Javier was from Argentina; he was also the first cyclist I had met who was heading to Nordkapp. We had much to discuss.
Javier's approach to cycling to the northernmost point of Europe – from Madrid – was a little more laid-back than my own. He'd picked up his bike second-hand and quite cheaply in Spain, equipped himself with eBay-purchased kit, and had no apparent time limit to his adventure. With a Spanish passport courtesy of a grandparent, he had no Schengen-limited visa, and explained that he was stopping to work and earn money from time to time. Back in Argentina he had been a chef for several years so, along with a decent level of English, he certainly had a skill that would find him work almost anywhere he went. I envied his Laurie Lee approach to travelling.
The following morning, an hour or so into the cycle across this most southerly and narrowest part of the Netherlands, I started to notice signs for a nearby American war cemetery. When I spotted the entrance, I decided to investigate and, set back a few hundred metres from the road, I found 8,301 headstones of American soldiers killed in action.
My mind immediately returned to the sombre atmosphere of the German cemetery I had visited in France. Despite the grand buildings in marble, there was nothing triumphal about what I could see here. There was, however, an uplifting and hopeful atmosphere that had been absent from the German cemetery. I gazed along the geometrically perfect lines of crosses. The men in the graves before me died in ignorance of the ultimate demise of the Third Reich, and the downfall of Hitler and the Nazis. They died hoping but not knowing. It was a strange, disconcerting thought.
Something rather special was about to happen. No, it wasn't that I was able to buy a punnet of strawberries from a vending machine beside the road (although I did have fun doing so). It was that, for the first time since leaving Gibraltar – now over 3,000 km of cycling to the south – an international border was being signposted and celebrated.
Bundesrepublik Deutschland
The celebration came in the form of a bush with the black eagle of the Federal Republic of Germany embedded neatly into its side.
If all this wasn't sufficient to excite me, 500 metres further down the road was a second sign welcoming me to Aachen. Alongside the multilingual welcomes was a list of eight Partnerstädte, or twin towns: Arlington in Virginia, Kostroma in Russia, Montebourg in France, Naumburg in Germany (presumably a hangover from the DDR days), Ningbo in China, Reims in France (another one? Was that allowed?), Toledo in Spain and Halifax/Calderdale, my hometown in the United Kingdom.
I hadn't been aware of Aachen's twinning infidelities across the globe but I had always known of the Aachen–Halifax connection. Indeed, one of the first foreigners I ever met was a German Boy Scout called Karsten who stayed with my family for a weekend back in the late 1970s. He was taking part in an exchange between Scouts in Halifax and Aachen, spoke good English and was very tall. This latter aspect of Karsten's physique formed a lasting impression on a small boy from the Calder Valley of Yorkshire. He will now be in his fifties and must, without a doubt, be in charge of something important in North Rhine-Westphalia.
Ten minutes later, after pausing to take a picture of Halifaxstraβe, I was in the city centre. Four countries in five days was good going, although admittedly the jigsaw geography of this corner of Western Europe was aiding me somewhat. However, I wouldn't be crossing another border for probably a couple of weeks. The plan was to cycle over to the Rhine at Cologne and then head north to Düsseldorf. Keeping towards the western side of the country, I envisaged passing through Münster and Bremen before visiting friends in Hamburg. The final portion of Germany would be through Schleswig-Holstein.
Aachen's campsite, I was informed by the formal woman in the tourist office, didn't allow camping. Well, not my kind of camping – just 'camping' in a motorhome. Which isn't, can I say, camping. I'm glad I've got that off my chest. I booked into the central Hotel Klenkes instead and was allocated a room that would have given the proverbial cat severe head injuries. I escaped the cramped conditions and went to explore the rather more spacious cathedral.
Its ordinary exterior belied extraordinariness within. Built for Charlemagne in the eighth century, it contained not only the first domed church to be built north of the Alps, but enough shimmering gold leaf to keep Hatton Garden supplied for decades. Byzantine was the style: exotic domes, tall rounded arches and rich mosaics. Especially impressive when you consider that it had survived for such a long time. The building had been host to coronations for six centuries, the final one being that of Ferdinand I in 1531, after which point the centre of gravity of the Holy Roman Empire moved east towards what is now Austria.
Along similar lines, my own centre of gravity also needed to move east. Cycling day 43 consisted of an 80 km descent into the Rhine valley that dominated this part of Germany and which I would follow north until at least Düsseldorf.
My arrival in the centre of Cologne coincided with the discovery of another visitor from Britain. My compatriot had been in hiding for over 70 years and had just been discovered near the Mülheim Bridge. The BBC website broke the news thus:
Some 20,000 people in the German city of Cologne have been forced to leave their homes as authorities defuse a one-tonne bomb from World War Two. Schools and kindergartens – as well as the zoo – remained closed during the city's largest post-war evacuation.
I would need to cycle near the Mülheim Bridge the following morning so I could only hope that things had been sorted out by then. There was no sign of any form of panic in central Cologne, however. Indeed, when I met with my friend Janina, a former language assistant from the school in Henley, and mentioned the news to her, it was the first she had heard of the event.
I had initially suggested that we go out for a meal in the evening but Janina explained that she had to go to a concert. I had always considered her to be an educated, cultured woman and assumed that whatever event she was attending, it would involve classical music or perhaps even opera. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if she herself had been one of the performers.
'Sorry about tonight,' she explained, 'but I've had these Olly Murs tickets for ages.'
Turned down for Olly Murs. That put me in my place.
The campsite in Cologne was a few kilometres to the south of the city, on the other side of the river. It consisted of an open patch of land where a good number of independent travellers, many on two wheels, were enjoying the fresh air. The noise from the nearby bridge was a touch distracting but at least it wasn't at risk of being blown up by an RAF bomb, or so I assumed.
