What Lies Beneath...

Rathmullan beach has a lot going for it. Soft, gently sloping sand that runs down to lapping clear water, very little seaweed or flotsam, and an abundance of assorted wildlife – both human and animal. More importantly given my predilections, it has a sneaky little entrance into Rathmullan House about halfway along its length. The house itself – although beautiful - didn’t hold much of a calling for me, it was the Kinnegar Tap Room in what was previously a cellar bar that lured me in from the shore.

I wasn’t alone in my travelling, as I also had dragged along my beloved and my two offspring on the pretence that it would be a nice place to eat after a few hours on the beach, which I really hoped it would be!

So down the steps we trotted, past the outdoor seating area and the mobile pizza oven (How they got it down the steps I don’t know!), and on into the bar/restaurant itself. From what I overheard and read this is a joint venture between Kinnegar Brewing, a slow food pizza company and – I presume – Rathmullan House.

We plonked ourselves and our sandy baggage down at a table and took in the surroundings. The bar is very cellarish obviously with low ceilings and whitewashed rough plaster. Brewing, whiskey, fishing and ship paraphernalia hang on the walls and in many nooks and crannies. Kinnegar bottles with an alphanumeric code mark the table you sit at, and to order a pizza you tick your order on the provided menu slips, as well as what table you’re at, and hand it in at the bar when you choose your drink.

We went for the special – Gorgonzola and smoked sausage – and a charcuterie - tomato, Irish mozzarella, Milano salami, Gaeta olives and capers – both were excellent and enjoyed by all of us. Lovely thin bases, fresh ingredients and a decent size too.

I of course worked my way through the beers with the help of my better half, who loved the Limeburner pale ale. All the beers were very tasty and true to style - especially for my perceived thinking of what farmhouse-style brewing should be (but where’s the Saison?!) - and very drinkable, especially here given the location, food and ambience. My favourites were Yannaroody, a nice full bodied dark-chocolaty porter with the barest hint of coconut that has an ice cream available to match, and the spicy-bitter Rustbucket rye ale. I wasn’t expecting them to brew a double IPA or imperial stout so no surprises or disappointments, just good beer.

We left after chatting with the barmen about the beers, our stomachs full and my curiosity sated too. The family were happy too and we set off back to Rathmullan village after another pleasant hour or two following the hops!

Visited 14th August 2014

Still Following the Hops...

The White Harte sits looking out over the pier and slipway in the town of Rathmullan. Its bright façade and red doors are hard to miss, even if it sits a little forlornly on a corner opposite where the now demolished Pier Hotel would have given the seafront a little balance. Maybe it’s just the red doors and big picture window, through which you can watch the comings and goings of the locals and tourists alike, but it seems to call to you as you walk past like a siren to a sailor.

I’m still on my solo wander through the town and I’ve strolled up from The Beachcomber to see what’s happening in another pub that stocks Kinnegar beers in the town.

‘I only have three of the yellow ones left’, says the friendly lady behind the bar, who’s wearing a Kinnegar top and welcoming smile. This seems to be a recurring theme in the bars of Rathmullan, supply seems to be an issue.

‘They can’t keep up with demand. People don’t understand but that’s the situation at the moment’, she adds, as she pours only half my beer into a glass. (Not the normal procedure for a bottle conditioned beer but I don’t mind.)

The place feels more like someone’s front room than any pub I have ever visited. There’s a mixture of personal memorabilia, old pictures, advertisements for table quizzes and all kinds of glasses and other paraphernalia that you feel all have a story to tell.

It has a homely feel, laid back and less frantic than other local bars. Personally I like it a lot, it’s perfect for a nice quiet read and a good beer. Although from the kindly attitude of the lady behind the bar I think she would chat with you for the night if that’s what you wanted.

Tourist and locals wander in and out as I sit and drink my Scraggy Bay, which to mind is exactly as it should be. A bitter, medium bodied golden ale with a zing of lemon that refreshes the palate. A musician arrives with an electric accordion and begins to set up as I sit quietly reading my book. I gather that this is a good traditional music bar and I can see how it would appeal to any tourist wandering by.

