There is no reception, no bar, no restaurant and no room service, but Berge, at the foot of the Bavarian Alps, is the ultimate mountain retreat

It’s been raining for days. The sky is a murky grey and the mountains, rising steeply just a few hundred metres away, are a blur. After a 90-minute train journey from Munich, I am standing outside the tiny station of Aschau, at the foot of the Bavarian Alps, waiting for Nils Holger Moormann, the celebrated and somewhat eccentric furniture designer, to pick me up.

I’m here to visit Berge, his unique Alpine lodge. Despite the fact that Berge (which means mountains) offers nothing in the way of a reception area, service, internet, telephone, television, breakfast or restaurant, Elle Decoration named it “the most beautiful lodge in the mountains”.

Finally, an ancient 4×4 pulls up and the passenger door swings open to reveal Moormann’s smiling face. We head first to his huge design studio, located across the road from the lodge, literally beneath Hohenaschau Schloss, a medieval castle that dominates the landscape.

“It’s not a luxury hotel. It’s not a design or art hotel,” he replies. “It’s a kind of a well-organised shelter.”

About four years ago, Moormann was on the verge of bankruptcy. Displaying a characteristic disdain for long-term planning, he had invested his future in the decrepit building across from his studio, with the aim of using it for storage and as a “logistics” centre. His idea, however, met with opposition from a small number of Aschau residents (even though 98% of his workforce are locals and he uses almost exclusively local materials for his designs). Planning permission was refused and he slithered towards financial meltdown.

The building dates from 1671, and over the centuries has been used as a court bakery, guesthouse and youth hostel, before being abandoned and left to rot. Considering the surfeit of Alpine lodges across the region, Moormann’s new proposal to turn it into a mountain retreat was deemed by some to be an even bigger mistake than buying it in the first place. As it turns out, it was a stroke of genius.

In contrast to the legions of lodges promising “dream holidays”, an utter lack of hyperbole is key to understanding not only Berge but Moormann’s design ethos. There is no invigorating spa or wellness programme, detox regime or fitness trainer. There is no prescription for a better, healthier lifestyle. What you see really is what you get: innovative design, an invitation to be self-sufficient and a genuine opportunity for relaxation surrounded by nature. “You can have a five-course meal. If you cook it yourself!” says the website.

Moormann’s design plays with typical Bavarian clichés, as with the lodge’s Janus-faced exterior. The roadside facade with neat, square windows is not dissimilar from the ubiquitous mountain lodges that scatter the Bavarian and Austrian Alps, while its mountain-facing façade is a harsher, darker grey interrupted by a series of rectangular windows with single shutters. “It’s a wonderful game,” is how he describes it, “with the Alps and the Bavarian baroque set against the minimalist design.”

The entrance corridor is reminiscent of a minor medieval church: plain, uneven white walls traversed by numerous vault-like arches. Exposed red brickwork adds to the rustic appearance.

“There was no real plan,” says Moormann. “It’s trial and error. People have asked me whether I can build something similar for them in South Tyrol, or wherever. It doesn’t work like that. We play with Berge. We go three steps forward and two steps back. It’s not good for the nerves; everything is ‘under construction’, but it means you are closer to the [creative] process.”

At first, Berge seems to have an air of being “not quite finished”. But don’t be fooled: quality, attention to detail and skilled craftsmanship pervade throughout. Moormann has invested €2.7m in the project, made possible only by what he calls “a perfect run for the company over the past four years”: the steady expansion in sales of his furniture, examples of which are scattered throughout the lodge, from his angular Bookinist chair to his array of lamps and pared-down tables.

After the tour, we head back outside to the entrance, and I open a metal box to get my room key. There are 16 individually designed apartments, all with names related to the mountains or the locality. Kampenblick, for instance, is named after the nearby 1,668m Kampenwand mountain, which is accessible via a cable car. Moormann leads me to Bergfried (”keep”, as in the castle variety), and hands me a bottle of organic red wine.

With no clutter, my room, which is bigger than many in five-star hotels, is more than adequate for two adults. On the right is the kitchen area containing Moormann-designed cutlery and crockery. Ahead are two windows, one narrow and stretching obliquely from just above the floor to the ceiling, leading the eye to the keep of the castle outside, hence the room’s name. There are no wardrobes, just coat hangers dangling from an old ladder, and a small wooden table with benches. The bedroom area is on a “second floor”, above the small bathroom, accessed by a metal ladder. Before he leaves, I ask him about the most important thing guests should bring for a stay here.

“Themselves!” he shoots back. Then adds: “My personal tip is to bring a small notebook. Here you have time. You have the opportunity to calm down, to reflect a little and write a few pages… And when the weather’s fine, nature pulls you outside.”

After he leaves, I give some half-hearted thought to the possibility of finding an internet connection, but once I realise I am wasting my time, I start to relax. Reading becomes a joy.

“Berge is not a luxury hotel,” Moormann had stressed earlier. “It’s a modern translation of how to stay in the mountains.” He is right, but Berge is also a luxury. Just of a different kind.

