Leaving Dusseldorf on the train...

I am sitting in a Starbucks on Cologne railway station. I've been here before, a couple of weeks ago, and now I'm back, but the queue is long and I don't have much time because there never is any time. Even if I think I have time, like now, I don't really. There's around 50 minutes until my train for Brussels leaves and I must be on it because there's only a 20-minute margin for error when I reach the Belgian capital, just 20 minutes and then I don't know what will happen. I'd have to hope that I can jump on a later one and get home around 2100hrs, something like that.

Carpeted corridors at the Mutterhaus

I was on the 1258 train from Dusseldorf to Cologne and there was just enough time to find the platform from where the Brussels train would depart. I had 10 minutes. Fortunately the platform was nearby and I was pleased to be standing there waiting for the train that was advertised. But then, without any warning, the sign changed and I asked somebody on the platform whether they knew what had happened. "Cancelled," he said. "Cancelled?" "Yes, welcome to Germany." This I found rather odd as normally the Germans are really efficient, their trains leave on time, everything works, but not today. I was told to wait for the 1540 so I decided to find somewhere to eat lunch. I found a brewery, a kind of huge pub, dark and cavernous, but it didn't look as if I'd be served for a long time so I left only to find that the restaurant opposite the central station was the same place, the brewery, Gaffel Kölsch. I ordered meatloaf with a fried egg and sliced and roasted potatoes, just what I needed and now I'm sitting here in Starbucks without a coffee because the queue is too long and they haven't rumbled me because they're too busy to notice that I've not ordered anything, I'm just using their wifi.

There's about 40 minutes to go and I must ensure that I don't get carried away here and then miss the next train. The day started early. It always does. I remember being awake around 0600hrs just staring at the ceiling wondering how to play the day. I knew I had my expenses to do, which is a big faff, but first there's breakfast. The Mutterhaus offers a decent breakfast – because it's a decent hotel (of which more later). All week I've been having roughly the same thing: a mix of granola, porridge oats and muesli with a strawberry yoghurt on top, then a green tea (maybe two) and a couple of slices of bread with marmalade. I've also had a pastry of sorts, something that changes daily, but it's always worth it so I never miss it. Over the past three or four days the routine has been breakfast followed by getting showered and then leaving the hotel behind, jumping on a tram and going to work. Then, unless there's something else to do, like attend an evening function down by the Rhine, or take somebody out to dinner, I go back to the hotel area (Kaiserswerth) and have dinner in Casa Massimo down by the river. I did this twice, on Sunday and Monday nights, but on Wednesday I had dinner with a colleague in what I've always called 'my favourite restaurant', which is Da Bruno, a small Italian trattoria on Karlstrasse. The food at Casa Massimo is on a par with Da Bruno, but it lacks the personal touch. On Sunday night – my first at Casa Massimo – I enjoyed a mozzarella and tomato starter followed by spaghetti bolognaise and accompanied by a large bottle of sparkling mineral water and a non-alcohol beer. The latter was wonderful and I must put it on record that no-alcohol beers over here are tremendous, a million times better than Becks Blue or Heineken 00. Last week I had a few bottles (three at most) of Warsteiner 00 at an industry event on Tuesday night and that was good too. So, all is hunky dory on the no-alcohol beer front.

Chilling in Casa Massimo

The Mutterhaus is an amazing place to stay and I'd love to return some day. It's a big, red-bricked former hospital and the interior decor is immaculate, all the passageways are carpeted, all the hotel room doors are huge, heavy wooden affairs and yes, you've guessed it, you get a proper key. I was in room 213 and there was nothing to complain about other than the plugs being too far away from the desk at which I could work; this meant that I had to charge my computer on one side of the room and then, when charged, move it to the desk area. It wasn't a big faff if I'm honest, I made do. There's no restaurant here, hence my two visits to Casa Massimo, which was about 400 yards or so away, just a short walk and then across the tram tracks and down the street past quaint shops, including Schuster, the café serving amazing cakes and cappuccino. I experienced the delights of Schuster this morning as there was time to kill after I'd checked out around 1000hrs. I left my bags at the hotel front desk. There was no 'concierge' and when I returned I noticed that my bags were still simply behind the counter where I had left them, not that anybody was going to steal them. I reckon all the guests who stay at the Mutterhaus are good people. The hotel is very quiet. I don't think I ever met anybody in the lift or along the corridors and I only saw a few other guests in the breakfast room on the ground floor.

