Meeting Paul Simonon...

It's hardly been a week since I was last here, but I'm back, it's 0511hrs and I'm sitting at a beautiful, old-fashioned wooden desk in room 213 of the Mutterhaus Hotel in the Kaiserswerth district of Dusseldorf. The day is dawning outside of my window and I am surrounded – or so it seems – by the greenery of tall trees, although at present they are in the black and white of the waning night.

A mystic portal at St Pancras station

The Mutterhaus is a fantastic hotel, it's a huge, old, red-bricked building and there is a history that I will tell you about just as soon as find out more about it. The room is wonderful. Wooden floors, two small, upturned shield-shaped windows, the aforementioned desk and bags of room, this is not in anyway cramped and, to make things that little bit better, it's a four-star hotel. Make no mistake, this ain't a corporate-looking hotel, it's set in its own grounds, a bit like the Villa Dragoni in Buttrio, Italy, and it's no more than around 350 yards from some of the quaintest shops and streets that I know... and a tram stop that will whisk me (in around 10 minutes) to my place of work for the next few days. In other words, I couldn't ask for more.

The last time I was here I decided to take the train from London rather than fly. It's a little more civilised and there's not much in it in terms of cost. I was booked on the 0901 train from St. Pancras International and from the moment I woke up yesterday morning (it's now Monday 12 June as I write this) I wished that I hadn't booked such an early train. But ultimately, I'm glad that I did as later complications with trains would have put me on a considerable back foot. I say 'complications', it wasn't that bad. In essence, when I reached Brussels Midi I was informed that the train to Dusseldorf that I would normally take was basically full and that to wait around for the next available InterCity service – here it's not called that, it's either an ICE train or a service run by Thalys – would have meant an arrival time of gone 2300hrs. The last thing I wanted was to arrive late at night and miss dinner so I opted for local trains (two changes) that got me in around 4pm, which was just perfect and no hassle whatsoever. In fact, everything was smooth-running for which I am grateful.

Eurostar breakfast...on the 0901 to Brussels Midi

I was offered a much-needed lift to East Croydon station from where I jumped aboard a train to Victoria, took the Underground to King's Cross and then, as has been the practice of late, joined the huge queues at the international terminal to go through the arduous process of security followed by passport control. It's far less arduous, I hasten to add, than flying. For a start, you're advised to be at the terminal just one hour before 'take off' and the very thought of not flying makes everything a little less fraught. It helps (in all circumstances to be honest) if you have a decent book 'on the go' and for this trip, I had Stuart Maconie's The Full English which, I must say, is absolutely wonderful, the sort of travel book that I like as the author puts in the travelling, it's not just him writing about places, he's actually visited them, following, in this instance, the route of JB Priestley in his book English Journey. 

Liege station

Getting through security and passport control at St Pancras is far less stress-inducing than being at London Heathrow airport where the regimen is slightly more strained (and officious) as people have the hassle of knowing they have to fly off somewhere; and while yesterday was what British Airways pilots often refer to as 'great flying weather' there's always a bit of me that worries, so to be on the train, travelling on terra firma is just perfect and, as I've said before, no need for taxis to the airport and the grief of having to listen to a racist taxi driver moaning about the Mayor of "Londonistan".

Welkenraedt station

Today was special for another reason. I first noticed the figure of Paul Simonon, erstwhile bassist of punk supergroup the Clash, at the security conveyor where, like me, he was awaiting his suitcase to appear on the other side of the scanner. I didn't twig immediately that it was him, although I did notice he was wearing a brown pinstripe suit and some interesting-looking polished brown boots, which set him apart from your average traveller. In short, he looked good and then suddenly I twigged, it's Paul Simonon from the Clash. I wasn't planning on asking him for a selfie or anything naff of that sort, but I realised that I'd have to ask him it he was really who I thought he was and when I did he said yes and we stopped for an amiable chat. Naturally, I remained calm and collected, although it would be fair to say that I was meeting one of my heroes, something we are always advised against doing. 'Never meet your heroes' they say, but on this occasion it was fine, mainly because Paul Simonon is a decent chap. I began to wonder whether he was impressed that I had recognised him. He's not a 'frontman', a lead singer or lead guitarist so I would like to think he was a little chuffed that I'd strolled over to introduce myself having spotted him a few moments earlier. Remember, Simonon was the bassist of a huge band with an international following and he's still hard at it, working with other cutting edge bands like Gorillaz and engaged with his own important projects. It's hard to work out how rockstars of his standing are going to react when somebody like me, 'from off the street', approaches and identifies them as if they're Chalkey White from the Daily Mirror and I was there to collect my £200. Simonon was as polite as can be, we shook hands and engaged in a shortish, possibly 10-minute, chat in which he told me that he used to live in my home town of Carshalton up until the age of five when he moved to Brixton. He was now on his way to Paris to play a gig. Turns out (I discovered later) that we are both Sagittarians. I was born 10 December, he was born 15 December, but two years earlier. Sadly, I had to run to catch a train, but the meeting with such a punk icon as Paul Simonon remained with me all day and is still glowing brightly as I write this blogpost the following day. In fact, everything pales into insignificance, even the trip here which, all things considered, was pretty uneventful apart from the meeting with Paul Simonon.

