These short-hop flights into Europe are no soonest up at cruising altituude as starting to descend .
Of course there is the drama of a take-off which ,with Ryannair, is a bit unnerving given that, whilst waiting and overlooking the aircraft down in the service area you can see the rapid disembarking of passengers on foot , the transfer of baggage and full refuelling within their 25 minute turnaround time. The crew on the flight deck open a window and I half expect them to be handed up Big-Macs and Cokes by the ground crew followed by emptying of a chamber pot over the side, all in the interests of saving time and permitting 6 flights a day rather than the 4 as operated by other less profit-driven airlines.
The plane was completing refuelling with us all on board, a full contingent apart from a sole empty seat which was next to me. Was it just me? I discreetly checked my personal hygiene, for any remnants of Pret a Manger pastries around my face and my trouser flies. Nope. Not me. Perhaps just a mathematical certainty, what with most of the travellers being in pairs or larger groups. Johnny no-mates had possibly overslept and missed the boarding slot.
The Boeing 737-800 lumbered out, in reverse, before jolting along to the main runway. It was a rolling start, throttles open and with that distinctive kick in the pants feeling exclusively found in a powerful jet aircraft although keenly sought in your local streets by boy racer owners of Vauxhall Corsa 1.2 litre SXGTLE's.
I am relatively new to flying for someone of my generation. My late start was partly due to a family embargo on flying following the sad death of my father's cousin, only 21 years old, in a plane crash after take-off from Paris in 1975. Apparently, the door fell off. I had watched the cabin crew go through the procedure of securing the outer door with some interest.
I was on a budget flight with no inclusive food and so was tempted to break open the Cream Crackers. The other golden rule of paying a low fare is to keep your head down and avoid eye contact with the staff because they are fully intent on selling you something whilst you are captive, strapped in your seat. First, newspapers and Hello magazines, then own-brand scratch cards, a range of ready meals of continental theme and finally, perfumes and Ryannair gadgets.
In the free for all for the seating I had managed to get a window. Above the dismal grey clouds of south-eastern England it was a nice day. Doh! On the starboard side and flying south the sun was quite dazzling. I grimaced with part discomfort in the light whilst enjoying the warming effect of the first rays I had felt on my face since late October.
The London skyline was in view and The Shard punctured the otherwise flat, one dimensional scene. The Thames snaked its way towards the Channel and after a very short passage over water the plane crossed into airspace over France/Belgium/Holland before covering the full depth of Germany.
The cloud cover was solid and beautiful in shade and hue with a few distance vapour trails from flitting aircraft. A clunk and whine momentarily disturbed my high altitude dreaming as the slim and seemingly fragile wings adjusted their flappy bits. The clouds, as we descended, were now grubby and wispy and my porthole window was streaked with moisture. Below I could see vague shapes and forms, possibly mountains and valleys, then a more regular arrangement of pasture and forested strips. What I found confusing were large white patches which outlined the dark areas until I realised these were banks of drifted snow.
I was again alarmed by twitchy movements of the plane as it lined up for a landing. Houses became discernible as we lost height, resembling small white sugar cubes loosely strewn about. Traffic could be seen on the road network. The overriding colour was a metallic blue from hectare upon hectare of ground arrays of solar cells also extending to just about every available surface of domestic and commercial roofs. The twin jet engines whined in resistance ,slowing to an approach speed.
When viewed from the ground the landing of a passenger plane looks quite laborious and painfully slow and in direct contrast to the experience of being on board with all the noise of creaking, rattling and then the thump of the tyres followed by the slight but discernible drift out of alignment before being wrestled back by the pilot. The 500mph to taxi-ing deceleration is very impressive and being Ryannair, the plane just carries on rolling to save crucial seconds and euro's.
The airport at Memmingen is not well known. It had stood out on the Departures board as not quite up to par with the likes of Charles de Gaulle, JFK, Singapore Changi and Schipol. My casual interest in where I was headed for had revealed that it had been a Luftwaffe base followed by a period in American occupation until handover in the 1950's. A single runway flanked by old functional buildings. some camouflaged, and still in military use and in sharp contrast to a very modern terminal building.
The development of the airport had caused considerable political conflict locally between the Greens and the Progressives. The latter had won but perhaps the huge solar energy farms had been a bargaining chip and conciliatory gesture. One thing, the summers in Bavaria must be scorchingly hot and windless on the basis of the solar panels and the complete absence of any turbines which are becoming increasingly common sights in my home area.
I began to think in German as soon as my feet hit the ground at the bottom of the ramp but with a schoolboy vocabulary at my disposal I just hoped that everyone was called Herr Topolski and drove a VW. I could get by if that was the case.
