It was stuffed full of mediaeval treasures and some of Dürer's works but rather than feeling I had three hours to enjoy these things, I felt rather hassled. The museum had about 10 visitors when I was there and about 5 members of staff per visitor tripping over themselves to point you in the right direction. And I needed these guides because the first one explained that all the floors had different closing times. To make sure I didn't miss too much, I went round in the order of floors to close first. But this is where the pressure started to build up. I couldn't linger as I felt there was someone about 10 steps behind me all the time closing off doors, rooms and corridors.

Nürnberg used to be a well-known centre for toy making over the centuries - and still has a couple of factories now. I discovered the Germanisches Nationalmuseum's toy section in a separate building down the street but couldn't work out if this was in addition to the Toy Museum I'd heard about. Anyway, it was also about to close, so I marched round fairly quickly. It had some truly amazing dolls' houses. The houses must have been about 2 metres high with at least three floors each. All the furnishings were intricate, elaborate and exquisitely detailed. (The dolls themselves were a bit of a disappointment - not to scale and comparatively clumsily made). One house even had a stable on the ground floor with horses in!

Later, I passed a shop selling traditional German pottery and ceramics. I went in to browse around and noticed a sign announcing that a famous brand of figurines, Hummel, was going to cease production in December 2008.

The sales assistant told me that Sister Maria Innocentia Hummel signed an agreement with the porcelain firm W. Goebel Porzellanfabrik in 1935 allowing her drawings to be transformed into figurines. After the Sister’s death in 1946, an artistic board was appointed at her convent to safeguard the quality of the figurines and this arrangement continues. However, the company has decided to discontinue production as the figurines are no longer selling as well as they have done.

I had thought these figurines dated back further than 1935 – perhaps 100 years or more judging from the style of costume the children wear. I had never been able to decide if I thought they were kitsch or cute. On the spur of the moment, I decided to buy a couple – it might be now or never. My colleague C left me in no doubt as to what she thought of them: echt kitschig. I still can’t decide…but if I think they are too dreadful for my ultra-sophisticated home, I can always sell them as collector’s items…. I’ll let you know if I put them on ebay or sell them through Sotheby’s…

Whatever you think of them, it’s the end of a tradition…perhaps one day they'll end up in a museum....

Just before I set off on my trip, Germany had beaten Portugal 3 -2. Everywhere I went on my travels there were German flags hanging out of windows, from balconies, from cars - even off the back of bicycles. Germany's opponent in the semi-final was Turkey. As you will know, Germany has a considerable Turkish population and there were also Turkish flags - not as many - but quite a few.

C and I had planned to meet up with some of her friends to watch the match in a beer garden but they phoned as we were making our way there to say that it was absolutely full - so we went to a smaller Kneipe (pub) which didn't have a garden. On our way, we passed several Turkish restaurants and kebab shops where the clientele was getting ready for the big show-down.

Our Kneipe was serving a selection of Turkish and German dishes - keeping its options open - C ordered a Turkish dish, Sigara Börek whereas I had the Frankfurters. Everyone in the Kneipe (with the exception of myself) was German. I found myself supporting the German side although I thought the Turks were playing a much better game. One of our party said she was generally quite neutral about who won or lost but she hoped that Germany would win because many of her neighbours were Turkish - and every time they won a match she would not get any sleep for all the noisy celebrations.

The Turks scored first causing the supporters to groan and put their heads in their hands but the Germans equalised by the end of the first half. Then the Germans scored again only for the Turks to equalise. Right at the last minute, the Germans scored the all-important final goal to win the game. The most tense part of the game was the part played by Swiss TV which was broadcasting the match. The game went off the air three times! Not quite the Swiss precision one might expect...

S is a friend and colleague of my client, E , whom I mentioned last September. Since then, E has given birth to twin sons and we were invited to E's home for Kaffee und Kuchen.