How to get there and what you need to know

Deutsche Bahn trains run from Munich to Aschau (bahn.com) and Berge is a 10-minute walk from the station. Rail Europe (0844 848 4070; raileurope.co.uk) has fares from London to Munich from £161 return. Easyjet (easyjet.com) flies to Munich from London Stansted and Gatwick from £29.99 each way. Berge, Kampenwand strasse 85, D-83229 Aschau im (moormann-berge.de). Based on two sharing, prices range from €120-€260 a night (€30 surcharge for one-night stay). The Große Stube can be booked for group events (chef Hans Blösl, can also be booked).

Nature watch: five other remote lodges in superb settings, by Nicola Iseard

1. THE ROOZEN RESIDENCE, MARGARET RIVER, WEST AUSTRALIA Visitors to the Margaret River wine region, three hours south of Perth, can bed down in a stunning three-bedroom architect-designed beach house, which is the iconic holiday home of local artist and surfer, Ron Roozen. Sleek and minimalist, the open-plan, concrete, copper and glass building sits low on a secluded hillside, above the crashing surf of Prevelly Beach, offering 180-degree vistas of the coastline from all its rooms, as well as its huge balcony. From $550 (£317) per night (0061 407 479 004; ronroozen.com.au). Qantas (qantas.com.au) flies from London Heathrow to Perth from £794 return.

2. THE WINGED HOUSE, TASMANIA Rising from the hillside like a silver bird with wings spread wide, this award-winning house is located above Table Cape, on Tasmania’s rugged northwest coast. Designed by an artist and architect, it has two bedrooms, a Japanese-style bathroom and an open-plan lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows offering views across the Bass Strait – all filled with the designer’s artwork. From $350 (£201) per night (0061 9906 3224; thewingedhouse.com.au). Virgin Atlantic (virgin.com) flies from London Heathrow to Sydney from £848 return. Virgin Blue (virginblue.com.au) flies from Sydney to Hobart from $176 (£101) return. Hire a car to drive five hours north to Table Cape (europcar.com.au).

3. HOTEL FURILLEN, GOTLAND, SWEDEN Located on the tiny islet of Furillen, off Gotland Island – 90km east of the Swedish mainland – this limestone-factory-turned-hotel is one of Sweden’s furthest-flung hotels. It has 15 double bedrooms in the main house, but it’s the four timber cabins hidden among the woods you want to go for, with sheepskin rugs, handcrafted furniture and roaring fires. The hotel has its own restaurant, too. From 1,950 SEK (£169) per room per night, including breakfast (0046 498 22 30 40; furillen.nu). Get there SAS (flysas.com) flies from London Heathrow to Stockholm from £141 return. Take a high-speed ferry to Visby on Gotland from Nynashamn, 57km south of Stockholm, with Destination Gotland (destinationgotland.se) from 152 SEK (£13) one-way.

4. ANTTOLANHOVI ART & DESIGN VILLAS, FINLAND Individually designed by not one but nine Finnish artists, these 19 eco villas are located on the shores of Lake Saimaa in southeast Finland. Built from birch, stone and glass, some are right on the shore front, others tucked in the hills, all with lake views. The villas sleep between four and six. A beautician and masseuse are on call for pampering whims. From €690 per night (00358 207 57 5200; anttolanhovi.fi). Easyjet (easyJet.com) flies from London Gatwick and Manchester to Helsinki from £46 return. From Helsinki, take the train to Mikkeli (2 hours 30 minutes), near Anttola. Go to see vr.fi for times and fares.

5. 360° LETI, HIMALAYAS Surrounded by mountain wilderness at 8,000ft in Uttaranchal in the Himalayas, about an hour’s walk from the nearest road, this retreat is as remote as they get. It has four ensuite cabins, built from stone and decked out in woollen rugs and wooden furniture, fronted on two sides by glass – perfect for lapping up those mountain vistas. Dinners are served in the restaurant. Three nights from £1,231 per person, including all meals, a guide and return road transfers (seven hours) from Kathgodam train station (020 3151 5177; shaktihimalaya.com). Get there British Airways (ba.com) flies from London Heathrow to Delhi from £512 return. Shakti Himalay a can organise the overnight sleeper from Delhi to Kathgodam, prices on inquiry.

Visit guardian.co.uk/travel for more advice and travel suggestions

Gitta Jarant and her step-daughter Anke Anusic will not be charged after they
tried to board an easyJet flight with Curt Willi Jarant, 91, who was dead.

Australian airline operator Qantas have revealed that having implemented premium economy classed seats in 2008 they are to roll out the scheme on further flights. With travellers from London already able to book this award winning service, Qantas flights to Frankfurt and Tokyo will now also offer the experience.

Fitting an additional 40 premium economy seats into two Boeing 747s, Qantas's new arrangements will primarily benefit those flying out of Australia to Japan and Germany. However, with many British tourists choosing to break flights between the UK and Down Under, not only to avoid excessive flying times but also to experience new destinations, many travellers could upgrade to the new conditions.

