Years ago there was an Italian racer called Felice Tedeschi, who we used to call Happy Germans, with appropriate artistic licence. I am sure to find a few gleeful Goths and happy Hun today as I am off to the Federal Republic this morning, down that well-beaten path known as the A4 autoroute, by way of Meaux (of mustard fame), Reims (the land of champagne), the Argonne, Verdun (today called “la ville de la paix”, the town of peace) where generations of French and Germans were slaughtered a century ago, and on from there to Metz (pronounced “mess”) and on to the border at Saarbrucken. I’ll probably turn off there and send my way through the Pfälzerwald forest until I get to the Rhine at Speyer, a place that is easy to find thanks to it having a Jumbo Jet on stilts overlooking the town (strange but true). From there Hockenheim is just minutes away, smuggled in its flat forest, with the fans no doubt already ensconced in their tents, with a few dozen beers for company. It will be a happy place this weekend: Germany is celebrating its soccer victories and will be willing Nico Rosberg to win. Lewis Hamilton will be there to spoil the party. Fun, fun.
Schnitzel for dinner!