Writing of German sunsets
Do me a favour, kiddies. Open up Microsoft word and type the following sentence (leave out the inverted commas)

“I am feeling all poetic.”

Now run a grammar check by pressing F7. Accept every change offered by clicking on the change button. You can come back to my Blog when you get bored.

I wrote a poem, once. That was a long time ago. I can actually remember the whole thing, but little purpose would be served by me inflicting the terrible depths of my lack of poetic vision upon you. Just know that if I wanted to, I could, and there’s not a damn thing you could do about it.

Speaking of poetry, I’ve been in Germany for the past week and a half. I know I promised some of you regular updates, but Justin’s oft-promised German home Internet connection has yet to appear. Those of you who know Justin have permission to roll their eyes now; the rest of you can twitch nervously for a moment. That’s enough with the eye rolling. Hey you, stop twitching!

Where was I? Ah yes, poetry. I don’t know if any of you have been to Southern Germany, or even if you know anything about it; before I arrived I knew next to nothing. It might as well have been the Black Hole of Calcutta. Yes, I had been to Germany before, during my backpacking phase. My stay had primarily been in the dark, cold north. In all honesty I’d not formed a particularly favourable impression. Earnest young men in leather jackets arguing about the sort of things earnest young men argue about, women in long tie-dyed skirts platting their ample underarm hair, dark seedy streets where everything could be bought except hot chips without mayonnaise, and that was about it. Northern Germany was not for me.

There’s no denying it, the South is much nicer than the North. Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve had these poetic urges. Sun-drenched days whiled away in one of the many Café’s overlooking the serene, translucent Lake Constance – In the background, Alps, alping quietly to themselves. Meanwhile Zeppelins float overhead, never quite coming into range of my zoom-less digital camera. How could I not be inspired? If my friend, Ron Meldon -- gentleman, scholar, and pretty mean poet -- were writing this Blog, it would probably be in verse. But, I’m not a poet. Want proof?

German Sunsets – A poem (inspired by MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB)
By Kieran McCabe

Kieran’s in the Bodensee
Bodensee
Bodensee
Kieran’s in the Bodensee
There are no Nazis here.

We’re drinking lots of Kristall Weizen
Kristall Weizen
Kristall Weizen
We’re drinking lots of Kristall Weizen
It’s much the nicest beer

Justin’s life is perfect now
Perfect now
Perfect now
Justin’s life is perfect now
Or so he’s telling me

The faces are all leathery
Leathery
Leathery
The faces are all leathery
Must be the Mayonnaise

The Zeppelin flies on Hydrogen
Or is it Helium?
I think it’s Helium
The Zeppelin flies on Hydrogen
Instead of Zyclon B

I did warn you about the poetry. Heartfelt apologies to all who chose not to skip ahead.

The Hidden Subtext
I’ve had a great time! Visited castles and ancient churches, been to the Zeppelin Museum, drank lots of beer, spent hours on various ferry boats crossing the lake, visited sumptuous gardens and beheld such visions of Germanic beauty as to make one quiver with envy. Oh, and the sunsets! Every evening the light finds new ways to illuminate the lake and its supplicants as they stroll along the promenades of each lakeside town. Fighting for space along these glorious promenades are wonderful cafes, each serving cheap beer, fabulous ice creams and some mighty fine coffee.

Oh yes, and the women aren’t bad either.

As long as I’m in travelogue mode, perhaps it’s time to provide a little background. Lake Constance is the largest lake in Europe. Its calm, clear waters are fed by the near-by Alps and are surrounded by three countries: Germany, Austria and Switzerland, which I will insist on calling Sweden, despite all the evidence. Add the Principality of Liechtenstein, which is just down the road, and you have a nicely international enclave.

As mentioned in a previous entry, the town nearest to my friend’s new flat, now known to all and sundry as Fortress Bradley, is Uberlingen. I love this wonderful burg. I quote from the local tourist authority’s blurb, which I have o hand.

“Welcome to Uberlingen – where as you can see, we are rightly proud of our history: fortified towers and town gates, patrician residences, the fifteenth century Town Hall and the sixteenth century Minster, all dominate the unmistakable silhouette of this free town of the Holy Roman Empire. The romance of a town with a southern atmosphere, anchored in the Middle Ages, a ommunity nestling in the security of the past, drawing living strength from tradition – that is Uberlingen.”

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