The Germans, they talk a lot in terms of their impressions. Nice impressions, bad impressions, too many impressions to deal with. They also talk a lot about their circulation, but that’s by the by. With the translating I do (and my head being some kind of idiot sponge) I have a habit of absorbing German words, phrasing and so on nowadays, putting them in place of the English I should actually be using. I tend to talk about “making” photos now. Starting letters in lower case after “Dear So-and-so,” comes more naturally to me and then I have to resist the urge to sign off emails to friends with “LG” (liebe Grüße).

So please, enjoy these impressions of Cologne. I’m going to poke my veins and see if my circulation is still … circulating.

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Lauren lived in Cologne for part of her university course (no, she wasn’t taking skiving to a new level, she was meant to be there) and so she seemed the perfect person to consult with regard to what one should see in the city.

She had just two tips:

1. Don’t climb the steps to the top of the cathedral. You will die.

2. Go to the chocolate museum.

On account of the two previous days’ walking climbing to the top of anything really wasn’t on the cards on day 3. Hell, standing up at all was negotiable. The Olds and I wandered around the streets, looked at stuff, took a boat ride (photos to follow) and then Mum and I went to the chocolate museum while Dad stayed outside to enjoy the much more manly pleasures of a 50s car show.

Inside the museum are displays about the history of cocoa farming and chocolate production, blah blah blah, and then you get to a production line where Lindt chocolates are being made and packed. Chocolatiers sit within perspex walls packing the mechanically wrapped chocolates that roll towards them on the conveyor belt, or making truffles, which they give to the kids behind you to taste, but not to you. But no fear, I didn’t go without tasting the good stuff as there is a huge chocolate fountain at which chocolate-dipped wafers are handed out. And I got two.

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As I begin to load more photos from my trip to Cologne it occurs to me that I never linked from here to my photos on Flickr of the concert I’d actually gone there to attend. Probably too busy translating German press articles about it to stop and do so. Now that the tour is over I’ve a little more time on my hands. Time I hope to use to reacclimatise myself to blogging and Flickr - and dear God I hope I do that, ’cause otherwise the start of the craziness that is 7 Days on 20th September is going to take me somewhat by surprise. By the way, we’re looking for inspiration for the two theme days, so head over to the group page and leave your ideas in the discussion there.

And then have a look at some very cool musical people. I photographed during the soundcheck and concert in Cologne … probably the only yodelling photographer there.

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So there we were, sitting in Cologne as darkness was falling. My friend grabbed his binoculars and started looking up at the apartments above him. Addressing some guys across the table, he said something in German. I caught one word, which seemed familiar. “What’s Schwanz?,” I asked, “I’m sure I know it.”

He stopped, looking completely caught out and at first refused to say anything. Being pressed further he told me it just meant “tail” and gestured a long tail coming out behind him. I eyed him with suspicion, certain that I was not being told the whole truth, but nothing more was forthcoming. Back in the hotel that night, I fired up the laptop and checked an online dictionary. Sure, Schwanz just means tail. The same as cock just means rooster.

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So, the third day dawned. We rose earlier than the day before, knowing that we were due to leave Hirschhorn about 8am, arriving in Heidelberg, where we would disembark, at about 10am. The musicians were, for the most part, still tucked up in their beds while we sorted ourselves out with some breakfast and watched the landscape pass us by.

We arrived on the outskirts of Heidelberg and sat for quite some time in a lock. Various other crew members were up now and keeping us company. There was no sign of the captain though. Should we get off here? Nobody knew. We weren’t in the city centre and it was thought that there was another lock further down. We stayed on board and eventually the ship continued on its way. Through the city … and then suddenly we realised that we weren’t exactly surrounded by civilisation and the opportunity for public transport links any more. No, this was more what you’d call being in the middle of nowhere.

“Err, Hannes, we needed to get off in Heidelberg.”
“Heidelberg was back there.”
“We noticed.”

The captain appeared. While he had known of our plan to disembark, I think his fellow nautical personnel hadn’t got the message. The big map was studied and pointed at, train times were researched online and it was arranged that we would leave the ship at Mannheim. Meanwhile the band and crew were gradually emerging from their beds, greeting us with bleary-eyed surprise: “You’re still here?!”

Second claim to fame for this holiday: I (accidentally) headbutted Xavier Naidoo’s guitarist, Andi. At Feudenheim lock the captain reappeared and told us we’d be getting off here. Andi was leaving the boat here too and tour manager Schrödi lifted me up to him on the wall of the lock. As Andi helped me up I gently headbutted him by way of a thank you.

We stopped on the bridge above the lock to watch the boat come through. A number of other people were already there, waiting to drop flowers down onto the deck for the band. After taking a few photos we hotfooted it down the road. Andi had told us we’d find a tram that would take us straight to the Hauptbahnhof.

