When someone tells me that they’re going to give me a good porking, I don’t usually expect to then travel into the next town over. I mean, once you throw in travel costs, schedule changes and all that kafuffle, it just doesn’t really seem worth it. But that indeed was my Monday evening, after a good day of exciting essay writing, Mensa funtimes with Verity and Owen, I receded back into my room, cleaning up the damp that the storm a few backs left in its wake that I had yet to actually bother tidying up. Not to quote Love Bites, but “the car picked me up at around 7 o’clock”, the back was thankfully free of unidentifiable junk, and better yet, dead cats.
After what I can only assume was rhetorically asking me where I wanted to go, Dave suggested heading into Ladenburg for dinner. A town I had yet to venture, due to being ten minutes down the road, Ladenburg did its very best to redefine the meaning of the word Quaint with its succinct little roads, pastel coloured houses and of course, its residential 5,000 churches. It also seems to have an aversion to fully cooking your food, as the incredibly rustic and history-teeming pub house we visited gives your steaks half-cooked, seated merrily upon their own characterised hot stone, for you to then turn over as you please. I guess it saves on food poisoning responsibility.
A delicious and thoroughly enjoyable evening out, we inspected more of the grounds, from the old roman baths, which I have to say were not very clean at all, to the suspiciously guillotine-like wells and a bizarre pagan-ritual clearing in a forest. Not to mention the children’s playground toys which were less toys and more like goddamn scientific equations. Thus, however, is the charm of the German towns. Five steps out of your border and it’s like another world. And this world had pork.