Early the next morning the Turners were on the road again, heading eastwards out of Bruges.

"After I was stationed in Belgium I was moved to the Alpine border between Austria and Italy," Patrick said as they sped along the main road, "but to get there we need to go through a country that was the one place on earth that I didn't want to be last time I was in Europe. But now, I think I want to see it." He paused and took a deep breath. "We are heading to West Germany."

Although he had always planned on including a visit to West Germany on the trip, now that he was actually heading towards the country's border, Patrick began to feel a little apprehensive. Although only a young child during the Great War, he remembered family friends, or their sons, suddenly not being there anymore. Since the Menin Gate ceremony, he had been trying to remember something else about his Uncle James, and had recalled him buying him a cricket bat for his ninth birthday, and challenging him to a game in the summer next time he visited. The game never happened. His adult life had been plagued by the effects of fighting against Germany in the war after that.

"Things must have changed, surely?" he thought as he drove along, "we're not enemies anymore."

They reached the West German border, their travel documents were checked and their passports stamped and returned.

"Wilkommen im Bundesrepublik Deutschland," the border guard said.

"Viele danke," Patrick replied.

As he drove off, he breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm here," he thought, "and I'm allowed to be here."

The afternoon was wearing on, so they found a campsite at the edge of a small village a few miles west of Aachen, pitched the tent and had supper sat on the tartan blanket. That night, despite having driven all day, Patrick was wide awake. The children had been asleep for several hours, and Shelagh had also made her way into the tent after he promised he would be there in five minutes. Looking at his watch in the glow of the fire, he realised half an hour had passed since she had gone inside. He lit a Henley and looked around him.

"I'm in Germany," he whispered to himself.

At that moment Shelagh stuck her head out of the tent. Seeing Patrick smoking and staring into space, she knew that something was troubling him. She slipped out of the tent in her nightdress and sat at Patrick's side.

"You're not sure about this are you?" she inquired, "About being here. You're thinking you've ended up behind enemy lines."

Patrick flinched at Shelagh's choice of words and shuffled away slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said, wrapping both her arms around his forearm, "bad choice of phrase."

"No," Patrick said, "word-perfect phrasing, I'm just not as honest with myself as you are."

Shelagh leant against him, her arm found its way around his waist. "We are not at war anymore. Nobody is going to hurt us, and it's safe for us to be here. We are going to see West Germany in its current beauty, not its violent past. Thinking as you are at the moment will not help; it will just make things worse."

Patrick sighed and gently kissed Shelagh's golden hair. "You're right," he said, "as always." He paused. "It just doesn't quite feel right being here, yet."

"Then we'll have to stay long enough so that it does," Shelagh replied, "there must be many beautiful things in a country so big: cities; forests; lakes; mountains. Let's see them all!"

Patrick grinned. "For someone who used to struggle so much with London buses you've become quite the adventurer," he teased, "owwww, that hurt," he squeaked as Shelagh poked him in the stomach.

"Well, perhaps I was not as bold then as I am now," she paused, "or now I have a strong and courageous man beside me I know nothing will harm me."

Patrick was glad that it was dark and that Shelagh could not see the crimson hue of his cheeks.

"Now," she continued, "even adventurers need their warm beds and sleep, especially ones which have been driving all day and ones who have gone cold sitting in a field in just her nightdress." She got to her feet, and pulled Patrick to his. "Tomorrow," she finished "we're going to see West Germany."

The Turners continued to travel eastwards and by the next afternoon, they had arrived in the centre of Cologne. Patrick had found them rooms in a pretty guest house in the Altstadt. It was several storeys high, so slender it looked like it had been stretched and its outer walls were painted Habsburg yellow. Their room's sash windows looked out over the Rhine. The river sparkled in the sunshine, the light almost dancing across the wide expanse of water. Patrick threw the window open and leaned out of it. A gentle breeze ruffled his floppy hair, and as he brushed a few stray strands out of his eyes, he regretted not getting it cut before they left. The sun was just still high enough in the sky for its rays to touch the east side of the building and he smiled as he felt its gentle warmth on his cheeks. Shelagh joined him at the window. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She had unpinned her hair, its fine curls rolling in the breeze like the gentle waves on the mighty river in front of them.

"It's beautiful here," he murmured.

Shelagh said nothing, but smiled and placed her hand onto his, which was resting on the outer windowsill.

After dinner that night Patrick asked one of the guest house staff whether they would mind keeping an eye on the children while he and Shelagh went out. Shelagh had taken a lot of convincing to leave them but he talked her round.

"It won't be for long," he said reassuringly.