Catching the 1522 to Dusseldorf from Aachen

So how did I get here? Well, I jumped aboard the first of two local trains and had to change at Welkenraedt where I waited a short while for a train to Aachen and from there I picked up a train to Dusseldorf. The longest journey was Brussels Midi to Welkenraedt, but Welkenraedt to Aachen was no more than 10 minutes and the journey to Dusseldorf was fairly short. 

Room 213, Mutterhaus Hotel, Dusseldorf...

What really pisses me off about Europe, or certainly Belgium and Germany, is that you have to pay to go to the toilet. This really isn't cricket especially if, like me, you don't carry cash. I was in urgent need (as we all are occasionally) and found myself diving into the Starbucks on Dusseldorf station only to discover that there were no toilets other than those on the platform. To reach the hotel I was told to take the U79 tram, but when I reached the platform there was nothing doing for at least half an hour so I broke the habit of a life time and took a cab, a cream-coloured Merc from outside the station, and was whisked to the Mutterhaus in around 15 minutes. I was abroad so there was no taxi driver racism. In fact, I made a decision not to strike up a conversation, mainly because there would clearly be a language barrier, but also because I wasn't in the mood to make small talk.

Cake at Schuster – really good!

I checked in and then raced to room 213 in order to relieve myself (I just made it!) and then I took a stroll as directed towards the nearest tram stop (Klemensplatz) and the most amazing little café, Schuster, which offered some equally amazing (and I mean amazing) cakes. Naturally, I ordered one. I watched as a young woman ahead of me ordered around half a dozen and had to resist making a wisecrack that would clearly have been lost in translation so I didn't bother. She waltzed off in her sequinned miniskirt with her cakes (surely not all for her) and then it was my turn. I ordered the cake you can see in the photograph above and it was fantastic. The sun was shining and I sat there with the cake and a cappuccino reading Maconie's The Full English in the heat. This, I thought, was the life, and decided on the spur of the moment to suggest to my wife that she and my daughter join me, "just jump on a flight to Dusseldorf on Friday and I'll meet you at the airport" said I impulsively in a text, having thought it through for all of five minutes, but of course we are short of cash (I'm not an international rockstar like Paul Simonon) and eventually the idea was scrapped and we talked instead of a 'proper holiday' meaning Spain or elsewhere, somewhere hot with a swimming pool. Not that the cash situation will be improving any time soon. Unfortunately, we just don't have the money and I'm now considering freelance work. Whilst in Detroit I found a hotel industry magazine in the lobby of the Doubletree in Windsor, Ontario. I 'stole' it and have it on my person now so I'm planning to drop the editor an email over the next couple of days to see if he fancies a UK correspondent. I used to write a lot about hotels and I'm still writing reviews for Trip Advisor – which pays Jack Shit – so perhaps there's some extra money to be made.

View from room 213, Mutterhaus

I dined in an Italian restaurant, Massimo's, along the cobbled streets close to the Rhine – mozzarella and tomato, spaghetti bolognaise, a large bottle of Pellegrino mineral water and a no-alcohol beer, all very civilised as the heat continued into the evening. Then I strolled back, not really wanting to return to the hotel, so I looked in closed shop windows and slowly made my way back, resigning myself to a lonely evening in front of the television. I found the BBC (channel 98) and watched the news about Boris Johnson stepping down as an MP (good riddance, I can't stand the fat cunt) and the other MPs who have stepped down too, like the menopausal munter and others, none of whom deserve to be politicians. There were other stories, but I can't remember them, one was about a boat crash in the Red Sea, but then I switched channels and watched Avengers: End Game, which was dubbed over in German but still understandable.

After faffing around with the lighting and discovering that I could dim the desk light, I switched off every other light and lie on top of the bed in the continuing heat thinking about nothing in particular and simply staring at the ceiling, looking out at the trees through one of my two upturned-shield windows. Eventually I nodded off but would awake occasionally through the night only to find myself staring at the ceiling again until I fell asleep. At around 0430hrs I was fully awake but I left it until 0500hrs before I jumped out of bed and started to write this blogpost. It's now 0635hrs and my thoughts have turned to breakfast. I'll probably go down there before I shower and then come back and prepare myself for the day ahead.

Schuster – a great café selling excellent cakes

The sun is already out. The trees that were monochrome in the early morning light are now green and vibrant, I can hear the sound of crows and other birds as they go about their business and I'm starting to wonder about the breakfast offering. As I've said before, you can tell a lot about a hotel from the standard of its breakfast.