We stopped off at a flower shop and asked for a bouquet suitable for a new mother. The florist picked up a ready-made bouquet and added a couple of flowers to it. Then she asked if the new mother had had a girl or a boy. We replied that she’d had twins – the florist added a couple more flowers to the bouquet. We then mentioned that she’d had two boys. The florist was shocked – she reacted as if she had never heard of such a thing – “Zwa Bub’n?,” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief “zwa Bub’n, oh je, oh je!” and added a couple more flowers to the bouquet and kept repeating “zwa Bub’n” in her strong Franconian accent and adding more flowers. I was beginning to wonder if we would need a wheelbarrow to get the flowers to their destination when she recovered sufficiently to charge us. The bouquet was three times its original size and cost only the original price!

We changed trains at Koblenz, the city at the confluence of the Mosel and the Rhein where the valley was wider. We looked out for the Lorelei cliffs where the legendary maiden of Heinrich Heine’s poem, combed her long blond hair, distracting the sailors from negotiating the narrow straits between the rocks causing them to be dashed to death as their ships were wrecked. At Bingen – where the famous mediaeval nun, Hildegard, lived and had her religious visions and wrote her plainsong chants, the valley flattened out into a plain and the rail route diverged from the river. This stretch of the journey was really quite stunning and I would love to do it again. Some stops later at Mainz, the Lödgerin hopped off the train and I continued alone.

The train trundled from Mainz to the next station a couple of kilometres down the line. I was gazing out of the window to my left and then happened to look out of the window to my right. My mouth nearly dropped open. Right next to the platform were the Roman ruins of an amphitheatre. The station had been built right on top of the ruins about 150 years ago. Somehow, no-one had noticed that the largest Roman stadium north of the Alps was there! It could apparently accommodate an audience of 10,000 and had a stage of 42 metres and an audience area of 116 metres. The station was named “Mainz – Süd” but since 2006, it has been known as Mainz – Römisches Theater. The theatre was big – but not as big as the Opel factory past which we trundled. It was huge – it must have been 2 to 3 kilometres long. We crossed the Rhein again and then met up with the Main as we came into Frankfurt Flughafen station.

I alighted here – nothing Roman about this place – it was all shiny marble floors and stainless steel. At the appointed moment, my train rolled onto the platform and off I went on the next leg of my journey. We passed over the Main again which does a massive U-bend and caught an intriguing glimpse of Würzburg which was all modern buildings on the outskirts which partially hid the view of old steeples and towers in the centre. Not long afterwards I arrived in Nürnberg, where I was greeted by my colleague, C, who needs no introduction as you met her in my postcards from that city last September.

The day we picked just happened to be Luxemburg’s national day (June 23). Above the streets on wires hung national flag flapping lazily in the breeze. I couldn’t help but think that they looked a bit like slightly over-sized bunting. We walked down one of the main boulevards where earlier in the morning there had been a military parade. We couldn’t imagine that the parade had lasted very long as the country doesn’t have an airforce or a navy - and the army, even at full strength, must be pretty small. All that was left were the people barriers down each side of the boulevard. I don’t know where all the crowds had dispersed to but we felt to be almost the only people in the city. It was almost like a ghost town….
We went to visit the Cathedral de Notre Dame but it too largely cordoned off to visitors as there had been a service there that morning. I wondered at what time the celebrations had kicked off as we had arrived by 11 ish and everything was already over.

Undeterred in our explorations we went to visit the Kasematte, a warren of underground barracks built inside the original castle. The castle was essentially built into a large rock. It was meant to be similar to Gibraltar – and has the nickname “Gibraltar of the North” but having never been to Gibraltar I can’t say if this is an accurate comparison or not. A thousand years ago, the original castle was called Lucilinburhuc – meaning, I understand, “little castle”. There wasn’t a great deal to see or even many signs explaining what we were looking at, but it was quite amazing to think that a whole community of people, horses and equipment had been accommodated in these narrow tunnels. The citizens of Luxemburg had also taken refuge there during the bombings of WWII. Looking down from the “windows” we could see the Alzette, the small river which runs through the city and how the steep sides of the gorge had been used for growing plants and flowers – which we dubbed the “Hanging Gardens of Luxemburg”.
Later on a meander along the remains of the city walls we came across a few information boards about the flora and fauna to be found in and near the slow moving, green Alzette. It is for the average European all very small scale as the main features were snails and nettles – and mention of the fact that buttercups had died out. Had I known in advance, I could have arranged some deal between the authorities of Luxemburg and Dith’s allotment. Who knows? Her song might have received a wider audience.