Starter at Casa Massimo

The hotel receptionist was a pleasant woman called Piros, which doesn't sound very German. I always thought the Germans were a little short on a sense of humour, but no, I am wrong. She was always laughing at virtually everything I said and did without any prompting from yours truly. Women seem to take liberties and I must say that I'm a bit baffled by it all; yesterday, a woman who had been watching my 'performance' at a panel discussion I was chairing, sidled up to me afterwards to discuss my suit. My suit! She asked me if it was new and I said no, it was a year old, give or take a few days. "Oh," said she, and proceeded to tell me that the jacket's flaps at the back were sown shut when they shouldn't be; I must say that it hadn't bothered me and, in all honesty, I hadn't noticed, but when I returned to my hotel room I checked it out and she was right. What with Piros laughing at virtually everything and this other woman offering clothing advice, I'm beginning to think that something's afoot, I'm always on their radar, I thought later as I ripped the flaps of my suit jacket loose before hanging it in the wardrobe. Perhaps I just made Piros laugh for some reason, Listen, I'll pick up on this conversation later, I've got a train to catch.

Breakfast delicacies at the Mutterhaus Hotel

I'm back! And what a palaver! Remember, I was booked on to the earlier train so my seat reservation (I'm guessing) was null and void. I, like my fellow passengers booked on the 1342 to Brussels Midi, were now wandering the carriages of the later train, the 1540, pushing heavy suitcases in front or behind of us and wondering whether to take a gamble and just sit down (as I did, only to be told 'this is is my seat'). Well, you can have it, I felt like saying, but instead I remained polite and carried on with my trek towards the front of the train. I made it to the buffet car where there were 'seats' (of a sort) that meant I could lean back behind a raised table. Perfect. I won't be moving from here in a hurry, although the woman next to me, who was on her laptop, has now packed up and gone to the washroom, leaving behind a huge purple suitcase and a smaller, bright orange rucksack. More room for me, but not much. Prior to her departure I had ordered an English breakfast tea and a large Twix, both of which are now gone (the woman is back and rubbing something into her hands, probably sanitiser). Her lap top is out again and she's back on it.

The Mutterhaus hotel from the second floor

Outside there is nothing but trees, well, not just trees, fields, little villages, the usual stuff you expect to see out of a train window. I'm going all the way to Brussels Midi and then it's the Eurostar to London and I can't wait if I'm honest, which I am.

Bookmarked books opposite reception. Why? 

Back in Dusseldorf, Klemensplatz was the nearest tram stop to the Mutterhaus. I used the U79 and went backwards and forwards along the line at different times of the day and night depending on the event I was attending or who I was meeting. Klemensplatz and the area surrounding it are very pleasant. I've already mentioned Schuster, the café where I took advantage of the outdoor seating this morning and last Sunday when I first arrived. On Sunday I had a kind of marzipan cake and today an apple tart and a cappuccino whilst reading a bit of my new book, The Full English by Stuart Maconie. It's great and I'll probably read it again shortly when I've finished this post, or when I'm on the Eurostar home. Schuster and Casa Massimo are both worthy establishments, the rest, while quaint – toy shops, clothes shops, bookshops without any English language publications, a chemist and a health food shop – did nothing for me. But I did like Kaiserswerth and guess what? Yes, I could live there, but would I? No. Why? Because it would be impractical on virtually every level. Let's just say it's a nice part of Dusseldorf and it's very close to the city centre.

Down by the Rhine in Kaiserswerth

As I mentioned before, time is non-existent. Never think you've got time for anything, just get up and go and do any loitering about when you reach your destination. Wandering around the shops of Kaiserswerth did me no favours. On the tram to Dusseldorf's central station I realised that I was cutting things fine but when I got there all was well and I managed to get to Cologne easily enough. As I said, they cancelled my first Cologne to Brussels train and now I'm on the 1540 sitting in the buffet car blogging. Since my last update on the scenery outside the train there has been little change, although it's looking a bit more built up than it was earlier. We've just gone over a river, quite a big one, and the train is slowing down. 

