Ken's Blog

Fortunately I was in Room 329, not 101. Outside, the youth hostel had an austere appearance, inside it was functional and the staff very welcoming. If Austria had ever had a Secret Police, this would have been their headquarters. This was Vienna, but not the nice bit. I’d arrived mit Emma mein fahrrad whilst the staff were quietly dealing with a large party of young people. They’d let me have the key to the cycle garage straightaway. I could check in later. That way I’d have a fighting chance of still having a bike in the morning.

My room mate was Japanese. His German was worse than mine, but he knew a few words in English. He looked hungry. I’d some tinned fish. He’d probably like that sort of thing, but I was secretly keeping it back for my first demilitarized zone. Serbia. Apparently they do brisk business selling souvenirs these days, you just need to specify the calibre. The hostel was large, and unlike most of the smaller ones in Austria, you could come and go as you pleased. You could even stay in bed all day if you wanted to. I suspected my room mate might.

I’d a day here and was feeling obliged to visit the old city. I’m sure it’d be impressive, but I’ve already seen quite a few imposing buildings, churches, cathedrals and the like. They blur after a while. What was really intriguing me was that Vienna is supposedly just one of four cities to host the United Nations Organisation. I say ’supposedly’ because London’s not on the list, but is definitely home to the International Maritime Organisation. Cycled past it for years. Even got a free lunch out of them once.

I’d had various brushes with the UN in the past, and suspected our paths might cross again over the next few years. They often get a bit of a bad press, especially over their aid programmes, although never from 4 x 4 manufacturers or five star hotel chains. I knew there was more to the UN than just aid, just wasn’t sure what exactly. So I’d made an appointment to visit and find out. Even washed my clothes especially.

Fifty days and close on 2,000 miles cycled. Over half way across Europe. There have been some challenging times – adjusting to life on the road for four years has not been easy, and now it is getting ever colder and the daylight much shorter. Each day there’s the uncertainty of not knowing exactly where you will end up, how things will unfold. There’s been the usual aches and pains, and a fine line between refreshing breeze and an unrelenting headwind that makes progress a real struggle. But this is Western Europe. I’m trained and equipped for far more hostile environments, but still quietly pleased there’s been no major dramas.

And this is an expedition, a vocation for four years, not a holiday. In the background there’s the endless cycle of kit maintenance, developing and refining routines to sustain everything, myself included, over the forthcoming years and the impending winter. Information about the road ahead to be gleaned, logistics to be organised, a plethora of endless administrative tasks that often catch out the unwary, all with the potential to bring things to a grinding halt.

In a few days I’ll be in Bratislava, Slovakia. From there the plunge south into Eastern Europe proper – Hungary, Serbia and across into Bulgaria. Much more than just a change of direction, these are less well developed nations than I’ve been used to. Add in the impending winter, and the forthcoming five week run to the Turkish border is going to be a serious endeavour, a test of mental resolve, physical endurance and the robustness of the kit. Good preparation, I tell myself, for the ’Stans and Tibet next year. Well, you do need to have a good sense of humour for these things!

There was a warmth I’d found a bit lacking in Germany. And they were very house proud. A lady carefully tidying the breakfast buffet, as yet barely touched. A woman sweeping up dirt off the road outside her cafe. Workmen straightening road signs. Where the cycle way wasn’t that obvious, you’d find home made notices had been added. All this whilst retaining that familiar Germanic efficiency. And breakfast was later, not a nocturnal snack.

I’d always known they’d had Mozart, but I think we’d call that living on your laurels. And one or two black sheep. There just wasn’t that overt distinguishing national identity of the sort I’d encountered crossing into Germany from France. Austrians weren’t Germans, but it was the subtleties that put them apart. It was not, as a few Germans had cruelly suggested, that they just spoke more slowly.

I’d a Red Cross parcel to pick up in Linz. I had the coordinates of the drop zone, and some good intelligence. Well, it was the post office, my Mum had sent me the address, and I’d a map. I just thought the first version sounded better. Winter was creeping in and the city had a hint of Cold War about it.

I’d done the usual stuff to help blend in. Bought a newspaper. Even filled in bits of the crossword. Did much better than when I actually understood the clues. Just hoped no one looked too closely. I’d thought my choice of place to stay had been good. A youth hostel. Full of students coming and going, wandering across borders with little or no scrutiny. My British passport I’d need to present to collect the parcel would be a bit of a giveaway, but that couldn’t be helped.

The post office was on the other side of town. At least that’s what I thought. I decided to walk. I needed the practice. Crossing the road that is. Easiest way to spot the English abroad – wait for them to cross – they always look the wrong way. It’s a rather curious thing – mastered riding on the wrong side in a matter of hours, but, as a pedestrian, still struggle to look the right way.

In the end I got a lot of practice. I’d found Posthof on the map – that’d be it. Sounded right. Bit out of town I thought, but being a main post office it’d be a sizeable affair, so that seemed to make sense. In actual fact the Posthof turned out to be some sort of arts venue. It looked quite nice. But it was closed. And in the wrong part of town, down by the docks.

I checked the address again. The Hautpostamt – main post office – was on Domgasse. Gasse sounded like a familiar ending for street names – quick check of the phrase book and it appeared Domgasse meant cathedral alley or lane. I’d seen the cathedral the previous day, back in the city centre. Simple. Actually no. Linz, I was to discover, has two cathedrals, but only one was on my map. The wrong one.

Eventually finding the Hautpostamt, my well rehearsed ’Ein paket Poste Restante fuer Ken Roberts, bitte’ drew blank looks. Not sure if it was my German or the question they didn’t understand. Did I want to send a package? Did I live in Austria? Did I have the dispatch note from England? The phrase book didn’t really equip me for explaining how Poste Restante works, but we got there in the end. And I got my parcel. I smiled a lot.

