Hamburg: An Unexpected Journey

When we planned our trip to Hamburg, we were excited to finally be going back to mainland Europe – our first post-pandemic and post-Brexit visit. We were looking forward to diving back into Germany’s favourite Christmas market (something Hamburg has in abundance – it feels as though every spare inch of land has been commandeered to house those little wooden huts, filling the air with the scent of Gluhwein, bratwurst and donuts.) We were salivating at the thought of living on sausages and beer, and convincing ourselves that all the walking we would inevitably do would cancel out the calories.

What we did not expect was that, less than three weeks before our trip. I would be diagnosed with bowel cancer. We did not envisage exploring the Beatles’ old haunts and the Hanseatic waterfronts with an impending bowel resection hanging over us. I did not expect to be having to watch what I eat in a pre-Christmas environment where every corner was trying to lure me in with all manner of alcoholic and sweet treats, sticking instead to a strict low-residue diet that meant no beer, no fibre, no fun.

But at the same time, this is perhaps the reason this trip was so magical, so needed. It’s perhaps the reason I have come back from Hamburg convinced I want to move there, convinced I could brush up my German beyond an apologetic “ich spreche eine bishen Deutsche”, which would inevitably lead to responses in flawless English. I have come back resolved to return, to do more. To eat more.

Hamburg’s Rathaus, with obligatory Christmas market

I have wanted to visit Hamburg since my early teens, and my obsessive Beatles phase. More than twenty-five years later this is still part of the draw, along with a general love of European cities, and of Northern European cities in particular. Despite the long wait, it did not disappoint. This is not least because the good stereotypes about Germany are true – it is stoically efficient. Arriving at the airport sheepishly clutching new blue passports, we were through immigration in five minutes – about five times faster than it takes to get back into the UK. Trains to the Hauptbahnhof leave every ten minutes and cost a mere E3.50 and take half an hour, and once on board passengers sit obediently masked and ticketed, though nobody checks either.

We chose to stay in St Georg – the Kensington of Hamburg, a short walk from the old town, on the shores of Lake Alster. Unusually, we did not have a bucket list. A combination of world events and personal circumstances meant we felt fortunate simply to be here, and were content with walking the streets to see what we found. A friend recommended Miniatur Wunderland but sadly our lack of planning caught up with us here – without pre-booked tickets, the queue was two hours! Instead we roamed the Warehouse District – the largest in the world and suitably impressive despite Britain’s efforts to destroy it during World War Two (they managed to destroy about half, which has since been rebuilt, and thrown in a controversial concert hall for good measure that ran hugely over-budget and looks a incongruous and a bit like a spaceship from a bad sci-fi film, though apparently has a phenomenal acoustic, so, swings and roundabouts.)

Warehouses, with spaceship concert hall in the background

Despite The Husband’s protestations, we did also made a pilgrimage to the Reeperbahn, Hamburg’s famous nightlife district where the Beatles cut their teeth (the clubs they played seem to have had a tendency to burn down, so sadly can’t be visited). They are commemorated by an underwhelming monument in what looks like a small carpark flanked by bars promising “TITS AND MORE!” (more?) and that looked especially sad on a Sunday morning, littered with the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. The Reeperbahn is infamous for its hedonism, its bars, its strictly x-rated entertainments – it even has a street where women are forbidden to enter because… well, I’ll leave that to your imagination – but on a cold December morning it at least had the grace to look a little ashamed, and concurrently make the likes of Blackpool and the Khao San Road look positively classy and conservative.

As though subconsciously trying to balance out the seediness, after our morning in St Pauli we spent the afternoon in the Kunsthalle, Hamburg’s huge, impressive art museum, which is extremely good value and has art ranging from medieval altarpieces right up to sometimes thoughtful, sometimes shocking, occasionally incomprehensible takes on the present day.

Finally, food is always a huge part of our holidays. After lots of research, we (by which I mean me) carefully selected two restaurants that came highly recommended: Das Dorf and VLET. I would unhesitatingly recommend both. While my unwelcome diet meant the usual rich meats one might associate with Germany (my husband grinned at me unapologetically as he drooled over ox cheeks and venison) it did mean I could eat fish, something this port city has in abundance. If anything, it meant I tried things I would not usually have opted for. Of the two, Das Dorf has the edge for amazing service, incredible food and unexpectedly the best Crème Brulee we’ve ever had, though VLET wins for its views.

And so we’re home again, revitalised, relaxed, and thinking about where we shall go once our current, unexpected journey is over.