I started to wonder what Paul Simonon was doing. He's probably awake in a hotel room in Paris somewhere having played a gig last night; or perhaps his first gig is tonight, who knows? He might not be in a hotel, he might have pals in the French capital putting him up for a couple of days. Either way he's experiencing the heat of the early morning and hopefully looking forward to the day ahead.

In Stuttgart...

Messehotel Stuttgart

While I was expecting a bumpy flight, I was pleasantly surprised to find it smooth all the way over. The BBC weather forecasters had promised 'more of the same' – they were referring to Storm Angus, heavy winds and rain – and I was gearing up for an unpleasant 70 minutes in the air. Fortunately, I was flying British Airways and, once through the fairly light cloud, and after my customary Island Bakery Lemon Melts (great biscuits) and one of those tiny bottles of red wine, I found myself safely on the ground, in a taxi and on my way to the Messehotel Europe, a really pleasant place, despite it's location on a fairly busy road opposite an Esso garage.

At the check-in, the receptionist kindly informed me that I had been upgraded. I'm sure he meant the room and not me personally, unless I'm really a robot manufactured by some sinister corporation, like in Bicentennial Man or Blade Runner.

Room 316 is on the third floor and is very nice: lots of wood, a safe, proper coat hangers, a fully-stocked minibar, flat screen television, ample desk space, and, I'm afraid, a pretty standard 'view' from the hotel window. Remember that Esso garage? My room is about 25 yards from the forecourt, and I'm here for two nights.

View from room 316, Messehotel Europe

For dinner, in a restaurant no more than five minutes' walk from the hotel, I enjoyed deer goulash with red cabbage, a lovely dumpling – I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a dumpling – and, oddly, half a peeled pear, followed by an apple-based dessert with ice cream, fresh orange and kiwi fruit. And as for dumplings, we had some with a beef stew at home only recently.

Breakfast the following morning, after hardly any sleep – I tend not to sleep well on my first night in a hotel – was fine, consisting of Sugar Puffs, a plate of scrambled egg and fried mushrooms, a small croissant, strawberry yoghurt and fresh fruit, not to mention a black coffee (the tea looked like a faff so I didn't bother).

My lack of sleep was based on hitting the sack around midnight, after answering some work emails and watching BBC World, but then I awoke at 0345hrs and couldn't get back to sleep so I went on the computer until 0600hrs and continued with my day. Big mistake. I was falling asleep for split seconds around lunch time and my eyelids felt kind of heavy. I tried desperately to resist, and succeeded, but there's a lesson to be learned here: if you awake in the dead of night, don't get up, remain in bed, stare at the ceiling, anything, but don't get out of bed.

Lentils, Frankfurters and pasta...really tasty

It was a busy day that finished around 10pm after a pleasant dinner in a typical German brew house where I enjoyed lentils with pasta and two Frankfurters, and let's not forget two beers.

Prior to dinner there was a guided tour of Stuttgart, a city with a population of 600,000, which can swell to 2.2 million, we were told. The central station is an impressive building, built at the turn of the 19th and 20th Centuries and now about to be re-modelled with subterranean railway lines. It's going to cost around 7 billion Euros and, needless to say, there have been public protests over the rising cost of the project, our guide explained. Originally it was only 2 billion Euros. When finished, it will be possible to take through trains to Munich. At the moment trains stop at Stuttgart and can't go any further – or at least I think that's right. Stuttgart is a railway terminal, but it won't be when the renovations are completed, so perhaps all it means is that a train arriving in Stuttgart won't have to double back on itself before heading in the direction for Munich, but what do I know?

The Germans love Christmas

Stuttgart was home to some famous people: Mr Daimler, Mr Porsche and the poet Schiller lived in the city. Stuttgart is well known for its automotive industry and there is very little unemployment. In fact, I hadn't seen any homeless people until the end of the evening when I spotted a man in a sleeping bag at the metro station. I also discovered that 'Konigstrasse' means King's Road in English – you learn something new every day.

I was staggered, however, to hear that 40% of Stuttgart's population is made up of immigrants and that, in addition to people, there were plenty of Canadian geese who, apparently, fly here from Scandinavia, without proper documentation, presumably because it's warmer. I don't know, bloody Canadian geese coming over here and stealing all the jobs from German geese.

Stuttgart, originally a protestant City, is the birthplace of the humble pretzel and home to the world's first ever television tower, but don't mention the war. Sadly, 90% of Stuttgart's buildings were destroyed by allied bombers during the Second World War, but nobody was letting it spoil their evening, least of all yours truly. I ordered a couple of Schönbuch beers to accompany my lentils and pasta, but I wished I hadn't ordered a side of potato wedges. Fortunately there were enough people willing to share them and nothing was wasted.

