A Retired House Husband in Sweden

Over breakfast, Geraldine told us that she spotted a news story warning locals of a venomous cobra spotted hanging around the village of Castelginest, north of Toulouse, and about 35km from here. Various parks and sports fields were closed as a precaution. In the meanwhilst, locals were out, taking photos of it and sending them around social media. Which is where Geraldine spotted it.

And, it seems, Matt has a pet snake at home called Achilles. It’s not a cobra or, in fact, even remotely venomous. It’s a cute and cuddly grass snake, about 2 metres long. His wife, Sandra, does not particularly like Achilles.

In other wildlife news, a few people were kept awake last night by the horrendous din of foxes mating right outside the windows of our accommodation. Maryna, in particular, had a very disturbed night. When she described to me the fact that it sounded like a baby being slaughtered I immediately knew what it was. Maryna’s room is right next to mine. Needless to say, I heard nothing.

More important than rutting animals was our trip this morning to see some cheesemaking at source. And goats. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love goats.

After breakfast, and a small break, we piled into the bus and headed for Cabriole, a cheese making farm in the middle of almost nowhere.

We had to don silly hairnets and big plastic booties over our shoes before entering the main cheese making room where we were given a lesson in how cheese is made. And then we made some. We scooped out the curds, letting the whey drip away and put the solids in little plastic tubs so they could sit and settle and be ready in a few days.

The woman who gave us the demonstration and told us everything we could possibly want to know about goat cheese was excellent. I really liked her. She clearly loves what she does or, if she doesn’t, then she is one hell of an actor.

There were also a couple of stereotypically good-looking French chaps in the room busy making mozzarella and burrata. They didn’t really work at the dairy but they wanted to try making mozzarella and burrata and were doing it there.

One of them asked where we from. Most of us answered “All over,” and he pointed at my t-shirt and said “Scotland?” I was wearing a Scottish t-shirt. I was tempted to reply, saying “No, the t-shirt is from Scotland, I am Swedish.” But didn’t.

It’s funny that every time someone asks me where I’m from that my stock answer has become “Sweden, at the moment.“

Anyway, having heard how to make it we were then shown what the cheeses look like at various stages through their life.

The symbol on the top of the cheese indicates it is goat. It is the Occitan cross and indicates it is from the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France.

Of course, having learned how to make them, then to make some and look at some reaching maturity, it was time to taste the finished product. Now, I’m not sure about the others, but I am mad crazy for cheese and loved every bit.

I did learn that Geraldine is a bit of cheese demon. Not only that but she’s also rather keen on the goats as well. While half the group was buying cheese, she marched the rest of us out to the big barn where we were royally entertained by the goats who supplied the milk.

I think they liked her too.

Then, it was back to the estate but not to rest. Oh no, we had a beef bourguignon to make. Two, in fact.

We were divided into two teams of six each. One team would then work on their bourguignon while the other started the duck confit parmentier (or potato and duck tower as I call it). Once the first bourguignon was in the oven, the teams swapped.

It was excellent fun though my team kept depending on me to show them what to do. I was christened Gair Bear by the Georgians who made up the other five in our team.

Ignoring that, I learned a lot by watching Geraldine. She has such a simple way of cooking which is why I started loving her food from the beginning. It’s marvellous to see her easy style when you’re actually in a kitchen cooking with her.

Our bourguignon, smelling amazing, was in the oven and the teams swapped.

We then made super creamy and delicious mashed potatoes then the confit of duck was shredded. These were then layered in egg rings before going into the oven to crisp up the top. These were our dinner for tonight.

It was delicious and something I am definitely going to make at home. As soon as I find a supplier of confit of duck in Trosa.

Something else I will make at home are the tartlettes we started yesterday and finished tonight. We had the empty pastry cases and our creme, which we then topped with strawberries. What a stupendous dessert.

I was a bit upset that I didn’t get to eat one of our tartlettes with our creme in it as I reckoned our creme was the best but I soon got over it. These were seriously nice. They looked very pretty too.

Having eaten our fill, we sat around and chatted.

After a little while, a few of us retreated to the common room in the other accommodation, chatting about Kim’s son Chip and his girlfriend problem. The others went to the pool.

Eventually, like the old man I am, I made my excuses and went to bed.

Another excellent but exhausting day.

