World's Most Horrifying Mummies

The Perfect Pint. The aroma, the color, the head it forms when poured just right—it's not just the smoky-sweet taste that makes Harveys Best Bitter some beer lovers' ultimate drink My 10-day trip was a quest to track down the perfect pint. Somewhere in the misty highlands above Lewes, I'd been told, was a farm where a country vicar brews a very good ale. But it had been more than two hours since I'd left the gates of the medieval market town, following a centuries-old chalk footpath. As the trail rose above castle turrets and zigzagged through upland pastures, a thick fog descended, transforming the springtime greens of the Sussex countryside into an eerie—and gorgeous—gray and white. I was on the verge of turning back when a hunting dog lurched out of the fog, followed by a heavyset man. "Haven't heard of the farm or the vicar," the man said, "but this path goes down to Ditchling, where Vera Lynn lives. Remember her? She sang 'We'll Meet Again' and 'White Cliffs of Dover.' Must be in her 90s now, but she's still there tottering on, bless her." For lovers of hiking and history, the South Downs are a wonderland of Iron Age hill forts, castle ruins, and medieval villages whose time—tilted inns have hosted travelers since the Norman invasion. Rising above a busy corner of the world, the Downs offer some of England's most peaceful and appealing geography, a gently rolling countryside of farms punctuated by small woodlands and large herds of sheep. The 100-mile South Downs Way, a footpath and bridleway near Britain's south coast, is the centerpiece of South Downs National Park, the newest link in the U.K. network. There was clearly a part of me that wished I would stumble upon my younger self in England, the more adventurous and impetuous me buried under the swirling dust of my adult life. But I didn't come here for the scenery-or the charmingly quirky locals, for that matter. My 10-day trip was a quest to track down a long-lost love, and I'd hoped that elusive brewmaster of a vicar could show me the way. For a Midwesterner nursed on Anheuser-Busch, that maiden pint of Harveys Sussex Best Bitter was a revelation. I took my first sip of ale at 22, a few weeks after graduating from college and deciding to sell my car and buy a one-way ticket to post-punk London. For a Midwesterner nursed on Anheuser-Busch, that maiden pint of Harveys Sussex Best Bitter was a revelation. Fresh-hopped and smoky sweet, the flavors splashed across my tongue in waves: first the gritty taste of grain, then a blast of clearing hops. Someone had put a whole lot of love into this beer, I thought. From that moment on, I was determined to love it right back. Still, it took me 25 years to make another pilgrimage to Sussex—work, kids, the usual—and by then the trail had gone cold. My journey had been made more difficult thanks to the diminished state of the traditional English pub. According to the British Beer and Pub Association, pubs in the U.K. have been closing at the rate of 28 a week, victims of changing tastes and high beer taxes. Of course, you can still find a pint. With 52,000 pubs, there's one for every 120 or so Brits. But more and more often, you have to brave a "gastropub," the kind of establishment that puts more stock in its pheasant breast and crème brûlée than stocking a decent selection of beer. I started at Lewes's St. Thomas-a-Becket Church—after all, he was the patron saint of brewers. So for my mission, I started at Lewes's St. Thomas-a-Becket Church—after all, he was the patron saint of brewers. Architecturally, well-preserved Lewes is one of England's gems; the town dates back to the 9th century, when it served as a Saxon fort overlooking the river Ouse. Culturally, the town is known for its history of creative defiance. Once infamous for its riotous Bonfire Boys societies, Lewes was also home to the novelist Virginia Woolf and the revolutionary Thomas Paine. Paine's 1776 pamphlet Common Sense was instrumental in convincing American colonists to toss out King George III. But it was a current resident I wanted to visit most: Harveys Brewery. Crossing the iron swing bridge leading out of town over the river Ouse, I paused to watch steam tumbling out of the brewery's vents. For a moment, I considered bowing toward the red-brick building that houses it. "I've actually seen people do it," head brewer Miles Jenner said, greeting me at the loading dock. "As you might imagine, that creates a rather daunting responsibility." Jenner led me into a room stacked high with bags of pale malt and bins of whole-leaf hops. I scooped up handfuls of Fuggles and Goldings hop cones, which