Already on flights between London and Melbourne, passengers can expect extended legroom and space, in addition to a full nine inches of seat recline. Seats are wider than those in economy, measuring 19.5 inches across, and have adjustable and cushioned headrests. Services also differ for those flying in premium economy, with travellers offered orange juice, water or even champagne before takeoff. Meanwhile a self service bar offers refreshments throughout the journey, whilst meals inspired by Australian chef Neil Perry and premium wines provide an added attraction.

The extended service means that those who prefer to fly with Qantas will be able to maintain their premium economy preference across an increased number of flights. And with the service winning the World's Best Premium Economy Seat in the Skytrax World Airlines Awards earlier this year, travellers can be assured of a luxurious experience.

Cheap Flights and Travel News – © 2010 – Just The Flight

Rare works and thoughtful presentation at the Museum Frieder Burda in Baden-Baden makes Miró retrospective a pleasure

After just a few steps in the brightly lit, spacious rooms of the Frieder Burda Museum in Baden-Baden, which has mounted this exhibition of works by Joan Miró, we were already wondering which other 20th century artists could be as generous towards their fellow humans. What other painter deploys so light a touch and so much variety to enchant us with his whirling forms, while remembering more serious subjects and powerful emotions? At this level of seemingly inexhaustible inventiveness we have Picasso, Klee, Kandinsky – and without a moment’s hesitation, Miró too.

The Colours of Poetry exhibition is a succession of astonishment and joy. Although there have been plenty of Miró retrospectives recently, this offers some unexpected novelties. A collage from the early 1930s, combining bits of cut and torn cardboard, catches us unawares with its deceptive casualness and perfect composition. No less surprising is another work, from 1953, this time involving thick board, etched with a gouge then enhanced with colours that run into the incisions.

Private collectors in Germany, the US and Switzerland have loaned canvases not even mentioned in the literature, as well as rare works on Masonite or sanded paper. The Miró Foundation in Barcelona and the artist’s legatees have been equally helpful. The result amounts to about 100 works: paintings, drawings, sculptures, assemblages and ceramics. This is largely thanks to Jean-Louis Prat, who knew the man himself and his studio. During his time at the Maeght Foundation, at St Paul de Vence in France, he showed that he was just as good at obtaining difficult loans as he was at assembling them. Each work has the space it needs and all sorts of relationships develop.

For this show he has decided to reverse the chronology, making a splendid opening with works from the 1960-and 70s – Miró died in 1983 – then going back, one decade at a time, to the 1920s, when Miró first met the surrealist poets and launched into the unknown. This approach would not be advisable with less coherent pieces. Here it works so well you soon forget you are putting the clock back. There is no longer any sense of belonging to a particular year or period, or fitting into a specific trend. All you know is that this is Miró, for whom it was quite normal for the night sky to be green or an intense blue, and for women to be smaller than birds.

When he started as an artist in about 1916, several visual languages were predominant: photography and advertising, and the traditional artistic representation, including post- Impressionism. But by 1922-23 Miró had no further use for them. They prevented him from seeing and feeling. They blocked his view, much as platitudes are an obstacle to speech.

In just a short time, without realising that André Breton was simultaneously doing the same thing in poetry, he cast off all the usual, worn-out graphic and pictorial turns of phrase, and began to invent other shapes and arrange them together. For example, it seemed to him that at a certain level of awareness a triangle and a few circles could be sufficient to represent the female body. But the triangle might open too and metamorphose into an oval divided in two by a centre line, making it look like the leaf of a tree. Similarly he had the impression that when human beings look at one another or touch, we perceive qualities such as the elasticity of flesh or the texture of skin. We only think of the skeleton or skull when forced to do so. Miró consequently stretched the anatomy of his figures, made them sinuous and flowing, with no concern for ordinary proportions. He proceeded in much the same way with animals, deciding it was more important to highlight essential functions – a bird’s flight, the sexual potency of a bull – than morphological characteristics.

Because he developed a new language of his own he achieved amazing intimacy with both beings and objects. He thus had no need for fantasy or symbols. He painted very simple things, but because he painted them with a hitherto unknown simplicity he endowed them with an almost physical presence. With Miró every work is a first-time event – and he carried on in this vein for 50 years.

This article orginally appeared in Le Monde

Originally published in the Guardian on 27 July 1992

Nude bathing in historic parkland at Potsdam is one of the western habits that is proving a headache for the authorities in eastern Germany.

“I come here because the water is clean and the park is so beautiful,” said a naked Angelika Freyer, aged 35, playing with her two children on the banks of the Heiliger See (holy lake).

Shaded by birch trees and willows, the lake shore in the grounds of the Cecilienhof country mansion where Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt signed the Potsdam Agreement in 1945, has attracted thousands of nudists.

“I come here every day. It is the best nudist beach for miles. Berlin has got nothing like it to offer,” said Jürgen Finke, aged 20, a student at Potsdam University.

