We just got back from a long weekend/short week in Lippstadt in Germany: my place of birth. Is it something to do with getting older or do I love it more with every visit? As a child I spent a number of summers there staying with family and it was always a bit of a chore, a bit exciting but a bit nerve-wracking having to get by in another language. I even spent some time on the road with one uncle who was a lorry driver - now sadly deceased. These days when we go it is to stay with my first cousin in her delightful flat near the centre overlooking some very well kept ruins - NO I refer not to myself but a wonderfully preserved abbey.
I saw not a trace of doggie doo on the pavements and only a tiny amount of litter, fabulous facilities for cyclists and pedestrians alike and lots of people waiting for the green man even when the road was quiet.
On the Sunday we took a summer fete in a tiny village where we were unexpectedly serenaded by a group singing celtic songs rather beautifully. The place was called Gut Hauswinken and was in the middle of nowhere. A small grouping of renovated typical farm buildings containing a cultural centre of some repute. Unlikely but very lovely. The sun blazed from a cloudless sky that day. I remember it well because it was the last time we actually had any sunny weather!
We traveled (there and) back by train - a practically incident free journey - ladened with essig essenz, pflaumenmuss but no new Birkenstocks. I have to admit checking out estate agents....
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