Not quite yet Bavarian...

'So, these things you write about – one-night stand with a brass band, whipping a senior colleague in a chariot race, and the, ähem, interesting little exchange with a school-leaver dressed in Wonder Woman boots – did they really happen?

Meet you at Mainburg's British Book Store

It's the very first question posed by Etienne Nückel, reporter from the Mittelbayerische, when we meet up in La Vita, Mainburg.

'Hmm, actually, yes,' I reply, half-acknowledging I'm being put in the confession box rather than answering a simple routine question.

Pushing the embarassing question aside, we get talking about how Brits see Germans. Etienne asks what makes me laugh most about the Germans. To be honest, I'm not a great fan of German humour. It's so different from British. We laugh at more subtle things, often in a more deadpan, undetectably sarcastic way.

'Well,' I reply, 'Germans tend to be funniest when they're trying hardest not to.' I mention a report in Etienne's newspaper headlined 'Spider Causes Accident on B299'. Apparently a 19-year old driver was so horrified to discover a creepy crawly legging its way down from her rear-view mirror that she swerved and shot straight into a ditch. When police arrived on the scene, the spider had already absconded. I'm not sure what amused me most. Was it the headline which clearly blamed this motoring accident on a spider? Or some suggestion that police might have launched a region-wide search to track down the escaped insect? But I like Etienne's response: 'Tim, when we get a police report like that we just print the facts. We don't do British irony.' 

                             

This little gem is missing from the report, but there are plenty other anecdotes in there. Having read Becoming Bavarian from cover to cover, Etienne picks up on a lot of the things we Brits find quirky about the Germans. Such as going completely mad one day (Fasching) and then suddenly bouncing back to normality the next. Or the method behind the madness – carneval and school-leavers' pranks really are exceptionally well organised. I'm also glad he comments on the common sense of Bavarian traditions. Such as going into the sauna 'just as you are' and not making a big deal of it. I believe Brits and Americans could learn quite a lot from the Germans.

Enjoying a nice cuppa at the cosy La Vita
Photos (3): Etienne Nückel

By the end of the interview, I've confessed to a few more things. I admit that although I now think and speak like a German in many ways, my heart still beats for Britain. Etienne suggests I qualify the book title with a question mark:

                                                   Becoming Bavarian?                                              

Thank you Herr Nückel and team at the Mittelbayerische for going the extra mile to Mainburg and making this news!

Online 29.08.21, print edition 06.09.21

Order Becoming Bavarian

Becoming Bavarian - Interview with FORUM

Assimilation with a winking eye -  FORUM 14 August 2021

'Well, well' begins the full-pager in our regional newspaper, 'a thick skin and a strong bladder is what you need to become a decent Bavarian. That's Tim Howe's message to his fellow countrymen and all newcomers here in the Hallertau in his recent book Becoming Bavarian.

The reporter from 'FORUM' had got back to me only moments after I’d shot out a mail saying I’d done a book on Bavaria and was happy to talk about it to anyone willing to interview me. A day later, having answered all his questions in German, I had to sit down and work out how I would have said them in English. Headlined 'Assimilation with a wink of an eye', here’s the gist of the article:

Forum: You used this past year lockdown to do something very special, is that right?

Howe: Yes, I spent it turning my blog 'Being British in Bavaria' into a story. The tale starts some 40 years in England, where I was gung-ho about everything to do with Germany and how I came to move here. It goes on to talk about the adventurous loops which newcomers have to jump through to become a die-in-the-wool local.

Forum: Gung-ho about Germany?! How come?

Howe: Germany was The Promised Land for me. Whatever Brits did, Germans seemed to do better. Not just economically and in sports, but also when it came to food and music. I got a special kick out of German pop songs. Penfriends would send me video tapes (remember the days before satellite TV?!). Instead of  Top of the Pops, I’d be glued to Dieter Thomas Heck’s ZDF Hit Parade.

Forum: And is Bavaria everything you expected it to be?