coated my hands with an oily aroma that clung to me, like a welcome natural air freshener, all day. I'd begun to realize that my search for the perfect beer represented something bigger than a mere drink. Jenner and I then walked across the cobbled street to the John Harvey Tavern, to sample the product. "Two pints of Best," Jenner told the young barman. As we watched him pump it up from the cellar, I braced for my long-awaited reunion. "Let me give you the second one out," Jenner said, sliding the pint over. "I think it's always just a little better." It was very good—as smooth as I remembered it, with an earthy yeastiness and a fresh bitterness. But it didn't blow me away the way I remembered. Maybe it was the cold I was nursing. Or maybe I'd begun to realize that my search for the perfect beer represented something bigger than a mere drink. There was clearly a part of me that wished I would stumble upon my younger self in England, the more adventurous and impetuous me who was buried under the swirling dust of my adult life. A rather daunting responsibility to ask from a pint of beer indeed. That afternoon, I made my way up to the town's magnificent 11th-century castle, stronghold of the First Earl of Surrey, a brother-in-law of William the Conqueror. I took my time ambling down the narrow backstreets called "twittens," stopping into antiques shops and rare-book dealers tucked into crooked wood-and-stone buildings shaded by sprawling beeches. Then I took off for my odyssey on the South Downs Way. I took off for my odyssey on the South Downs Way. Walking the gently undulating trail was fairly easy, despite the daily downpours. I saw few people (the lousy weather?), but I could feel the weight of history. At Bignor Hill, the trail traces the path of the Roman road from Chichester to London, dating from a.d. 70. Near Ditchling, the trail, cutting deep into the chalk, dates back 6,000 years to the Stone Age. Crossing the Ouse again at Rodmell, I paused at the spot where Woolf drowned herself in 1941 by walking into the river with her pockets full of stones. One day, I found myself hiking in the unbelievably green Cuckmere Valley when I walked past the trail leading to Berwick. Backtracking through the low weald-a term descended from an ancient Saxon word meaning "wild, wooded hills"—I looked up and saw a 226-foot-high figure of a man with a staff in each hand watching over me. Suddenly, I realized that I had passed the Long Man of Wilmington before, on a weekend trip from London 25 years earlier. Stymied by the unexpected flashback, I spotted the Cricketers Arms, a flint stone cottage pub. I approached through a brightly flowered garden and opened the door to a series of rooms thick with conviviality. Sitting next to a crackling fire with a pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord and some chunks of strong Stilton cheese, I began to reconsider the whole notion of a perfect pint. Maybe it wasn't the beer at all. Maybe it had more to do with the drinker's mood or the quality of companionship. Or was it something beyond the reach of language and intellect, such as the atmosphere of the pub itself? As I traveled from village to village, I scribbled geeky "tasting notes" in my notebook. As I traveled from village to village, I scribbled geeky "tasting notes" in my notebook: At the Chequer Pub in Steyning, I had pints of Ringwood's Old Thumper (soft and meaty). At the Bridge Inn in Shoreham, I shook the rain off my jacket and sampled Cottage Western Arches (clean and mellow; a bit light in body and bitterness). I found myself sitting next to a poodle perched on his own bar stool while I discussed the weather with the dog's elderly companion. At Shoreham's Red Lion Inn, I drank Hepworth Iron Horse (tangy and abundantly carbonated) and chatted with the pub's owner, Natalie Parker, about the ghost who is said to haunt the premises. "Sometimes, he'll tap me on the shoulder late at night when I'm sweeping up," she joked, ducking under low, blackened beams laid in the 16th century. "It's more of a nuisance than a fright." As I approached the pretty village of Alfriston, on the banks of the Cuckmere River, the patchwork of farmers' fields and beech woods gave way to bigger, more dramatic landscapes. I climbed along the chalk ridge to Beachy Head, where the trail coasts atop white cliffs that soar more than 500 feet over the surf below. This is one of the most dramatic stretches of coastline in southern England, with top-of-the-world views every bit as striking as those found at Dover, 75 miles to the east. After spending a morning leaning into 50-knot gusts, I practically fell