The craze for stripping off is proving a problem for the authorities, and in particular for Hans-Joachim Giersberg. As director of Potsdam’s parks and museums he is responsible for the Cecilienhof, which is now a hotel.

Bathing in the lake is officially prohibited, as many signs in the park make clear. “This is an intolerable situation. People are trampling upon rose beds and amidst the delicate aquatic plants and grasses, and there are even barbecues at night… These historic grounds are not an amusement park,” said Mr Giersberg.

But he is at a loss as to what he can realistically do. He could call the police, but then you “cannot drive away naked people with baton-wielding officers and dogs… That would create a curious impression.” On the other hand, his staff of 13 could not be expected, he said, to clear the grounds of all the debris and litter.

Brandenburg’s state government has become involved in the controversy. Its minister for culture, Hinrich Enderlein, says that what is needed is education. “We have got to get through to people that these are historic grounds.” His idea is to put up anti-bathing signs with a “convincing message” on the need to preserve the park.

In the end, the authorities are aware, things will improve only if the nudists co-operate. “I have nothing against aesthetically pleasing bodies,” said Mr Giersberg, but it would be a great step forward if people exercised a kind of “self-discipline”.

Angelika Feyer said that a few rubbish bins would improve the situation. She is convinced that nude bathing in the park, which would not have been allowed under communism, will gradually be accepted.

“Why should we not be allowed to bathe in historic grounds? Most other lakes are heavily polluted,” she said.

Anna Tomforde

Paul Wheatley, author of a new history of Munich, picks his favourite things to see and do in the Bavarian capital

Munich’s reputation as the hi-tech and high-art capital of Germany is equalled only by the way it plays up to endless stereotypes (hence Bavaria’s land of “laptops and lederhosen” moniker). It is as conservative as it is progressive, and few cities come near to matching its wealth and lifestyle. After three years researching the Bavarian capital this combination of the old and the new ensures that for me Munich remains a unique pleasure.

1. Favourite square

On one side of St.-Jakobs-Platz is the medieval City Museum, originally the city arsenal. The huge boulders beneath the new synagogue dominate the middle of the area, while further across is the equally modern Jewish museum. Both represent a return to the city centre for the Jewish community, more than 60 years after the end of the Third Reich. This is now such an uplifting space, with its open layout inviting visitors to wander, before stopping for a drink at one of the museum cafes (stadtcafe-muenchen.de; cafe-makom.de).

2. Favourite beer garden

At Wiener Platz, on the east side of the river Isar, there is a plaque commemorating the murder of 12 people during the Bavarian revolution of 1918/1919. Echoes of the city’s history are never more than a street away. Next door, the 1892-built Hofbräukeller is typical of Munich’s ubiquitous, and on the whole superb, beer gardens. The 20-minute bummel from the city centre, including wonderful views of the river Isar and the Friedensengel (Angel of Peace) from the Maximiliansbrücke, is worth the trip alone. The knowledge that what awaits is an extensive beer garden and a cool Weißbier makes the lingering walk on a summer’s day even better.

• Innere Wiener Straße 19, hofbraeukeller.de

3. Favourite museum

I am not stating anything new in noting that the centre point of the Munich museum world is the Kunstareal (art area). But few cities can boast so much art of the highest quality in such a small area. The Alte and Neue Pinakotheks have masterpieces by Dürer, Rubens, Raphael, Cezanne and Van Gogh, to name just a few. The Pinakothek der Moderne – four modern museums in one (art, paper, architecture and design) – is a world-class recent addition, as is Museum Brandhorst, a multi-coloured container-like structure that displays everything post-modern from Andy Warhol to Damien Hirst.

• Five minutes on tram 27 from Karlsplatz to Barer Strasse

4. Favourite Wirtshaus

It would be unwise to expect polite smiles or an exchange of pleasantries in Munich cafes or Wirtshäuser (pub-restaurants). Waiting on tables is something to be taken seriously. Munich pubs are a lot more “hit” than “miss”, providing you don’t turn your nose up at huge quantities of meat or excellent beer. And few would disagree that the Wiener Schnitzel (€21.90) at Spatenhaus an der Oper (opposite the Bavarian State Opera and the Munich Residenz) is worth that few extra euros.

• Residenzstraße 12

5. Favourite festival

Sober, it looks like a collective form of madness. After a beer or two, the Oktoberfest appears to make perfect sense. What started as a royal wedding celebration (2010 is its bicentenary) has become a homage to over-indulgence that’s not easy to resist. Many locals restrict themselves to an obligatory single visit a year, dusting off their lederhosen and dirndl for the occasion. Fabulously, the annual visit by the Bayern Munich football team sees the local heroes attire themselves in the best leather that money can buy. Whisper it, but many Münchners much prefer the altogether more modest annual March Starkbierfest festival (strong beer festival).