There is very little like waking up in the French countryside to the sound of…well, nothing really. It is very quiet where we are. And it helped that the sky was blue, and the sun was beaming down. Okay, it was intermittent, with big black ominous clouds drifting across every now and then but, basically, it was lovely.

Naturally, everyone else was wrapped up for our trip to the market in Lavaur. I was asked a few times if I was cold in just my t-shirt. It was 18 degrees! Seriously not cold.

It was a lovely, little market. It reminded me of how much I love French markets in little towns. Cheese, cured meats, fresh local veg. And honey. Always love the local honey. I may have bought a jar.

Geraldine got very excited when she discovered some fresh cherries. She was sorely tempted to buy the lot. We will be making her cherry clafoutis with them later in the week.

Having bought enough stuff for the cooking classes, we then hopped into the bus to go to the ridiculously picturesque town of Giroussens where we visited four artists and their studios. They were all pretty amazing, but one really took my fancy. I may have been the only one who liked his work. Apparently he ships all over the world. It was my turn to be sorely tempted.

Dirk, pictured, was not impressed. I think he’s a little more traditional in his arty preferences. I said the artist would be pleased that his work at least moved him in some way, even negatively.

When I went inside the studio, Anissa told the artist how much I loved his work, in French, obviously. We would have discussed the works, but we had to head out.

Deep inside the delightful village of artists, there was a rather frightening display of sculptures made from old bits of metal and garden implements. Anna declared they were the scary sculpture men. We all decided they would give anyone quite a fright in the dark.

That’s just a few. There were many more along the side street.

We also visited a ceramics place and a local artistic studio where four local artists share the space. One of them, Kristine Stattin, is from Sweden. She works primarily with embroidery. Nothing like Britta Marakatt-Labba, though.

Eventually, we headed to the top of the town where we had lunch. The restaurant had a car park view that must be the envy of all car parks.

It reminded me very much of the Terrace Restaurant in Domme where we ate back in 2014. Well, except that we ate inside rather than in the car park.

And lunch was delicious. I had the asparagus soup followed by fish. I didn’t have dessert. Some of our group had steak. One of us wasn’t happy with the state of her steak and sent it back. She was then given a new one which she seemed to enjoy.

Meanwhile, Anna, who was sitting next to me, said she felt sorry for the photographer (we had Valerie with us snapping away) who wasn’t eating. Then she was given a steak and sat down to eat it. Anna reckons it was the rejected steak. Better than wasting it, I said.

Anyway, this was my delightfully imaginative asparagus soup.

I made the mistake of sending Mirinda the photo above and she replied “Notice the presentation.” Fair enough, I suppose.

But, it was very soon time to head back to the estate and our first cooking class.

We started with tartlettes aux fraises. The kitchen had been set up into stations, half for the crème pâtissière and half for the short crust pastry. We were split into groups of three and stood at our work stations ready for Geraldine to take us through what we were about to create.

I was teamed up with Kim and Sonja and we started with the crème pâtissière. Then, we all switched so we were making the pastry.

Now, I have to say that this was all quite easy for me so I ended up explaining things to my teammates as we progressed, letting them do the things they wanted to. They insisted that I should strip the beans from the vanilla pods because they’d never seen them before. They really enjoyed the demonstration, mainly for the scent.

After we had prep’d for the tartlettes, we went to the lounge area for a break while the kitchen was set up for us to begin our main course for dinner: niçoise style salad with tuna tataki.

And, while we were sitting chatting and indulging in some saucisson that we had bought at the market, cherry tomatoes and a wonderful pepper dip created by our chef, Anissa’s mum, we had an unexpected and very happy visitor.

She belongs to the owner of the property where we are staying. She was more than happy to have her tummy rubbed by anyone who wanted to. She was an absolute delight and a real eye-opener to how many of us own dogs. There was a flurry of phones being shown with pictures of puppies. Maryna showed us her wallpaper which featured her dog rather than her daughter.

But, it was very soon time to stop patting the dog and head back into the kitchen for our next task: Dinner.

Of course, we started by making our vinaigrette which we put in individual containers and labelled as our own, then began the prep of the salad. This involved something I’ve really wanted to know how to do: the removal of the heart of an artichoke. If I learn nothing else this week, I will feel this has not been a waste. Thank you, Geraldine.