through the thatched roof at the Tiger Inn. In need of a bracing pick-me-up, I asked for the thickest, darkest thing on tap. Publican Charlie Davies-Gilbert, who recently started a brewery in a nearby barn, brought a pint of Parson Darby's Hole, named for a 17th-century minister who set lanterns in the caves along the cliffs to warn sailors about the rocks. "I imagine him sitting in the cave, getting the sailors he'd saved drunk," Davies-Gilbert said. Whether I crossed paths with that perfect pint—and whether it even existed—seemed less important with each day I spent discovering the landscapes and history of the South Downs. I had been roaming in the South Downs for nearly a week, and I'd put away a lot of very good beer. But the notion that I might find a mainline to my memories in a foamy glass was beginning to seem unlikely. Then again, it occurred to me that the act of looking might be at least as worthwhile, perhaps more so, than the payoff itself. Whether I crossed paths with that perfect pint—and whether it even existed—seemed less important with each day I spent discovering the landscapes and history of the South Downs. I had mostly given up when I detoured off the trail to the village of Salehurst to meet hop farmer Andrew Hoad, who cultivates the flowers that bitter Harveys beers. As we headed toward his fields, passing his distinctive witch's-hat oast house where the hops are dried, Hoad told me that he almost retired after a devastating wilt destroyed his crop two years in a row. We walked out between hedges, where rows of chin-high plants were twisting around vertical lengths of twine, climbing toward wires strung overhead. "Just about everything in hops has its own terminology," Hoad said. "They're bines, not vines. They're grown in gardens, not fields. The blooming part is called a cone, not a flower." Could it be—the perfect pint? By the time we arrived back at Hoad's house, built in 1340, the sky was clearing. It was the first trace of blue I'd seen in days. Together, we walked down the hill to his local pub, the Salehurst Halt. With the weather clearing, at least half the village had converged at the Halt. The crowd was in high spirits, talking and relaxing at the picnic tables in the garden and under bouquets of hop flowers hanging from the beams. Hoad made his way through the throng and came back with a round of Harveys Best Bitter, the same almost-but-not-quite-perfect beer I'd had at the beginning of the trip. We raised our glasses to the evening, and as I took my first sip, drawing the ale in through a lace of closely packed bubbles, I felt a shudder. It was exactly as I remembered it 25 years ago: smooth and grainy, with a breaking wave of hops so fresh that the beer might have been drawn through Hoad's hop garden. Could it be—the perfect pint? Perhaps. Or maybe I'd finally come to the place in my journey where I could savor the moment—the people, the pub, the buoyant atmosphere—along with the beer.   SEE MORE POPULAR CONTENT: Top Budget Destinations for 2012 12 Best Places You've Never Heard Of World's Most Amazing Hotel Pools America's Best Food Regions 10 Natural Wonders to See Before They Disappear

THE CHARGE: PREMIUM STATION FEE The Lowdown: A tax on cars picked up at an airport or a major train station. The Damage: It could range from 15 percent (Italy) to 20 percent (Germany, Austria, Switzerland), or else it's a flat fee, such as in the U.K. (about $30), Spain (about $57), and France (about $56). The Fix: After your flight or train arrives, hop a taxi to an off-airport rental-car location (sometimes as close as five miles away). Note: The fee only applies to the pickup; you can return your car at the airport or train station without charge. THE CHARGE: BORDER CROSSING The Lowdown: One-way rentals within any given Western European country are generally free, such as if you picked up a car in Rome and dropped it off in Florence. But drop the car off in another country, and you'll be hit with this penalty. The Damage: From $70 to $4,000, depending on how far from home the car is returned. The Fix: Comparison shopping is a must; fees vary by company and country. THE CHARGE: ROAD TAX, OR VEHICLE LICENSING FEE (VLF) The Lowdown: Most European car companies sneakily pass along the cost of necessary vehicle permits and licenses as a "tax" or fee. The Damage: As much as $5 per day. The Fix: You won't be able to avoid paying it, but if you book through a European agency, such as Auto Europe (autoeurope.com), Gemüt (gemut.com), or Europe by Car (ebctravel.com), you'll be quoted all taxes and fees along with the rate, so you won't get a misleadingly low-priced number.   