Stuttgart's opera house

After dinner we took a ride on the metro back to the Messehotel Europe, and then I took a shower and climbed into bed to get some much needed sleep, although I still awoke around 0300hrs, but this time I decided not to get up. Instead I lay there and eventually I must have fallen asleep because my alarm went off and it was time to get up. I'd checked out the previous evening so all I had to do was pack my case and I was ready for breakfast. I skipped the scrambled egg, the fried mushrooms and the coffee and enjoyed a cup of tea, a bowl of fresh fruit, a helping of Sugar Puffs and a yoghurt.

There was a lot of time spent in a coach. Our first stop was the Audi R8 manufacturing plant and it was quite incredible, although, unlike a lot of people, cars do nothing for me. As far as I'm concerned they exist to get me from A to B in relative comfort and that's it. Other people are different and I'm prepared to accept that fact. They seem to know a hell of a lot about cars and the ownership situation behind the car manufacturers. I haven't a clue. I couldn't tell you whether VW own BMW or vice versa or whether Audi owns Bentley or Daimler – and that's because I just don't care. I'm also not fussed about sports cars, or flash cars generally, and wouldn't buy one even if I was wealthy. Why pay £200,000 for an Audi R8? I'd rather buy a house in the Scottish Highlands. I listened to stories about Americans coming over to Germany to watch their R8 roll off the production line and then, apparently, crying when they saw it. What is wrong with people? Why cry? How about a smile? Apparently the colour of the car you buy is a status symbol in China. I can't remember the gist of the conversation, something about black being all about status, but that somebody in China had bought a green one – or was it that green in China means your status is high? I don't know and I don't care, but if there's one thing I abhor (there are lots of things I abhor) it's 'status' and, more to the point, 'status people'. There's a great song by The Groundhogs on the album Thank Christ for the Bomb entitled Status People. Here's the key lyrics:-

I'll be glad to say goodbye to status people who are just a lie,

I left them behind when I walked out of the door, I'll never see them anymore

It's a suitably depressing track (deliciously so in many ways) about somebody turning their back on society, and there is some rather desperate-sounding, but brilliant, guitar work that has a certain haunting quality to it – the whole album is good. As I walked around the Audi R8 plant, I wondered whether those who were making the R8 could afford to buy one.

The Audi R8

Back in the coach and it was pleasant to watch the German countryside pass by: fields and forests and small, quaint towns, often shrouded in a light mist. It wasn't long before we reached the town of Schwäbischhall, a rather quaint, chocolate box sort of place with a Christmas market. We had dinner in a traditional German restaurant, Goldener Adler, where I enjoyed goose breast with red cabbage and dumplings. Yes, dumplings again, they're lovely and we should all eat more of them.

The hotel, it has to be said, was rather good, albeit not conforming to the golden hotel designers' rule of 'function before form', something that boutique hotels should always remember; but they always forget. First, how the hell can I get the room key out of the lock? It took me an age to figure it out (the key has to be in a horizontal position); then it was the lights: how to turn them on. Ultimately it was all mildly annoying and the last thing I needed after a tough day. Boutique hotels are all about accentuating the 'craziness' of the owner, a bit like the cringeworthy "you don't have to be mad to work here – but it helps!" At one stage I inadvertently opened the bathroom window while trying to switch on the light. Having plunged myself into darkness by touching the wrong switch, I fiddled about and then heard a strange whining sound: it was the bathroom window slowly opening. Other than the unnecessary quirkiness of the Hotel Scholl, all was fine, although breakfast the following morning was a little odd as nothing seemed to be sweetened. The fresh fruit salad, for instance, was lacking sugar, and so was the orange juice, causing me to wince and pull faces.

Hotel Scholl, Schwäbischhall

After another busy day, a lot of it spent in a coach – although it was pleasant dozing on the autobahn in the dark – we enjoyed a tour of the town. I don't really want to go on about the Second World War, but our guide was quick to point out that Schwäbischhall only lost 3% of its buildings because of allied bombing raids, although it lost a considerable portion of the town 300 years earlier in a fire, but you really need to visit this place to believe it: very quaint and an ideal weekend break location, particularly at this time of the year. We dined at a place called Schuhbäck – be warned, they don't accept credit cards – where I enjoyed lentils with pasta and Frankfurter sausage – wonderful. The nice thing about German food is it's 'normality'. It's good, solid food that is nutritionally on the money, filling and even more perfect when washed down with a couple of pints of German beer.

And now it is Friday and it's 0642hrs. We leave the hotel at 0800hrs and will head towards Stuttgart airport around 1630hrs. But first, I need to check out of the Hotel Scholl and grab a bite to eat for breakfast. A slice of bread and some unsweetened orange juice sufficed and soon I was back in the coach gazing out on the German countryside. Pretzels and bread rolls for lunch on the move as we raced towards our last appointment of the day and then we headed for Stuttgart airport. Check-in was relatively smooth, the flight was even smoother – clear skies all the way over – and my taxi was waiting for me at arrivals.