I just hope the restock the beer soon!

Liam

Super Moons, Rainbows and Mispronunciations in Donegal

The snow-washed denim clad barman in The Beachcomber bar on my third night in Rathmullan walked away muttering to another member of staff as I sat at the bar after asking for a pint of the local pale ale. All I heard were mutterings of ‘Kinnegaaar’ (think Mullingar) and ‘Kinnegr’ (think vinegar), as my ability to make out more than the odd word spoken in a Donegal accent was exacerbated by distance and he was at the end of the bar pulling a pint of Limeburner for me.
Beer-name-pronunciation has been a recurring issue with me ever since my first trip to Belgium when I caused an entire bar to fall silent as a waiter reprimanded me for pronouncing Duvel in a junior cert French ‘Dooveel’ way instead of the curt Flemish ‘Doovl’.
I didn’t understand what he said either but in both cases I think the equivalent words to ‘tool’ and ‘tourist’ were used in good measure - and perhaps rightly so. And as for Nøgne Ø…

But don’t get me wrong, this hasn’t put me off The Beachcomber. It’s a great bar with possibly the best fish and chips I’ve ever had, plus views that would make a Scandinavian fjord seem plain and ordinary. The staff are friendly, approachable and talkative, and nothing seems to bother them – apart from mispronunciations obviously.

And so far this week Rathmullan had rainbows, super moons and hightides to keep us amused too.

Our first visit was on a busy Saturday night, the pub full of Dubs, Norn Ironers and locals as well as the odd strays like us. The Gaa was on the TV and the place was hot and hopping. We – my other half, kids and a few stray relations – crammed ourselves into a few seats and I approached the bar with the knowledge that a Kinnegar Limeburner tap was clearly visible.
‘It’s gone,’ the Barman said apologetically, ‘and we’ve got no bottles either,’ he added, pre-empting my next question. A sad face and a pint of Smithwicks followed…
But the next day it was back on. ‘We got in two wee kegs,’ the same barman said as he pulled my pint. ‘They won’t last long.’ My better half had asked for a pint of a macro lager and when I came back down I put the two pints in front of her and asked her which was which, and which she preferred. She wasn’t sure about the first question but preferred the pale ale…

And so, back to my third night, which was a solo mission, based on a lack of interest from any of the others in our group (A day trip to the incredible Ballymastocker beach, Fanad lighthouse (from a distance!), Sheephaven Bay and a detour that almost took us INTO Lough Salt had worn them out.) and as I was admiring the my beer – as you do – a man and woman rushed up to the bar via the back door.
‘Do you have than Line burner back in yet,’ she asked. When the bar man told her than indeed they did have Limeburner back in she asked for two pints, and I noticed that her companion was looking at me funny.
‘He-arsten-fursten-cloudy-beer-tee-as-Limeburner?’ he asked in a language that sounded part Dutch but mostly Norwegian and spoken with a Donegal accent.
‘Sorry?’ I replied – but he just repeated the same string of words in a louder voice. His partner, and I presume translator, had gone missing so I just sat looking at his inquisitive face and said, ‘Yes, Limeburner, it’s unfiltered,’ hoping this was the answer he required.
‘De-gerten-as-to-Germany-in-forten-fur-de-lemon-in-de-orsen-too!’ he said, following this statement up with a mighty laugh. I just smiled at him inanely and nodded - as you do. Luckily just then his minder/carer/partner arrived and encouraged him away, so I’ll never know exactly what he said or what language he was speaking. Knowing me it was English but just not in a way that my ears and brain could assimilate.

Back to the beer…

Kinnegar’s Lime Burner would not be my first choice of ale but in a macro-brewery-dominated world it’s a better choice to most other tipples in a bar. Not to mention my fondness to support Irish craft beers when they are good. And Limeburner is good if not spectacular, but that’s just a question of taste really (and from what the barman said it was certainly popular in the Beachcomber). I like unfiltered beers in general but I did feel that Limeburner would benefit from filtration to remove that slight chalky, almost Witt quality that I perceived from it. I’m not a major fan of wheat beers - Limeburner isn’t one I know - but I got that same quality from the beer which left it feeling slightly imbalanced to me. Not clean and crisp enough for a pale ale – although I still enjoyed it as drinking beer is not just about the beer...