THE CHARGE: LATE RETURN The Lowdown: The traditional hour-long grace period is disappearing. If you're more than 29 minutes late returning a car in many Western European locations, you'll be charged for a full day extra. The Damage: Cost of one day's rental. The Fix: Return the car before the time stamped on your contract. Period.   THE CHARGE: WINTER TIRES The Lowdown: Driving somewhere with icy roads, such as a mountain resort? You'll need winter tires, which you should request in advance. The Damage: From about $3.50 per day in Austria to about $21 per day in Germany; maximum charge is about $170. The Fix: The fee is mandatory in some countries (such as Germany) in cold weather, so your only option is to see if the total cost of the rental—including the fee—is still worth it. You might do better taking another method of transportation.   THE CHARGE: UNFILLED TANK The Lowdown: If you said you would fill up the tank yourself before you returned your car but then forgot to do it, you may be socked with an additional fee on top of the inflated per-liter rate that the car company will charge. In the U.S., you'd only be hit with the extortionate cost of the gas. The Damage: In France, for instance, Avis charges about $12 as a penalty. The Fix: Not much to it. Fill 'er up before you drop your car off (and keep your receipt as proof that you did).

4 Most Commonly Asked Camping Questions Q: I'm not necessarily a camping person, so I need some convincing.A: Look at it as the ultimate way to take a break from civilization and focus on simpler pleasures—marshmallows melted to smoky perfection, air fresher than you thought possible, laughing with the people around you. Besides, more and more, camping doesn't mean roughing it. Yes, there are still plenty of primitive sites in parks and forest areas—no toilets, provisions, or rangers for miles—and they're cheap (often $20 or less per night). But today's typical private campground, where tent sites fall in the $25 to $40 range, has a pool, a kids' play area, bike rentals, ice-cream socials, outdoor movie nights, and a supply store. Along with tent and RV sites, there may be cottages, yurts, or simple cabins equipped with cots and, most important, roofs that don't leak. In fact, the fastest-growing style of lodging at the KOA chain, which has 475 campgrounds across North America, is the Kamping Lodge, a rectangular home away from home with a kitchen, running water, and air-conditioning that sleeps up to six (koa.com, from $85 a night). Everybody seems to want in on the back-to-nature concept—even the rich folks. The Resort at Paws Up in Montana, for instance, charges upward of $820 a night for canvas tents with king-size beds, terry-cloth robes, a private bathroom with heated floors, and access to a butler and chef (pawsup.com). Q: What's the best way to find the right campground for my family?A: Generations of campers have sworn by Woodall's, a directory that's been listing and rating North American campgrounds for seven decades. Woodall's still sells 10 printed compendiums (from $4.95), but the bulk of information for some 12,000 locations—including prices, activities, and ratings for cleanliness and service—is available via Woodall's smartphone app (free for download at iTunes). The forums at woodalls.com are also gold mines, with sections on everything from campfire recipes and pet etiquette to traveling with Jet Skis. To find and book campsites in national parks and forest areas, as well as ranger-led tours and backcountry permits, head to recreation.gov. The website is packed with photos, descriptions, real-time vacancy info, and detailed maps. Q: How do I pick the perfect campsite within the campground?A: Before selecting (or just getting assigned) a campsite at random, think about what kind of experience you want. If you're a social animal, or your kids (or spouse) need frequent use of the restrooms, you probably won't like the campground's quiet far end (there's always one). On the other hand, it's not smart to pick a spot too close to the action. "One place you don't want is the one closest to the restrooms, as the steady flow of traffic will be disturbing. The smell can be a problem, too," says Kurt Repanshek, founder of nationalparkstraveler.com, a news and trip-planning site dedicated to America's national parks. Reviewing the campground map is helpful, Repanshek says, but not as good as checking it out in person; maps don't always show vegetation, and while a spot near a pond or stream may seem ideal, it may become wetter with dew. Also, if it's not obvious, "look for even ground that has little to no tree roots or rocks," says