Work was intense as we all beavered away. Dirk and I cooked the tuna while the others finished off their salads. It was a kitchen full of busy little bees. Particularly when you consider that the people cleaning up behind us, beautifully I might add, were the organisers. It was like magic. At one point, as Anissa cleared away my chopping board, I told her I could do with her at home.

Eventually, all was ready and we took our plates to the big dining table, sat down and ate our dinner. We didn’t complete the tartlettes and, really, we were all too full from everything else we’d eaten through the day.

After dinner, as most people drifted off to sit in the lounge and chat, Sandra, Matt and Anna suggested going for a swim. There is a lovely warm pool on the property, and it was truly perfect for an after dinner dip.

An exhausting but amazing day. I have to say, this is turning out to be the best birthday present EVAH!

I can’t say much for the shower in my room last night. It reminded me of all those nights spent in mobile homes when we toured with the theatre company. Except smaller. It was so small, it was almost impossible to bend over. At least I was never at any risk of falling over. The pressure was pretty shit too. More a dribble than a stream. Temperature was fine, though.

I guess, being in a hostel, albeit not in a dormitory, you have to expect a fair bit of noise through the night. And that’s what I got last night. For some reason, they were playing chasings up and down the corridor outside my room. This would have been fine had they not been bouncing off the walls.

Okay, that sounds like I’m moaning but, I’m not really. I realise how rambunctious youngsters can be. And, to be frightfully honest, I rather enjoyed the funny looks I got from the usual occupants when I walked down the hall and out of the building at 9am. I guess they are not use to seeing old men in hostels.

Train #6: Paris Nord to Montparnesse via M4

Mirinda would not have liked the Metro train I caught this morning. It was super crowded. I almost didn’t get a seat, but a very kind lady offered me hers. Given the trip was going to take over half an hour, I gratefully accepted her generosity.

And, to be fair, she managed to get another seat shortly afterwards when a few people left the train.

It’s amazing how many times it’s a woman who offers me her seat. Okay, men will invariably ask if I want help with my suitcase but they are loath to give up a seat once they have one.

By the time we reached Montparnesse, the carriage was almost empty. I left and joined the masses heading for the main station. That took almost half an hour as well. It felt twice as long as going from Bank to Tower on the London Tube. Still, eventually I arrived and started looking for somewhere to have a coffee.

I made the woman behind the counter laugh when I said “Tack, danke, thanks, merci!” I got there eventually. As I took possession of a grande cafe creme, I apologised saying I’d obviously been through too many countries.

Having filled a caffeine hole, I headed over to Hall 1, which, coincidentally, was where my train was due to arrive. Apparently there are three halls, but I didn’t see any others. I just walked towards the crowds and found the right one. Pure luck, I have to say.

Train #7: Gare Montparnesse to Toulouse Matabiau

My train was very comfortable though I was on the upper level which meant hauling my suitcase up the stairs. Not a problem unless you’re in a hurry. Still, very comfortable once you’re in your seat.

I was on the aisle seat with no-one next to me until Bordeaux when a lady indicated it was her seat by the window. That gave me over two hours of sitting alone.

I even used the onboard ordering process for some lunch and a coffee. And I have to say, the TGV INOUI version is better than the one on the German ICE trains. Okay, both of them allow you to order via their website and they deliver your order to your seat (much better than carrying food and drink back to your seat, if you ask me) but, on the ICE trains the person who delivers then has to take your payment. On TGV INOUI, you pay before you order. Makes way more sense.

Anyway, the entire trip was uneventful so, sadly, I have nothing exciting to write about.

We arrived in Toulouse a little ahead of time. I walked off the train into a beautiful sunlit day, a stark contrast to the grey, drizzly morning I’d left in Paris.

After checking in to the very close yet covered in scaffolding hotel and having a bit of a rest, I headed out for a bit of an explore. I’d noticed on the photo above the sign indicating that there was a Metro stop named after Joan (my favourite mad saint) so figured I would go and find it and work out why. She wasn’t really known for her train travel, opting, instead for either walking or riding a horse. I hadn’t heard of her connection with Toulouse and had to find out.

It was a bit of a trek but so totally worth it.

The Metro station, it seems, is named after the Place Jeanne-d’Arc which contains the Jeanne-d’Arc underground car park. The reason it is called Place Jeanne-d’Arc has nothing really to do with Joan. Rather it is because of the massive bronze statue of Joan on a horse that was placed there in 1920.