I hope that I’ll get a better handle on the pronunciations soon, at least I’ll know if I’m being skitted!

More Rathmullan assessments to follow including The White Harte and The Tap Room in Rathmullan House Cellar Bar…

Recipe: Pickled Pink

An online search for ‘pickled eggs Ireland’ you will get a fair few comments on blogs and recipe websites mentioning how they are one of the staple provisions in Irish cupboards and that many pubs sell them still. Admittedly most of these comments are made by people who have never set foot in the country or are confusing trips to Ireland and the UK into one flawed memory perhaps...

Because I never remember them in shops here, or in pubs. Maybe I grew up in a pickled egg free zone? Maybe the people of Laois/Carlow were against the idea for some reason? Perhaps there was a shortage of vinegar? Was it because we were in some sort of chicken heartland where eggs were aplenty so no need to preserve them? I’m not sure…

My first encounter with pickled eggs was - as with pork scratching - in England a decade or more back when I came across them in a pub somewhere, and I remember thinking they were ok… Not spectacular or good, just ok. (Although wherever it was I do remember them being fished out of a large jar by a brute of a man with hairy fingers and a surly demeanour, then plonked on a piece of toilet roll on the bar - I really frequented classy places back then. )

I came across them again a year ago when searching online for snacks to go with beer for a tasting night I was organising. Many of the recipes I tried were from US based sites, as just like beer, they seem to be more experimental with flavours and additions. I’ve made a good few different types and tweaked them over the last year but my favourite and those of my guests is one that includes beetroot.

So, here it is.

You will need:

10-12 Eggs – I use small or medium size

250ml of clear malt vinegar

250ml of drained liquid from 670g jar of baby beets

1 Tablespoon each of salt, sugar and black peppercorns

3-5 baby beets from the jar

1 large jar (I use an empty 950g olive jar)

What to do:

Boil eggs for 10 mins and leave them sitting in hot water for a further 10 mins, then place in cold water for 15 mins.

While waiting on the eggs to cool sterilise the jar and lid. I do this by washing them in hot water, rinsing well, then pour boiling water in to the jar and put the lid in a bowl with more boiling water. (Warning: It has been suggested that the glass might crack by doing this so choose whatever way to sterilise that you feel is safe.)

Add the vinegar, drained liquid from beetroot jar, salt, sugar and pepper to a saucepan, then bring to the boil to dissolve sugar and salt. Add beets to boiling water and leave simmering gently.

Carefully empty the water from the jar, peel the eggs and fill the jar - placing beetroots from the saucepan between each layer. When you’ve added all the eggs (Don’t pack too tight or they’ll stick together), fill the jar with the simmering liquid including peppercorns.

Carefully place the lid on and tighten. As the jar cools the lid will de-press and seal the contents. Rotate the jar as it cools to stop the eggs from sticking together.

Store in the fridge until you need them. I find that the beet flavour – and pink colour – starts to travel into the eggs after about 3 days and that they are at their best in about a week or so. Even when opened I have found that they are fine for up to 10 days, which is as long as they have ever lasted in my house – just keep them in the fridge. They do pong a little when you open the jar but that’s normal… I think!

Give them a shot. They are a little sweet and not too vinegary so they go well with most beers but adjust the recipe to suit your palate. I serve them with just a little salt.

Maybe they will start appearing in homes and pubs around the country!

(There’s a lot of discussions on various websites about sterilising and storage but this is what works for me with no issues so far. But I’m not a trained food handler so use your own knowledge and common sense.)

Pork Scratchings – Love won’t just break your heart…

My affair with pork scratchings – or pork rinds as they are called in the US of A - is based on a few chance and fleeting meetings on English soil. An introduction in the Jolly Waggoner in Hounslow in the late eighties, where I dismissed them as a too-small pack of hard Ranchero-like treats or something equally mundane, but still with an addictive quality. Next came a surprise meeting in The Old Green Tree in Bath many years later when they landed on the table accompanied by a jar of pickled periwinkles. Those periwinkles were nice but the scratchings were nicer again, even if they did loosen a few fillings. I looked at the pack and there was Mr. Porky himself doffing his hat to me with his cheeky smile. He knew, yeah he knew alright – we’d meet again.