• 18 September-4 October, but book early. U2 train to Theresienwiese, or almost any S-Bahn to Hackerbrücke and follow the crowd; oktoberfest.de

6. Favourite shop

With the most expensive retail space in Germany located on Munich’s Kaufingerstraße, shopping for anything in Munich is not cheap. If books are your passion, there are a diminishing number of good English bookshops in the city. Words’ Worth is a delight. This independent shop has a wide selection of English-language newspapers, the newest book titles and offers me a necessary dose of history, politics and fiction.

• U-Bahn 3 or 6 from Marienplatz to Universität station means you’ll be in the bookshop (Schellingstraße 3) within 10 minutes; wordsworth.de

7. Favourite day trip

Looking at photos of Königsee, near Berchtesgaden, a huge expanse of glistening blue water in a spectacular mountain setting, it can be tempting to think that it could not really be that idyllic. It is. From there to Austria is a few hours by foot, and from atop the Alps, Salzburg seems to be within touching distance. Hitler’s Kehlsteinhaus (Eagle’s Nest) adds a poignant element to the trip, even for those tired of the British obsession with Nazi history.

• Trains from Munich take less than three hours to Berchtesgaden; bahn.de

8. Favourite cafe

Few people are aware that Munich is Europe’s largest publishing city. Exhibitions at Literaturhaus (literature house) are hardly ever a letdown. The perfect accompaniment is a visit to the adjoining Oskar Maria brasserie (named after 20th-century Munich, later New York, writer Oskar Maria Graf). For some, it provides a stimulating location for a post-exhibition discussion. I prefer to quietly get to work on the chef’s delicious risotto (reasonably priced at €8.80), followed by the wonderful sorbet (€6.50).

• Salvatorplatz 1

9. Favourite building

Two buildings exemplify Munich’s period (roughly mid-1800s to 1914) as a great Kunststadt (city of art). One is Lenbachhaus, former villa of great German portraitist Franz von Lenbach, and now a gallery space for the Blue Rider group. The other is the Müller´sches Volksbad, the “jewel of Jugendstil” swimming baths on the banks of the river Isar. Worried about changing in the vicinity of the opposite sex? Get over it, unless you want to miss the exuberant Jugendstil interior.

• Rosenheimer Straße 1    

10. Favourite Münchner

Larger than anything similar in London or New York, the English Garden begins a stone’s throw from the city centre and covers around 4 sq km. It is undoubtedly the favourite open space of most Münchners, not least because of its many beer gardens, the best being the Seehaus, on the edge of the Kleinhesselohe boating lake. That this oasis is bang in the centre of Germany’s third largest city is in no small part due the eccentric 18th-century Sir Benjamin Thompson (Count Rumford), a British citizen born in pre-revolution America, serial womaniser and one of Britain’s greatest scientists. For the English Garden alone, Rumford’s title of Bavarian count (to add to his knighthood from Britain) was worthy reward.

• Paul Wheatley is a journalist based in Munich and the author of a new history of the city, Munich: From Monks to Modernity

Getting there

Rail Europe (0844 848 4070) has fares from London to Munich from £161 return including travel on the overnight service from Paris. LateRooms.com have rooms in Munich from £48.21 pn.

Berlin may be Germany’s famous party city, but Hamburg’s hip beach bars and sea breeze make it the best option for summer

‘Berlin is poor but sexy,” city mayor Klaus Wowereit famously said in 2003. No one could describe Hamburg as poor, but from my seat in the Strandpauli beach bar , Germany’s second city looks pretty hot nevertheless – and not in the sense of an airless summer in the capital.

There’s salsa on the stereo and bratwurst on the barbie. Hipsters in Aviator shades chat in a palm-thatched bar and lounge on driftwood daybeds beneath kitsch oversized lampshades. It’s like Robinson Crusoe gone retro.

Strandpauli is one of seven outdoor beach clubs that make Hamburg the coolest summer city in Germany. While landlocked Berlin swelters, the other German metropolis is all balmy North Sea breezes and barefoot boozing in beach clubs, a seaside slant on the traditional biergarten that only open in warmer months; year-round Strandpauli is an exception. Sure, Berlin has similar bars. But only here can you scrunch sand between your toes as ships chug into one of the biggest harbours in the world.

Locals have holidayed on the strands of the mighty Elbe river for more than a century, and beach bars there remain the first choice for many – places such as Strandperle in the chichi western suburb of Övelgönne, a glorified shack on silky sands for a moneyed set. Now, with the rediscovery of the harbour as Hamburg has blossomed into a style city, the beach club scene has moved uptown to St Pauli in the notorious Reeperbahn district, where you party against a backdrop of docks that are 20 times larger than Monaco.

Hangouts such as Central Park are a real find in this nightlife playground. Half beach-culture, half street-culture, it is an oasis of coastal vibes among grimy streets, with deckchairs scattered over imported sands and massages to go with your mojito.

