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One day in Germany turned into one night in both Luxembourg and the Roman town of Trier. Having left England Wednesday for Cologne, a trip that had us almost miss our plane if it hadn’t been for the quick wits of the inimitable Boy D at the wheel and whilst in the air the snow fell so heavily that we were almost redirected to Munich, finally landing, one of the last to do so before cancellations of take-offs and many stranded passengers. An hour on the runway whilst waiting for the snowploughs to clear the stand to disembark, we finally made it. But today was looming and a late night after a late arrival had us waking underslept to the most beautiful scene of rural village Germany.

Then into the car along the autobahn listening to The Raven That Refused To Sing, our destination a meeting in Welschbillig, buried under the white mountains in the South-West. After, Luxembourg City was so close we had to visit, a country neither Olivia nor I had visited before despite crisscrossing Europe in my case for decades. Driving into town we found a city that was a mix of French, German, Swiss and Austrian influence, or was that just the snow? A chance to speak French, parking in the square of Guillaume ll, doffing his hat from his horse.

In two minutes walking we found the world famous Chocolate House where the cakes greeted us and offered themselves to us as a sacrifice grateful for our interest. Next, so close and beckoning, we stumbled across CD Buttik. Inside, various records that I’d played on sat in the CD racks, including an All About Eve bootleg with songs I’d written (Forever and Will I Start To Bleed) credited to Bricheno/Cousin/Regan. It was Fairy Light Nights with guessed artwork. I never understood why if you were bothered to bootleg something, all the work that took, that you would also bother to get tracklistings, song titles and the credits right too. We asked the record store owner about potential locations to play in this city/country and we visited De Gudde Wëllen and Konrad bar – we’ll see.

After walking in the snow, and admiring the city in the dark, clinging to the hills, we left this city-state for Trier back in Germany where we were excited to see the famous Porta Nigra (Black Gateway), built by the Romans in 170 AD and still standing in all its magnificent glory.

Now, it’s late and we are off travelling again in the morning to Stockholm where I will be working on new material with Swedish Progressives Anekdoten and visiting family including my brand new granddaughter. The days rush by, the world holds such amazing treasures and experiences and we are so happy to be able to share them. Time for bed.

We are standing on the Reeperbahn on a day of different weathers that chop and change from minute to minute between sheets of rain and rays of sun, gusts of wind and dark clouds swapping places with bright blue skies. We are on the way from the airbnb to the harbour, looking for breakfast between the sex shops and the tacky souvenir stores, crossing this most renowned strip that has been selling “entertainment” since the rope makers moved outside the city (Reeperbahn = ropewalk).

Prostitution is legal in Germany and the sex industry is big and the word “sex” becomes a magnet for visitors to town. There’s tourists and spruikers, bikers and locals, a strange mix of troubled and happy faces and a terrible selection of places to eat, designed for bad diets and night time revellers. One can only imagine the previous night’s events – one doesn’t want to but the secrets this area (St. Pauli) holds, might astound, disgust or even inspire – the Reeperbahn’s reputation tells of light-hearted fun to dark and dastardly crimes that have left their mark on history.

It’s a rather unwelcoming  place in the daylight where the myths don’t quite run true and the aftermath often reveals sorry tales, headaches and wiped memories from the night before. But as John Lennon said “I was born in Liverpool, but Hamburg was where I grew up” and The Beatles’ legacy can be seen through this historical spot and it doesn’t take too much imagination to consider what the beat groups that played here in the early sixties might have been getting up to.

The famous Herbert Strasse, which has prostitutes in window displays, has been closed off from the side street since 1933 and in the seventies signs were erected (sorry), banning women and under 18s from walking down the street – it isn’t legally binding and anyone can walk down there as a public road but beware of your reception if you do.

Leaving the strip and heading down to the harbour, you can see the connection with Liverpool, the River Elbe like the Mersey in its heyday is lined with cranes and container ships, although these days Hamburg is a much bigger port perhaps due to its location at the top of Northern Europe whereas Liverpool on the western side of England might have had more trade in times gone by and has no access to all the countries of the European Union – next year will be even less.

Heading past the ferries, skittish as they jump in and out of the landing bays in the wind, past the entrance to the tunnel under the Elbe, opened by Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1911, connecting the two sides of the river and on to the Portuguese quarter for dinner to celebrate Olivia’s sister Sanna’s birthday with friends and others from Olivia’s family that live in Hamburg. Spain are playing against Iran tonight as the whole of Germany is watching the World Cup on screens in every bar and restaurant and so the days move on.

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In the early eighties living in Bondi Beach, I started messing about with a Teac 4-Track tape machine, a Casio keyboard, a drum machine and a couple of guitars. This is one late-night instrumental piece that I recorded, appropriately called – Hamburg.

Standing below the Brandenburg Gate, quickly stepping aside out of the path of the advancing quadriga, I wondered if the copper horses, chariot and the goddess of victory might trample me to death. Suppressed by the humidity, elbowed by the marauding tourists, shoved by the screaming girls and the groaning groups of men and keeping a good distance from the very scary naked man on the other side of the square, I realize that summer is really here and I have reached Berlin.

This is also the site of the US embassy, guarded by a heavily bearded polizist, concealing who knows what in his face. Next to that the memorial to “The Murdered Jews Of Europe”, a series of concrete blocks ascending and descending into the earth, depicting the depth of the attempted genocide by the Nazis in the thirties and forties.

But notwithstanding these staged guarded tourist attractions around the city, Berlin still manages to keep the bohemian spirit alive with its graffitied walls, cosmopolitan cafes, art galleries and buzzing streets. Add to this the first few days of the World Cup with screens everywhere showing the games and every cafe and restaurant is alive.

Tragically the only thing I never find in Berlin like London is a public place where I might enjoy any music. Music is always pumped by the owners of the place you are in – those that are skilled in culinary pleasures, boutique beers and feng shui but never by music lovers. If they do pick a music lover he has to like dance music. Where are the cafes that play Can or Cluster in this country? I thought I’d be very smart and list the great contemporary German bands and apart from The Notwist it’s all electronic, dance, rap. Why is that? Are people so influenced by trends? Really? Are we not individuals who trail our own path, trawling through the net discovering different types of music old and new, getting inspired by different genres and then perhaps creating sounds with our own vision attached. I guess not? It seems like the advertisers own the world and tell the population what to listen to. It’s the DJs that pull the crowds in new music, guitars are for old mega bands only.

Still, the Saturday markets here can be fine hunting grounds for vinyl. I found the second MX-80 Sound album, Out Of The Tunnel on Ralph Records from 1980. The 1969 Man album, 2oz Of Plastic With A Hole In the Middle on Pye with the different German cover. A vinyl copy of Sneaker Pimps’ Becoming X and Morcheeba’s Who Can You Trust? – hard to find on vinyl, plus some early seventies and late sixties compilations, one, That’s Underground – one of the first coloured discs.

Back here on earth as the light fades, the heat lingers, the polizei share jokes with each other and despite the constant terrorist alert it looks like the dropping of a child’s ice cream might be the afternoons biggest tragedy. With the first few World Cup games done, including Spain and Portugal’s 3-3 thriller, tomorrow Germany will play Mexico and the city will be gathered around the screens in the sun, drinking beer and cheering for their team. In the meantime Olivia and I will be breathing in the essence of this vibrant city and contemplating moving here, opening the archive and having a place where music is played by the music lovers not the restauranteurs, the boring radio execs or the trend setters – music you can sit down to.