Apart from having a little crackling on the side, I forgot about these little nuggets of pure joy for another few years until I bumped in to Mr Porky once more in my local Iceland - that purveyor of all things British - and I although I was abstaining from all things fat, I guiltily put them into my basket, knowing it was wrong but also that it felt so right.
Back home I opened the pack to be greeted by that familiar smell of wet dog and flatulence. This soon dissipated and the little morsels of fried pig skin and fat were crunched away in no time, and I was soon sated, but filled with remorse, finally knowing what the term ‘Guilty Pleasure’ really, really meant.

So I thought, perhaps if I cook them myself I can control and accept this urge and want? If cooked at home then it will surely by OK won’t it? Yeah, of course it will, it will be fine then. Great.

So off I went to the warm and inviting chilled shelves of my local craft butcher and grabbed a vac-packed pig skin from amongst the pig's heads and trotters, a bargain I thought at 84c for a piece 30cm by 30cm approx.
Back home the first thing I did – and this is not for the squeamish – was remove any blemishes and, er, nubbins from the piece and gave it a wash before drying it thoroughly with paper towels. Next I cut it in half and rubbed the skin side with vinegar, which tightens the skin a little as well as adding an extra subtle depth of flavour. I then turned it skin side down on my grilling tray rack and sprinkled on plenty of salt and smoked paprika. (You can use any spice you like here but I have found that either smoked or sweet paprika, or Chinese five-spice work best for my tastes.) I added some water to the bottom of the grill tray to help stop the pork fat from smoking too much - but it will still smoke so make sure you have good ventilation!

The next step is the cooking. Place the tray in the top of an oven at 180c for 45 minutes, then flip it skin side up, add more salt to the pork and water to the tray, and cook for another 30 minutes but keep a close eye on it as you want it golden and not brown at this point.
Next is the tricky stage. Turn off the oven and turn on the grill. In a few minutes you’ll see the pork skin start to bubble, rise and crackle and the secret is to take it out just before it starts to burn so watch it closely. It take less that 5 minutes under my grill.

Next take it out, cover with kitchen towel and let it cool down. When cold, chop up with a sharp, strong knife and put in sealable bag or container. Shake in more salt to taste and eat immediately or within the next 48 hours, as in my experience the pieces get chewy after that!
They are much nicer than pre-packed scratchings in my opinion, although they do still smell faintly of wet dog when you re-open the bag…

Beer pairing? Hoppy beers don't work for me with scratchings but smoked malty lagers, not-so-dry stouts and English-style mild ales do. But do experiment yourselves!

So do I still feel guilty? Yep, but I've learned to accept and embrace the guilt. After all, you can’t fight the love. Can you?

Warnings and disclaimers!
This is not a treat for kids or those with weak teeth.
It is in no way healthy.
I am not a trained cook so any hygiene or other issues I might have missed are down to you to research!

Milan Beer Tour - Birrificio Lambrate

Torre Velasca - Milan

A tip off pointed us in the direction of a bar called Birrificio Lambrate in, surprise-surprise, the Lambrate area of the city. On the way, the metro stopped briefly at Piazzale Loreto, infamous as the place where Mussolini and his mistress Clara Petacci's bodies were hung upside-down from a petrol station gantry in 1945 after being shot while trying to flee towards Italy's northern border. The previous year, 15 imprisoned partisans had been shot on that spot in reprisal for Allied bombing and raids by the Resistance. Their bodies had been left as a warning to others by the German command, so I guess this was payback of sorts. We resisted the ghoulish urge to go up and have a look around and instead continued on our journey to the northeast of Milan. Pliny the Elder first mentioned the Lambrate area of Milan in the 1st century BC with reference to a river which flowed here with clear and limpid waters. The name of the area was taken from the river and we certainly hoped that liquid would flow here tonight, but not necessarily clear and limpid.

