Our village hangout in the summer is only open on Sundays. It is a collection of huts with a small menu, a playground, some picnic tables, and some bathrooms. I'll have to take better pictures of it next time we go. If we are home on Sunday afternoons, then we always go to up to the hut. The walk is somewhat long because we have to walk all the way down our steep hill and then back up the other big hill that I see the horses on out my kitchen window. I can almost see the hut from our windows, but for the trees in the way. So one might think it is a short walk, but it's a decent walk away.
Brian's godson (and the rest of his family) can with us to the hut the day after our Pilgrimage to Otterberg. The girls were not in the mood for more sausage and kraut so they stayed home with a sleeping Bobby. It was a lovely and restful afternoon. We had beers, brats, and frikadelle (a kind of breaded meat patty) and chatted about all sorts of things. I embarrassed myself pretty good when I made an off the cuff comment about how I am a sleep Natzi with babies in an entirely too loud voice. My face proceeded to turn ten shades of red. References to Hitler or Natzis is something us Americans are normally careful to avoid.
|Judah had insisted on wearing a superhero costume to the hut. He came over a few times to take care of the baby in his gentle manner.|