At midday and with a dire need to replace the pneumatic tyres on our charabanc we stop at roadside coaching inn. The restaurant is bedecked with stuffed and grotesquely mounted trophy kills. I am somewhat nonplussed to see staring down from the wall the dusty head of an old woman, her beady, glassy eyes follow our every move and I am more than a little perturbed by the hint of a wry grin hovering on her eternally frozen lips! On enquiry I learn that this unfortunate is non other than Frau Schnitzel, the proprietor's first wife. Good God! After a liberal application of my patent pomade we take our leave and press on into the German hinterland. Whatever next? Regards, Fawcett.
Rudely awaken at first light by the urgent clanging of the Monastery bells we dress in the dark and shuffle of to breakfast, a pickled repast consisting almost wholly of cold ham and beetroot. After a hesitant nibble we look at our maps and plan the best route into the Scharzwald in search of the Holy Grail of cakes. To sum up we leave our gloomy chateau in search of the elusive gateau! Regards, Fawcett.
As dusk fell we crossed the border via the hazardous mountain pass that rips through the unsullied trois vierges from Belgium into the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. With the barometer plunging we arrive at the fortified village of Vianden, our hearts leapt as we saw the welcoming lights of the Rue de Sanatorium and the pension Victor Hugo, our day was done. Fawcett.