A short walk from the metro station, past Piazza Gobetii and on an ugly, forgettable side street sat our destination. From the outside it looked closed with low lighting and simple signage. The only clue as to its state of being was the collection of somewhat formidable looking individuals smoking outside the door. We crossed the road and made our way to the front door, squeezing past the smokers who seemed less rough and quite friendly this close up.

The place was packed. Every shape and make of person was in there from young professionals to families and crusty looking hippies. The reason for the crowd, or at least one of the reasons, was the bowls and on the plates at the bar. You see during Happy Hour in certain bars in the city the owners supply free food oat the bar for the clientele to gorge themselves on, as well as reducing the beer prices. There was an amazing spread of food. Pesto pasta, risotto, garlic focaccias (focacce?), crostini, salads, olives and other items too numerous to mention. Perhaps forty dishes in total were being picked at and devoured by all. Everyone seemed to be a local, or they all appeared to know each other at least, as they shouted and gestured across the room. We forced our way carefully to the bar and looked at the list of the beers on offer, which were scratched on a chalkboard overhead.

Birrificio Lambrate was opened in 1996 and was the first craft brewer in Milan. The idea was to open a bar, with beer brewed on site, for people who were a bit sick and tired of the ‘normal’ beers and bars of the city. They began with three different styles and added more every few years. Today they usually have around eight available at any one time, some being seasonal and only available during winter or at other times of the year.

The friendly, affable barman, resplendent with tidy goatee and a selection of tasteful tattoos, gave us the nod and we placed our order for three Ligera. He politely, and rightly, corrected our pronunciation and pulled our pints as the locals at the bar had a laugh at our poor attempts at Italian. We got the feeling that it was only die-hard beer tourists like Pete, Nige and me who took the trek out to here.

As we waited for our beer we took in our surroundings. There was something familiar and comfortable about the place. All the walls were clad in dark timber, which matched the tables, chairs, barstools and the bar itself. The place had a lived-in feel with graffiti covered table tops and low-level lighting. We found a half free table and sat down briefly before returning, one by one, to the bar to pick up some of the tasty morsels on offer. The food was incredibly good, perhaps enhanced by the fact it was free, and we made frequent return journeys until we were full or getting funny looks from the barman. We sat back and relaxed, comfortable in our surrounds and taking in the atmosphere. The beer, Ligera was a beautiful, bitter hoppy number, which had us smacking our lips and grinning from ear to ear. The music playing on the excellent sound system was our kind of tunes. Led Zeppelin was blasting out but even though it was loud it didn't get in the way of our conversation. The bass wasn't overpowering and they seemed to have installed ample speakers throughout the bar. This meant that it wasn't too loud, just loud enough. It was musical engineering perfection.

We quickly drained our glasses and started working through a few more of the house-brewed offerings. Ghisa, a creamy, smoky wonderful stout with a fudgy aftertaste was worth the trip out here alone, perhaps even the trip to Milan itself. Porpora was a malty ale with a sweet, liquorice taste. San Ambrosiana was a dunkleweizen style wheat beer with a blast of cloves to make your eyes water. All were superb. Fresh and tasty from their short trip from the attached brewery and served with a combination of professionalism and friendliness that would put the staff in many brewpubs back home to shame.

We were in heaven and the joint was rocking, The Doors and Gorillaz followed Jimi Hendrix’s guitar solos. Many customers had left when the free food stopped and the place was filling up with a younger Saturday night crowd and a few older customers here for a proper meal. We had gorged ourselves on food and beer at this stage so we had no room to try the food offered from the kitchen, which was attached to the bar. Anything we saw heading for the dining tables looked wholesome and tasty, with empty plates always heading back in the opposite direction.

Ozzie was shouting out 'Finished with my woman' to a pounding bass line as Pete made his way to the bar for the next round of drinks and came back beaming. 'These are on the house,' he said, 'I think yer man behind the bar appreciates us making the trip out here, and how much we like the place and the beer. He says this is a new brew but I didn't catch its name.' We looked to the bar and raised our glasses to him. He smiled back before returning his attention to the beer and his other customers. The beer was a little like Ligera but more bitter and with a citrus-like taste, like a shot of grapefruit juice had been added. I was another winner certainly.