One stair at a time at the Hotel Scholl

I reached home in time for the end of the 10 o'clock news and now I'm watching BBC Weather with John Hammond. He's saying it will be 'mostly dry' but I won't be going out early tomorrow morning. Having been up at the crack of dawn all week, I'm planning on lying in.

In Dusseldorf – my favourite European city

Room 111, Burns Art & Culture Hotel

The WiFi in this here Starbucks, where I'm sitting right now, trying to pen this post, is awful. When I switched on my computer, the power left was at 98%, but I've just this minute logged on, after a lot of faffing about, and it's down to 71%. Anyway, enough moaning. I'm in the old town (or Alt Stadt) of Dusseldorf, enjoying a large mug of English Breakfast tea, having just left a German restaurant a short walk away. I'm not eating any cake or cookies because the meal I've just had was spot on perfect and I had a dessert so I'm happy when it comes to food and a cup of tea is just what the doctor ordered.

I decided to walk to the Alt Stadt from my hotel having faffed around at one of those automated ticket machines and, for some reason, I couldn't use the credit card. Very annoying, but at least I got the exercise.

I'm staying – or rather I was staying – in the Burns Art & Culture hotel, not a million miles from the Burns Art Hotel and, in my opinion, while both are great hotels, the former is better, although I had a tremendous room (well, let's call it a small apartment) in both establishments. I think it's just the Burns Art Hotel concept that I love so much: the quirky works of art, the spacious apartment-like rooms (seriously, my room for the last two days was basically a studio apartment). It had a bathroom and a bed, like all hotels, but there was much more: a huge, long table, kitchen units, a hob, fridge (full of spirits and beer) and a microwave. I'll be honest, at one stage, rather than visit my favourite restaurant (Da Bruno, Karlstrasse) I almost considered nipping down to the Kaiser supermarket, buying a sauce and some pasta and, well, staying in watching the television, drinking a glass or two of wine and generally making myself at home. But I didn't do that; I went out, mainly because earlier I had booked a table at Da Bruno, and I'm glad I did, as I enjoyed a wonderful meal (Parma ham and melon followed by a prawn dish, perfect). And before anybody gets on their high horse and starts saying that Parma ham and melon is up there with prawn cocktail, a sirloin steak and crinkle-cut fries followed by Black Forest Gateaux and washed down with a luke warm glass of Riesling, I know. I know! But it was nothing like that. In fact it was so good I went back last night too, but this time ordered bruschetta with Parma ham followed by a mushroom pasta dish. Perfect, as always. I tried to get back in there for lunch today, but they were having a private party – how bloody dare they! – so I ended up in a traditional German restaurant,  Zum Schiffchen on Hafenstrasse 5, 40213 Dusseldorf, tel 0211 132421. Seriously, it was good. I ordered roasted salmon with boiled potatoes and greens and four very small beers (in total roughly a pint). Dessert was this amazing thing I can't describe, a cake of sorts, a bit cheese cakey, but there were cherries. It was wonderful.

Dessert – nice, but a little on the large side...

And now I'm in Starbucks and outside things are getting dark. Shops are looking inviting, there's an air of Christmas and there's also some kind of Carnival going on. It must be pretty big because there are special Carnival mugs in Starbucks and people are running around in nutty-looking costumes, there's live music, everything and the main thing is that people are happy, which is a good thing. It makes me proud to be a European, until I realise that those bastard Tories have managed to get us out of the European Union with a few lies and the help of nobs like Michael Gove, Boris Johnson and, of course, that Farage bloke. And if that's not enough, Donald Trump has found himself President of the USA – a fact that nobody bar a bunch of racist bigots in the USA is happy about, although I'd better throw in, "but not all Trump supporters are racist bigots". Of course not.

But it's not bothering the Germans. They're all dressed up in colourful outfits, drinking beer and having a great time until, I suppose, their elections, when some right wing nob cheese persuades Germany's 'unwashed' to vote for him or her and then there will be stark reminders of what things used to be like when Germans wore smart uniforms and sent Jews to concentration camps. Let's hope not. We can't have the entire world full of extreme right wing idiots and a load of ineffective left wing parties moaning and doing nothing about it, can we? I have a sneaky suspicion we can.

Taking a tram across town...

I've got a late flight out of here, but I've booked my taxi from Heathrow to home and I just want to get there now. At the moment I'm engaged in 'hanging around'. I'll need to go back to my hotel to pick up my suitcase and then I'll walk to the central station (or take a cab to the airport) where I'll probably have a glass of Merlot.

I'm wracking my brains to remember if there's anything that has annoyed me these past two days and to be honest, apart from Trump and Brexit, there's nothing. The hotel was great, the restaurant was great, the Germans were great, this Starbucks is great and the meal I've just enjoyed at Zum Schiffchen was also great. Nothing to moan about! Look it's simple really: I love this city, I love the people, the food, the beer, everything about it, even the taxi drivers are civil individuals. None of that, "You're never guess who I had in the back of me cab last night" rubbish. I bet most British cabbies voted to leave the European Union.