Our explorations included a visit to the Gelle Fra, Luxemburg’s national war memorial and the Palace of the Grand Duke which was almost entirely unguarded. There were no grand courtyards or fences in front of it, just a solitary soldier marching up and down, ignoring the tourists and enduring their attempts to capture him on film. We sat outside a café directly opposite the Palace (literally about 12 yards from the front door of the palace) and watched the soldier, and the tourists, go by as we drank our tea and listened to some tinkly bells chime out the hour and quarter hour.

And what of the language in this tiny country? French, German and Lëtzebuergesch are the official languages. French is used for parliamentary matters but the newspapers are largely printed in German.
Lëtzebuergesch was primarily a (West Central German) dialect until Nazi occupation in WW2 when it gained in popularity and was used by the Resistance to print pamphlets. Their motto Mir wëlle bleiwe wat mir sinn [German for comparative purposes: Wir wollen bleiben was wir sind] “We want to remain what we are” became all the more poignant. As found in other languages at the point of the printing press, the standardisation of orthography imposed certain restrictions and whereas previously one could spell words in the way they were spoken in one’s own village, Luxemburgers now found that they could be accused of making spelling mistakes!

Later, at another café, the waitress addressed us in English, which I thought was a little odd as the Lödgerin and I had been conversing in German. How did the waitress know we could speak English? She didn't - but I was reminded that everyone of a certain generation is more or less expected to speak it. It turned out that the waitress was Finnish and didn't speak French or German (or Lëtzebuergesch)so she spoke to all her customers in English.

It was a pleasant way to spend an hour at the end of the afternoon. We passed under the Römerbrücke (Roman Bridge) which we were told is the oldest bridge north of the Alps still crossed by traffic; and saw two cranes, the Trierer Moselkran built in 1413 and the alte Zollkran (customs crane) built in 1774. My eyes may have deceived me but I thought I saw a crane of the feathered variety sitting on a post nearby!

The Lödgerin told me the story of the Mariensäule (St Mary's column) which is high up on the Markusberg and past which we sailed. You will remember that I told you in postcard no. 5 that the ancient Basilika was given to the Protestants. Well, after Trier was returned to Prussia (largely Protestant) in 1815, the Catholics were less than delighted so they resolved to build the highest statue in Germany in Mary's honour on the Markusberg. It was not intended for pilgrimage purposes - it would have been better placed on the Petrisberg on the right bank of the river for that, apparently. The chosen spot is directly above the town and almost directly opposite the Basilika. The Lödgerin explained that as the Catholics couldn't have the \"best\" building, they were going to remind those pesky Protestants of their superiority by making sure they couldn't avoid seeing Mary. And it seems that their attempts were advanced by WWII. Damage inflicted on the town meant that several buildings were destroyed and not rebuilt - which further opened up the view between the Basilika and the column!

Over the weekend, we watched a number of shows on the stages around the town. And what a variety of acts! Most were drawn from the local area. We made a point of going to hear a Gospel choir as the Lödgerin’s sister and niece were singing in it. It was very pleasant to sit in the shade of the plane trees, sipping a drink and listening to joyful music. Across the square was the Dom with its exterior inscription “Nescitis qua hora Dominus veniet”** which was a mite sobering!

