Helen Mirren served me my afternoon kaffee at Cafe Munding in the old part of Innsbruck.

She wasn't in the mood to be messed with. She wasn't retired, but did exude an air of being extremely dangerous. Plus she was dressed head-to-toe in a sort of black jumpsuit, obviously designed to allow unrestricted karate moves against any customer ordering anything difficult.

Not that celebrities are in short supply. The other evening we were served in a hotel restaurant by Ben Kingsley. He was in a much better mood, and got an accordingly Hollywood-sized tip. He had a sense of humour, which is not always guaranteed in these parts. I asked him if we might possibly have the bill. 'But of course,' he replied, twirling his moustache, 'It would be my pleasure!' His eyes twinkled.

He won our award for Best Performance in a Restaurant to Date.

I have been trying to improve my German, and am now confident of ordering slightly more than a glass of wine. Which has expanded my diet somewhat, and taken the pressure off my liver. But Helen Mirren got a look of disdain on her stern features before I'd even opened my mouth, which did little for my confidence. I moved on as quickly as possible.

The man selling tickets to the fifteenth century town tower was the best so far in terms of coping with my linguistic efforts, and even corrected my pathetic attempt at asking for a ticket by telling me I had got the gender wrong. Well, how was I to know? He looked like a bloke to me.

The tower was very agreeable, and only 133 steps, twice that many if you come down again. A modern dual-spiral staircase means you use one set for ascending and the other for coming down, which eliminates the chance of conflict. I had no worries anyway since on the cloudy afternoon I chose to go up there were only two other people.

It's not particularly high - just 51 metres - so it isn't even a hazard to air traffic, which is just as well as it is on the flight path. Three jets soared overhead while I stood out on the wooden platform at the top, heading into the bright clouds to the east from Innsbruck's airport. I examined them carefully, just to make sure none of them was a Reaper drone sent by Helen in reprisal for my having dared order yet another apple strudel.

Around me was the model town of old Innsbruck, with to-scale tiny tourists going about their business in the quaint old quarter, presumably looking for a cafe where they wouldn't be used for martial arts practice.

They have plenty of choice - Innsbruck has no shortage of cafes and restaurants - many, even at this time of year, with chairs and tables outside. Pleasantly, much of the seating is augmented with sheepskins, to add ein kleine warmth to tourists' behinds. It brings a whole new definition to being fleeced.

I learned that the tower was completed in 1450, the result of some strange agreement between a local farmer and the hospital, which isn't the sort of scenario you'd find today. I can't imagine any Cornwall agrarian saying to his wife, 'Oi think oi'll reach zum sort of agreement with the NHS and turn the cowshed into an A&E. Whaddyer reckon?'

Anyway, the tower has served a few different purposes over the centuries, not least of which was as a genuine watchtower. Guards originally kept vigil on the streets below for any trouble, but more importantly kept an eye out (and perhaps a nose) for fire. Most of the buildings then were wooden, so fire was an ever-present threat.

There was a bell that could be used in the event of flames being detected. Cleverly, so that residents could decide whether to flee their homes or not, the number of tolls related to compass points and the more imposing town landmarks, so if you heard three bells you could turn over and go back to sleep if you lived anywhere except Silgasse, Kholstatt or the university. Then you'd be out with your buckets and piss-pots.

Remarkably, the last guard was on duty right up till 1967, when she and the concept of tower guards were both retired.

I descended the 51-metre DNA-like corkscrew and set off back to Nano Bar, to reacquaint myself with its compactness, and order in my best German a glass of something other than the ubiquitous Gruner Veltliner.

When I'd been there after the local carnival earlier in the week I'd discovered that smoking is allowed. There are ashtrays on all the tables, which is not something you see every day now. I took a photograph. Of an ashtray. I know, weird right?

I expanded my vocabulary with a glass of Weissburgunder, while the man opposite me lit a cigarette. The smell of smoke wafted across the tiny cellar-like room. It is nothing unusual here, where smoking is still accepted.

Had it drifted out onto the street five hundred years ago it might have set alarm bells ringing. Helen Mirren would have been apoplectic.