Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 5

A Monday of dire illness

Dave Dunham completes his marathon blog, in terms of time taken to get it done. As we rejoin the wayward Morris dancer, he lays bemused and nauseous upon his hotel bed, although for once, he is up early, and, had there been other less pleasant tasks to perform (some of great urgency), he may well have actually made it to the morning's dance on time.

As my Hotel room slowly, and to be fair, quite gently span around me, I gradually came to the conclusion that I was somewhere in Germany (mainly because of the chap on the telly, who had been reading the news to me all night), and I couldn't shake off the feeling that I really should have some clue as to where or why. As far as I was concerned, at that moment, Germany was only about three meters long, two wide, and consisted of two areas of santuary: the warm and engaging bed, complete with sheets and blankets, which provided some small comfort in this hour of despair; and the cold white porcelain pan, just a short, yet tretcherous stumble from my place of repose.

That short but hazardous journey had to be made though, and not just the once. The only thing that kept me going, litterally, during that most desperate of times, was the thought that Pete Flanagan must be suffering similarly.

After a couple of trips, I was able to discern that the time was around sevenish, and it did occur to me that I may actually be ready for the dance this morning, given that it started at about half nine, and that we were doing it practically underneath the window of my hotel bedroom.

Sadly, the self administered poisoning of the temple that is my body the previous night meant that circumstances would dictate otherwise. Some two and a half hours later, the intollerable noise of melodeons (I can say that because I wasn't playing), an accordian, and too many bells to make sense of, raised me from what I would have been quite content to consider, in that dazed haze, as my last resting place.

I managed some loose semblance of Morris arrayment, then, for want of words not yet introduced to the English language, I spilt, something in the manner of a knocked over pot of porridge, down the hotel stairs, and out the front door, to join in with the lads. I was dismayed to find Pete, fresh as a chilled mug of Granny's ginger beer, gaily smiling away as he played for the boys to dance. Obviously the fragrant Julie had tenderly nursed him back to health throughout the night.

Sadly, and I cannot verify this, after only one dance that I seem to remember having, it was back up to me room for another round of tribute to the porcelain bowl.

Within the hour, and envigorated to the level of 'walker', as opposed to 'stumbler', we set off for the early bird reception, which was a kind of Fiesta, at which would be another selection of manifold civic dignitry, but with the added bonus of the occasional Cucumber Queen in train.

Cucumber Queen is a generic term for the many attractive young ladies that are involved in the whole Wintzerfest event, by way of being the queen of some important item of local produce. The term stems from our 2003 trip to Bensheim, when we processed in the wake of the 2003 Cucumber Queen and her attendant cucumber in waiting - and we now refer to all such young ladies by our adopted term of reference. In the case of the 2007 Early Bird festival, I believe the young sovereign gherkin was actually the top dog, so to speak, of the profession. We were graced by the presence of no ordinary wally, but by the Wine Queen herself, and very beautiful she was too.

Not that I was in any fit state to appreciate such aesthetic finery.

When we first got there, I wasn't the only one under the weather, in fact we all were, until we were asked inside to get our of the rain!! Get it?

Inside, there was a fine selection of food stuffs for our enjoyment, a word for which there was no room in my life for at least another six hours at a guess. The best I could manage was a glass of water, and a polite 'no thanks' to offers of a bite to eat. I love the food they have at the festival, but the fried and boiled gets a bit much towards the end of the weekend, particularly after a little (too much) Jack Daniels.

Woodside put on a dance, and good fun was had by everyone except me, who moped in a corner for the most of it, although I did manage a few dances. It was my own fault though, and I was being justly punished, as everyone reminded me.

After the Early Bird reception, we headed back to Bacchus, and a cup of coffee, which was the first item of food or drink that day that I could described as 'just the right thing.

Whilst sitting and drinking the coffee, we reflected on the weekend, how excellent it had been, and the hope that we would be back again soon.

Somehow, the conversation came round to civic dignitaries, and in particular the Bergermeister of Bensheim.

I suggested he couldn't have been a particularly good Bergermeister, because my experience of the type came from a film called, I thnk, the Ghost of Frankenstein. You see, in that film, the Bergermeister had only one arm, the other having been torn off in the defence of the town during the Monster's rampage. My point was, if losing an arm in the defence of ones Berg was de rigur for one wishing to become meister, then just exactly what had this current encumbent been doing during the assault. This little jest brought a little smile to the group, which actually dissapointed me a great deal as I though it was worth a lot more than that. However, the wheeze would gain more mileage during our coach journey back.

We go all our gear together, and set off for the coach, once again wishing the Bacchus and it's excellent staff good luck in the future. We stood waiting beside an empty coach, which we had been assured was our, and fretted about getting to the airport on time.

Eventually, we heard a dull thumping sound coming from the far side of the bus, and round the end of it appeared a figure that would have had any self respecting Bergermeister elect either running for cover, or rolling up his sleeve. Our driver must have been knocking on the door of seven feet tall, and had the look of one of Doctor Frankenstein's more successful experiments about him. Although the pink alice band in his unruly curled hair was quite a nice, er, dissarming touch, if you'll forgive the pun.

Assisting us on to the bus with the odd "Ugh", and "Yah", the universal linguafranca of the coach driver, he soon got us into order, and shortly we were on our way.

The driver demonstrated an incredible abilty to multi-task, way beyond the skills of any normal man, though still far short of any normal woman. And during the journey to Frankurt, many a nervous eye was on the driver whilst he continued to text, listen to his stereo, read his newspaper and , on occasions, watch the road. Due to this nervous vigil, I almost missed the final drop of milk from the Bergermeister/Frankenstein gag, which came as I looked briefly out of the window, just after the driver had started going through his hadbag for some lipstick.

There I saw it, and indeed, it didn't just extend the life of a cheap joke by a few minutes, but it was the last part of a puzzle of a Bergermeister and the apparent embodiment of Mary Shelley's famous nightmare. A big sign with just two words written on it: Berg Frankenstein!! All became clear, we were in the land of the famous Castle Frankenstein.

Complete justification.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, though it's worth mentioning the long hike within Frankfurt Airport to get to our departure lounge. We seriously must have walked a mile and a half from the check in!!

However, such things are of little import, and it is suffice to say that we all had a safe journey back to Blightly.

We all slept exteremely well that night, dreaming dreams of going back to Bensheim and staying at the Bacchus again.

Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 1
Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 2
Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 3
Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 4
Bensheim 2007 Blog Part 5

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