Munich is proud of its native white sausage, the weisswurst – a staple of breakfasts across the city. But I don’t get it. It looks flabby and anaemic and tastes little better. The beer, on the other hand, is a triumph.
No wonder tourists in their tens of thousands are drawn to the city, particularly at Oktoberfest time. Some visit solely to consume the stuff, judging by the number of lively drunks and stag and hen parties we saw in the streets and bars. Many were local, clad in lederhosen or dirndls and staying in the cheapo hotels and hostels clustered near the edgy and ethnic Hauptbahnhof district. I know this because our hotel, the Mercure City Centre, was stranded among them and we were kept awake for much of the night by roaming bands of pissed-up girls and boys singing and chanting their way to bed.
We’d flown in late on the Friday night from Heathrow and spent Saturday walking around the Altstadt in glorious sunshine. The population of the city joined us, or so it felt. The main shopping streets heaved and the bars were already doing good business, even though the sun was only hinting at going over the yard arm.
The baroque and Jesuit St Michael Kirche on Neuhauser Strasse was as heaving as the shops. An orchestra played and a service of some sort was underway, so we returned later to visit its melancholy crypt – the last resting place of Bavaria’s King Ludwig II and other members of the Wittelsbach dynasty. He was the supposedly mad king who built extraordinary palaces, such as Linderhof, and had an unhealthy obsession with Wagner, before being deposed and drowning in a lake, mysteriously with his doctor.
In Marienplatz, crowds had gathered to watch and listen to the bells chiming the hour and watch the characters performing on the Rathaus Glockenspiel, high up on the front of the town hall. On Monday we took the lift up the central tower of this pompous, gothic building to a viewing platform, which gave great views of the city. And it was up there that we could see how low-rise Munich’s heart is, thanks to an old law that says no building can be higher than the neighbouring Frauenkirche and its salt and pepper pot towers.
Many of the historic buildings we could see had been badly damaged and even flattened in the Second World War, and then rebuilt as if the bombing had never happened. It means that the apparently ancient city centre is a great advertisement for 20th century craftsmanship but a bit of a fraud. I’m not sure how I feel about it either. Many locals doubtless found it comforting to have such visible links with their past restored, but I couldn’t help thinking I was on a giant stage set.
The Residenz, the vast inner city palace of the Bavarian kings, is an example. Heavily bombed during the war, many of the rooms were recreated in the years of peace, so one could go as far as saying they’re as historic as a Barratt home. The best are those rooms that survived reasonably unharmed, including some that are excellent examples of the baroque and rococo. But the palace’s masterpiece is the epic Antiquarium, built originally to show off the kings’ collection of loot. Today it houses busts of Roman emperors and other notables but it’s the scale of it that’s most impressive. The nearby Treasury was stacked full of priceless crown jewels and grim religious artefacts.
However, the tour takes in far too many rooms, many of them average, and by the end of it I was in desperate need of a beer and lunch.
Later we wandered in the afternoon sunshine through the Hofgarten and the Englischer Garten. The latter is a huge green lung that runs alongside the River Isar, providing endless parkland for tourists and visitors alike. It’s particularly famous for a river surfing spot, where wetsuit-clad locals queue up in surprisingly large numbers to ride a single but lively wave that’s part of the park’s impressive waterways. Feet aching, Graham encouraged me onward to the Monopteros, a temple that sits atop a man-made hill and has good views of the city, but that was the point where we had to turn back and head for home and a welcome and refreshing beer or two. That walk home was notable only for a curious Michael Jackson tribute at the base of a statue of a long-forgotten composer in Promenadeplatz. Ever since Jackson died, his fans have been leaving their tributes to him there and it’s all very weird…
In the evening, we returned to the Rathaus and the labyrinthine and traditional restaurant in its cellars – unimaginatively called the Ratskeller. It serves gigantic portions of stodge in the Central European manner, and absolutely delicious it was too. I washed my sausages down with copious quantities of beer while our servers performed with ruthless German efficiency. To the south, around Blumenstrasse, we found Munich’s gay bars – some more appealing than others. Nil was popular but a bit like a sweatbox so we finished the evening quaffing more lagers at the modest but friendly Edelheiss. And very nice it was too…