If bling wasn’t your thing, I found an outfitters in Linz where you could dress like a hideous French gnome. Couldn’t quite think of the word to describe it…..

Linz, the lady in the information centre had told me, was this year’s European Capital of Culture. They were very proud of this. Of what I wondered. She’d given me a brochure in English, but I was none the wiser as to what this apparently prestigious title actually meant. Apart, that is, from giving most of the taxis a new livery. Looked expensive.

I’d had a stab at making a list of successful Austrian bands. Seemed like a good place to start, but I just couldn’t get past Falco. Ordinarily I’d have gone for famous Austrians, but the Nazi gnome experience was still a very vivid memory. It would fade with time, especially in Austria. People here had been know to forget sizeable chunks of their lives. Usually 1939-1945. Time for a warming glass of Austrian wine. In the morning it was probably best to head along the Danube towards Vienna.

Germany has always fascinated me. A very ordered society, yet innovative. I’d been to the Baltic coast before, as I had to Munich in the south, so already had an idea that Bavaria was a bit different to the rest of the country. Just as Scotland is to the rest of the British Isles. A distinct identity.

At first I thought that, unlike France, Bavaria was less welcoming to strangers. Cold. Rather like London, until you get to know people. Then I’d met Manfred and Ute along the cycle way. Admittedly they were from Frankfurt in Central Germany, but at least they’d made me think again.

I’d wondered how insular Bavarians might be, whether I would encounter subtle discrimination, even hostility, towards outsiders, especially foreigners. But no, even when I went to places I thought to be off the tourist trail. The owner of a small hotel I’d stayed in had gone to the trouble of learning a few English phrases just to wish me well with my venture.

I’d felt very welcome in the Bavarian eating house – the hofbrauhaus – in Regensburg. Yes, I’d always made the effort in appalling German, and perhaps that had helped. In Straubing, engaging company in the youth hostel, strangers approaching me in the town centre, curious as to where I was going with such a heavily laden bicycle. In Passau a very kind chap I’d been chatting with returned a short while later with some chocolate for my journey.

In the end I’d got by with very little German, in part because the younger generations speak good English. I’d felt a bit guilty about this, and their habit of apologising, quite unjustly, for their own perceived lack of language abilities hadn’t helped. If I’d come just to visit Germany I’d have been a bit ashamed of my efforts, but I hadn’t – Germany and Austria account for just 1% of the expedition.

And there’d been a little bit of teasing along the way. I hoped that any Germans reading the posts would appreciate that it was meant to be harmless fun. And it works both ways – on a visit to Munich some years ago, my host kindly pointed out the town hall, one of few old buildings in the centre of the city, advising, with a little grin, that this was ’one you’d missed’. I’d had to hastily explain the convention whereby we never mention the war, unless a German brings it up first.

There’s also a few observations I’ve made along the way which, whilst largely humorous, I’ve not included because I decided they would give an unduly distorted picture of modern Germany. Still, couldn’t resist photographing the gnomes in Straubing, but did at least seek to put it in context.

So, what to make of all this? A more complex people than the French? I’d thought this for a time, but then wasn’t so sure I even knew what it meant. Bavarians were, well, different, to the French I’d met, of course. But in the end, just as hospitable and friendly. You just had to make the effort, and for me that had been a bit harder at the start as I struggled with even the basics of German.

Auf Wiedersehen

’Nice weather for ducks’ he’d said, cycling with his friends towards Passau. Impecable English, even for a German. Yes, I thought, with an orange. Since leaving Regensburg the previous day temperatures had dropped markedly. Birds were gathering on the telegraph wires, readying themselves to fly south. I’d do the same, but first had to reach Bratislava, Slovakia, before the Danube took a turn for warmer climates. At least that was what I was hoping for.

Sometimes it rained, sometimes it snowed. Always heavy. Although the still air temperature was a little above freezing, wind chill on the bike meant that ice formed on my mitts and jacket. I wouldn’t have minded so much had it stayed like that. But the occasional milder spells of heavy rain meant that you still got water seeping inside your jacket, before the temperature dropped again. And then there was the insidious fine abrasive grit of the cycle way that stuck to everything. Don’t think the guide books ever mention that little detail.

I’d reached Passau in the dark. The city stands on three rivers – the Danube, Inn and Ilz – which adds an extra dimension to finding your way around in the dark and the icy rain. But I knew exactly where the youth hostel was – an old fortress overlooking the city. That’d be simple to find. It was, they even flood lit it. The problem was how to get to it – my map lacked that sort of detail, and the signs I found directed you to endless steps. The roads where still busy but there was no one around to ask. In the end it took me an hour to crack it – not quite an impenetrable fortress, but close.

Most things were verboten – prohibited – and there were laminated signs to remind you. Lots of them. Registration had been a testing experience. I was unsure as to whether the manager was being deliberately obstructive towards me because I was English, or if he was just as vague, dismissive and unhelpful to everyone. Seems he was.

I’d met the lady as she wandered about the establishment, searching for someone to ask if they had a room available for the night. I’d wished her luck. Later that evening, we’d both been shopping for something to eat. I had a salad but she had spagetti. There was a kitchen but a large laminated sign made it very clear that cooking food was verboten. And just in case anyone might be tempted to ignore this warning, anything that resembled a pot or pan had been removed. I joked that there was always the kettle. Worked quite well.

Straubing town centre with its very imposing clock tower and fine array of pastel coloured shops. And an army of black Bavarian Nazi saluting gnomes. No, really.

In fairness to the many kind Bavarians I’ve met, this is art – a bit ironic to say the least, controversial even, but art nevertheless. Seemed to cause quite a stir. As did my efforts with the camera.