More Mutterhaus breakfast delicacies

My clock says it's 1545hrs and we're coming in to somewhere fairly big, I'm guessing it's Liege, so we're in Belgium, next stop Brussels Midi. The platforms are empty, there's nobody around, just a few passengers getting off. I'm trying to think of what else I can tell you about my latest visit to Dusseldorf. On Monday night I walked from the middle of Dusseldorf back to Kaiserswerth along a fairly rural footpath that kind of followed the Rhine. It was a 5.5-mile yomp with Dr. Martens shoes and a heavy case and it took me 1 hour and 49 minutes. It was one of those journeys I started to regret almost immediately as it was hot and I was ill-prepared for such a walk.I started to wish I had a bike, which would have made the journey a little quicker, but I didn't. While most of the journey was along the rural path it eventually dipped inland and followed suburban streets lined with fairly large houses. It was quiet and again there was nobody around, or hardly anybody. The houses were pleasant in the evening summer sun and there were top-of-the-range German cars resting in the driveways. Soon I found myself at the Klemensplatz tram stop. I walked across the tracks and decided to go straight to Casa Massimo and drink a huge bottle of sparkling mineral water and a bottle of Jever alcohol-free beer. It was perfect, but later I found myself wide awake (unlike now) and in need of more mineral water. I nipped downstairs barefooted (remember, the whole place is carpeted) and bought three bottles of sparkling water plus a bottle of orange Fanta, now there's a drink I haven't experienced in a long time. I guzzled the Fanta and one of the bottles of mineral water and then went back to bed... and slept like a baby. I'd already had two hours of sleep and now I slept for an additional six and a half, so eight and a half hours in total and much needed. I've just ordered a large cappuccino as I was falling asleep, hopefully it will revive me. 

Some of the amazing cakes in Schuster Café, Klemensplatz

One thing that did make me laugh, more out of bafflement than anything else, was a fairly large wooden sideboard opposite the reception area of the Mutterhaus hotel. It was baffling and mildly amusing. There were a lot of books stored in the sideboard and they all had bookmarks in them. What, I wondered, was that all about? I asked Piros and of course she laughed, but I wanted to know why people left books in reception with bookmarks in them. Why weren't the books in their rooms? Or on their person so they could read as and when the fancy took them? She laughed again, and later she laughed even more when I suggested moving the bookmarks to different parts of the books to inject a bit of confusion into the proceedings. Left to my own devices I might have moved a few around as the books in question had been in the same place ever since I arrived at the hotel and I couldn't figure out why people would leave them by reception. Fine if it was dirty boots or wet umbrellas, but books are pretty harmless, just keep them on the bedside table, surely that's the time when you're going to read them, before you hit the sack.Still, stranger things and all that.

Chilling before the journey home

It's 1722 and I'm guessing there's not much longer to go; the shutters have come down on the buffet counter and now somebody is saying something over the intercom, probably that we're about to arrive at Brussels Midi or Noord, I think it was the latter. I need to guzzle my coffee a little bit faster, but it's still too hot.

When we reached Brussels Midi it was clear that I had missed the 1756 Eurostar to London and would have to travel on the 1851 instead, which wasn't a huge problem even if it did mean arriving in the UK around an hour later than planned. I was alloted seat 44 in coach 8, right next door to the buffet car, not that I wanted anything to eat after the huge lunch I'd enjoyed in the brewery opposite Cologne railway station. But first, the Society of the Spectacle. I went straight to the perfumery section and tried out the Allure. All aftershaves smell the same, be it Allure or Eau Savage or whatever. Only Old Spice has its own distinctive cheap and powdery appeal and that's why I have some in my suitcase. Nothing better than cheap aftershave or deodorant! Whatever happened to Denim and Hai Karate? In the hot weather something is needed and that's for sure.

I found a wobbly seat and tried to use my laptop, but the wifi was rubbish so I gave up and then it was time to board. I was sitting next to Melinda from Cologne.We chatted about this and that until it was time to disembark. She was going to Nottingham to meet somebody she hadn't seen since 1997 and I was heading home.The heat of the week continued.I took the tube and then the overground and soon I was home.

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.