Originally it was called Place Matabiau and had been since the 11th century. For reasons unknown, a Catholic newspaper decided the square needed a Joan so they asked for donations and eventually there was enough to entice local sculptor Antonin Mercié to give it a shot.

He did a fine job and the statue was loved by all.

Then, in 1942, the municipality decided to change the name of the square in tribute to Joan. All a bit prosaic really. Still, it’s a great statue and I really love the fact that they named an underground car park after my favourite mad saint.

And that just about wrapped up my final travel day. Tomorrow I will get picked up from the bus station and taken to the château for my cooking retreat. I think an early night is in order.

But, before I go, this photo is especially for Mirinda.

I reckon this would be a very long train trip.

What a wild part of Cologne it was where I chose to spend the night. Pubs, bars, people galore line the small back street in which the hotel is central. I have to admit that I was a bit concerned about the noise keeping me awake. However, given I didn’t get into my room until gone 1am this was seriously not an issue. Not that it stopped the revellers.

This morning, in comparison, the scenes of Bacchanalia had vanished, to be replaced with sunshine, clean streets and no hint of the previous night’s debaucheries. It did occur to me that possibly last night had been a sort of fever dream after the day’s travel escapades.

Who knows. I mean, it could have been when you glimpse the carpet in the hotel.

Ignoring the crazy floor coverings, the room was excellent. The shower especially so. I realise I have stopped reviewing bathrooms. Some of my greatest posts feature bathroom reviews. Not that I feel like restarting just now. Suffice it to say that the water was hot and the pressure was very good.

My walk down to the hbf felt a lot shorter than it had last night, possibly because I knew where I was going today. Last night it had been a bit of a mystery. It also felt like it took me a lot longer last night but it didn’t really. About 15 minutes and, more or less, in a straight line.

My Eurostar train wasn’t due to leave until 12:39 so I had a leisurely wander around, a couple of lattes at Starbucks and, eventually, a bit of a read on the platform.

Something I have discovered at Cologne hbf is a huge lack of seats. Such a huge lack that there isn’t any at all until you get onto the platform, and then they are only at one end. It makes for a lovely open entrance to the station but, really, would it kill them to have a couple for the wobbly patrons? I realise they don’t want the homeless to sleep on them but why should that discomfort me?

Anyway, eventually my train pulled into the platform and, naturally, it was right down the other end and, along with a few hundred other disgruntled travellers, I hauled ass down to my carriage.

Train #5: Cologne to Paris

The train had started somewhere else, so there were already three other people sitting with me and one of them was in my booked seat. There was a bit of light-hearted discussion and it turned out that the fellow in my seat was sitting next to his wife and his booked seat was actually sitting at the window opposite her.

I said I was fine sitting by the window unless his wife would prefer otherwise. The husband and the other person sitting opposite him laughed. His wife said nothing. After a while I realised she didn’t speak English which explained a lot. Anyway, all was fine and I took up my very comfortable seat by the big window.

Then, before we left the station, a woman came up and showed us all her ticket which was for the seat next to me. The man in that seat showed her his in return. They were both identical. We all wondered how Eurostar could possibly book the same seat twice. Well, apart from the wife who, as I said, didn’t speak English, which was obvious when the husband offered this other woman his lap. I suggested that might also be for his wife to decide.

So, the fifth person vanished. We didn’t see her again so I have no idea how she got on.

And the trip to Paris was a delight. And on time. And comfortable. I watched some TV, listened to a podcast, read for a bit and dozed. My favourite kind of travel.

Finally, we pulled into Paris Nord, a station I know extremely well.

I hauled my bag to the main entrance and started searching for my bed for the night.

This was not difficult. It was a seven-minute walk away and, like last night, more or less in a straight line. It’s actually a hostel which also has separate rooms with ensuite.

As I laid on the bed, resting up for an hour with a cup of coffee delightfully provided by the hostel (such a rarity), the rain started. And it didn’t stop pouring down until a good deal later when I found myself in a small bistro somewhere near Gare de l’Est, eating a lovely plate of tartare de boeuf and drinking their finest apple juice.