I was wondering yesterday whether there was any way I could change my nationality, become a German, but unfortunately I'm one of those people who is pure English, nothing else. I'm not even half Irish, I don't have any kind of dual nationality thing going on; I'm fucking buggered! Sadly, I'm an Englishman, with a shitty Tory party in charge of my affairs and nowhere to run. I can't say I'm proud of my country. The idea of moving to the USA doesn't appeal any more either, not now that Trump's in charge. Some people use the word 'trump' to describe a fart, as in, "after all those baked beans last night I couldn't stop trumping."

Bruschetta with Parma ham at my favourite restaurant...

The Dusseldorf carnival continues. A drum beat outside heralds the arrival of brightly coloured people dressed in a kind of blue outfit and holding aloft a flag, that was also blue, but I've seen people in all sorts of weird outfits today. There have been men in airmen outfits, women dressed as cheerleaders, people wearing silly headgear, live music, and I have no idea what it's all about.

That's what I thought, a quirky hotel...

Actually, I'm sitting here in a black rain coat and a woolly hat with my black-rimmed glasses on. I must look really stupid as a woman passing by caught my eye and was sort of smiling at me in a way that said, "God, you look stupid!" Well, hey, I know, alright? I know I look like a nob and I'm proud. I could take the hat off, but why bother, I'll only end up leaving it behind and it was given to me by the disgraced Prime Minister of Iceland – good reason to hold on to it, I'd say.

More people with silly outfits pass by outside and I'm now thinking I'd better get out of here, head back to my hotel, retrieve my suitcase and trundle on down to the railway station to catch a train to the airport. My computer has just 13% power left so that's it folks, I'm signing off.

I'm now back in the UK. Things got a little hectic. I left the Starbucks and made my way on foot to the hotel, but got slightly lost; it was dark and somewhere, temporarily, I took a wrong turn, but miraculously I found myself back on track.

When I reached the hotel I charged up the lap top for a bit and charged my phone too as I was going to need it for when I reached Heathrow's Terminal 5. The flight was smooth, there were clear skies and I had some more Island Bakery Lemon Melts, although the photograph below of the biscuits was taken on the outward flight, which was also very pleasant. I reached home just before 2300hrs, in time for a bit of Graham Norton. It's good to be home.

Island Bakery Lemon Melts – woof!!!!

Da Bruno, Karlstrasse 16, 40210 Düsseldorf, Germany

Da Bruno, Karlstrasse 16, Düsseldorf, Germany

There's a first time for everything and for me visiting one restaurant every night for the last four nights is a first. The eaterie in question was roughly a 15-minute walk from my hotel – so no taxis were involved – and in terms of value for money it scored highly, costing around 21 to 25 Euros (excluding tip) for one person. What's more the quality was there and so was the service and the ambience.

After a tough day – and all the last four days have been tough – I looked forward to visiting Da Bruno a small Italian trattoria located at Karlstrasse 16, 40210 Düsseldorf – telephone (0211) 38 23 00 and prefix that number with 0049 if you're calling from outside of Germany (and exclude that zero before the 2).

I dined alone every night and took with me a copy of The Economist on one day and Thursday's Times today. For the other two days I had my iphone to fiddle with, which was fine, but as all of my colleagues were staying in different hotels, some a considerable distance away, I dined alone every night.

Today was to be my last night at Da Bruno and, as always, it was busy. In fact, thinking about it, I should have reserved a table, but despite not doing so, they still managed to find me a table. What did I like about this great little restaurant? For a start it was Italian and I love Italian food. Then there was the fact that it was a small, cosy restaurant – they're rare these days – and then, of course, there was the service, which was perfect, and we can't forget the food as it was amazing. I made a point of not overdoing it as I wanted to be relaxed and chilled and happy to walk the 15 minutes along Karlstrasse without feeling tired and bloated. With this in mind, I had pasta dishes every day: pasta with mushrooms, penne arrabiatta, linguine with pesto and tonight pasta with lamb chops. On two occasions I had a small mixed salad, there was always bread and I also tried the minestrone soup (yesterday) and the tomato soup this evening. And I couldn't resist the proscuittio with melon. Fortunately I managed to avoid dessert as I knew that had I weakened I would have opted for the tiramisu (my all-time favourite dessert).

Despite being small and intimate there was plenty of hubbub, which I like; there's nothing better than feeling cosy in a restaurant, listening in to the banter of the other diners and taking in everything else like the smell of the food being cooked and the conversation between the waiting staff.

Every day has been different in Da Bruno. On day one there was only a group of men plus myself in the restaurant, but then it was fairly late. I remember being pleasantly surprised at the size of my glass of house red – it was huge – and then being taken aback by the waiting staff who were quite happy during one of my visits to put a bottle of red wine on my table and charge me only for what I consumed. No rigid portion control policy! But it was a policy never abused by yours truly. I never overdid anything and left the restaurant every night feeling at peace with the world and ready (hopefully) for a decent night's sleep.