Howe: On the one hand yes. It’s a treasure trove for anyone into sports: I love the mountains and lakes. We were lucky to find an idyllic plot of land to build on here in the Hallertau. On the other hand, I miss all traces of community spirit in our local village. I’d seen scores of Heimat films and expected to find everyone in the countryside living happily together in nice close-knit communities. But locals in deepest Lower Bavaria aren't all that bothered about mixing with people from outside. Perhaps because they just prefer sticking to their large circle of relatives. Or because of their dialect. If you want to get on with locals it’s not enough to speak German. You also have to speak Lower Bavarian!

Forum: Does an anecdote of  'cultural clash' spring to mind?

Howe: Yes, just after arriving here from England where we just chucked all rubbish in one bin. My neighbours, who up to then had always greeted me so nice and politely, caught me throwing a broken hairdryer into the normal grey bin, rather than taking it to a waste disposal centre. They reported me to the police. I laugh about it now, but at the time I was horrified that Germans seemed keener on policing their neighbours rather than just trying to get on well together.

Forum: So any tips on how a non-Bavarian can become a Bavarian?

Howe: You've got to join a club or association. That was my intention too, until I realised that out in the countryside there's actually very little choice: Shooting, football or brass band association. Take your pick! If you don’t join any of these you are and will always be a Zuageroasta. 

The interview was conducted by Bernd Wagner. 

Surfboards, Sunshine and SUVs. Shouldn't we all get het up by global warming?

Images from Global Climate Strike Week in Munich, which we rounded off in glorious sunshine at a 3,000-strong Friday for Future.....

Protester: What do we want?

Crowd: Climate justice!

P: When do we want it?

C: Now!

P: Danke!

C: Bitte!

(Typical Germans, even when protesting, always polite.)

                             

What started off as a pupils' protest, seems to have attracted quite a lot of irate middle-agers. One even lugged along his surfboard.

Miguel and Lourdes had come all the way from Toledo, Spain, to protest. 

Hopefully not by plane?

Anyway guys, love your placards.

                                  

 "Your car is too big" 

Young and old in Munich agree that there are just too many SUVs parading around the grandiose Residenzplatz. Still, if you have a stately SUV, that's probably the very place you will want to flash it around.

I joined the march quite spontaneously. But next time I'll go better prepared. Probably with a placard that says something like 'We can all help the environment. Buy less plastic and cut down waste!"

However big and flashy (or small and modest) the car we drive, however important it is for us to fly - avoiding plastic and helping to reduce waste is something we can all do. 

Tips to use less plastic
Fridays for Future German website

Cheers for Charles, lederhosen for Archie and boogying for a united Europe. Oh what a panto!

Here's what I missed....

 And here's what I saw: The Typical Bavarian on his soap box.  I'd just saved myself 50 cents by using the Hofbräuhaus' free loos, so I drop it into the chap's cap.  

'Measse vuimois,' says Prince Charles in faultless Bavarian. Then, switching to English, he adds: 'I had one of these as a boy.'

Der ewige Thronfolger – the eternal heir, as he’s known in Germany – has just been presented with a lederhosen by Markus Söder, Minister President of Bavaria. Just one teeny-weeny problem – it's about 30 sizes too small.

Suddenly, TV newsfeed of Charles and Camilla races from Residenz to Hofbräuhaus. The commentator reveals that the lederhosen is for the Prince's three-day old grandchild. What with proud parents Harry and Meghan parading the Wunderkind around Buckingham Palace and the announcement that Number Seven in line to throne's called Archie, it's been a right royal day.

Determined to catch up with Charles on his day trip to Munich, I'd stuffed a Union Jack into my bag and alerted my students that afternoon class would be finishing a couple minutes earlier – just in case anybody wishes to come along too. I'm not too sure they do. 'You're really going?' one undergrad asks disbelievingly.

If I leave uni at 3:15, I can just about make it to the Hofbräuhaus in time to cheerily wave my flag at the royal couple. Perhaps they'll even autograph it. Done deal.