On my sun-drenched afternoon at Strandpauli, I’m among young families and locals taking a breather between shops. As a sultry dusk settles over the city, the crowd gets dressier, the music clubbier. For a change of scene, I head upriver to slicker Hamburg del Mar and order a sundowner to suit the chilled house grooves and lights shimmering on the docks across the river. Like every other beach club in Hamburg, entry is free.

If most foreign visitors are ignorant of the beach club scene, the Reeperbahn is to blame. Its red-light district means that, for many Britons, St Pauli is synonymous with strippers and stag parties. It was to counter such misconceptions that Henning Bunte founded homestay agency St Pauli Tourist Office. I’m staying with Barbara and her DJ boyfriend for less than the price of a round of drinks. In central Hamburg, they’re making architectural statements such as Herzog & de Meuron’s futuristic Elbephilharmonie concert hall as part of a €5bn docklands redevelopment scheme. The well-heeled suburbs contain more millionaires than anywhere else in Germany.

But a couple of stops from the centre on the U-Bahn lies this grungy former dockers’ neighbourhood. The district’s post-punk creativity is realised in cool beach clubs and also a grungy alternative scene. On Barbara’s advice I visited the streets of the Karoviertel in the area of north St Pauli in the afternoon. Hipsters mixed with Hausfrauen in a superb fleamarket on Hanseplatte, and the in-Kraut browsed for vintage Adidas along Marktstrasse.

The Karoviertel and adjacent Schanze are also hubs of nightlife, so I return to check out Rote Flora . A former theatre saved by radicals who opposed plans for a commercial venue, it is now a nightclub.

Almost vanished beneath political banners and graffiti, it certainly looks the part, even down to giant bolt-cutters that hang above the dancefloor. But there is a limit to keeping it real and mine is a DJ who plays “Apocalyptic Harsh Free Noise”, according to the poster. I take Barbara’s advice again and find myself in a glorified scout hut. Grüner Jäger was a forester’s house before it was swallowed by the city. Now it’s a cosy club – a little kitsch, a little trashy; all disco balls and antler chandeliers. Cheers greet the electro-disco of Funky Town and the DJ beams.

Perhaps due to the DIY credo of its anarcho-punk past, St Pauli excels at such reinvention. For years, the authorities tried to tear down a hulking concrete war bunker by Feldstrasse U-Bahn. When they gave up, the nightclub Uebel und Gefährlich moved in. Bearded indie types nod to block-rockin’ beats and this may have something to do with beer at €3 a bottle – every concrete blast-door I peer around reveals another room fizzing with a friendly party vibe.

I’m flagging as 5am approaches but am determined to make it to Golden Pudel Club. A dilapidated shack by the port, “Pudel” is part bohemian café, part community centre, part club where musically (and probably socially) anything goes – from German anvil techno to Jamaican dancehall.

And being a St Pauli institution, Pudel is less a club than a legal squat party. The lighting rig would embarrass a pub DJ, the bar is a fridge and a cashbox. “Anything can happen at any time for no reason”, someone has scrawled on the wall, and it feels like it might. Dawn has long since passed, but graffiti artist Rebelzer won’t hear of my calling it quits. The Fischmarkt is open – a couple of fish rolls is all I need to continue, he says. Hafenklang club is still going 10 minutes walk away, Silber is about to start. Strandpauli will reopen in a few hours, too. Somewhere beyond the port a dance beat begins to throb.

• Flights from Stansted to Hamburg with easyJet cost from £25 one way. St Pauli Tourist Office (+49 40 9823 4483) books rooms, apartments and houses in St Pauli from €30 a night. Its themed tours cost from €15 per person. All beach clubs are open May to September from noon to midnight, except Strandpauli, which opens year-round.

Glasgow airport has revealed that as of August, it will begin providing an additional route to Germany. Previously expressing an urgent need to improve its links to international locations, Glasgow's newest service will operate via Southampton to Germany's Frankfurt International airport.

Starting from the 1st August, the new route via Southampton will provide services to business travellers and holiday goers alike with up to six flights operating on the route per week. While direct flights from Scotland to Frankfurt (a popular destination for foreign business) only operate from Edinburgh with two services a day offered by Lufthansa, the new indirect route will likely prove extremely beneficial for those that live close to Glasgow wanting simple access to Frankfurt. Under low cost airline Flybe the service will provide a far cheaper option for travellers, an advantage which chief commercial officer Mike Rutter hopes will compensate for the extra two-hour journey time when compared to Edinburgh's direct flight. "We recognise the importance of providing a wide range of convenient and cost effective travel especially to key European hubs such as Frankfurt," Mr Rutter said, adding that whilst their service took longer, flight costs were overly cheaper.

The news comes after recent opinions of Glasgow airport highlighted the need for the area to become more of an important international hub. In addition to significant funding scheme to be used for the purpose of attracting international airlines the airport is also currently undergoing major improvement work.