There really is no praise high enough for Da Bruno and whoever runs the place. It's definitely a community restaurant with a strong local following and I'm pleased to say that while the restaurant was once on the other side of the road, it's not anymore as the building in which it resided was recently sold. One of the waiting staff told me they were lucky to find their current premises and I found myself thinking 'too right!" I would imagine that locals would mourn the loss of Da Bruno for many years and may never have gotten over it. I know I wouldn't.

So tonight, as I paid up the bill, gathered my stuff together and bade farewell to the waiting staff, there was a tinge of sadness as I walked into the evening air and headed back to my hotel. But I know that one day I'll be back as Düsseldorf has become a regular haunt of mine.

I've got roughly a half day of work ahead of me tomorrow and then I must head to the airport for a flight to London City Airport – a 70-minute hop as opposed to hours of driving on autobahns and motorways.

Here's to the team at Da Bruno for running an excellent restaurant and charging a reasonable price for above average food and impeccable service.

Da Bruno
Karlstrasse 16
40210 Düsseldorf
Telephone: (0211) 38 23 00
Fax (0211) 384 0147
www.dabruno.de

In Bruges...

... for all of one hour having lunch in the main square. I've never been before and because I was only there for lunch – and two dark ales that played havoc with my digestive system for the rest of the journey – I couldn't really pass judgement on the place, although judging by the shops and the general vibe, it's the sort of place to visit for a long weekend, although there was something a little 'samey' about it. For a start there were global brands: H&M, Claire's Accessories and Zara spring to mind, and then there was that air of 'tourist destination' about the place. Cue horse drawn carriages and restaurants with outdoor seating. I'm sounding ungrateful, I know, but after while I did find myself saying ' alright, I get it' and then wishing I could turn around and go home – metaphorically speaking, of course, although going home would be nice especially as the weather this week is odds on to be hot and summery and I'm going to be stuck in an exhibition hall all day when my family and back garden await me.

Er, tone it down a bit! Room 207, Friends Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

Half of me wanted to remain in Bruges instead of pressing on to Dusseldorf, my ultimate destination, which I reached just before 9pm. It's been a long day: up at 0600hrs, out of the house by 0800hrs, driving with a colleague to Folkestone to catch the EuroTunnel shuttle and then the hour and a half ride to Bruges, which is en route to Dusseldorf.

When I reached my hotel – the Friends Hotel on Worringer Strasse – I was full of so much gas from the dark ale that I could almost have floated to my room, but I had to check in first. It was all very efficient, but then I was in Germany where, fortunately, everything works, trains arrive and depart on time and everybody seems to be driving a decent German automobile.

Because tourists are money! The main square in Bruges, Belgium

Having checked out the website for this hotel prior to leaving the UK, I knew what to expect: it was a quirky boutique hotel so there would be out-sized angle poise lamps and whacky colours and I wasn't to be disappointed. I had two of the aforementioned lamps over either side of my bed, the wall behind the bed was painted a shocking orange and the carpet was brightly-coloured stripes. Had I taken mind-altering drugs, I wondered, as I noted with mild amusement the purple curtains? No, I hadn't. I didn't need to as this place was a kind of Korova Milk Bar and acid trip rolled into one.

Eager to sort out my digestive problem I headed straight for the bathroom – a shocking white affair with a black and white framed photograph of Twiggy looking surprised to see – she had an even bigger surprise coming, I thought, as I gulped down a bottle of complimentary Evian mineral water, lit the blue touch paper and waited. It all went smoothly bar a moment of panic when I thought I'd blocked the toilet. Horrific visions of calling up a member of staff to sort it out crossed my mind but, fortunately my fears were all in vain as suddenly the water level receded and all was well with the world.

I'm in Room 207 and it's a pleasant enough space if I ignore the brightly-coloured decor. The main thing is that everything works and the guy on the front desk even had an adaptor for me and it worked! I plugged in my iphone to charge it and then, grabbing glasses, money and a credit card I headed outside to check out the restaurant scene... only to discover that I was in kebab land. Better make that 'kebap' land. And there were only men in the restaurants, groups of them in denims, trainers and open neck shirts exposing hairy chests chatting, I could have been in Istanbul or the Yemen.

A short distance from the main square, but still very much in Bruges.

I walked up all the streets joining Worringer Platz but found nothing but 'kebap' houses. Eventually I went back to the hotel and asked if there were any restaurants in the area, good restaurants, that weren't kebab shops. Yes, was the answer. There was an Italian restaurant about 10 minutes' walk along Karl Strasse called Da Bruno. It was dark outside but I'd decided that I better eat something and made the short trek, past a few down-and-outs until I eventually stumbled across the restaurant. It was good and very authentic but again only men could be found grouped together at one of the tables talking, no women.