The Border Control were very paramilitary looking and the slim, blond female officer who welcomed me and giggled at my passport photo was affable and armed. I strode out of the terminal with confidence and immediately conversed with a taxi driver with a single phrase "Bahnhof, bitte". He hustled me into the pale yellow Mercedes. He too would be hoping to emulate Ryannair with 2 or 3 pick-ups from the new arrivals and he drove very quickly into the town, 4km away. He turned up the talk radio channel so as to discourage me from entering into further dialogue. I was alright with that and gave him a decent tip in appreciation of the means of avoidance of making a fool of myself.
Memmingen, also from research, has Roman origins, a city wall, Renaissance buildings, squares and narrow alleys, large market places and a canal stream through the middle. I saw a few of these notables but paid more attention to the shops which included a Woolworths, Inter Sport, Subway and many euro-wide brands. I was interested to see that it is not just UK High Streets which are dominated by discount stores. The windows of one large retail unit advertised all products at one euro, which by my translation, meant an undercutting of a British Poundland by at least 20 pence. Keeping the Cream Crackers, now seasoned travellers, intact I sought out some food.
A Grammar School Education had given me a working knowledge of the products of German bakeries, butchers shops, fruiterers and restaurants and how to ask for them but I instead opted for a Kebab and small pizza from a Turkish Cafe. This transaction was achieved mainly through my pointing and the ability of the proprietor to converse with an English tourist, thanks possibly to a Turkish Grammar School Education.
After eating in and pretending to read a discarded local newspaper I remembered the phrase for "how much", paid up and left. I had a couple of hours to kill before catching a train onwards to Munich, about 60 miles east and this was taken up by a few laps of the town centre. The Green Party influence was strong with largely excluded traffic from the streets and favouritism for cycles and pedestrians. This did lull me into a false sense of safety and I had to remember to take into account the approach of any stray traffic from the wrong side when crossing the roads.
The city was trimmed up for Christmas with real trees on the lamposts, nice lighting, a huge display of bells strung between buildings and a dedicated seasonal market with gifts, decorations and foods. Shamefully to admit, but out of anxiety of missing my Deutsche Bahn connection I elected to spend most of the free time in the station waiting room and then out on the chilly platform.
Now 4pm I was amongst commuters and schoolkids, the latter chattering away and I recognised the names of Bieber, Beyonce and i-phone in their engaging dialogues. A group of older boys on the opposite side of the tracks were smoking and taking swigs from a bottle of Blue Nun. Typical teenager behaviour but then they spoilt my stereotypical judgement by leaving their loitering position clean, tidy and debris free by using the recycling bins provided by that Green Party lot. On a second take, the nosiy school children were actually doing studying and homework and making best use of what would, amongst their UK contemporaries, be an idle time.
The station was very busy, a bit of a hub for trains from the wider Swabia Region and the not too distant Austrian border. Red DB engines and carriages drifted through with local services , there were frequent non-stop expresses and long, groaning chains of heavy freight wagons. It was now nearly dusk and getting a bit cold on the open expanse of the platform. A train approached from the wrong direction for Munich but was definitely the one I wanted. I accepted German efficiency in good faith and boarded.
The carriages seemed wider than UK stock but, totally geekily I knew them to be the same standard guage of 1.435 metres. The impression of roominess was from bench seating for communal travel rather than the demands of the British travelling public for individual personal seats and private space.
A wave of heat hit my cold extremities from a very effective appliance just at my right ankle from my sitting position. I had fully intended to use the last remaining daylight to avidly study the trackside country views and absorb the sights of Bavaria but the comfort and warmth of the carriage had me in a bit of a drowsy stupor in no time at all.
I was quite happy to succumb to that luxuriant feeling in the knowledge that all trains stopped at the Munich Terminus and I would not find myself in the Russian Steppes or further west upon awakening. My Cream Crackers could be felt through the top of my small rucksack and with this reassurance I drifted off. The return journey next morning along the same route would be the opportunity to look out of the window a plenty.
Rural Bavaria soon made way for the outer suburbs of the City. Large residential blocks were arranged neatly and with communal Christmas trees occupying a central position in the open squares between. There followed out of town retail parks and offices, part built developments and semi derelict structures heavily daubed in graffitti. The scene was very much like any found along a rail corridor in any large urban area. A Mercedes badge topped out a very large and grand tower block and around it groups of either offices or up-market apartments. The train rattled over points before stop-starting to allow others to pass by either in or out of the central railway station. With a jolt the onward travel ended and I fell out onto Platform 32 and made my way under the glass atrium to find my hotel. It was now rush hour and I was definitely going against the majority flow as the workforce made their way home. After the sweltering heat of the carriage I found myself shivering in the chill evening. On the other hand it could be just my excitement and anticipation of being in an iconic european city at night.
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