Cheap Flights and Travel News – © 2010 – Just The Flight

London to Istanbul by train: In the first part of Benji Lanyado’s big train adventure, he takes in lunch in Paris, meets his new cabin mates en route to Germany and has an urban adventure in Munich

Seven writers recount the adventures – and mishaps – of their first holiday without mum and dad

Hilary Bradt: Staying with a German pen pal

When I was 15 I went to stay with my pen friend in north Germany. It was my first trip abroad and the first without my parents and I hated every minute of it. From the moment we met, Christina and I disliked each other and, in hindsight, I can only feel sorry for this normal teenager who liked boys and pop music. I only liked horses and was shamefully retarded on the emotional front.

It’s hard to pick out the low point from a trough of tearful gloom but it was probably when I was alone in the house and there was a persistent ringing at the bell which I ignored. Then, to my alarm, I could see the visitor walking around the house looking through the windows. I hid under the dining room table. That afternoon Dr Schmidt, Christina’s very frightening mother, came home from work and told me she’d left her key behind and had needed to pick up some papers from the house. “But you didn’t hear me,” she said. “Oh, I must have been in my room. Sorry!” I said, blushing crimson, with the awful knowledge that she’d seen me.
Hilary Bradt is the co-founder of Bradt Travel Guides

Josh Howie: Sambucas in Mallorca

Deia, Mallorcan mountain village retreat of the rich and famous and hippy and poor, beckoned to this post-GSCE 16-year-old and his best friend. On our first night out, eager to ingratiate ourselves with the glamorous offspring of the beautiful people, we aped their consumption of something called a “sambuca shot”. Sambuca is to tequila what Thatcher is to Cameron, and sizewise it was less a shot and more a cannonball. All was going to plan though, with snogging possibilities kindled.

With my friend having turned possibility into reality, I found myself at about two o’clock in the morning chatting alone with a backpacking hippy in his late-30s. Suddenly I became overwhelmed with the need to retreat home, a 20-minute walk outside the village. I mumbled excuses and lurched away down the main road. As the village ended, I got the idea that the hippy might be following me. I deduced that he was going to attack me and started to panic. Loss of motor control meant every urgent step took me closer to the ground, until I was literally crawling on the road. He must be getting closer. I had a plan. I’d roll into the ditch and he’d walk past.

I woke to sharp rays of sun and various insects making friends with my face. At the exact moment I rose from the dirt like a hungover Lazarus, two beautiful girls that I’d met the night before came around the corner on their moped. They stopped to check if I was OK and rode on. The rest of that summer I was known as “the ditch boy”.
See comedian Josh Howie perform Gran Slam at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe at the Pleasance courtyard – The Hut, 4–29 August. For tickets see edfringe.com

Sam Wollaston: Hitchiking to the Lakes

I come from a strange family whose approach to parenting was that we should learn to fend for ourselves from an early age. That included holidays. I remember my poor brother being sent off to canoe down the entire length of the Thames with a cousin, when they were both just 12 years old. They had a miserable time, were almost murdered by some hooligans from Maidenhead, and neither has ever really recovered from the experience.

I was allowed to wait until I was 15 for my first adventure. What are your plans for half term, I was asked. Dunno, I’ll probably sit around watching TV and picking my spots, I said. Oh no you’re not, you’re going to hitchhike to the Lake District with a tent, you’re going to camp, up in the mountains, for a week; and then – if you’re still alive – you’re going to hitchhike back again.

The only consolation was that I too was allowed to take a cousin with me. And that’s what we did. We hitchhiked the length of England, we camped (by Stony Tarn, I remember it well), we got cold and wet and scared, and couldn’t afford to buy enough food. But, against the odds, we survived.

I don’t recommend it at all. If your parents try it, make sure you steal some money from them and at least stay in a Travelodge.
Sam Wollaston is the Guardian’s TV critic

Tanya Gold: Stoned (and grounded) in Amsterdam

My first holiday abroad without adults was with my boyfriend Matthew in 1990. We were suburban teenagers who were developing a love of hash. So of course we went to Amsterdam.

When we arrived we jumped straight into a hash cafe. Look – menus! Of different kinds of hash! Three hours later we fell into the street, which now seemed to be upside down.

And we set off for our lodgings, which were, catastrophically, at a friend of my mother’s, whom I had known since babyhood.

Aunty Michelle opened the door with her arms outstretched. Big hair. Big smile. Love. “Hello!” she shrieked, “How are you?” We both giggled at the big-haired apparition until tears leaked onto our shoes. Matthew fell over and slid down the wall.

We were put to bed. I could hear Aunty Michelle on the telephone to my mother through the wall. “Yes, they’re here. I think they are stoned. Tanya’s boyfriend fell over and slid down the wall.”

We were allowed out the next day, but we went back to the hash cafe. Look – menus! Of different kinds of hash! Outside, everyone seemed so busy. Matthew kept pulling me out of the way of trams and bicycles. We tried to go to museums, but it is hard to sightsee when the floor is on the ceiling. When I got home, I was grounded indefinitely.
Tanya Gold is a writer for the Guardian

Emma Kennedy: Campsite japes

My mother, arms folded, had finally agreed to let me go to Cornwall after protracted negotiations during which she warned me that “getting pregnant six months before your A-levels would be really stupid”. When I pointed out that I was going away with my best friend (a girl) who couldn’t make me pregnant, she relented. But only just. We had taken the train and arrived in Truro only to realise that neither of us was able to take any money out. We had £20 to last four days. Getting our priorities right, we bought three two-litre bottles of cider and concluded we could live on that and possibly chips.

