This morning I woke up and considered my legs, specifically my ankles. My right ankle has a bite on it; one of many I collected on the boat. The left does not. Still, I think I prefer my right ankle, it has that je ne sais quoi that really makes an ankle worth mentioning. Really I don’t think any of my traveling companions has an ankle to compare.

Take Leslie’s ankles. I’ve admired them for a long time, even wrote an ode or two dedicated to their curves and angles. Well, truth to be told, they were more like limericks than odes, but poetry is poetry. Anyway Leslie’s ankles are some of favorite ankles but they are not quite the Ulysses of ankles, not the hero type at all; much more a Diana or Dionysis… Beautiful but lacking the strength and power that makes an ankle great.

They serve as the muse. To be elevated and exalted, to be admired and adored. To serve as a focal point for arts, wisdom, culture and all things of the mind.

And we all know of Carmen’s ankles. Hidden, mysterious, shrouded in legend… yes, legendary is the perfect word. Definitely the Achilles of all ankles. I mean the stories we’ve heard, reaching back into antiquity, the battles fought and won, the scars and war wounds, the triumphs and tales. Carmen’s ankles are Legend.

And not even as a pair: it’s as if each ankle was competing for more glory than the other, twins who are never at peace with their place, always striving to emerge in the higher place. These are warrior ankles through and through.

But as I come back to my own ankles I am forced to admit they will never again inspire an ode; they will never again emerge victorious from battle. Their days of beauty and glory are behind them and the have survived and matured to grow into the statesman, the older, the wiser, the gray-tinged leader of ankles. Jupiter on the left, Zeus on the right, they rule over all other ankles; benign, radiating calm power, feared and admired yet rarely needing to prove their place.

And, as we all know, the Greek pantheon holds precedence over the Roman as the Right ankle holds precedence over the Left. Nominally equal yet never in doubt which ankle rules them all. I have a pretty damned good right ankle

Still and all I generally have the Grace and wit not to live my life enraptured by my own ankles’ glory. So on that humble thought, I think it is time to start my day and leave ankles behind. For now.

Up, a shower and meet Carmen for breakfast. Continental, but I had scrambled eggs (done in butter) and it was nice to have something hot. Leslie had chocolate covered chocolate in a bowl and C opted for salmon over boiled egg.

First up was St Antonius, a church built in the 1450s, bombed in 1944, rebuilt in 1950. A lovely little church with some awesome windows which dated from after the war. They had some before, after the bombing and after the restoration images. It makes you think of the complete tragedy which was seeing the church that has been a huge part of you life being broken and torn. It would almost be better if it was gone rather than violated and reduced. Then again, as far as I can tell, every church older than about 200 years has had that happen to it.

We headed SW towards the river, checked out the Rathaus (town hall) and the Barbara baths. These are 2nd century ruins of roman baths: the fourth largest in the world. They are cordoned off at the moment as we gazed from afar. We hit the river without being killed by traffic and checked out the Roman bridge (a UNESCO World Heritage Site). The pilings also date from the 2nd century, although most of the structure is much later.

Down the path alongside the river. There are more bike bells in Germany than in France so Carmen is happier. We passed a few Tariff buildings. Not sure if there exact purpose but they had giant gerbil treadmills inside that ran twin cranes reaching over the river. Very cool as long as I’m not the guy in the hamster wheel.

We cut back towards town a couple of klicks down the Mosel and admired the ‘very old wall’. That’s all we knew about it. Very old. A wall. We then cut right and checked out Hieronymus Jaegen’s (1841-1919) crypt at St Paulus-Kirche. Most of the church was blocked off though donor was a short visit. Back towards the old district and we popped in next to the Porto Nigra. We stopped for lunch: Leslie actually had a different pizza. And by that I mean different: broccoli and garlic. As a pizza. Blech. I went for a traditional German favorite: the Hawaii while C had her way with a meat-stuffed cannelloni.

Off to Porto Nigra. This old Roman gate dates from the founding of the Roman city as fa back as 16 BC but mostly built in the 2nd Century. It has gone through various rebuildings and integration into Christian edifices of all sorts. Eventually Emperor Napoleon authorizes the discomboobulation of all the church nonsense and the Roman gate was revealed again.

I noted that the Imperial Roman urge to magnificence has completely differently motivation than the Christian motivations of the middle ages. They both taxed the peasants to build, but the Romans did it just because they good, to the everlasting glory of Rome. The church always built for something outside themselves. I have my own opinions which motivation is more ‘noble’.

It’s 9:55 and I’m only at lunch. Not sure I’m going to get today done. Definitely no pictures.

Anyway, we next wandered down to the Trier Cathedral; the seat of secular and religious power for the region. Their most holy relic is a shirt made from whole cloth. I.E. Jesus’ shirt. It’s a magnificent place with roots reaching back to the 4th century. I remember when 1100 was old, two European trips ago.

I shelled out 1.50 euro to see their treasury while L & C skipped it (they had a bad experience at Notre Dame in Paris). About 5 minutes in I excused myself and went and got them. It was the illuminated MS from 1100 that did it. Bishopric rings dating to 900, five different manuscripts from 1100-1200, relics and reliquaries spanning 1000 years. But it was the books that did it. One was open to an illuminated page…

Sigh.

The cloisters were under renovation, so we skipped around but it was coming on 4:30 and we had tickets for Booze School 2: Mosel.

The booze wagon showed up and loaded us for a trip to G.F. Von Nell Weinstube and Weingut. (http://www.vonnell.de). Napoleon sold this land to the von Nell family in 1803: it had been the property of the Cloister St Mattias. Apparently the churches suffered a lot under his rule. Over 80 hectares but only 4 or 5 hectares are on flat land. The rest is steep slopes. They grow 85% Riesling and 5% Pinot Blanc with a smattering of Pinot Noir and some other whites. It’s almost all hand work and a family business. Our bus driver turned out to be owner and patriarch Georg and his wife Evi was hostess later during the tasting.

Georg took us on a tour and we learned some things about local wines Like the leftover skins make schnapps. Abfüllung means dealer wine; not grown or made by a grower. Don’t buy it. With the addition of sulphites, they have Rieslings since stored since 1959. Mosel wine is characteristically yellow with a little green. The more yellow is better quality.

We tried 6 wines including a Rosé made from the Black Riesling grape. Anyway there were only 7 of us on the tour and the another 4 wanted to eat so we stayed. We had a German version of the Tarte flambé and a 2011 Riesling Spätlese. The entire evening was slow and easy and while we drank a lot of wine it digested slowly over the course of the evening.

We bought two bottles for home and Georg drove us straight back to the hotel at 9:30 as the light disappeared. It needs to be said that this was a family business and while it serviced tourists, it was more like visiting someone’s house. A bit of snarking, some eye rolling and casual muttering to themselves, there was nothing polished about the experience. Just friendly, filling and fun.

Back at the hotel we popped two doors down to the Das Weinhaus for a nightcap. I tried a piesporter, Leslie had a Riesling and Carmen chickened out and had a cappuccino.

24 hours ago we woke up in France, visited Luxembourg and slept in Germany. Now I’m a german wine expert and Leslie is ordering my booze like a native. Huh.