We also saw a troupe of 4-6 year old girls dressed in pink balloony trousers and little pink tops dancing a sort of belly dance. I had a slight unease about the style of dance for such young children but they were clearly loving it! One girl who was obviously the talent of the class had a few special turns to do, beaming throughout, another dark curly-haired little thing was flashing her eyes and wiggling her hips almost too authentically for her age, another little lass lost her trousers at one point, calmly kicked them out of the way and continued singing and dancing for about another minute and a half until I think she realised she was performing in her knickers...whereupon she burst into tears and ran to the sound technician to get him to help her. He looked thoroughly bewildered with the task before him but managed to pin her back in to her pink pants and she continued like the little budding professional she was. The star of the show in my eyes was the little chubby puppy of a girl who performed her role - not with much grace – she would be better suited in a rugby team – but with enormous determination and a big smile. She stomped her little legs and threw her arms around so wildly that I was crying with laughter as she sang “Schüttele den Bauch”***. The Lödgerin had to take me away – I was helpless.

I “sobered” up with a glass of Viez – the local word for cider. It was pretty strong stuff. There was a good scheme in operation at the Fest. All the beer tents charged a deposit on the glasses. You could take your glass away with you and return it to any other beer tent and get your deposit back. Prevents people littering the streets with mashed up plastic beakers.

We wandered with our Viez past the Karl-Marx House. I had had no idea that he had been born in Trier. And it is a little known fact of history that Karl Marx might have been considered French had he been born a few years earlier. The town had been under French control during the Napoleonic Wars from 1797-1815 but then reverted to Prussia. Karl was born in 1818 thus missing out on French citizenship by a whisker.

*Peter and Paul Fair . Old Town Festival. St Peter’s Fountain. Main market square
** You do not know at which hour the Lord shall come” (roughly translated by Kerensa. Apologies but I can’t work out if that verb is in the present or the future (it could be a subjunctive...does anyone know?) – but you get the idea).
*** Shake your belly

Trier also boasts the Porta Negra (ca. 180AD), the best-preserved Roman city gate north of the Alps. The gate is a sort of black colour (although not entirely) which derives from the weathered colour in the stone. The entire structure is made without mortar - the sandstone blocks are connected only by iron rods. The stone blocks weigh as much as six tonnes each. We weren’t able to get really close to it as there was a stage right near it (of which more later). This gate was later incorporated into the mediaeval city walls.

The Aula Palatina (Palatinate hall), also known as the Konstantin Basilika, was built 310 AD. This is a long, high-ceilinged brick structure which served as the throne hall of the Roman emperor until the destruction of the city by Germanic tribes in the 7th century. It is said to be the largest unsupported Roman building in Europe (i.e no internal columns) – and it is truly huge – a fact which is easy to overlook as it is so beautifully proportioned. The Lödgerin told me that originally the walls were rendered both inside and out and that inside they were beautifully decorated. There are just tiny fragments of the plasterwork left. In the 17th century, the Aula Palatina was bizarrely integrated into the baroque-style imperial palace (Residenz). When you are inside the Basilika you have no notion of this but from the outside it looks a little peculiar – the sort of thing that Prince Charles would describe as “a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a well-loved friend”. The Basilika was given to the Protestant church in Trier in 1856 as their main church. This caused some bad feeling as Trier is predominately a Catholic town and the Catholics felt that the Protestants didn’t really need so much space or such an historic building!

I don’t know if they needed to make a huge fuss because the Trierer Dom (cathedral) is Catholic and has its roots in Roman times. Christianity is thought to have arrived in the latter years of the second century – although local legend believes that a bishop, sent by the apostle Peter, brought the Gospel in the first century. The first structure on the site was build by Constantine the first Christian emperor over the palace of his mother, Helena. Construction began in 326 AD to celebrate the 20th anniversary of his reign. The Dom has a good pedigree as Constantine also began work on St Peter’s Basilica in Rome to mark the occasion.

We walked in and sat down to look at the various points of interest. No sooner had my posterior hit the seat than the organist began to play. I wasn’t sure if I should respectfully rise to my feet again – as curiously, he struck up with “God save the Queen”!! Just as I was idly pondering my response, (was HM on an incognito visit?) he made a couple of mistakes and started again. I decided that no emperors or monarchs were in evidence, so it was safe to stay seated. My feet were grateful for the rest.

