Day 12: Arberschutzhaus near Eisenstein

Today I am visiting some old family friends, Igo and Od Fischer, and their home and hotel in Eastern Germany. The hotel, Arberschutzhaus, is a wonderful place to stay, up a mountain at 4500 feet in the Bavarian Alps on the Czech border (see www.arberschutzhaus.de). Unfortunately, the internet access is slower than when Bill Gates was a boy, downloads are measured in pixels per hour, and it has the world's only version of Windows 62. So my blog updates lose a couple of days.

So I drive out of Munich and head north east towards the Czech border, following the instructions from the female voice in the dash. I realise, as we are belting along the autobahn at 150 kph, that I do not have a map, and I’m just obeying her voice. I’ve input directions to a place called Bachanau, to meet Igo and Od at their home, but I could be heading for Mars. Then without warning, she stops speaking English and reverts to German, and I suddenly feel alone. The English voice had become good company, not in a ‘blow-up-doll’ sort of way (“I spent the night with her, and most of the next afternoon” – sorry, couldn’t resist an old Dom Arera gag), but a friendly voice in a strange country. When she says, “Follow the road until further instructions,” I say, “OK, fine by me”. I wonder if she’s reverted to German because she’s tired on this little game. I follow the directional arrows on the dash and somehow arrive at Buchanau.

Debbie and I first came to this part of Germany in 1982, as part of a year working and backpacking in Europe. Debbie’s father, Reuben, had worked with a German guy, Igo, at the Gallface Hotel in Columbo, Ceylon (where Debbie was born) in the mid-1950s. Reuben played clarinet and Igo was on keyboards. Igo returned to Germany and except for a contact phone number, there was no ongoing communication. He opened a hotel at the top of a mountain in the Bavarian Alps, near a place called Bayerisch Eisenstein. And so Debbie and I rocked up to a public phone at the bottom of the mountain, 25 years later and with no prior warning, and Debbie calls his number says, “Do you remember Reuben Solomon?” and the doors of the hotel are thrown open as if close family had arrived.

Now I am back at the top of this mountain 24 years later, and Igo and his family are still the same, as friendly and welcoming as ever. I have the run of the menu, the bar, and the rooms, with all payments refused, and the football is on the television from morning to night. During my stay, I try the beers, the schnapps, the ice cream and the apple streudel until I'm ready to burst. I think I’ve died and gone to Bavaria.

I take a long, exhausting walk in the deep forest, which looks exactly the same as it did half a lifetime ago. Major world events, such as the fall of the Berlin Wall, the technology revolution, September 11, and Manchester United winning the treble, have come and gone, and this forest in this mountain is untouched.

At sunset, I climb to the peak, and moments later, a single-seat aircraft flies past no more than 25 metres away, and the pilot heads down into the valleys and buzzes the tiny villages. It’s like an aerial stroll in his back garden, and he does not seem too worried that he’s about to miss the next game. I’ve heard there are people like that.

Several Germans have told me that the WC has changed the way Germans allow themselves to demonstrate their nationalism. Due to a past which most would rather forget, the last two generations of Germans have rarely showed national pride in an open and overt way. The WC has liberated them, as the world has come to Germany and given everyone permission to wear the colours and wave the flag. Most Germans have deliberately understated this for 60 years. Furthermore, their coach has picked a young side and removed some of the older players who were a further link to the past, and the country wants to get behind its young team. Everyone is joining in, even at the top of this mountain surrounding by timeless forests.