What a disappointment then to arrive at the beer house to see large numbers of Polizisten in bullet-proof vests already packing away security cordon and climbing back into their vans. I'd missed the Royals by just seven minutes.

It turns out that the Windsors are already on their way to the headquarters of Siemens. It's fast approaching 4 pm, rush hour time in Munich. Surely I can beat their convoy of limousines by jumping onto public transport?

It helps if you can actually read a U-Bahn plan. I end up taking the right underground line but in the wrong direction. By the time I reach Siemens it's just turning 5 pm. But it's the wrong Siemens. Eyeing me distastefully, staff at the welcome desk have an unwelcome message: 'Sie san do foisch.'

No wonder I'm wrong – everyone milling around me is dressed in suits. Me, just in shorts and sandals. For a split second it looks like the receptionist is about to reach below her desk. Presumably to hit a panic button and summon security guards to guide me off the premises. Any moment I'm expecting swarms of officials in dayglo vests to surround me, picking up commands on their ear-pieces and shouting fever-pitch commentaries down their mobiles. Instead, the reception girl calmly walks me out into the foyer and directs me down the street to Siemens Forum.

This time I think twice about entering. Stopping the first group of dirndl-dressed employees to come out of the building, I discover that Charles and Camilla took off 45 minutes ago. In the short time it's taken me to ride several stops on the subway, the royal party has made it across town at peak traffic time, toured Siemens Forum and checked into their penthouse suite at the Bayrischer Hof. 'Herzlichen Beileid' says one of the Siemens secretaries as I turn to go.

'Herzlichen Beileid?' Isn't that what you normally say in hushed tones to the bereaved? Perhaps I really should be mourning. After chasing Charles around Munich all afternoon I’ve twice missed him almost within a hair's breadth.

Heading back into the town centre, I stop off at the Residenz. That's where the royal couple walked the red carpet just a few hours earlier. Asking around, I learn that Charles passed right under the statue of König Maximilian Joseph. Squinting up through the sunshine, I spot two pigeons doing a jig on Max's ears, before snapping their beaks and flying off, leaving a trail of bird paint dripping down His Royal Highness' majestic forehead.

                                         

Ah well, let's face it. That's probably about as close as I'm going to get to any royalty today. 

Luckily the day's not completely over. Today, it turns out, is Europe Day. The Bavarian Staatskanzlei, or Department of State, is staging a series of shows at the Marienplatz. Peppered all around the main Platz are little huts with stalls encouraging Münchners to vote at the forthcoming Europawahl. Truth told, I'd spared these elections precious little thought. Not unlike most other Brits who clearly regard the whole thing as a bad dream. But spotting a photo booth offering free selfies with a EU star-studded backdrop immediately converts me to the cause. Next moment I’m being photographed in front of a banner proclaiming ‘Diesmal wähle ich!’ – this time I’m voting. 

Can't beat 'em, join ‘em. Count me in.

                                            

Meanwhile Ecco DiLorenzo Smart & Soul are playing a soulful mix of seventies, Chic-style disco. Just the right thing. Earlier, during harmonies from the Deutsch-Französischer Chor, I'd been laying back, luxuriating in one of the cosy deckchairs. But, as soon as I hear the opening chords to 'Le Freak', I leap up and join a handful of other revellers bopping up and down near the stage. Waving arms and legs around almost hypnotically, more Kate Bush than Beyoncé, we must appear quite comical to the rest of the audience, all superglued to their deckchairs. The sun's still shining as, just before 8 pm, the band breaks into its farewell offering – 'At the Carwash'.

At the Carwash? Yes, I know the Germans love their autos and all that, but it seems a funny choice of song title. Aren't they supposed to be encouraging everyone to abandon polishing their dreams on wheels on 26 May and get along to the polling booths instead?

But maybe that's not the point. What strikes me, boogying and bumping to Rose Royce, is that I'm surrounded by a mass of merrymakers of all ages and mixed European backgrounds – grooving together as one. Solid supporters of a United Europe. And just luurving the moment.