There was a display screen at the end of the carriage confirming that the train was calling at Namur, Arlon and….Luxembourg (hurrah for that!). Another display advised passengers to buy their tickets before boarding to avoid paying a supplement but it seemed a bit late to mention it now we were speeding along. There was a good view from the windows – even when we called in at a station - for generally the top deck was higher than the canopy over the platforms. The disadvantage of this arrangement is, however, that it makes it a bit difficult to see the station name but as I was not getting out until the terminus, I did not allow this to bother me on this occasion. (I’d had enough to rant about on this journey without getting involved with things which were not going to directly affect me!)

The passengers seemed to be commuters and even after a couple of hours we seemed to be depositing commuters at their home stations. We picked up speed as we passed through the beautiful forested area of the Ardennes. The ticket collector came to inspect my ticket and stared at it rather hard. I looked at it once he’d gone and noticed that it said I was going via Sterpenich. With no idea where Sterpenich was, I wondered for a moment (again!) if I was on the right train but took comfort from the display at the end of the carriage confirming I was on my way to Luxembourg.

Eventually we arrived at Arlon. Passengers disembarked. And then I looked around and realised everyone had disembarked. Huh? Was this a co-incidence or did they know something I didn’t? I grabbed my bag and went in search of a conductor who happily was just boarding the train. I asked him in halting French if the train was going to Luxembourg. (I wasn’t sure if I should speak French – or if this was a Flemish speaking area and whether English would be a better bet). Gentle reader, the display on the train had been telling lies, nothing but barefaced lies! Monsieur (for he was a French-speaker) told me to go to the next platform – where I recognised most of the people who had been in my previous carriage. I boarded this train slightly unconvinced (that display had been telling me for 2 hours that the train was going to Luxembourg!) and off we set.

Shortly before 7.45 pm we duly arrived in Luxembourg (hurrah!) which looked like a building site. For it was a building site. Everywhere there were gaping holes, safety fences, heavy plant machinery and signs advising you to wear a hard hat. I descended into a subway to stare at a departure board. After about 15 minutes it told me that the 20:17 was due to leave from platform 7. I trudged off to platform 7 to wait. At about 20:10 an announcement was made. Ich verstand nur Bahnhof.* Well, the only word I did catch above the scratchy, crackly bangs and whistles was “ausnahmsweise” – exceptionally. Oh heck. What is happening ausnahmsweise? I shouldered my bag to plod back down into the subway to the display board. Platform 4. Up more steps to wait on platform 4. At about 20:14 a little red two-carriage train which had clearly seen better days, with Trier Hbf written on the front, went sailing past me. I watched it go and waved “bye-bye”. It looked as if it was on its way to the depot. At 20:16, I was getting a little nervous as the platform indicator showed no sign of announcing a train to Trier. I bombed back down the steps to read the departure board. Now it said Platform 4 CD. Back up the steps and looked wildly to my left – the platform petered out…. Wildly to my right (where I had been standing previously) - AB. But wait! What was that further down the platform – behind the scaffolding? Saints alive – it was CD – about 75 yards away. A chap in a grey suit had just noticed the same thing and we both belted towards the train for now it was about 20:16:55. The Suit, having had a 25-yard headstart and not being weighed down by a 20-kilo bag, got there ahead of me – but I was not far behind. As I fell into the carriage, the doors tooted and closed and off we chugged towards Germany. Less than three-quarters of an hour later, we pulled into Trier station where I was welcomed with a big hug from the Lödgerin.

The journey door-to-door had taken 11 and a half hours of my life and aged me by as many years. I looked almost as old as the photo on my BahnCard.

* A curious German expression which literally means “I only understood railway station” and means “I didn’t understand a thing.”

