William Cook

Sitting in a gigantic marquee on the green edge of Munich, surrounded by thousands of boozy Germans singing along to a Bavarian oompah band, I wonder how I got talked into coming to another Oktoberfest. Last time I came, ten years ago, I hated it and swore I’d never come again, but this time feels different. Maybe it’s the beer talking, but this year the atmosphere seems less manic, more relaxed. There are lots of couples, old and young, and hardly any stag parties. Amid the endless rows of trestle tables I see numerous families in traditional Bavarian dress (the women so alluring in their dirndls, the men faintly ridiculous in their lederhosen), tucking into huge hearty platters of carnivorous Bavarian grub.

Here’s a question for Spectator football fans: what’s the most memorable match you’ve ever seen? I don’t mean on television. I mean in an actual stadium, the way football should be seen. For me it was in 1996, seeing England play Germany at Wembley, in the semi-finals of the Euros. England were the better team over 90 minutes, and also during extra time, but with the game tied at 1-1 it came down to penalties. The first five players on both sides all scored. Then Andreas Köpke saved from Gareth Southgate (I wonder what became of him?) and Andreas Möller stepped up and scored the winner. England were out. A few days later the Germans returned to Wembley where they beat the Czechs in the final, and English hearts were broken – yet again.

On a wet and windy afternoon at Repton School, technical director of football Luke Webb is putting his first team through their paces. At first glance this training session looks much the same as any other, but I soon start to spot some subtle yet significant differences in his approach. Webb keeps his distance, there’s no shouting from the touchline, yet all his players seem to know exactly what to do. They start off with close passing drills, then move into small-sided games, and finish with an exercise designed to hone the low driven cross – a delivery all defenders dread. Webb teaches players to play with freedom, to be less risk-averse Afterwards, there’s no big team talk. Instead, as the boys pack up the balls and cones, he chats to them one-on-one, quietly.

Each time I return to Hamburg (about once a year, on average) I pay a sentimental visit to my grandmother’s magnificent old house, where she spent her cosseted, idyllic youth, during the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich. It’s a robust Teutonic villa, a bombastic relic of the Gründerzeit – that flamboyant building boom which followed Bismarck’s triumphant unification of Germany. It’s on one of Hamburg’s smarter streets, a leafy avenue called Heimhuderstrasse – but it’s not the ornate architecture that draws me there, or even the snob value of the neighbourhood. What brings me back year after year are the stories that cling to this house like ivy – stories from the life my German grandmother lived before I knew her, before and during the second world war.

On a snowy night in Nuremberg, a city that encapsulates the best and worst of Germany, a huge crowd has gathered in the ancient Marktplatz for the opening of the Christkindlesmarkt, Bavaria’s biggest Christmas market. Cradling mugs of steaming Glühwein, stamping our feet to keep out the cold, we’re all waiting for the Christkind (Christ Child) to appear on the balcony of the Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady), an event that marks the start of Nuremberg’s Advent season. Five hundred years ago, Nuremberg was one of the biggest cities in Central Europe Turns out we have Martin Luther to thank for this quaint Teutonic custom.

In the cavernous basement of Bilker Bunker, a second world war air raid shelter in downtown Düsseldorf, the staff of groovy events guide the Dorf are toasting the magazine’s tenth birthday. During the war, Germans sheltered here from the RAF. Today, their descendants come here to party. With an art gallery up above and DJs down below, this labyrinthine concrete relic is a symbol of Düsseldorf’s transformation – from industrial powerhouse of the Third Reich to Germany’s hippest city. Düsseldorf has always been a wealthy city, the buckle of the German rustbelt The Dorf is the size of a slim paperback. It fits neatly into your coat pocket. It started out online but its success soon spawned a print edition: art, music, fashion and loads of entertainment listings.

From the vertiginous belltower of Leuven’s university library, you get a great view across the mottled rooftops of Belgium’s most underrated city. Leuven isn’t swarming with sightseers, like Bruges. It isn’t choked with commuter traffic, like Brussels. It’s lively and compact, ideal for a weekend away – so why have most British travellers never even heard of it? Search me. I’ve just spent three days here and I had a great time. I can’t wait to go again. One of the best things about Leuven is, it’s so easy to get here: two hours via Eurostar from London St Pancras to Brussels, and then a local train to Leuven from the same station. Trains leave every ten minutes at peak times and take around half an hour.

When was the last time you woke up bright and early on a weekday morning, with no need for an alarm call, rested and impatient for the day ahead? My last time was a week ago, when I awoke in the Pier Hotel in Harwich, eager to walk the first bit of my latest hike, along the Suffolk Coast Path. The Saxons sailed up this river to conquer East Anglia after the fall of the Roman Empire The Suffolk Coast Path runs for 55 miles, from Felixstowe to Lowestoft. Almost the entire route passes through an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. No ugly modern eyesores. Hurrah!

I’m hiking along a footpath through glorious English countryside, across lush green meadows framed by ancient woodland. I’ve hardly seen a soul today, just a few solitary dogwalkers. I’ve been walking all day and my legs are aching, but I can’t recall the last time I felt so contented, so alive. Welcome to the Essex Way, an epic walking trail that runs right across this rugged county, from Epping, on the edge of London, to Harwich, on the North Sea. I first walked the Essex Way, 81 miles from end to end, a few years ago. Like a lot of weekend hikers, I’d done a fair bit of walking in National Parks like the Lake District and the Peak District. What makes the Essex Way so different is that it runs through landscape which most folk dismiss as bland commuter belt.

Standing on the quayside beside the River Rhine, gazing at the happy teenagers swimming in the dark water down below, I wonder where the last forty years have gone. Forty years ago, I was one of those teenage swimmers, swept along by the fierce current through the centre of this ancient city. Now, half a lifetime later, I’m one of the watchers on the shore. No matter. Switzerland’s most stylish city is always full of interest, whether you’re a participant or a spectator, and this week it plays host to the most prestigious art fair in the world. On the face of it, Art Basel sounds like just another boring trade fair – posh art dealers selling pretentious artworks to filthy rich collectors – but there’s more to it than that.