Heaven knows what the Herren from The Bavarian Staatskanzlei make of our trance-like motions, but I hope they approve of our symbolic show of solidarity on the dance floor. Prince Charles certainly would.

Green at heart, Munich parties with free Guinness and Eurovision legend

Marching for Melta - Tim and fellow teachers

Of the 530,000 foreigners living in Munich, the largest single majority is made up of Turkish men (around 40,500). That’s followed by Greeks (ca. 26,000) and Croatians (approx. 24,000).

You need to scroll much further down the list to find the number of Brits – some 6,000 – in the city. And still further to find the Irish contingent. And yet, when it comes to celebrating National Day in their adopted home of Munich, nobody seems to do it better than the Irish. As for the Brits and St George’s Day, perhaps less said the better. Most Brits would probably struggle to pin even an approximate date on the dragon fighter’s big day. April? May? June? Whatever.

But 17 March, St Patrick’s Day, woaaaah! 

I’ve joined in the celebrations this year at the invitation of the Munich English language teachers’ organisation, Melta, of which I’ve been a member ever since arriving in Munich twenty years ago. Once again, the organisation is joining the mass procession which marches a mile down the Bavarian capital’s most prestigious street. This year it’s a particularly special occasion as they celebrate their thirtieth anniversary. 

Oddly enough, for as long as I can remember I've made up all manner of silly excuses for not being able to go. Things like 'Oh dear, nothing green to wear.' and 'Wait, do I really like Guinness..?' But this year it's different. I decide it’s time to finally get my act together. That means registering attendance online the day before and ensuring there’s a train connection that will land me in the centre of Munich pünktlich and with plenty Pufferzeit to spare before the midday march-off. Living out in the Hallertau, the trip needs planning with almost military precision. 

The planning pays off and everything goes perfectly. First of all, the train’s exactly on time. That’s no Selbstverständlichkeit, when you’re reliant on Deutsche Bahn for getting you from A to B. And then the weather. After a week of blustery wind and showers the sky has suddenly turned navy blue, it’s 21 degrees and sonnig. As we set off down the car-free Ludwigstrasse, I’m handed a fistful of tokens for free Guinness at the after-parade party. Oh, and a green felt top hat. Do the Irish really wear these daft things? Someone’s also given me a small flag to wave. It seems we’re not just promoting our teachers' organisation but also Ireland’s most popular dairy produce.

Although Melta has officially been part of the parade for around eight years some members can remember when the event originated in the mid-90s. According to Randy, back then it was just a small procession and the marchers literally had to plead with police to hold back the traffic and let them pass through (‘Wir wollen hier unbedingt durch!’). No fear of getting waylaid by traffic these days, of course. With a record 1,500 marchers representing 62 clubs and organisations, Munich has become the biggest mainland European celebrator of St Patrick’s Day outside Ireland. 

Ninety minutes later and we cross the finishing line at Odeonsplatz, best known as backdrop to Hitler’s failed beer hall putsch in 1923. But wait, I’m suddenly left holding the banner on my own. Where is everybody? All the females, at least, have disappeared into thin air. 

Close to finishing line - and my free Guinness.

It turns out they’ve raced off to secure ring-side places to see Johnny Logan. For me, however, the lure of Freibier is far greater. I spend the next half hour queuing to claim my free Guinness from the Deutsch-Irische Freundschaft tent. By the time I finally reach the venue just around the corner, the legendary Irish crooner’s already launching into ‘Hold me now’. I quite liked the song first time round. But, thirty years on, the title almost has a ring of desperation about it. More plea than proposal. And judging by the expressions on some of my neighbours’ faces, I suspect the audience reaction is ‘No thanks.’

