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.

Ramblings from Dusseldorf airport...

Thursday 12 November: As I write this I am sitting in a cafeteria – there's a counter and trays so it's definitely not a café – enjoying a cup of black tea (as they say in Germany). I can't ask for a cup of 'builder's tea' as they wouldn't understand  me. There's no milk either, just creamer, which always reminds me of the days of my childhood when, for some reason, we sometimes had to endure our tea with Carnation evaporated milk. I can only assume that mum simply ran out of milk on some occasions. In Europe, largely, when you order a cup of tea you'll get a cup of warm water, a sachet containing a teabag and no milk. Awful.

It's around 1650hrs and it's getting dark outside. I'm through passport control and I'm killing time writing as I left Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World (which I've almost finished) in my suitcase, when I checked in.

The Rhine from the Schellenberg's breakfast room

As always when I stay in a hotel, I didn't get much in the way of sleep. I'd hit the sack around midnight last night and I woke up at 0700hrs so I reset the alarm for 0730hrs and tried to chill a little before getting up, taking a shower and heading down for breakfast. Although it wasn't 'down' it was up and over and, of course, it involved going outside into the fresh air (see previous posts for details). Not a big issue because the weather was mild, but it could have been much worse. Imagine getting drenched by heavy rain before reaching the breakfast room!

When I reached the breakfast room (the restaurant from last night) I was able to take full advantage of the Schellenberg's riverside location. It was, as I mentioned in the previous post, right on the banks of the Rhine. I sat there, having collected everything I thought I'd need – cereal, fresh fruit, a pastry, some scrambled egg and a pot of tea – and watched as huge barges passed by; they were passenger barges, designed for river cruises, and they were very long. Some had rooms with patio doors so I'm guessing there are overnight river cruises along the Rhine too; now that's something I'd like to do.

Viking River Cruises was one of the operators and there was another barge moored up on the bank below the hotel. At first I thought it was part of the hotel: extra rooms, perhaps; but soon the engines started the churn up the water and the barge disappeared up river.

Room 27, Schellenberg Hotel, Dusseldorf

On the opposite side of the river there were what looked like gently sloping 'sandy' banks that were almost beaches. It was probably mud, not sand, but it didn't look very muddy and I'm guessing that in the summer people might enjoy lying there, taking in some rays, but it was mid-November and the 'beaches' were deserted, despite the mild weather.

Breakfast was pleasant enough and so was dinner last night (I had cod with polenta followed by raspberry mousse, a glass of wine and a bottle of still mineral water). The entire bill was just 189 Euros.

I checked out and left my suitcase with the concierge while I nipped over the road to the convention centre until around 2pm when I met a colleague and his client for lunch at the hotel (potato and leek soup followed by salmon and a couple of glasses of Malbec). We talked shop and then I was driven to the airport (an incredibly short drive). Now I am sitting here having drank my tea. It's 1703hrs and soon I'll have to make my way to the gate for the return flight home. I've been reliably informed that the plane is another turbo prop, but unfortunately I've got an aisle seat. Not that it matters as it'll be dark when we take off and besides, it's only 55 minutes so I'll have to amuse myself in some other way. I have a notepad and a pen so perhaps I'll be inspired to write something, who knows?

Once again I forgot to buy myself some Ronnefeldt tea.  I know they've got some decent flavours because I've tried them and it's available throughout this fine land. It's always a shame to leave Dusseldorf, but I'm sure I'll be back. I seem to visit this great German city three or four times during the year.

View from room 27, Schellenberg Hotel...

I wandered to the gate (Gate 91) and then, as I waited to board, I added up the numbers of the flight, hoping that the total wouldn't be 13. It wasn't and I was relieved as I hate it when the numbers stack up against me, although they rarely do.

Next to the free bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that I always enjoy on any British Airways flight I take, the next best thing is John Simpson's regular column in High Life magazine. This month it was about the cities of Brazzaville in the Republic of Congo and Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo (previously Zaire). They're chalk and cheese according to Mr Simpson and his preferred capital is Brazzaville, although it never used to be. "I remember landing at the airport here in the 1990s with mortars and artillery fire thumping down...", he wrote in his column. I've said it before, but High Life should devote more space to Simpson's writing.

Annoying passengers
What never fails to annoy me on planes is when instructions from the cabin crew are ignored, especially when those instructions are designed to make things safer. We were told to switch off all electrical devices during take-off and landing and, of course, I did as I was told. But there were others close to me who simply ignored the request and continued texting and watching fucking Cumberbatch on their tablet. I felt like intervening, but decided to keep my powder dry for fear of starting some kind of international incident.

The flight was good and, being a turbo prop, a little more exciting than a jet. Turbo props, a bit like helicopters, 'chug' through the air and while the flight is a little rockier than that experienced in a jet, I think I prefer it.

We landed at London City Airport and after retrieving my suitcase from the reclaim I headed for the Docklands Light Railway to catch a train to Bank and then onwards to London Bridge where I picked up an overground train to East Croydon and then to Sanderstead.