Ken's Blog

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.

These weren’t words, these were whole sentences in one. I was finding German hard going. My parents had warned me to watch out for the umlauts. I promised I would. Quite fancied a cheese one. I thought the bike would help me blend in. Lots of serious German engineering. And built like a tank. She’d enjoyed rolling across the plains towards Eastern Europe. And I’d Neff in the kitchen.

Despite the language difficulties, I was beginning to feel much more European. Yes, I was advancing ever deeper into the German hinterland, but it was more than that. They thought I was French. And things were improving – I’d discovered how to transliterate the strange squiggly ’B’, and in the process realised that German for ’large’ is ’gross’, which even I could remember. So bigger portions of pommes (’frites’ in France).

Source of the Danube – remarkably unremarkable – probably looks better when the tide’s in….

I’d met Goldilocks, seen the Smurfs, perhaps I’d better watch this in case I encountered Orcs in the Black Forest….

An unfortunate accident, or a marital dispute? It wasn’t always fun in the Fatherland….

I’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.

I’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.

There 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.