I sat looking out at the usual Paris traffic and realised how much I love the city. I often wonder what 20-year-old Gary would think if I was to tell him how much he would not just love but also feel at home in, Paris. He’d probably say, “Piss off, grandpa, you’re an idiot.” And who could blame him? Certainly not 70-year-old Gary.

I got to speak my very limited Aussie French, and enjoyed eating and sitting in a very French bistro for a bit, out of the rain and soaking up the atmosphere. Obviously I waved away any suggestion of an English menu as I basked in my superiority over a few tourists who came in, wet, lost, bewildered and not sure that they should stay.

Once the rain stopped, I headed back to my room and, to the sound of a lot of youngsters enjoying a night of booze and loud music, I went to sleep.

As usual, I woke up at stupid o’clock. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. It was all quiet outside. I am pretty sure I’ve been in room 304 before. It looked over the back of the hotel into a sort of garden which is preferable to the other side which overlooks a busy road. And so, nice and peaceful.

I went downstairs for the usual very hearty breakfast (saves me having lunch on the train) at around 9am then turned around and returned to the room. There was not a free seat to be had. Even for ready money.

Returning at 10am, things were a lot calmer.

I sat next to a trio of English women who were clearly in Copenhagen to celebrate someone’s 50th birthday. I know this because propped up on one of the seats was a blow up thing with a photo of a woman printed on it and the words ‘fabulous 50’ written across it.

The woman sitting next to the balloon monster said she went to get something out of the wardrobe this morning and scared herself silly when she saw it.

My reaction was similar when I arrived at Copenhagen statin to find that I appear to be the new face of Fisherman’s Friend.

Train #3: Copenhagen to Hamburg

As I was waiting for the train to arrive, I spotted a Danish named train sitting at the platform. The name on the driver’s cab was Kaj Munk. Now he was a fascinating man which is, obviously, why they named a train after him.

Munk was both a playwright and a Lutheran pastor. He made an unfortunate remark about admiring Hitler when he first came to power, uniting Germany but then decided he was, in fact, an arsehole. Still, people didn’t let him forget it.

Then the tables turned, and he started preaching about Danes who collaborated with the Nazis. This pissed the Nazis off, and so they killed him, dumping his body in a ditch beside a road.

As well as being a bit anti-fascist, he also wrote quite a few plays, all of which have been performed at the Royal Theatre, Copenhagen. His most famous and admired work is called Ordet (The Word) which he wrote in 1925. It was subsequently turned into a movie in 1943 by Gustaf Molander then, again in 1955 by Carl Theodor Dreyer.

Anyway, enough about the train that I didn’t catch (Kaj Munk was going to Göteborg) and onto the one I did catch. I should have realised when the carriage I was booked into wasn’t where it was supposed to be that I was in for a bumpy ride. But I was lulled into a false sense of security by a father and son who were sat opposite me and helped pass the time as we chugged through Denmark and then Germany.

Jan and his son Ian were from California. Jan was half German, which turned out quite helpful later on the journey. His wife and Ian’s mother had been with them (in Paris and Stockholm and various other places) but had to head back to the US for business reasons and Ian wanted to visit a playground in Hamburg before they visited Jan’s German parents.

Ian was a total cack. We discussed all manner of things (he was about 4 years old and very gregarious) including the interaction between Delta planes and German ambulances, from cabbage trees growing beside the railway line to visiting Disneyland almost every week and the roller coasters.

Jan explained that they don’t live very far from Disneyland and Ian loves going and visiting with Mickey, Goofy and many other Disney characters. It has got to the point where the people inside the costumes have got to know Ian quite well and make a big fuss of him.

Anyway, the three of us had a splendid trip until we started running late. Did I write ‘we’? It wasn’t us, it was something on the line ahead of us. At first, it only affected the train by about five then ten minutes. By the time we reached Hamburg we were delayed by two hours.

The train didn’t make it to Hamburg. We sat at a station in the middle of nowhere until the train guard announced that we were not going anywhere and should all go and catch a bus. I have no idea if there was supposed to be a special train replacement service but there were not many buses and an awful lot of people.

Jan had the brilliant idea to get an Uber and asked if I’d like to join them. It didn’t take me long to consider his offer. We moved away from the bus stop that was overflowing with people and moved to the min road to wait. Eventually a nice chap pulled over. He was our ride. We had a very pleasant drive to Hamburg, non-stop and everything. This was where Jan’s command of the German language came in very handy because the driver had less English than I have Swedish.

