I woke up to the smell of something burning

More specifically, the smell of burnt sausages. And also sugar. And then there were some insistent Latin drums pounding me out of my sleepy stupor at the ungodly hour of – oh. 11.30am?! How did I sleep so long? The drums might have had a point.

These smells and sounds were the signal that Spring had well and truly descended on Schöneberg; or at least, that the Primavera festival had arrived. Three times a year, Akazienstraße is closed off to cars and opened to that most Berlin of concepts: party meets street market.

I had really been meaning to get up early to soak up the festivities, but a late night catching up on Game of Thrones left me immune to the offensively perky rays of sunshine which were doing their best to reach my back-courtyard bedroom. Not to be perturbed, I applied the basic necessities (dry shampoo, deodorant, a pair of earrings) and stumbled out into the sunlight to find some breakfast. Well, brunch, let’s be honest.

Fresh coffee and ripe Bio-erdbeeren (that’s organic strawberries to you and me) was a good start. But I am a lady with an appetite, and in Germany any street festival is basically code for “If you see it, try to eat it”, so I took a more languorous walk down my beloved Akazienstraße to see what else was on offer.

 

French cuisine was well represented across the board, and I definitely indulged in a Nutella-banana crêpe.

Speaking of international relations, I’ve yet to meet a German who finds a Wurst (sausage) joke funny; and yet to find a Brit that doesn’t. But Salami-Mann? Seriously? “She wants his sausage,” sprung immediately to my mind - and then I felt so embarrassed that I went off to eat my shame.

These captivating things are called Feuerkuchen (Fire-twist) and I’d never seen them before. They’re made by wrapping dough around a hot metal rod (oo-er, mister!) and waiting for it to bake – the end result is a cinnamon-y, jamless doughnut which is utterly moreish.

  

You literally cannot make it through Spring in Germany without eating Spargel (Asparagus). The white kind is particularly popular, and it’s a type of national symbol for the end of Winter. Supermarkets proclaim “Der Frühling ist da!” (“Spring is here!”) when it’s first in stock, and from then on you won’t be able to find a cafe, restaurant or street vendor without Spargel on the menu.

Perhaps the nicest part of the festival for me was this blue tractor, adorned with flowers. Back in October, the community organised a festival called Kürbisfest (“Pumpkin festival”) and the same tractor was there too, featuring a host of funny pumpkins - as demonstrated above by my friend Nicki.

The friendly farmer behind the wheel shouted out when he saw me shyly snapping away at several meters’ distance, “Kommen Sie doch näher ran! Ja, noch näher!” (“Why don’t you come in a bit closer? Yes, even closer than that!”) and went on to encourage me, in that characteristically gruff but essentially well-natured Brandenburg tone, to not hold back.

He said that good photos only come from getting up and close and personal with your subject – so I took his advice to heart, and got up close and personal… with the radishes.

 

/52/ A cup o’ kindness

That’s it for 2013 then, I guess.

I lived in three different places (1 2 3) in three different countries. I flew spontanteously to Parma with just a change of clothes, a camera and a toothbrush. I turned 21. I wrote roughly 46,000 words in 23 essays (the 24th would have been semantics, but I guess I never wrote it). I went temporarily insane from stress and realised it was time to tone it down.

I trekked through fields full of cows in my festival gear, trying to find a shop that sold milk for my tent-side cuppa, and realised the absurdity of 21st century living. I tracked down a dead poet in the Alps. I went for a night-time dip in Swiss lake and then ate a defrosted, uncooked pizza with one of my best friends in the world. I saw Europe’s biggest waterfall. I petted a goat.

I moved to Berlin and found it challenging. I plodded through autumnal Oslo. I got my first taste of Poland and liked it. I faced Germany’s dark history and responded with many words, even though I really know what to say… I sang karaoke in a gay bar. I started to feel at home in Berlin.

I went home to Bavaria. I went home to the UK. I went ice skating. I had a heart-to-heart with a painting of Mr Darcy in the women’s loos of my favourite pub back home. I had another heart-to-heart with a dear friend on an Oxfordshire bus. I had a third heart-to-heart in a cozy Oxford coffee shop with snowflakes whirling by. Consider my heart replenished.

 

And 2013 ended much like it began, in a house full of friends with a belly full of food and happy. 

I wrote about my year 52 times here – it wasn’t always easy, and I flagged at the end. Considerably. The date tag on this might read December, but as I write this it’s almost the following June. Nevertheless, the task is done. 22,000 words dissecting, documenting and reflecting on 2013. The verdict? It was good, as years go. One of the best I’ve had, in fact.

I’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet – for auld lang syne!

/51/ Christmas at Home

Please excuse the high number of phone-photos. My DSLR was tired.

Christmas was a quiet affair this year – exactly what I needed after an increasingly hectic and claustrophobic final few weeks in Berlin. The night is always darkest before the dawn, or so they say.In this instance, it was Christmas which dawned, and it did it beautifully. The only really sad thing was that my li’l brother Niall couldn’t make it home, and had to stay in Germany (though I hear he lived it up with our fantastic cousin Alice!). This was our second Christmas where the whole family wasn’t together, but last time it was me who was the missing link.

The two weeks were full of familiar places. On one day, I grabbed my good school friend Lola and we headed to Oxford to pick my room for next year. While there, we actually bumped into a university friend of mine who had graduated in summer, and I ended up getting the room which coincidentally happened to be his old one. I’m very happy with it – it’s not the prettiest room per se, but has the best view! I took this picture back in January when it was actually snowy, and yeah it’s kind of magical.

Christmas was in danger of getting a bit too quiet, so on Christmas Eve, my mother and I bought some last minute tickets to the only show that still had seats in London on boxing day – namely, The Mousetrap. It’s an old Agatha Christine that has been running in the same theatre for decades. It wasn’t high literature but it was entertaining, and with a perfect twist at the end.

 

On the walk to and from the theatre, we passed through Covent Garden and its proliferation of oversized Christmas decorations.

 

Most important, of course, was a trip to the pub. Our pub: The Red Lion in Upper Basildon (à la Basildon Park). It’s not our local – in fact it’s a half hour drive away from where we live - but it is our regular (not dissimilar to how I am with my favourite Berlin cafe, Factory Girl).

 

There are many reasons to love the Red Lion, but surely this will sell it to you. The women's loo features a 360-degree panorama painting featuring a row boat, the rolling English countryside and Mr Darcy. I sometimes excuse myself just so I can sit and have a chat with him. He’s an incredible listener.