I ordered pasta with mushrooms and a glass of red wine – no wine list was produced, just a fairly generous glass of red wine and some bread rolls. But it was good food and much welcomed, although I had considered simply hitting the sack until I realised how little I had eaten today. The bill came to EUR15.00 but I liked the place so I gave the waiter a 10 Euro tip and then made my way back to the hotel from where I now write this blog post.

Oddly, at night, the wild colour scheme of the room seemed muted (unless I switched on a light). What I do like is the guest book for room 207. Shortly after arriving I flicked through it and found the comments of other guests who had spent the night in this very room. Half of them were written in foreign languages I didn't understand, but there was one from Jan and Natalie – 'Lancashire Girls, UK' who now live in County Mayo in Ireland. They even drew a funny face. Their message was clear, that the Friends Hotel was beautiful and had friendly staff and there was a small piece of advice for guests like me: the caff next door offered superb ice cream. They were only here for one night, but say that they hope to be back for longer in the not-to-distant future. I'm looking forward to adding my comment, but I'll wait until I've stayed here a little longer before I put pen to paper. Or perhaps I'll do it now.

Just a word on that caff next door. Earlier I'd considered it for my evening meal but my first impression was that it might be an ice cream parlour. But then I saw a blackboard advertising pasta and soup and ciabatta, but it didn't appeal, not for an evening meal at any rate, but I might take up Jan and Natalie's advice and check out the ice cream – but not until I've exercised, stretched my legs and possibly even hired a bicycle (I need to check the availability of a bike share scheme).

Right now it's time to hit the sack. With such bright colours I'm not planning on setting my alarm clock as I'm sure the purple curtains and striped carpets will wake me up as soon as daylight dawns.

Essen's 'Bixi' bikes - I didn't have time to try them out

This week I flew out to Essen in Germany. It's a kind of satellite city of Dusseldorf and I had to fly into Dusseldorf airport (or Flughaven) then take a short train journey of about 20 minutes to Essen.

The Holiday Inn, Essen. Similar to Dusseldorf but slightly

better. The room was larger here and there was free WiFi,

which is annoying as I had to pay in Dusseldorf.

Once again, I was staying in a Holiday Inn and, for an international hotel brand, it's amazing how much they differ from one unit to another.

Essen offered free WiFi and a different restaurant menu to the one in Dusseldorf, although the latter was better located in terms of virtually everything. It was right next to the main railway station and tram network.

I think I preferred the Essen hotel, not only because of the free WiFi, but because the room was a little bigger and the restaurant offered good food and some decent beer too.

Both nights I had roasted salmon as a main course plus an excellent tomato soup starter. The Essen hotel's restaurant was a little more polished than Dusseldorf's, although the adjacent bar allowed people to smoke so occasionally I got a waft of cigarette smoke (well, only once) but it brought back memories of England's pre-smoking ban days, although not necessarily pleasant memories.

In Germany some bars still allow smoking and, for some reason,  pubs on street corners are more likely to accept the cigarette than others. I think there's some kind of law. In fact, I went into a bar called Sausalito's – which happened to be on a street corner – where I enjoyed a wheat beer and, lo and behold, I found some of my fellow customers enjoying a cigarette. Strange, but true and in many ways a step backwards.

A wheat beer in Sausalito's where customers

are allowed to smoke.

There are people in the UK licenced trade who want smoking in pubs and clubs re-introduced, but somehow I don't think it'll ever happen as the Brits are now accustomed to smoke-free pubs and I think they like them. Who wants to return to smelling like a bonfire after going out for a beer?

I didn't realise how close my hotel was to the city centre, which, I have to say, was not as pleasant as Dusseldorf.

There was no 'old town' just a load of shops so I wandered around in the late afternoon last Thursday looking at stuff I couldn't afford and stopping off for that wheat beer near a square.

Essen's council is in the process of building a Ferris wheel, which looked a bit odd as it was only half finished, but that was the only thing I could find of interest apart from the shops...oh, and Essen's answer to the Montreal 'Bixi' bikes. I had planned to ride one, but it was late in the day and it transpired that I needed some kind of credit card to use them.

I spent hours wandering around Essen's shops and malls and on my way back to the hotel was tempted by an Indian restaurant. The very idea of a curry and a decent, chilled lager or two appealed, but I decided to go back to the hotel for dinner and eat the exact same meal as the night before: tomato soup followed by roasted salmon and washed down with a Konig Pilsner – excellent. Besides, I had to be up at 5am in order to catch a train to the Flughaven and then a flight back to Gatwick.

Essen's answer to Bixi or Boris bikes. I didn't take a ride.

The flight home, like the flight out, was pleasant enough, although it was early so I couldn't really order my usual bottle of wine. As we started our descent into Gatwick, I was amazed by the amount of cloud. It wasn't until we were virtually on the ground that land came into view and guess what? It was raining.

The half-finished Ferris wheel in Essen

I went straight to the office and then later I went home.