Incidents during our recent visit to Munich keep popping up in my memory. We were taken to a long established restaurant called Osteria Italiana, known to have been, though not vaunted as, a favourite haunt of Adolf Hitler. No sign of that dictator, but one of the waiters bore a striking resemblance to Mussolini.
At the Chalybeate spring in the Pantiles some tourists sample the spa water in wine glasses. They hold the glasses up to the light as though it is wine. My own tasting notes: "A mellow, bilge-water, brown colour. A hint of sewer on the bouquet, and a distinctive, rusty palate with sluggish undertones of wealden clay."
Bluebells in our small garden. Over the years I did my best to dissuade them from growing here, because they did not seem to belong in a slightly formal town garden. Once, before the houses in our road were built, there must have been carpets of bluebells on this hillside, because I have noticed them in other front gardens. Now I have given up and welcome them as the delightful visitors they are. So we, rather than they, seem to be the intruders. And they are English bluebells, their blooms falling to one side of the stem, rather than the more showy, introduced Spanish variety.