Ken's Blog

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.

Regensburg was a medieval city, the old part at least. It had a well respected University. The cobbled streets, bookshops, students on their bicycles and the little cafes suggested a place of great learning. Kepler, the astronomer and mathematician, lived here for a time. Largely unchanged for centuries, it was a place easily overlooked. By Bomber Command at least.

I’d visited Kepler’s house the previous day with Manfred whilst Ute kept an eye on the bikes. Not satisfied with determining that the planets followed an elliptical path around the sun, he’d also worked out a precise method for calculating the volume of beer barrels. ’That’, I suggested to Manfred, ’would be integral calculus’. Talented chap this Kepler.

The city had also been home to Don Juan, an Austrian war hero. They’d even put a statute up for him. The guidebook was mostly in German, but had the odd paragraph in English. It advised that he was the result of a ’brief but passionate affair’ between the then King and a local woman. I suspected that a better English translation might be ’one night stand’.

I was sharing a room at the youth hostel with Jean-Baptiste. He was shortly to start his Masters course at the University and spoke excellent German and very good English. I had a suspicion his French wasn’t too bad either. And he knew where to eat cheaply. Despite being in the centre of the old city, the hofbrauhaus was frequented by real Bavarians, not tourists. It served beer, together with variations on a meat, vegetables and dumplings theme. There were a couple of vegetarian options – probably EU regulations – but I doubted anyone ever ordered them. They daren’t.

Manfred had the map and Ute a strong sense of direction. They were from Frankfurt, cycling a section of the Danube cycle way. We’d met by chance crossing over a bridge in search of a better route on the other side of the river.

The Danube hadn’t been quite what I’d expected. The river would put in an appearance once in a while, and did have some very striking sections, but otherwise much of my route across Germany had been damp and dull. Campsites were closed, and accommodation could be difficult to find. Despite some occasional teasing, I’d always had a quiet admiration for the German nation, but was beginning to feel a bit disappointed with the old place.

But then I’d met Manfred and his wife Ute. A little later, after lunch at Weltenburg monastery, they suggested we might take a boat through the narrows to the town of Kelheim. It would be very scenic, much better than the cycle route. I liked the idea. It was raining. Nevertheless, things were suddenly looking up.

The brief respite from the weather provided by the ferry now over, the daily search for accommodation began in earnest. We headed for the small town of Bad Abbach. Prospects on the ground hadn’t looked good, and Manfred and Ute’s efforts on the phone didn’t seem too promising. Nice park bench I thought. Public toilets nearby. But then – yes – a small hotel close by, they’d take the bikes, and the price would be about that of a youth hostel – would that be ok? Yes, and the very least I could do was buy the beer.

Manfred spoke excellent English, and Ute had a good grasp of the language – made my German look quite pathetic by comparison. Which it was. The following morning, as we headed towards Regensburg, Manfred was keen to learn some more English colloquialisms. I offered a few. A little later he and I stopped to admire the view. Ute thought it best to pedal on a short way and wait for us.

A final coffee together in Regensburg and it was time to part company. For a while now, I’d been looking for somewhere to stop for a few days and Regensburg struck me as just the spot. We’d met on a bridge so it only seemed fair to bid farewell to each other on the city’s ancient stone bridge across the Danube.

The thick walls helped retain the warmth, and wire mesh across the small window kept the pigeons out. There were bunks and a wooden table. A well appointed cell. No Komfortzuschlag this evening, but an individuelle Unterbringung had secured solitary confinement. Fruhstuck – it sounded like roll call but I thought it might be breakfast – would be at 7.30. No need to say sharp. This was Germany. And there was a garage for Emma, my trusty Fahrrad. I was beginning to feel at home, part of Eingang.

Despite its ressemblance to a prison, Ingolstadt Youth Hostel at least had character. The earlier hostels, Gunzburg and Donauworth, were immaculate and efficiently run, but otherwise nondescript.