The place is really rocking now with a wonderful buzz and 'Rock the Casbah' is playing. This surely must be one of the best bars in Milan. No Italy. No Europe, we decided. It shows up the inadequacies of other places, and the importance of finding the right balance or food, drink and atmosphere. This lively, almost visceral, bar on a nondescript side street in an ordinary part of the city had got everything right tonight. And as The Beastie Boys belted out 'Sabotage', we drank our last beer, Monstella, a pilsner style beer that would have the Americans, Germans and Czechs ringing their hands with worry if it was ever unleashed on the world market. Then we headed towards the door to catch the last metro back into our hotel in the city centre, pausing at the bar to say our goodbyes and getting a cool, thumb grip handshake from the barman. With the appropriate strains of 'I just can't get enough' resonating out the door and following us up the street, we cursed the fact that the place was so far from our base and that the Metro didn't run later.

Maybe it was a blessing really as we probably would never have left the place, we'd still be there today.

Liam K

[From a visit in 2009 and a shelved book on European beer travel - Edited March 2026]

Apologies for poor photos.

Düsseldorf Beer Tour 3 - minus the beer

A last piece on Düsseldorf for now - This is another excerpt from a longer article that I will dip back in to some other time.

We woke up the next day to an overcast sky with a chilly breeze blowing in from the east. This was our third day in Düsseldorf and so far we hadn't experienced many of the sights, instead concentrating on the beer, food and atmosphere of the city. I had read about the Rhine Tower, which in fairness is hard to miss on the skyline anyway and also of some buildings by Frank O. Gehry, the Canadian architect, down at the redeveloped harbour so we decided to take a trek in that direction.
After grabbing a light breakfast in the hotel we set off in the direction of the tower. It was mid-morning and city was quiet as we walked through it towards the Rhine. The shops and bars were opening up and the Christmas market was also beginning to show signs of life.
We arrived at the Rhine, which looked cold and foreboding this morning, with the barges, some ploughing through the current south and others literally going with the flow north. It seemed to me that travelling north would be the trickier as you had less control of your vessel. I presume the trick is to travel quicker than the current so that you have more control of your direction, a bit like life, while using its force to expend less fuel.
I was in quiet contemplation of this as we walked south, against the flow. We all seemed lost in our thoughts and a little tired from the last few days. The tower loomed larger every couple of hundred meters but in that misleading way that large building do, it deceived us on its actual distance away. We passed under the Rheinkniebrücke with the rumble of cars and lorries over our heads and eventually we arrived at the base of the tower. Looking up at it now it seemed like an almost impossible structure, like a bowl balanced on a knitting needle, and it was with excitement and a squirt of trepidation we walked up to the entrance.
The tower was completed in 1982 and stands over 230 meters high. Perched in the bowl are a viewing platform and above that a revolving restaurant. The top of the tower contains what I presume are all the TV technology and paraphernalia that the tower was built to hold. It is also the world’s largest decimal clock; the time being read by assessing the layout of the lights than can be seen on the tower's body at night.
We paid our entrance fee and made our way to the lift, our ears popping as it made its rapid ascent to the viewing platform. The doors opened and we were suddenly in the midst of fifty or more sweaty, acne-ridden teenagers on a school trip and a couple of frazzled looking teachers. We worked our way through the throng towards the glass walls. The glazing around this part of the building leans out at an angle a little like an upside down coolie hat and is certainly a little disconcerting. You could, as some of the teenagers were doing, spread eagle yourself with just the glass supporting your weight and look down to see the base of the tower, and a fair proportion of the rest of it. Why you would want to us anybody's guess but teenagers tend to show a lack of fear that is either borderline moronic or, at best, foolhardy in the extreme. I am pretty sure that the glass is strong enough to hold even my weight but when you get a little older you always have this nagging feeling that one day you will appear on a news bulletin with the words 'accident' and 'tragic' combined with your name.
Even on this slightly overcast day the views were tremendous. The immense, sinuous Rhine with its bridges and barges, the old town, the buildings on the harbour and on the west bank were all laid out in front of us, with the countryside of Germany, Holland and Belgium stretching away into the distance.
One building, the regional parliament building, stood out below us. It had clearly been built with the view from above in mind with a tangle of interconnecting geometric shapes forming a stunning pattern from where we stood. We had walked past it on the way to the tower and although it seemed bright and tidy we had no idea that it was such a beautifully designed building. I don't think you could appreciate it from anywhere but up here.