I bid my new-found friends adieu at their hotel and dragged my bag up the hill to the station where I had a ten-minute wait for an ICE train to Cologne. On the next platform across from mine there was a sizeable crowd waiting for a train which I’m glad I didn’t have to catch.

Train #4: Hamburg to Cologne

And so, my final train for today took me to Cologne and was, predictably, late in arriving. Still, it was a very comfortable ICE train with hardly many passengers. The journey was comfortable and even had table service so I could make up for the fact that I didn’t get a bratwurst at Hamburg station like a usually do. Clearly I’ll have to make up for it on the way home.

Arriving in Cologne at just gone midnight on a Saturday night is not particularly pleasant unless you’re one of the late night revellers of course. I wheeled my bag through various crowds of late night drinkers until I reached my hotel.

I drank an entire large bottle of fizzy mineral water before collapsing onto the bed.

Train #1: Södertälje syd to Malmö

It is the best way to begin a journey, taking the SJ high speed train to the south. Very quiet, super comfortable, coffee and fruit on tap. Who could ask for more? Certainly beats going to an airport, waiting around for hours and being herded onto a plane with hardly space to sit comfortably. No, give me a train any day.

I even managed to be sitting in one of the single seats with a table. I was sharing with a woman of about my age who very kindly put her legs in the aisle so I could stretch mine out, under her seat. Definitely better than a plane where they complain if you merely shuffle in your seat.

Anyway, the trip to Malmö was largely uneventful. In fact, the only thing that happened out of the ordinary was when a man, having poured himself a coffee, was on his way back to his seat, when the train lurched a bit. He quickly grabbed the top of my seat with his free hand.

Unfortunately, he managed to spill some of his coffee. Even more unfortunately, it was on the trousers of the man sitting across the aisle from me.

Of course, there were apologies thrown all about and the guy who copped the coffee said it was all fine. Except that, once the coffee guy had walked on, the man with the now damp trousers was not particularly pleased. He spent the next little while brushing the liquid away with a damp tissue. He grumbled to himself for a bit.

But, really that was it, and we pulled into Malmö station exactly on time.

Train #2: Malmö to Copenhagen

I’ve written before about the Öresundståg habit of naming their trains after famous people from the area the trains operate in. Well, today I saw one named after a film.

The train was called Flickan från Backafall, which is a 1953 Swedish film directed by Bror Bügler. The film is based on a poem written by Gabriel Jönsson called Vid Vakten (At the helm) from a book called Flaskpost (Message in a bottle) written in 1920. The poem was also turned into a song by Gunnar Turesson. It has become the signature tune of Ven, an island where Backafall is located.

The poem tells the story of a young sailor on his way to the Caribbean and his longing for a girl who waits for him back at home.

The train I was on had no name, just a number. It ran easily and calmly over the Öresund Bridge and into Copenhagen station with no fuss and, again, on time. And so, as the clock ticked around to check in time, I walked into my hotel and had a brief rest before heading out again.

I always stay at the same hotel, being a creature of habit, and yet have never explored that part of Copenhagen. I was very surprised to discover a planetarium not ten minutes walk.

Of course, the minute I texted Mirinda to tell her about it, she had already been and said how brilliant it was. And she was right.

As well as a fascinating exhibition about space, generally and a dark world of how it all began (including an amazing star floor that you walk across, making the cosmos flutter and swoosh), there was a film showing in the huge cinema.

The film I saw was all about volcanoes and an amazingly amazing dude called Carsten Peter. He has no fear. Dropping into an active crater on very long ropes, he thinks nothing of posing in front of a lava lake that’s bubbling and churning meltingly behind him. His photographs are extraordinary but not so much as the footage of him exploring some of the world’s most dangerous places.

The planetarium is named after Tycho Brahe (1546–1601). Apart from everything else he did (and he did a lot) he was responsible for Uraniborg and Stjärneborg, a couple of observatories on the island of Ven – one of which he had built underground. Such a coincidence. And, of course, now I really want to visit Ven.

After a lengthy and very enjoyable journey around the universe, I headed out, around the back of the planetarium to sit with an apple juice in the beautiful evening sun.

Then, finally, back to the hotel. Tomorrow I have a long train ride to Cologne. I needed sleep.