Walking and walking, Suzy took my rucksack from me, turning herself into my very own pack horse. Damn, she’s a fine friend. With no tram in sight she asked a couple of natives where in God’s name we should be going and they pointed us back in the direction we came. Ah, that’s always a good feeling. Eventually we found the overhead cables for the tram. But the rails weren’t really anywhere to be seen, as the street was being dug up. Being educated ladies, we deduced that this did not bode well for the arrival of a tram to take us to the station.

A friendly shopkeeper called a taxi for us and while we waited we were advised that it would be best to get to Stuttgart Airport straight from Mannheim Hauptbahnhof. The trouble was, we were hot and sweaty and already had our train plan cemented in our minds. We wanted to go from Heidelberg to Stuttgart so that Suzy could buy a return ticket in order to get back to where her friends lived.

So we took a train from Mannheim to Heidelberg, where we bought tickets to Stuttgart. Then Suzy disappeared to talk to someone behind a desk and I discovered that standing in the middle of a station looking wide-eyed and wearing a rucksack that weighs as much as Hubert’s ship causes people to come and ask me if I need help. To which I answer that, thank you, I’m fine. My friend is … (wild flailing of arms) … irgendwo.

Suzy reappeared and it turned out that the tickets we’d bought were of no use in getting me to the airport before my plane departed. We went back to the “help” desk and were faced with BahnBitch, possibly the huffiest, least helpful railway employee ever to work for the German railway. We bought more tickets for a faster train, swore about BahnBitch and missed the train back to Mannheim by just a few seconds.

Back in Mannheim and with a bit of a wait ahead of us for the InterCity Express train, we took comfort in overpriced British chocolate bars from the vending machine. Once on board the ICE train we checked our onward journey. It’d be just about doable. We’d get to Stuttgart, make a run for the “tief” part of the station, from where we could get the next train at 18.28 hrs, with any luck arriving at the airport just a minute or two before check-in shut. Cue an announcement on board the train that there were delays and we’d be arriving at Stuttgart station at 18.29 hrs. Handy, thanks.

I leant across the aisle and asked a man if he knew Stuttgart at all - thereby impressing Suzy with my German. Oh, I know how to throw in a good “überhaupt”, baby. Would it be quicker to get the train to the airport, or a taxi? My neighbour wasn’t too sure, but confirmed that, yeah, we were screwed as we were going to be arriving after our next train had left.

Stuttgart. Suzy took my rucksack again (mental note: keep her) and we legged it through the station and followed the signs to the taxi rank outside. We fell into the back seat of a taxi, our probably somewhat manic expressions and inability to breathe indicating that we needed to get to the airport fast. Check-in was going to shut at 7pm. I’d originally hoped to be at the airport at 5pm. Our driver really knew what he was doing, changing lanes knowing which would come to a standstill, zipping in and out and gently cursing other drivers when need be. Along the way I spotted a poster for Hubert’s Stuttgart concert a few days before. Nice touch, universe.

We arrived at the airport, ran in and found German Wings check-in. Across the hall I could see a few people standing at the counter. This looked promising. Then as I walked towards them I spotted the time up on the announcement board. It was 18.45. We’d made it with 15 minutes to spare. Suzy and I fell on each other in the middle of the check-in hall, hugging and laughing. In spite of everything that had happened that day, I’d made it in time for my flight. Which was then delayed.

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The second day Suzy and I woke up late - how did it get to 11am? - but fortunately life on the boat is geared to musicians who come awake at night and get up late, so we hadn’t missed breakfast or anything dreadful like that. The boat was already on its way to the next stop and Suzy and I watched pretty terraced hillsides pass by as we got dressed.

This was my first journey on the ship and I enjoyed the gentle movement along the Neckar, never really knowing quite where I was any more precisely than “somewhere between Heilbronn and Hirschhorn”. There were locks to pass through, people in other boats to wave at, photographs to take.

We arrived in Hirschhorn at lunchtime and the crew set to work readying the stage for a soundcheck. Rows and rows of chairs were being set up on land for the audience. Compared to the day before the proximity to the stage was fantastic; the ship was right up against the shore. Well, almost. There was just enough of a gap to jump across to give you something to worry about. That something being: oh my God, what if I fall down between the big iron ship and the big concrete wall into the big deep river?

That evening the arena filled up suddenly without us realising - dinner on the boat is served roughly when the gates open, which is tricky if you’re on the boat, hungry, but also wanting a first row seat. However, with a fantastic bit of luck a couple of people I knew were in the front row. I went to say hello to them as we’d never met and it turned out that the single seats either side of them were empty, so they budged up a seat and - bam! - front row after all. Perfect.

The concert was absolutely brilliant and I had the time of my life. I was on such a high afterwards. Being so close to the stage meant I was able to take some great photos too, a real treat having been quite far from the stage the day before. The whole audience was taken with the show and swarmed forward to the barrier for the encore. Even after that song we didn’t want to let Hubert go and our applause brought him back on stage with just his guitar to sing a folk song with which he used to end his concerts a few years ago.

Getting back on board we hung out with the band on the deck for a while before eventually heading to our bunks. We said our goodbyes then too as we were planning to leave the ship in Heidelberg the next morning - probably before all the artists would be awake.

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