Or maybe he did as he expired on that windswept Pyrenean mountain pass; just as we ordinary mortals are meant to see our past lives flash before us in the moment before death, perhaps these super-humans see their future glory flash before them, from the oft-sung heroics celebrated by mediaeval minstrels to ultimate enthronement by the United Nations.
Whatever, he now presides over the historic main square of the north German city-state of Bremen in the form of a statue erected in 1404 and inscribed on UNESCO's list 600 years later in 2004 along with the nearby Town Hall.
UNESCO describes the ensemble as 'an outstanding representation of the civic autonomy and market rights, and the statue as 'the most representative and one of the oldest of Roland statues erected as a symbol of market rights and freedom.'
Be that as it may, I must say limestone Roland looks more pouting brat than Braveheart paladin.
Standing 18 feet tall beneath a crenelated canopy, flanked by an upturned sword and shield with an imperial two-headed eagle, he stares out impassively at the gaunt, Gothic twin-spired St. Peter's cathedral.
Beyond Roland, Bremen is a handsome historic city on the River Weser, 70 miles west of Hamburg, with the usual assortment of mediaeval churches and civic buildings destroyed or severely damaged in WWII and later restored.
But miraculously the Town Hall, originally built in Gothic style in the early 15th century and renovated in Renaissance style in the early 17th, survived the hail of bombs unscathed, along with the new town hall built next to it in similar style in the early 20th century.
Statue, Town Hall and cathedral all stand in Marktplatz (Market square), Bremen's historic centre, and you can puff 265 giddyingly spiralling steps up St. Peter's 292-foot south tower for a splendid panoramic overview.
Just round the corner, outside the 600-year-old Ratskeller (council wine cellar), there's a modern bronze statue, from 1953, not yet on UNESCO's list but still much photographed - Die Stadtmusikanten (Town Musicians), depicting the donkey, dog, cat and rooster of the Grimm's fairy tale.
Leading off the square is the quaint, narrow Böttcherstraße, with several buildings dating only from the last century though somewhat resembling their historic precursors.
Its most notable sights are a gilded panel leading into the street called Lichtbringer (light bringer) installed in 1936 to celebrate Hitler's triumph over darkness, and the Glockenspiel House with Meissen porcelain bells and revolving panels of famous voyagers including Columbus, Lindbergh and Zeppelin.
Between the cathedral and the river, the mediaeval Schnoor quarter of narrow, crooked lanes and picturesque houses has been turned into an artsy-fartsy tourist-fleecing ground.
Further afield along the banks of the Weser the 13th century Gothic brick St Martin's Church, was rebuilt in 1960 from the rubble of the war, while the quays along the river afford a pleasant promenade and rendez-vous for beer-drinking students.
OK, I'm not Juliet and this is not Verona. This is Bremen, but it's a balcony scene alright. I've got myself locked out high on the terrace of a restaurant overlooking the vibrant fruit and vegetable market right beneath St. Peter's.
The door opened easily enough but it's one of those trick handles that doesn't function from the terrace inwards. I've rapped repeatedly on the glass panes with my irate umbrella, even drumming out the three dots, three dashes, three dots of SOS in Morse code. I've almost smashed the freaking glass, but nobody on the lower two floors hears me.
So I've now been reduced to the indignity of addressing the worthy burghers in the crowded square below. And believe me, it's no 'O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?' shtick. O for a Shakespeare to give this its full dramatic dimensions.
I start off with a few 'Yoohoos' that rise from a genteel neighbourly call to a stentorian bellow, but nobody hears.
Are all my yoohoos for nought? Finally a girl at a table far below appears to hear my lowing, but she looks left, right, centre, everywhere but up.
My arms now flailing like a demented windmill, I out-stentor Stentor. Three people in the square look up, smile and wave back. I'm not waving hello, you imbeciles, I'm a damson in distress.
I scream out 'I'm locked out.' I shout out 'Schlosen' in German, which I think means locked. Several more adoring fans now look up at me, including a couple of waiters waving back in true comradely fashion.
At last they cotton on that I'm not in fact auditioning for Romeo and Juliet, or any other balcony scene. A stern lady appears and opens the door. She looks at me severely, and scolds: 'The terrace is closed.'
I know that now, you frigging idiot, quoths I most genteelly, but why don't you put up a frigging sign saying that.
When I finally descend to terra firma there's a supine gent amid a maze of padlocked bikes, flat on his back in fact but for a slightly raised head, cherishing a large bottle of booze against his heart while a security guard tries to reason with him. There but for the grace of God...
By the same author: Bussing The Amazon: On The Road With The Accidental Journalist, available with free excerpts on Kindle and in print version on Amazon.
Swimming With Fidel: The Toils Of An Accidental Journalist, available on Kindle, with free excerpts here, and in print version on Amazon in the U.S here.
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