Earlier I’d stopped briefly in the town of Neuberg au du Donau. There was little open, just one restaurant. I ventured in for a coffee. Monika wanted to learn secretarial work and improve her already faultless English. Someone had suggested Blackpool. People can be so cruel. I said I thought London might be better. Ordinarily I would have been the only customer, but there was a wedding party in. The bride was in traditional Bavarian dress. The groom was in a suit. No sign of the leiderhosen. Perhaps he was saving it for the wedding night.

Back in Ingolstadt, I enjoyed a largely peaceful night in my cell, just the occasional faint sound of movement about the place. Probably someone building a glider in the roof space.

Seems I’d paid for a Komfortzuschlag. Didn’t think it was that sort of place. But then that’s the difference between bluffing your way around in a foreign language and being a bit more fluent. I had said I’d need a shower – ’mit Dusche’ – and a towel – ’ein Handtuch’ – and this seemed to have been translated into ’single en-suite’. Still, it was a youth hostel, couldn’t complain. Didn’t know how to.

The centre of Donauworth resembled Gunzburg from the previous night. The same pastel coloured buildings, expensive boutiques and cafes. France had its African communities, presumably reflecting former colonies, whilst Germany had the Turks. Odd. Thought that was one country they’d not invaded. And whereas in the UK we had curry houses, Germany had kebab shops. But they were different. The clientele were invariably sober.

Earlier in the day I’d stopped for ein Kaffee klein – a small coffee – in a Backerei – bakers. It had been a cold, wet and miserable morning. An endless stream of customers, cars pulling up outside, people dashing in out of the rain to collect their bread. It might have been France, but loaves rather than baguettes, and heavier pastries.

They started it. Youth Hostels – Jugendherberge – had originated in Germany. Hardly surprising for a nation that appeared to have a bit of a thing for youth movements. It had taken a while to find Gunzburg hostel. A few teenagers sat outside on the steps, smoking. Inside the lady was very helpful – a room for me and a garage for the bike. And yes, they had lots of towels. Did I have a hostelling card? Yes. A gold one. I’d have to surrender it, but just for the night. Breakfast would be at 7.15 sharp. I winced, but I don’t think she noticed.

Pleased that I’d finally managed to secure some accommodation without the earlier dramas, I made for the town centre. Expensive boutiques in little alleys off the main cobbled plaza. Town houses, various pastel shades, with steep roofs. I found a table in a street cafe. It was decorated with facsimiles of newspaper cuttings – Le Monde, Politika, and the Daily Express – it advised ’Avoid the hidden danger’ but did not elaborate. I ordered a beer.

I was following the Danube cycle way into Bulgaria. Not the Danube. Sometimes you’re not even in the same valley. Granted, the river put in the occasional appearance. And when it did, it could be quite spectacular – majestic, sweeping bends, high limestone cliffs above.

The Germans, she explained, preferred to holiday abroad. I suggested France and the Benelux countries. She nodded. That explained the dearth of campsites. It had started well enough, but once on the Danube they’d disappeared. And I wasn’t fairing any better with the Gasthofs – guest houses.

The previous night, as the rain set in and the light was all but gone, I’d managed to find what seemed to be a garden shed with bunk beds. Quite cosy for one, and I’d sneaked my trusty steed inside once the owner had gone.

Tonight it was a small family run hotel in a nondescript village. Not expensive, but more than my budget could normally afford. Breakfast was included, but I liked to think of it more as an early brunch. Maybe I’d have a root around in the bins later for dinner.

I found a small bar still open. I was quietly pleased. I’d reached the small town of Donaueschingen and the source of the Danube – Donau in German. The day had not been without its surprises – an unexpected climb to about 3,500 feet, and they’d decided to close the road. Permanently. They were building a dam.

The supposed campsite in Donaueschingen had eluded me, but I’d found a cheap Gasthof – guest house – on the outskirts. Just past the Gendamarie. Familiar illuminated sign, and a line of identical white Peugeot cars with French plates. Couldn’t miss it.

I put it down to a craving for salt. After a couple of beers it was time for a kebab. Besides, it was the only place left open, and the menu had pictures. I’d need to work on my German.