Kaitlyn Reimer, cofounder of camptrip.com, an online resource with tips, packing lists, and campground and gear reviews. "Make sure the site doesn't have an anthill on it either, or you'll be sharing your bed with tiny invaders." Finally, take a look up: "Steer clear of dead, standing trees and broken limbs that could come down on you in a storm," Repanshek says. Q: So what gear is really essential?A: The camping standards are standard for a reason: Tarps, rope or cords, a first-aid kit, waterproof matches, a whistle, and a Swiss Army knife or multi-tool inevitably come in handy. Flashlights are always on the must-bring list, but "headlamps are better," Repanshek says, "since they're hands-free." Also, you'll want a waterproof tent-surprisingly, not all are, and even a brief shower can saturate a poorly made tent. No campsite is as soft as a bed, and a roll-out sleeping pad is key for avoiding the need for a chiropractor the next day. You could buy a special camping pillow, but a balled-up fleece does the trick, too. As for a sleeping bag, one rated to be warm if it's 30 degrees or above should suffice, while anything rated for colder temps is probably overkill. Remember to air out your bags pre-trip; they can get sickeningly musty when stuffed in a closet for months. Finally, if you're camping in bear country, it's smart to shell out the $60 or so for a bear-proof food canister. Bears can sniff out edible morsels through car windows and sealed coolers, so if the rules say to use a bear-proof canister or to store food at least 10 feet above the ground (special poles will be provided to do the job), take heed. These aren't merely "suggestions"—they're designed to keep you, your fellow campers, and the wildlife safe.   5 Outside-the-box Camping Experiences The Ultimate Castaway ExperienceDry Tortugas National Park, 70 miles west of Key West, Fla., is accessible only by seaplane or boat (yankeefreedom.com, $180 for round-trip ferry). In addition to beaches, coral reefs, 80-degree waters, and a walled 19th-century military fort, the park has a handful of first-come, first-served campsites (nps.gov/drto, $3 fee per person per night). Grills, picnic tables, and toilets are available, but campers must bring their own shelter, water, and food and haul away their trash-not a bad trade-off for sleeping among palm trees on a protected tropical island. A Hike-In-Only LodgeNorthern Georgia's Amicalola Falls State Park is home to the Southeast's tallest waterfalls, the southern end of the Appalachian Trail, and a brilliant option for folks who love the outdoors but not sleeping on the ground. Len Foote Hike Inn is a 20-room lodge accessible via a five-mile hike from the top of the falls. All rooms are private and equipped with bunk beds and electric lighting but, to suit the unplugged atmosphere, no outlets. (Guests are asked to leave cell phones behind, too.) You'll also find linens, hot showers, family-style breakfasts and dinners, wood-burning stoves, and Adirondack chairs facing the mountains. hike-inn.com, from $70 per person. Camping Almost Too Nice to Be CampingLots of RV parks and campgrounds have swimming pools. But a spa and a nine-hole golf course? The Springs at Borrego, in a 600,000-acre park two hours east of San Diego, has both—as well as a dog park, tennis courts, and an "astronomy park," which hosts stargazing events beneath the desert sky with dinner and drinks. springsatborrego.com, $249 for two-night package with RV site and two 60-minute massages. Rooms With a ViewThe U.S. Forest Service operates hundreds of mountaintop wildfire lookout towers across the country. These days, many of these lookouts—which are especially prevalent in the West and Pacific Northwest—now serve as simple, scenic lodging options. Bald Knob Lookout, in Oregon's Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest, is a 16' x 16' cabin built atop a 20-foot wooden tower, with nothing but forests and valleys for miles around. While guests get a roof overhead, along with a propane stove, a mini fridge, propane lights, and a futon bed, there's no denying this is still roughing it: The only restroom is an outhouse 100 feet from the tower, and you'll have to BYO sleeping bags and water. recreation.gov, $35 per night for up to four people. Yosemite, No Tents or Cooking RequiredYosemite National Park's rugged terrain is tough enough to navigate without a backpack full of camping gear. To lighten the load, bed down at one of the park's High Sierra Camps, which are outfitted with canvas tents (dorm-style beds and wood-burning stoves included) and are spaced a hikeable six to 10 miles apart. Breakfast and dinner are included, and a few (but not all) sites have hot showers. yosemitepark.com, $151 per adult per night.   SEE MORE POPULAR CONTENT: 8 Most Common Air Travel Snafus World's Best New Affordable Hotels 12 Best Places You've Never Heard Of 5 Credit Cards Every Traveler Should Consider 10 Coolest Small Towns in America  