We walked around the platform a few times, avoiding the groups of death wishing teenagers, looking for somewhere for a coffee. Sadly we were too early for the restaurant on the next level and we were probably a little grotty for it anyway. Mind you, this section was not without its grottiness too. It could have done with a little sprucing up and perhaps a little coffee bar and better seating. I guess people come here to look at the view and not at the furnishings.
After a while I noticed that there were actually two school groups here, one English and one German. Both groups looked and acted the same and they seemed to be mingling but not really communicating with each other. It made me think about whether the great-grand fathers of the English group had looked down from a greater height again than this on the city. Had they dropped some of the bombs that fell while the great-grandparents of the German group hid in their shelters? Did these kids ever think about it? Or were they too far removed from that time. Perhaps it was just something you yawned over in your history books or role-played on your Playstation. It would be sad, I think if either side forgot. Being Irish it's not that easy to put yourself in the shoes of the people whose countries fought in the Second World War. I guess that like the history of my own country you need to, perhaps forgive, learn from and move on, but not forget.
I found the others and we decided to move on to the harbour. We could see it from up here but not with any detail. If anything the Gehry buildings looked a little disappointing from here. We got the lift down and made our way towards them. I half expected to hear a sharp crack of glass splintering and a piercing semi-pubescent scream starting from over our heads and ending with a damp thud behind us. It never happened though.

In 1989 work started on the old industrial harbour to transform it into a trendy office-residential-social centre. The Media Harbour, as it was christened, is now home to almost 600 companies with 8,000 employees and is still growing. One of the architectural highlights of this area is surely 'Der Neue Zollhof' buildings designed by Frank O. Gehry and completed in 1999.
We approached the buildings from the marina after first viewing the buildings from a tongue of manicured parkland that projects south from the Rhine Tower. The colours, shape and grace of the buildings had me mesmerised and banished any of the negative thoughts I had formed of them from the tower. Not even the overcast weather or BeerGoggles urging of BeerMat to, and I quote, 'Take me roughly up against this tree!' could break me from my rapture. (I might not have heard the word 'roughly' and he might have been talking about a photo but as I say, I wasn't paying a lot of attention.)
Building three, which was the first approached from our direction, is finished in white plaster and is the largest of the three, building two in polished stainless steel is the smallest, and building one is finished in brick. They twist, turn and lean in almost every angle and make your eyes water if viewed from the wrong direction. The silver building transfixed me. It reflected the clear, grey, mid-morning light in a way that seemed to make it move as we approached it. It drew me towards it with a bizarre sensual pleasure that is not entirely appropriate for a building to exude. I had to touch it. It was cool and almost soft and yielding, at least in my mind. The other two were busily sniggering at me for my feeling of misplaced affection, or affliction, and although they appreciated the architecture they were not affected in the same way. It was bizarre; I almost felt I needed a cold shower. Almost.

The others eventually tore me away from my new found love and we wandered between the other buildings in the harbour. Almost all were exceptional but some stood out more than others. The copper plated Kai 13 and the Roggendorf-Haus were two that particularly caught our eyes. The latter not because of the building itself, which was pretty mundane, but because of the Flossis. Large, multicoloured humanoid figures that scampered, crawled and climbed all over the building itself, giving it a surreal quality.

We wandered around a little more and having taken a few snaps decided to make our way back towards the Altstadt. As we passed the Gehry buildings I felt a pang of regret and a heart-wrenching tug, as I might never see this building again. I sighed and kept walking, refusing to look back. It was too difficult.
Mind you the thought of a beer and the continuing sniggers from the others soon brought me around, and by the time we were back in the Altstadt it was all just a happy, if somewhat disturbing, memory.