Yes, some of us remember Logan as a cutesy twenty-something year old, Hugh Grant hair mop flopped over forehead. Today’s beer-bellied, long white-haired Logan looks more like he’d rather jettison his whiter-than-white image, jump onto a Harley Davidson and speed off in a cloud of dust. Savouring another sip of Guinness, I close my eyes and prefer to picture Logan performing in his heyday. I imagine him fighting off hordes of hysterical girls swarming the stage. Opening my eyes again, I can’t help noticing an elderly man propping himself up against a high round table. Resting his belly on the bar-stand, he drains the remains of his Guinness and says ‘Ja, ja, jaaah!’ It always strikes me as odd how, when spoken like that in German, such a positive word can actually sound so negative. 

Logan, meanwhile, is joined on stage by a full band. Grabbing hold of guitar, he starts strumming more traditional Irish tunes. Such as ‘Irish Soul’ and ‘The Wild Rover‘. 

Wait though, what’s he saying? 

‘I won the Eurovision Song Contest three times.’ 

No Johnny. I’ve just been googling you and you only won it twice. Lucky no else is fact-checking.

How bizarre though. I could swear ‘The Wild Rover‘ was a dye-in-the-wool Irish song. But it turns out that everyone around here knows it as ‘An der Nordseeküste’. And so, here we stand in the shadow of an Italian Renaissance-style palace, shunkeling to an ageing Gaelic pop star belting out a Prussian sailor’s song.

Only an Irish man could pull that off.

Logan sings Hold me Now. More plea than proposition. 

Early evening, and, in keeping with proceedings, central Munich turns green too. Emerald-hued lights are beamed up and down major landmarks, including the Olympia Tower, Hard Rock Café and Molley Malone’s. But, this time, sadly not the Allianz Arena. World renowned for its innovative stadium-facade lighting, the arena is bathed in blood red. Having rolled out the red carpet all weekend to the Irish, Munich calls it a day when it comes to König Fußball. FC Bayern are playing Mainz 05.  

I’m no great football fan, but FC Bayern's 6-0 victory feels like a most befitting end to an all-round perfect day. And a great warm-up for next year when Munich celebrates its 25th Paddy Party.

Time to say 'Ich bin Deutscher'

Lucky link – Britain and Bavaria

‘I solemnly declare that I will respect and observe the Basic Law and the laws of the Federal Republic of Germany, and that I will refrain from any activity which might cause it harm.’ 

In less than ninety seconds it’s taken to render the third and final verse of Deutschland über alles, and swear this oath of citizenship, I’ve suddenly become German. Climbing onto the rostrum, a photographer from the Mittelboar snaps me receiving my Einbürgerungszertifikat from the County Commissioner. Listening to each one called up almost feels like voting time at the Eurovision Song Contest – Croatia, Turkey, Poland, Lithuania, Bosnia-Herzegovina....

No points for any one today though. In fact, only one single nationality seems to interest the local press. Clicking his camera from different angles, the reporter asks for my take on the Brexit vote. I hesitate, wondering whether it’s wise to answer at all. How much time has he got? Stepping down from the podium, I pass two other Brits. It’s their turn too to take the oath only a fortnight before Britain bows out of Europe.

‘Na, Glück gehabt,’ – hey, that was lucky – quips the Commissioner a little later, as we mingle and mix over Kaffee and Gebäck. Was he too referring to the ‘B’ word? 

Standing for the all-pervading Catholic state party of Bavaria, our local member of parliament appears to personify the quintessential German politician: stern, solemn and straight-faced to a tea. Yet, face-to-face, just inches away from the Freistaat flag, I can’t help noticing a tiny twinkle in his eye.

Cheerio Miss Sophie – same old sketch is must-see for Germans every Christmas

Year-end slapstick tickles the Germans' fancy like nothing else.  

Expats and migrants are often adept at picking up the local lingo and many have no great difficulty adapting to new climes and cultures. Yet when it comes to customs and conventions, the nitty gritty of daily life, they can still come a cropper. 

I arrived in Germany able to speak the language fluently. But it took ages to realise that a tersely uttered 'danke' really means 'nein danke'. And that a long-drawn out 'neeein' actually translates as 'ja'.