They walked along the Rhine hand in hand, and then turned off the riverside path and walked up a narrow street which led deeper into the Altstadt. They found themselves on a street lined with bars. It was brightly lit, full of people, and music was resonating around the tall buildings

"Let's have a beer!" Patrick said, grinning at the scene.

"Beer?" Shelagh replied, "I, I can't drink beer, I'm a…"

"A girl?" Patrick teased, "That's no excuse, not here anyway, everyone drinks beer, look."

Shelagh looked to where he was pointing, all around them men and women were sat with glasses of beer in front of them. She looked back round to where Patrick had been, saw he was not there, and spun round just in time to see him disappear into the bar. She sat at the nearest free table and waited for him. He came out moments later with the largest, and smallest, beer glasses she had ever seen.

"This one is for you," he grinned, holding up the large Stein full of dark liquid, "only joking," he finished when he saw the look of horror on her face, and handed her the tiny Stange in his other hand. They clicked their glasses together.

"Prost, as they say in German."

"Prost" Shelagh replied.

Patrick took a hefty swig of his beer, his eyes lighting up as the liquid poured down his throat. He let out a contented sigh. Shelagh watched him, and then took a dainty sip from hers. She was pleasantly surprised by the taste which was neither as bitter, nor as strong, as she had imagined.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Kölsch," Patrick replied, "By law it can only be brewed in Cologne, do you like it?"

Shelagh grinned "I must admit I am rather enjoying it, can I try some of yours?" she finished shyly.

Patrick stared at his wife for a few seconds, before handing her his beer and watched her intently as she drank. His Dunkel was much stronger than her lighter Kölsch, and Patrick could tell from the look on Shelagh's face that she did not like it. He laughed at the expression she pulled.

"I'll stick to mine I think" she said, returning his glass.

They had another beer each, then walked back to the guest house, and found that both children were contently asleep.

"I think we might have to have more nights out together, just you and me, Mrs Turner," Patrick said wrapping his arms under hers and round her middle.

"That sounds really quite tremendous."

The next day was spent exploring Cologne. They visited St Peter's Cathedral, and climbed all the way to the top of the tower. As the climb was his idea, Patrick had offered to carry the baby, but half way up, he was beginning to regret the suggestion. Whilst Shelagh and Timothy, being much younger and fitter than him, had scampered up the spiral stairs, he had struggled to keep up and had to stop for several rests. When he finally made it, the views from the top were worth every breathless step. The city stretched out as far he could see, the Rhine gliding gently through it, Cologne's grey boundary defining the blue horizon, where earth met the heavens.

Having made the long, but decidedly easier climb back down the tower they bought Bratwürste and chips from a street vendor across the square from the Cathedral and sat eating them at plastic tables next to the stall.

"What's sow-ur-kr-out?" Timothy asked, scanning the chalk board by the stall.

"Sauerkraut is pickled cabbage" Patrick answered. He saw Timothy's face curl in disgust, "it's quite nice actually do you want to try some?" he grinned.

"Err, no!"

After finding an ice cream for pudding, they wandered back towards the guest house through the streets of the old town. Shelagh had insisted on buying Patrick some eau de Cologne. "Well, since we are here," she'd reasoned, "and, I like it."

They spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in the sunshine on the banks of the Rhine. The baby was asleep and Shelagh lay on her stomach reading a book. Patrick had been sat watching the boats gliding up and down the river, and Timothy had been watching his father intently. He had wanted to ask his father something ever since they crossed the border, and he could no longer contain his curiosity.

"Dad"

"Yes Tim."

"Ever since we arrived here everyone has been so friendly to us, all the people in the shops, the staff at the guest house, even the man at the border. If the German's are so nice, why did we go to war against them?"

Patrick's eyes widened, breath caught in his throat. Timothy read his father's reaction instantly.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"It's alright Tim." He composed himself.

"We didn't go to war with Germany because the Germans were an evil people, we went to war because of the evil of one man, and his party, and he wasn't even German, he was Austrian."

"You mean," Timothy lowered his voice, "Hitler?"

Patrick nodded.

"So all the war, all the pain that people like you went through, was caused by just a few people in power, the people who were supposed to be in charge?"

"Yes."

Timothy sat thinking for a moment, twirling a few blades of grass between his fingers. He looked back at his father.

"I'm glad we came, otherwise, I would have always thought that the Germans were evil and Germany was a bad place. Now I know not to be um, err, pr, prej…"

"Prejudiced," Patrick finished.

"Yes."

Patrick moved round so that he was lying on his stomach in front of Timothy.

"I'm so glad Tim," he paused "and I am glad that we came too, because I needed to learn similar lessons."

"And have you?"

"I think I am getting there, son," Patrick said, rolling onto his back and staring into the sky, "I'm getting there."