STEREOTYPES FIT For Germans, Oktoberfest is more for families and older people—a place where businessmen meet for lunch. When it comes to foreign tourists, the stereotypes kind of fit. English people tend to brawl more than others. It's not uncommon to actually see glasses flying through the air. But in my experience, I'd say people end up quite the same when they get really drunk. Doesn't matter anymore where they're from. SEE 19 TOAST-WORTHY READER PHOTOS FROM OKTOBERFEST! YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW DIRTY IT GETS IN THE TRENCHES For first timers, it's kind of hard to imagine how noisy and dirty it can be in the Oktoberfest tents. Each of the big ones holds about 5,000 people. In the evenings, it gets really messy. People leave behind their umbrellas, their raincoats, their cell phones. There are loads of broken glasses on the floor, spilled food. People stand on the benches with dirty shoes. And then: People drink and throw up. They puke in the tents, under the tables. We carry these big trays with maybe 12 or 14 different plates of food on them. The worst thing I ever saw was when a colleague of mine put one down on the table, and a guy puked right on it. So…that was kind of disgusting. PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR CLOTHING DESTROYED It doesn't bother me when tourists wear lederhosen (leather shorts), as long as they wear real lederhosen and not one of those T-shirts with the pattern printed on it! I would actually recommend wearing one, because you'll probably destroy every other item you could wear. They're tough. You can wipe things off them. Especially in Oktoberfest party tents, people wave their beer glasses around with the band—I haven't seen anybody get out of there clean. It's really a mess. For example, waiters can carry 14 beers at a time, six in each hand, and one balanced on top of each group of six. And you tend to spill a lot. You have to move fast, and then you set them down heavily. You end up soaked in beer after your shift. I wouldn't wear anything else but lederhosen. I don't envy the girls! DRUNK ON THE JOB "Officially," I don't drink on the job. But I can hardly think of anyone who lasts the whole 17 days without drinking at work. It's quite common for guests to buy you a beer. It's probably the best way to get on the waiter's good side. WE DON'T HAVE TO BE NICE As an Oktoberfest waiter, you make the patrons treat you well, or they just won't get served. So it's not like in an ordinary restaurant where you have to be really nice to people. If you don't like someone at Oktoberfest, you just kick them out. For 17 days, I get to behave a bit like an a--hole! THE WORST JOB IN ALL OF OKTOBERFEST Being a bouncer is really a hell of a job. You get abused all the time! On the weekends, they close down the tents, because they get so full. Every door is closed and guarded by about four to six bouncers at least. "Why won't you let me in? I'll give you 50 bucks…Why won't you?!" And then there's name-calling. It's a tough job. But I wouldn't mess with an Oktoberfest bouncer. Really, if they say go, then go, because that's not going to end well. IN MY EXPERIENCE, ITALIANS CAN'T HANDLE THEIR BEER The second of the three Oktoberfest weekends is nicknamed "Italian weekend," because it's when all the Italians come and none of the waiters like them very much. They drink about two beers, and they tip badly. Plus, they aren't used to beers, so after one or two, they're usually sick. WE LOVE AMERICANS The United States might have a bad reputation internationally, but the general American population does not at all. I've been a waiter for years, and if I could choose, I'd have all American guests. And it's not just because of the good tips! Germans and other tourists are really tight and not very grateful. Americans are easier to talk to. They're not so complicated. If you tell them a little bit about whatever they want to see or where they should go, they appreciate that. They're not like, "Oh, I don't care." They treat you like a regular guy, not just some guy who serves them.   SEE MORE POPULAR CONTENT: 10 Coolest Small Towns in America 5 Credit Cards Every Traveler Should Consider North America's Most Charming Fall Islands 35 Brilliant Rainbows Around the World 8 Foreign Fast-Food Chains You Need to Know