.
A whole week, and
the jetlag doesn’t seem to want to go. I collapse at 7 or 8pm, sleep (with a
little trizolam) like a branch, with horrid dreams, and with barely a bathroom-break,
and I am awake at 6am. Bother! Today I forced myself to stay in bed till eight,
but I could see the proto-day shining between the curtains … so I gave in, got
up, had a soakish bath and opened the window on … the most perfect spring day.
And a message from
Wendy saying, hurrah! At last it had rained on Gerolstein. Each to his/her own!
Now, just because
the day outside is promising, doesn’t mean I have the day off. The morning had
to be spent on investigating Miss Ellen Fitton of Kirkburton (soprano), but,
come 1pm, it was time to feel some of that sunshine. Over the courtyard, Paul
was still writing, so I put on my hoodie (his, actually, naturally I don’t own
such a thing) and my Turkish beanie and set out to Humboltdhain Park. Fifteen
minutes stroll would clear my head and brisken my stride nicely.
Unfortunately,
between Hochstrasse 13 and the inviting park, there is a railway line. The
railway line which at present out of order. I saw four men, leaning on one
welder. Anyway, you have to go ‘round’ to get ‘in’. And when you do, it’s a
different world. Natural parkland stretching as for as the eye can see … a beautiful crocus
lawn
Flocks of daffodils
Slowly greening trees and hills
Children and dogs
playing, couples sitting on benches, romatically glued to their iphones. Just a
little touch of formality: a classically set-out rose garden, with red shoots
waiting, soon, to bud into blossom.
I wandered for
half an hour, peeped through the trees at number 13, and headed home. ‘Ready
for a walk soon’? said Paul.
So I girded my
loin (the right one is still a bit iffy) and we sallied forth, heading from Wedding to Mitte. Let’s see how far it
is to Nordbahnhof. So off we set. Scarcely as salubrious as the Park. Wherever
there is a railway there is a filthy pile of rubble and mess: if they spend so
much care and money on the Park, why don’t they clean the streets, lines and
empty lots?
We came on a dead
railway bridge, rusting slowly away, next it a dirty chunk of wall, befouled
with that talentless, unimaginative graffiti common to all countries. Why don’t
they knock it down for landfill? It’s what? It’s THE Wall? That skimpy little
thing? Knock it down anyway. It's past its use by date.
Along what seems
to have been some kind of rail embankment (or a gun emplacement) and suddenly
the Green ‘S’ of Nordbahnhof appears. I’ll be living there again in a fortnight.
Maybe all the street repairs are, after two and a half years, at last finished.
Shock and horror.
What have they been doing the last six months? The works haven’t progressed
fifty metres! And its an obstacle course to get from my flat to the station. I
don’t understand. Why are the Germans so wonderfully efficient at some things,
and so utterly hopeless at others?
We didn’t pause
for a beer by the Baustelle. We headed home. 8km walk in one afternoon is
enough for an elderly handicapped gentleman. I am thoroughly disappointed in
Invalidenstrasse. Thank goodness for the beauties of Humboldthain.
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