Goodness, I do wish he’d stop releasing the radio button before speaking when we’re in convoy; all I get is a little crackle in response to a yes or no question. And it could be important: ‘shall we stop for a cup of tea, Love?’ Crackle.. It’s infuriating.
Little Dick does a double-take when noticing us both in Bremen at 5am, expecting us no earlier than midday.
Mind you, anybody would do a double-take at such an incongruous sight: twenty gargantuan trucks are parked on a flagstone courtyard – just a hundred yards from Bremen Central Station. Passers-by take photographs as truck doors open to drivers in various states of dishevelment. It’s a funny place to “camp”, emerging ill-kempt onto quite such a busy square.
Ah, now Bremen is worth a look. Namibian, after stocking up with Coffemate at Spar, joins me. ‘I haven’t got nothing to watch,’ he croaks, by way of explanation. Ooh, Spellcheck doesn’t like his turns of phrase.
And is it actually any easier to save one syllable? – to say “anything” rather than “nothing”? It bruises one’s ear. Anyway, along with Little Dick, the three musketeers head into the old town, braving rain and low temperature.
Not long into the journey, worsening drizzle prompts a swift entry into a Gothic townhouse. ‘Fourteenth century? Will it take my weight?’ asks Namibian. Foolishly, I risk tea. Two tea bags notwithstanding, it’s still hopeless. The inn is cold, and we leave unwarmed and unsatisfied.
The Schnoor quarter, Bremen’s oldest district, is a maze of 15th/16th century buildings – delightful to dilly-dally if the climate suits. But it doesn’t. And it isn’t. However, as if by magic, a warm shop selling booze appears.
Intriguing liqueurs stretch from wall to wall, and ceiling to floor – all ready to decant into “transport bottles” of various sizes. Namibian, of course, has found the truck-shaped 200ml bottles, and gives a little yelp of delight. We all have one: two trucks full of rum and one of Weinbergspfirsich-likor.
See what I mean about Germans inventing words? Fill ‘er up..