I've been dragging my heels blog-wise recently, as can be seen from the fact that I last posted on 26th August. How much things can change within a month. High summer moves imperceptibly into autumn, a period of time which always seems bittersweet to me. The flowers are still in bloom, the balconies of Bovinia riotous with geraniums (and other things I don't know the name of), but the first snow is lying on the Zugspitze and the tree-covered foothills are gently turning gold, with patches of red and brown here and there. Herr NN is starting to get twitchy, awaiting the arrival of the BGC (the big green container - I wrote about it last year, so I won't elaborate).
Another month, and the cows will be consigned to barracks until May next year, which right now seems an amazingly long time away. My tomatoes have still to turn red - I've practically given up hope now - and the swallows and storks have hot-winged it back to Africa, can't say I blame them with the summer we've had, I'd gladly have joined them, although it does rather depend where in Africa.
For many, this time of year means only one thing - Oktoberfest*. Yes, the world's biggest beer festival that has retained its original name, though it actually kicks off in September. This is now our third autumn in Bavaria and we are yet to visit, much put off as we have been by tales of people vomiting in the street and peeing where they stand (which also applies to a marathon starting line, might I say, except the participants there are sober) and the kind of general pandemonium and revelry that quiet village-dwellers usually try to avoid. (There's quite enough of it going on here, anyway.)
Still, some good friends from across The Pond are there this weekend and if they are still alive tomorrow, we are meeting them to see the spectacle for ourselves. I debated dressing up and merging with the be-dirndled masses, but have instead opted to take my camera and gather photographic evidence of whatever I might come across - you will see the results in a montage SOON.
There are, in our chaotic, time-pressured and teutonically-ruled family life, odd moments when all seems as it should. Take now, for instance. I am calmly instructing Hedda in the art of ironing her dirndl, and why puffed sleeves are a nightmare and thank goodness they aren't really in fashion any more. Meanwhile, Mr Doom is in the basement with Titus, painting a model of the Titanic (yes, the obsession continues). Max the cat is licking himself on the garden bench, for lack of a willing partner, the kitchen smells of freshly baked cake, and the church bells are all chiming six, nearly in unison. At times like these one should take a deep breath and enjoy it, for it won't be long before the peace is shattered by screaming or the smashing of a valuable ornament. Ah, there it goes. The whine of a neighbour's chain saw shatters my reverie, but at least I've broken my blogger's block.
*Of course, nobody around here refers to it as the Oktoberfest, rather, they call it the Wiesn, as it takes place at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (You never know when you might need this information - I'd jot it down somewhere if I were you.)
Another month, and the cows will be consigned to barracks until May next year, which right now seems an amazingly long time away. My tomatoes have still to turn red - I've practically given up hope now - and the swallows and storks have hot-winged it back to Africa, can't say I blame them with the summer we've had, I'd gladly have joined them, although it does rather depend where in Africa.
For many, this time of year means only one thing - Oktoberfest*. Yes, the world's biggest beer festival that has retained its original name, though it actually kicks off in September. This is now our third autumn in Bavaria and we are yet to visit, much put off as we have been by tales of people vomiting in the street and peeing where they stand (which also applies to a marathon starting line, might I say, except the participants there are sober) and the kind of general pandemonium and revelry that quiet village-dwellers usually try to avoid. (There's quite enough of it going on here, anyway.)
Still, some good friends from across The Pond are there this weekend and if they are still alive tomorrow, we are meeting them to see the spectacle for ourselves. I debated dressing up and merging with the be-dirndled masses, but have instead opted to take my camera and gather photographic evidence of whatever I might come across - you will see the results in a montage SOON.
There are, in our chaotic, time-pressured and teutonically-ruled family life, odd moments when all seems as it should. Take now, for instance. I am calmly instructing Hedda in the art of ironing her dirndl, and why puffed sleeves are a nightmare and thank goodness they aren't really in fashion any more. Meanwhile, Mr Doom is in the basement with Titus, painting a model of the Titanic (yes, the obsession continues). Max the cat is licking himself on the garden bench, for lack of a willing partner, the kitchen smells of freshly baked cake, and the church bells are all chiming six, nearly in unison. At times like these one should take a deep breath and enjoy it, for it won't be long before the peace is shattered by screaming or the smashing of a valuable ornament. Ah, there it goes. The whine of a neighbour's chain saw shatters my reverie, but at least I've broken my blogger's block.
*Of course, nobody around here refers to it as the Oktoberfest, rather, they call it the Wiesn, as it takes place at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (You never know when you might need this information - I'd jot it down somewhere if I were you.)
