I’d met Goldilocks, seen the Smurfs, perhaps I’d better watch this in case I encountered Orcs in the Black Forest….
Ken's Blog
Just desserts in the Black Forest?
October 6th, 2009Earthly encounter
October 4th, 2009
An unfortunate accident, or a marital dispute? It wasn’t always fun in the Fatherland….
Re:cycling
October 3rd, 2009I’d had an inkling at the campsite. An array of different recycling bins – there were three different types just for glass. In the washrooms and the lounge the lights only worked when it was dark, as did the power sockets, a pain when you need to recharge your netbook. Well, I suppose, Germany was the home of the Green Party. A very environmentally conscious nation.
But it was the popularity of cycling that really struck me, simply as a means of getting about. Huge cycle parks, even a multi-storey one with attendants. Dispensing machines around the city offered different sized inner tubes. A network of cycle lanes. And if none of this appealed, there were always the trams, quietly snaking through the suburbs and into the centre.
They’d spotted what others had missed. If you want people to adopt a more green agenda, make it easy for them. Dictait is never a sustainable option.
An orderly appearance
October 3rd, 2009I’ve long admired the Germans for their precision. Some years ago I met with my then counterparts in Munich. The meeting was due to start at nine. I’d slightly underestimated how long it would take to get there, arriving with just a few minutes to spare. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t late. Others had yet to turn up. At nine am sharp my robust German colleague stood up and announced, quite abruptly, ’They are late’. I liked that.
I’d camped on the outskirts of the city of Freiburg. In the morning, armed with my towel, I wandered down early to the washrooms. Immaculate. People were already busying themselves with domestic chores, preparing for the day ahead. In France it was not uncommon for there to be little movement until gone nine, sometimes later. The French had a habit of being caught napping.
I’d quickly realised that my German was largely non-existant, but I had a plan. I would head into Freiburg with my phrasebook and spend the day grasping the rudiments of the language. It was a national holiday and I’d been warned the shops would be closed, but I was reckoning on the cafes being open. I’d cycled through the city the previous day and had a good idea of the layout.
The city centre was quiet. I found a cafe and sat for a while drinking coffee in Ralfansplatz, a small square near the cathedral. A meeting point for guided tours. The people had a smartness, their clothes a functional simplicity. But not drab.
I drifted around for a while, quietly muttering German phrases to myself. They liked the back end of the alphabet, the harsher sounds giving the language a more foreign feel than French. The buildings too had sharp, clean yet elegant lines. An ordered appearance.
A lady approached. She had a sad, pitiful expression. She spoke quietly. I explained that I didn’t understand, that I spoke only a little German. She wandered off. She might have been begging or just asking for directions. I didn’t know.
I found a small park. A young man was learning to juggle. Families on their bikes, small children towed in buggies. A few picnickers dotted around. I watched for a while then headed off, curious to get more of a measure of the place.
Germany calling
October 2nd, 2009There was a queue at the border. The checking of papers perhaps. Such formalities would have at least signified the arrival in a new country. But no. Just roadworks. At least the French had a Gendarme posted at their end of the bridge across the Rhine. He looked bored. On the German side there was no one to welcome new arrivals. Just a fast food drive-through, a cafe, and a dodgy looking shop with blacked out windows.
I headed for the city of Freiburg, about 20 kilometres into Germany. Passing through numerous villages on the way, it looked much like the France I’d just left – the same roadside shrines, the familiar wood piles ready for the winter. I tried very hard not to say ’Bonjour’ to those I passed. Navigating my way across the city was fairly straightforward, helped by an extensive network of well sign-posted cycle routes. They were popular, almost as busy as the roads were with cars. And they say the French are a nation of cyclists.
Different directions
October 2nd, 2009
920 km from Colmar to the Vale of the White Horse. But you probably knew that…
Reflections on France
October 2nd, 2009France had made me very welcome. The people and the weather had been kind to me, both of which had helped the process of adapting to a long period on the road. I was immensely grateful. Those early days, sat in the leafy shade back at Etables-sur-Mer, seemed like a long time ago now. I’d decided to return there on my homeward journey, retracing those first tentative steps.
The gentle hills of Brittany, its sheltered bays and estuaries, had eventually given way to open plains south of Paris. Just the occasional fertile river valley cutting deep into an otherwise uninteresting landscape. East of Troyes a return to more rolling countryside, then, beyond Epinal, into tree clad mountains.
It had not been without its challenges, but I’d always expected that. Inevitable teething troubles. Sadly, my French was little improved but I’d always stuck with it, sometimes to the frustration of others. I’d do the same with German, and that really was a foreign language to me. Now much fitter and stronger on the bike, I was ready for Germany and the Danube.
La France. Merci beaucoup.
Au revoir!
At the summit
October 2nd, 2009At the summit from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
The Big Push
October 2nd, 2009
Col de la Schlucht was the highest point on the European stage of the expedition, some 3,200 feet above sea level. Not exactly Everest, but higher than the Scafell Pike, and I’m not sure I’d drag a bike up there. Bright but with a chill breeze, I found a sheltered spot on the terrace of a cafe. It was quiet, mostly German bikers, clad in brightly coloured leathers. I watched for a while as a few workmen prepared the nearby ski lift for the forthcoming season.
Then the descent to Colmar. About 35 kilometres. I joked with a young French couple that I’d be down in about twenty minutes. Actually it was about an hour, but I did stop to take a few photographs. Winding down through the forest, these weren’t exactly alpine switch-backs, but they’d do. Then, quite suddenly, you emerged from the woods, still high above the valley bottom. Proper alpine pastures.
Passing swiftly through the villages towards the town of Munster, there was only the familiar boulangeries to remind you that you were still in France. Even the places sounded German – Soultzeren, Stosswihr and Gunsbach. The houses were different – steep sided roofs ready for the winter snows. Grazing cattle, each with a huge bell around its neck, the slightest movement making it clang quite noisely.
I’d been under canvas every night since I’d arrived in France, and, as the country drew to a close, it was time to try a roof over my head. A small motel on the outskirts of Colmar. The owner showed me a room, tucked out of sight at the back. The decor was dated, the furniture an assorted of styles, and not even the Gideons had visited. But it had clean towels and fluffy pillows. And it was cheap. I would take it.
Later I wandered to the bar, past the abandoned car and the assortment of discarded shopping trolleys. I don’t think it was actually open, but the owner let me in anyway. An assortment of tools on the empty tables, neat piles of paperwork amongst them. He was a jovial character and, as I explained about my venture, he gave me a cold beer and some pretzels.
Being so different to the rest of France, I wondered if this part of the country had ever been part of Germany. No, the owner explained, the answer lay in the unique origins of the Alsace region’s culture. It could trace its heritage back several thousand years to a time when what he described as ’Old German’ was spoken along the length of the Rhine. A language, he was very adamant, was no relation of modern ’Deutsh’. The region still had its own dialect, Alascien, which, I was assured, was incomprehensible to a French speaker.
In the morning at breakfast it seemed I was the only guest. The owner explained that he would be closing the restaurant over the weekend for refurbishment. You had to admire his optimism.
Mountains to climb
October 2nd, 2009An early lunch was in order, and the ’Snack des sapins’ cabin looked just the place. A couple of pain au chocolat for breakfast would not be enough to comfortably reach Col de la Schlucht, at over 3,200 feet the highest point of the European section of the expedition.
It was Seige’s place. He wondered if I was on my way back to England. Sort of, I explained. I told him about my venture. I’d ordered hamburger and medium frites – what arrived was half a baguette filled with beef burgers, almost hidden by the frites piled on top. There was more than one mountain to be climbed that day….
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