It also took me ages to suss all the details of German Christmas customs. I'd always thought of German Weihnacht and Christmas in Britain as being almost identical: Christmas trees, Winter Wonderland markets, glass baubles, tinsel, hot spiced wine, stollen and spicy gingerbread.

But here's a surprise. And it's something you'll find nowhere else in the world: whole families crowding around the TV on New Year's Eve to watch 'Dinner for One'.

While Brits flop onto their sofas every Christmas and binge-watch world TV premieres such as Mission Impossible Six it seems bizarre that Germans have to make do with an old black-and-white comedy – in English no less – which virtually no one else has ever heard of. And yet 'Dinner for One' is massive in Germany. This 18-minute skit about an English baroness’ 90th birthday celebration has run here every Silvester for the past 45 years. It’s broadcasted on almost every single channel. Think of the comedy’s popularity as such: just as every Brit can hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in their sleep, so too can almost every single Bundsebürger recite off by heart the closing lines to 'Dinner for One':

Miss Sophie: ‘Well, James, it's been a wonderful party!’

James: ‘Yes, it’s been most enjoyable.’

Miss Sophie: ‘I think I'll retire.’

James: ‘You're going to bed?

Miss Sophie: ‘Yes.‘

James: ‘Sit down, I'll give you a hand up, Madam. ‘

Miss Sophie: ‘As I was saying, I’m going to retire.’

James: ‘Ya, ya. By the way, the same procedure as every year, Miss Sophie?’

Miss Sophie: ‘The same procedure as every year, James.’

Just what is it about 'Dinner for One' that prompts millions upon millions of Germans to slap their thighs and howl with laughter every Christmas? Academic researchers point emphatically to the typical management structure of the country’s 3.7 million small and medium-sized enterprises. They claim that the ‘same procedure’ punchline reflects the nation’s desire for continuity and stability. Others, less academically and more hands-on, argue that the secret of the sketch’s success lies in Miss Sophie’s come-hither response to her loyal butler’s apparently innocent enquiry: ‘Same procedure as every year, James.’

This sexual innuendo delights Germans of all ages. The catchphrase has long entered their everyday vocabulary. It’s often used in newspaper headlines and advertisements too. It’s as well known in Germany as Vorsprung durch Technik in Britain.

So much for Miss Sophie & Co. But what still puzzles me after 20 years in Germany is this whole Father Christmas business. Children here are gifted by either baby Jesus, known as Christkindl, or Nikolaus. I typically mix these characters up, mistaking them for one and the same.

First I ever heard about Nikolaus was when I worked in an office in Bonn and we all turned up on 6 December to find a chocolate Nikolaus propped up against our coffee mugs. German bosses follow this custom every Advent, supposedly in honour of Bishop Nikolaus of Myra, famed for helping the needy around 325 AD. After his death, word of the gift-giving legacy spread, slowly transforming man and image into the modern-day, red-dressed chocaholic. The Christkindl, on the other hand, originates from Luther’s time. Ironically, it was Protestants’ attempt to de-bunk this whole Catholic celebration of Saint Nicholas on 6 December. 

How delightful that Germans still cling on to both figures, one historic, the other religious, rather than some beardy boozer from Coca Cola. But, as we're just about to discover, Christkindl and Nikolaus have a sidekick too. And I bet no one outside Germany has ever heard of him either.

Only a week into Advent and we get a terrible fright. Darkness is falling when a sudden thud at the front door makes us almost jump out of our skins. Peering out through the window we spot the shape of a ginormous figure plodding up our garden path.

This devil-like horned creature is actually Krampus. Half Gruffalo, half Godzilla monster, he's probably the last creature you’d wish to open your door to on a cold dark night. Let alone invite in and offer a piece of Plätzchen and glass of Glühwein. And yet that’s exactly what we end up doing, once we’ve established his real identity.

Local heros - scary Krampus (left) with Nikolaus

Dating back over 1000 years, Krampus’ sole role is to flag up naughty kids to Santa, before dragging them off to the underworld. That's what parents tell their kids, at least. Unofficially, he’s just an uncouth guardian angel, scary enough to put the wind up you. Like some Simon-Cowell-type ‘X-Factor’ judge. German readers - just think big mouths from Modern Talking.

