The Danube Pilot

On this day, Saturday, August 5, 1876, a noisy crowd filled the inn under the sign “Fishing Rendezvous.” Songs, the clinking of glasses, applause, and shouts mixed into a terrible din, in which occasionally the cry “Hurrah!” stood out—expressing joy carried to the limit. The inn’s windows faced directly onto the Danube, at the edge of the charming little town of Sigmaringen, the capital of the Prussian Hohenzollern realm, located almost at the source of the great river in Central Europe.

Having read the sign written in beautiful Gothic letters above the entrance door, members of the “Danube League,” an international society of fishermen from different coastal nations, went into the inn. There are no fun gatherings without fine drinking. So there they drank excellent Munich beer and good Hungarian wine in full steins and full glasses. They smoked too—throughout the large hall it was dark with fragrant smoke billowing from tireless long pipes. If the talkers couldn’t see each other, then at least they could hear each other—at least those who weren’t deaf. Calm and quiet while doing their work, the fishermen who use “angling” tackle become the noisiest people in the world when they put away their gear. In tales of great feats, they don’t fall behind hunters—and that’s already saying a lot.

The breakfast was nearing its end—a substantial one that gathered a hundred invited knights around the tables, ardent supporters of water and fanatics of the hook. No doubt their morning exploits had dried their throats, judging by the number of bottles that appeared after dessert. Then came the turn of the many liqueurs with which these men decided to replace coffee.