Flickr: 96dpi

A long motorway journey with children in the backseat of the car is, by most people’s definition, about the closest you can get to hell on earth. The train, at the very least, offers a restaurant car with essentially unlimited supplies of cold beer by way of escape from pint-sized hooligans; your own set of wheels is, at very best, home to a dwindling reserve of warm lime cordial – and perhaps valium, if you’re lucky.

"Which way is it to the gents, please…?" (Flickr, 0zel)

It would be fair to say that the Germans have a slightly, ahem, different relationship to their… err, bathrooms than we British. Indeed, it’s quite different to the attitudes I’ve encountered in American friends, too. And in France. And Spain. And… well, alright: pretty much anywhere else in the Western World.

What does “different” mean in terms of the little boys’/girls’ room, then? Well, for a start, it means that Germans don’t beat around the bush like I’m doing in calling a shovel a shovel and a toilet a boghole. When a German needs a toilet, he or she will ask for one, generally in somewhat undisguised terminology like “Toilette”, “WC” or “Klo”. This last word, for instance, is perfectly polite, friendly even, but comes directly from the word “Kloake”, or cesspool.

After my first visit to the Oktoberfest, I’ve come to the conclusion that the world outside Germany breaks down neatly into two categories: those who have been, and those who haven’t. Those who haven’t might still think that Germans are all organisation, regularity and curtness. Those who have know that Germany is indeed organised and regular – but also exceptionally friendly. In other words, they are already kind of in on the secret of why I like living here.

So what is it about the Oktoberfest that is so great? Well, I’m not one for worrying about my reputation, so I’ll happily tell you straight down the line that the drinking is superb. The beer is strong, delicious and comes served in litre glasses termed Maßkrüge: with that as a starting point, what’s not to like?

photo by flicker user tmivy/Tracie Ivy

For almost a week now, the whole of Hamburg has been a fairground, with rollercoasters, big wheels and all the trimmings.

Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration; but we are talking about a part of the city so big that it kind of gives you that impression. The “Heiligengeistfeld” – also the name of the legendary St. Pauli FC football stadium next-door – is about half a mile long and several hundred yards wide. That makes it big enough to be served by two underground stops – one at each end. Which is a good job, really, since, until the last week of August, the area will be overrun with thrill-seeking teenagers and tourists, as well as the odd local adrenalin addict, like myself.

After having taken a look at the Hermannsdenkmal last week, I stayed overnight in Detmold, the nearest town. It’s a small, provincial place which, despite its exceptionally well-preserved old centre and attractive castle, has never quite made it into the big leagues of German day-trip destinations. That honour seems – in terms of medieval cities – to be have been reserved for Lübeck, Münster and Bamberg.

Yet, as I found out, the Detmolders are not disheartened, and are making a concerted effort to use the attention that the two-thousandth anniversary of the gigantic Varusschlacht – you know, the one from the start of Gladiator –has focused on the area to try and parley their neat little old-town into a big tourist attraction.