Fortunately he’s not alone. Alongside stands Nikolaus, the absolute antithesis of the pot-bellied, larger-than-life All-American Santa. Tall and lanky, the Nikolaus outside our house looks more like the village priest. And since we booked him through the local church he probably is too. There’s just one small problem. Only children who polish their boots the night before will find them filled with goodies. Another key Christmas tradition I’d missed. Sadly, our child’s boots haven’t been cleaned since around Hallow’een.

You HAVE been gut, haven't you?

We come face to face again with Krampus and Nikolaus the very next day. It’s the duo’s annual appearance at the village Christkindlmarkt and I’ve just committed the classic yuletide blooper in the company of Bavarians – I’ve foolishly referred to Nikolaus as the Weihnachtsmann. Something only a Prussian would dare do. Well, it is all a bit chaotic and I’m trying to take a picture of Tildy shaking the old man's hand while an army of kids keep prodding me impatiently from behind. I can hear some of them quietly tut-tutting and one little boy politely corrects me:

‘Des is doch da Nikolaus!’

Oops...

It’s almost like Krampus is punishing me when he hands over his birch stick, the one with which he beats naughty children. ‘Hoid moi guad fest,’ he says, motioning me to hold tight while the old man patiently plods through the meet-and-greet routine with his little guests. Some are not quite so little, actually. One girl must be pushing at least thirteen or fourteen. She’s reaching over to shake Nikolaus’ hand. It’s something of a one-sided conversation with all the usual have-you-been-good, have-you-listened-to-teacher type questions:

‘Bassd Du oiwei im Unterricht auf?’    

Silence.

''Ho ho. Und machst Du oiwei des wos da Leahr sogt?’

Visibly embarrassed, the pubescent visitor is just nodding and giggling. Maybe she does still believe in the bearded benefactor, this is backwater Bavaria after all. Yet her eyes are clearly on the prize. She’s spotted the free bag of sweets which Krampus is preparing to hand her.

After Tildy’s encountered Krampus and Nikolaus a second time in as many days, reassured them she has been good this year, and collected her goodies bag, I slip off for a mulled wine. Snow’s falling and it’s icy cold. I notice some drinkers huddled under a patio heater. I’m quite surprised to see one of these contraptions in remote rural Lower Bavaria. Even Parisians have banned outdoor heaters because of their damaging effect on the environment. Still, this absurd appliance provides much appreciated warmth. Hugging my mulled wine like my last lifeline, I enjoy just standing there listening to snippets of conversation all around.

Although a little rough around the edges, there’s something mellifluous and singsong-ish about Bavarian dialect. One of my neighbours at the high table has just said

‘Mei Buidog schofft's den Hügl ned mehr houch.’

My tractor can no longer make it up the hill.

Aha. Uttered in English, this might be aluding to the speaker's sagging libido. Spoken in Bavarian though, it simply sounds sweet. The three other mulled-wine sippers around the table show sympathy for the farmer’s plight, offering practical tips and advice on how he might soup up his vehicle:

‘Probier doch oafach moi de Kolbn und Dichtungsringe auszutauschn.’

Try replacing the pistons and gaskets. 

That's the Christmas spirit - Tildy & Co. singing in the snow

This is deutsche Weihnacht at its best – heavenly sweet aromas wafting from mulled wine urns, the local school choir singing ‘O Tannenbaum’, and the haunting blow of hunting horns. There’s something almost spiritual about this fairy-lit Christkindlmarkt. 

Most Bavarian Christmas markets run up til 23 or 24 December so still one or two more days to stock up on traditional handicrafts, gingerbread goodies like Lebkuchen, and enjoy one or two Glühwein under the enviromentally-destructive patio heater. 

And Dinner for One? 

31 December on (almost) every German TV channel. And here right now.  Enjoy!

Cult Cult comedy Dinner for One to get UK premiere after 50 years