We were supposed to camp for the few days, but it was raining on our arrival in Munich and, well, it was just the excuse we needed to upgrade to a backpackers, albeit at a vastly inflated price.
So after throwing off the shackles of our burgeoning backpacks we hotfooted it down the the festival, and my god, what a festival it was. Within 30 seconds of walking in the gates, we ran into my old housemate from the 'Rat, Ria Coffee, who was there with a tour group. Pretty amazing coincidence, so to celebrate we all enjoyed a few steins, heartily delivered by a buxom beer wench. I also ran into an old school mate, James Coatsworth, had a beer with him. Good times.
We were joined at the festival by a likely crowd of travellers, in Emily and Hagen and Ray and Kerry, which made the beer swilling all the more enjoyable. The food was extraordinary too, with pig on the bone, roast chicken better than any I've ever tasted and, wait for it, radishes- by the bunch. I must say that Europeans seem to care little for the smell of theirs or their countrymen's breath, but hell, for three days neither did I.
So these shenanigans rolled on, before it was time to drag our hungover corpses to the train station for a 14 hour ride to Copenhagen. With dread in our hearts at the prospect of sitting amongst 50 odd other hungover, bad-breathed former Oktoberfesters, we found our seats (we were too tight to pay for a private double berth). Anyway, we find ourselves sitting in a six berth cabing, and nobody else got on for the whole time. So we took the chance to catch up on some Zs, finish my book on the Irish revolution, and relax before we returned to Jess' teen host town in Denmark.