We had arrived quite late at night and simply wandered onto the first campsite we could find. Except it wasn’t a campsite, it was a caravan park from which we were turfed off the following morning. We ended up pitching the tent behind some bins in a field. We lived like tramps for the next three days. It wasn’t quite the bucolic idyll we’d been hoping for. Still, at least I didn’t get pregnant.

In fact, though, my first holiday without my parents was a school trip when I was seven to Cuffley Camp Outdoor Centre, near Potters Bar. I was stuck in a tent with four other girls, one of whom wet herself with anxiety within the first 10 minutes. I was unable to open my suitcase and decided that, rather than ask for help, I would just spend the week in the clothes I was standing in.

With no adults around, the four of us entered into a lengthy discussion about the proper meanings of swear words during which our leader, Jane, proudly announced that a “fuck means doing a poo”. We believed her. Later that night, Jane grabbed me and told me to drag a lad called James up to the dreaded Night Toilet. She wanted to lock him in it. Seeing us slope off, a suspicious teacher stopped us and asked what we were doing. I looked up, panicked and said the first thing that came into my head, “We’re going to the toilet for a fuck, Miss.”
Emma Kennedy is the author of The Tent, The Bucket and Me (Ebury Press, £10.99)

Terry Alderton: The boys in Ibiza

It was 1989, Marrs’ Pump up the Volume had changed music and acid house had kicked in. The Essex boys were 17 and on their way to the coolest place in the world, Cafe Del Mar, Ibiza. My friends had booked the holiday weeks before but I was under the thumb or, as my friends would have it, “a love wank”. A label that I could never get my head around, but strangely understood its connotations. At 11am on the actual day of the trip I gave in and went down to the travel agent (pre-internet days, you understand) and booked my summer of love.

At the hotel I was sharing with Jeff, the kind of fella that would go out with a fiver in his pocket, get pissed, buy no one a drink, and come back with a tenner. First day in the sun I lay on the beach, surrounded by half-naked girls, believing that we were “the nuts”. I drifted off. My friends, knowing I was quite obviously burning, thought it funny to let me sleep. I awoke feeling a little sore. The moment my so-called mates fell about laughing is when I removed the round mirrored sunglasses I had been wearing as they had left two clear white rings around my eyes!

That night I went out in jeans and waistcoat to Pacha and, of course, had to keep wearing the same sunglasses. We went onto Space at 9am to continue the party. At noon I’d had enough and was sober enough to feel my sunburn again. But rather than wait 20 minutes for the next bus from Ibiza Town, I thought, sod that, and walked 17km along busy highways being tooted. When I finally arrived back at the hotel, all my friends were already there, sitting around the pool, even though I had left Space well before them.
See comedian Terry Alderton at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe at the The Pleasance – Ace Dome from 4–29 August

Kevin Rushby: Walking the South West Coast Path

At 16 I hitched down to Cornwall with a friend and walked the path. I’m surprised that no one asked if we were runaways since neither of us looked more than 12. One night we slept rough in Plymouth, but apart from that it was straightforward camping and walking. The weather was superb, the sea aquamarine. We had almost no money and lived on sandwiches and tea. In fact, one of the first things I learned was that a fire and a mug of tea can make the world seem right. Second thing: the amount of money spent does not alter the amount of fun to be had.

What really counted was talking to people. I had to do lots of chatting, negotiating, entertaining, discussing and questioning. Travelling forced me to engage with strangers in a way that I had never done before, and I learnt to be far more self-reliant. Strangers, I discovered, could be very helpful and endlessly fascinating. They could also be dangerous, boring and stupid, or any combination of those three – it was up to me to evaluate and decide. I wrote it all down, which was a very good idea, but subsequently lost the notebook – which was not so clever. My advice is simple: avoid travel agents, tour groups and rabid animals, embrace the unexpected and enjoy the unplanned.
Kevin Rushby is a writer for the Guardian’s Travel section

Marcus Sedgewick: Camping in the Ardennes

Having an older brother that I was really close to meant we could drive somewhere when I was about 16. We took a cross-channel ferry and went camping in the Ardennes: a beautiful wooded part of Europe. We cooked badly, but it was then I that realised everything tastes wonderful under canvas, thanks to the fresh air … and starvation. We walked a bit, but what we mainly did was drive around in circles playing music loudly. We didn’t even mind that we were in deeply unexciting Belgium.

Marcus Sedgewick was a judge on last year’s Booktrust Teenage Prize, and a past winner with his teen vampire novel My Swordhand is Singing. His latest book Revolver is out now