In the year that Sonic Youth’s much abused Goo sleeve was released, I bought the 1960s Ring cycle (Karajan, obvs) from Garon records in Cambridge. I must have played one side of those 19 LPs in the 25 years since, that good bit from Tristan und Isolde.
Without the mental fortitude acquired from a session on Brew Dog on cask in Brescia,I can’t ever imagine sitting through a whole Wagnerian opera, particularly in a famously uncomfortable Bayreuth Opera House. The Etihad has softened me up a lot.
But I wasn’t missing Bayreuth on the way back from the Franconian farmland to Nuremberg, and even Matt, bless him, was happy to stroll the streets for an hour or so. He only complained when I started taking photos of old men in a big, gorgeous pub.
If I’d bothered reading the European Beer Guide I wouldn’t have fallen for this Maisels place (Oskar) with its big brewery rubbish and desperate grab for the craft market.
But the Pale Ale was very lovely, as it should have been at £2.30ish for 0.4l. If it hadn’t have been 11am I’d have stayed for the Choco Porter as well. Sometime even the big brewers get it right by accident.
It was a gorgeous old place, however false, and to be honest I didn’t notice anything obviously better in town. Most of the coach parties descended here too.
I’d love to know what they thought of the dinosaurs;
There’s plenty of cobbled streets, but nothing better than the tranquillity of the gardens behind the Wagner museum, or, to be honest, the cookies ice cream for a euro in the market place. Germany really is the best place in the world for ice cream.