an impression of what might have been. And the traditional brauhaus interiors still offer a glimpse of echt kölnisch life.

But I like Cologne as it is, lumpish though it may be; it is comfortable in its own skin. It has an unconventionality, a liveliness, an open-mindedness, that some other cities don’t. It is a good example of how you shouldn’t judge a city by its appearances. Host to this year’s world Gay Games, to chess-boxing (yes, it exists, Google it), to a nightly open-air community get-together in Brussels Square in the Belgian Quarter, and to an outrageous annual Carnival, it has got real personality that is undiminished by its lack of beauty. It wears its heart on its sleeve. It is busy, cheerful, creative, doesn’t empty when the shops shut, and it doesn’t mind extending its welcome to all and sundry.

It’s also one of the few cities in Germany where I don’t feel guilty when crossing the road (I don’t like the word jaywalking, it’s too American, can’t we come up with a British version?). Although here there’s a real danger of being mown down by a cyclist. As my most recent city guide, a Blackadder-loving ukulele-playing Colonial (can I call him that? I rather like it) said: “what’s the point of cycling if you have to stop for red lights?”

Anyway, be prepared for the unexpected when you’re next in this gateway city. Sitting in Peters Brauhaus the other day, enjoying my kölsch (served by a smiling Egyptian from Cairo) and surveying the restaurant menu, my attention was caught by my neighbour, an elderly Colonial who was enjoying a long lunch of pig’s trotters with his fragrant wife. “Don’t eat the half-chicken.” He warned. I immediately thought of salmonella, but he put me right. “It is only a cheese roll.”

No, we don’t need to feel guilty about Germany’s city centres. And I think the tourismus people got it just right with their slogan, ‘Cologne is a feeling.’ A good one, too.