As anyone travelling solo will know, certain tasks are complicated by one’s luggage. Whatever you want to do, go to a shop, the loo, look at a timetable, your luggage has to come too. When there are two of you, the luggage can stay with one person while the other tootles off on the errand unencumbered by an extra 20 kilos.

When in Brussels station last September, I visited the ladies’ powder room. I was delighted to see that not only were the cubicles enormous allowing the luggage to be comfortably accommodated, but the doors also opened outwards permitting luggage and owner to enter the little room easily and not to have to battle for floor space.

I was almost looking forward to re-encountering the facilities at the station when I looked at my itinerary.

London St Pancras International d 12:57
Bruxelles-Midi Eurostar a 16:03
d 16:03
a 16:21
Luxembourg d 16:33
a 19:38
d 20:17
Trier Hbf a 21:06

You will recall that I had not had much time previously to study the itinerary on account of the late arrival of the tickets. Now I just stared in increasing panic. What was this curious departure at 16:03 – exactly the same time as the train was due to arrive – and just where was I going to arrive at 16:21? And would 12 minutes (assuming there were no delays) be enough to crash through the unknown station to find a train to Luxembourg due to leave at 16.33?

As the Eurostar rolled to a halt, I hurled myself out, ran as best I could with my bag digging into my shoulder, overtaking all the other passengers. I raced down the escalator two steps at a time and flew across the concourse to find the departure board. There were no trains leaving at 16.03 - or 16.33 for that matter. I espied an information desk - and then saw the queue.... I then found the travel centre - and then saw the queue. I fought my way through the hoardes to find a timetable. Breathing through my mouth (someone had decided it was the perfect place to relieve himself and it *stank*), I studied the timetable. I helped someone else find his train but neither of us could find a train going to Luxembourg.

World traveller (cough) that I am, I happen to know that in Brussels there is a station called Bruxelles-Luxembourg. I think this is so named to confuse the foreigners. I did not want to fall into their pesky trap and find myself stranded with a load of haughty commuters making their way home from the European Parliament.

There was a train going to Namur and Arlon at 16.33 but as my geography of Belgium is at best sketchy, I had no idea if this was going remotely in the right direction for my purposes. In the absence of a handy map, I crashed back across the concourse to look at the departure board. Still no trains advertised as departing at 16.33 which by this time was in about 12 minutes’ time.

I cast anxiously about for a man in uniform – no railway employees to be seen. I hurried back to the timetable – remembering to breathe through my mouth – perhaps I had missed some information earlier – then back to the departure board – the train for Namur and Arlon was advertised for 16.33. I belted up the escalator to platform 11. No mention of Luxembourg. Back down the escalator I thundered and ah! at last! approached two men in navy blue suits wearing official tags around their necks. I asked if they could help me find the train to Luxembourg. One asked where I was going. “To Trier” I said. “Ah, that’s in Germany,” he said. I agreed – resisting the temptation to say that I was fully aware where it was located – I just needed to find a wretched train going in that direction and preferably in the next 5 minutes. He ambled off to the useless departure board saying something about “he’d be pleased to try to help”. I then looked at his colleague more carefully – and nearly died. The ID tag was not a railway employee tag at all. These were two passengers who were doing their best to assist a slightly crazed woman who had accosted them with barely a by-your-leave.

I apologised profusely, extricated myself and went to approach a group of men who had something railwayish written on the backs of their jackets. They did not have quite the right sort of jobs (I think they were involved with security) but at least they worked there. One rather sarcastically said that it was easy to find the train, you just looked at the departure board. He told me the train would leave from platform 11. \"Mais, monsieur,\" I protested, \"it doesn't say it is going to Luxembourg.\" He insisted he was right, so back up the escalator I leapt to wait for about 30 seconds on the platform. As the train drew in, there was a display on the side saying Arlon, Namur and – ta-daa! Luxembourg. Good grief! If only this information had been a bit more forthcoming earlier I would have had time to visit the facilities with the large accommodating doors! Relieved – at least in one sense – I boarded the train and sank gratefully into my seat.