The combination of a day off, two short cycling days and a predominantly eastward shift had made the fifteenth degree the longest yet in terms of time. But now that I had reached the Rhine, there would be an abrupt change of direction and I would again be able to make more significant progress north. The next section of cycling would be easy, as it was simply a case of following the Rhine Cycle Route, otherwise known as EuroVelo 15 to Düsseldorf. I had already seen several signs for the route, as it passed outside the gates of the campsite. I saddled up and, via a short detour back into the centre of Cologne for breakfast and to take in the cathedral, I was off. Einfach!**
* * *
* The traditional Flying Pigeon bicycle from China, despite having its origins in the 1930s and based upon the Raleigh Roadster of 1932, can still be bought today. It has sold in its hundreds of millions and, according to the company's website, in Maoist China '... was a symbol of an egalitarian social system that promised little comfort but a reliable ride through life'. They are, also according to the manufacturer, 'indestructible'. (BACK)
** Easy! (BACK)
THE SIXTEENTH DEGREE
51°–52° NORTH
28–31 May
Through hard work, dedication, patience and perseverance, from a nation that lay in ruins after the war, the Germans have recreated a country that is envied by many, including me. When I think of cities that have been destroyed beyond recognition in my own lifetime
– Beirut, Sarajevo, Kabul and, more recently, Aleppo in Syria – I take crumbs of comfort from places such as Berlin and Hamburg, which have rebuilt themselves from the rubble. And not just rebuilt themselves as second-rate versions of what they used to be; the German cities of today may lack the historical vistas of Paris or Rome, but they have been reborn as vibrant examples of economic success and cultural diversity equal to any other European city of the twenty-first century.
However... from the perspective of a touring cyclist, Germany was suffering from not being either Belgium or the Netherlands. I had become accustomed to good quality segregated cycling paths and signage that was so easy to follow it could have been designed by cyclists themselves (and probably was). Germany was a lurch back towards how cycling could often be back in Britain. Only a moderate lurch, but discernible nevertheless. There was lots of segregated cycling but in urban areas this was often along pavements where all of the obstacles that weren't really obstacles when walking – signs, flowerpots, curbs, as well as the pedestrians – became so when cycling. In the countryside, although many roads had an adjacent cycle path, this was frequently of low quality and ravaged by tree roots or simply by time. If I chose not to use the facilities on offer, this would incite some motorists (older men in Mercedes usually) to point out my 'mistake' in no uncertain Teutonic terms.
As for the Rhine Cycle Route signage, it was sporadic and confusing. When it appeared, it was a marvel to behold, with small blue squares clearly pointing in the direction of the Rheinradweg 15, but then it wouldn't appear for several kilometres and I was left with just the occasional red arrow. Was that my cycle path or one of the many others? My love of all things Germanic was being severely tested. In the kilometres north of Cologne I had to contend with large building developments requiring complicated detours, two long flights of steps, poor quality cycling paths and, to cap it all off, a group of mocking primary school kids. You know you are at a low ebb when you have become the victim of pillory by seven-year-olds.
I stopped to sit on a dilapidated bench at the southern limit of a large Bayer chemical complex. Its position sucking water from the Rhine might have been for the greater benefit of the German economy but it would mean another diversion away from the river for me. On the ground below my feet was a discarded bicycle stand and stuck to a nearby post was a home-made for sale poster for an 'Alu City Star Like' bicycle. By ringing the number listed and paying €150, it could be mine. I wondered if it made annoying noises like Reggie. Above my head was an inexplicable triangular green warning sign: 'Geschützter Landschaftsbestandteil' it stated next to an image of a black eagle, wings fully extended, gliding and looking fearsome. Was I at risk of becoming someone's lunch? Behind me was an Aldi supermarket and above everything was a slate-grey sky.
Cycling across continents wasn't meant to be like this. I remained on the bench for about half an hour. I could have wept for no good reason but lots of little bad ones. I sensed a Mercedes day approaching. Was I beginning to feel drained by the whole Tarifa to Nordkapp experience? Had the enormity of the task only just become apparent? Did the prospect of perspiring my way north for another 50 plus days no longer fill me with unbridled enthusiasm?
North of the chemical complex, I rejoined the path beside the Rhine and, for the first time, the urban tentacles of Cologne loosened. The banks of the river were covered in spring flowers and pretty houses jostled for the best view over the wide expanse of water. I stopped once again about an hour after my earlier melancholic moment on the bench, but this time my view couldn't have been more different. I was sitting in a tiny café that had been built inside the control box of a disused riverside crane. It was called, unsurprisingly, the Kran Café.
I ordered a drink from the woman in charge; our lack of a common language prevented conversation, but she smiled and I reciprocated. That simple gesture seemed to say many things, none of which I could list but all of which seemed perfect for that moment. I stared out of the windows of the crane café and watched the large barges ply their trade on the river. Those heading upstream moved slowly against the prevailing direction of the water, whilst those heading downstream did so at speed. My morning had so far been very 'upstream', fighting against the obstacles of the urban world and the wind but also against my own mid-journey malaise. I was feeling somewhat drained and my enthusiasm was somewhat diminished.
But did I question my chances of completing the cycle from Tarifa to Nordkapp and reaching my objective? No. I knew that there was no chance of me abandoning the cycle to Nordkapp voluntarily. That said, I did need to focus on short-term objectives that would boost my enthusiasm for life on two wheels. There were, after all, plenty to choose from – including Hamburg, where I planned to take a short break from cycling to stay with friends Dominic and Annet.
—
The unkempt suburbs of Düsseldorf had lowered expectations for what I would find at its centre, but then I turned a corner and the long curve of an impressive waterfront was revealed. At each end of the cityscape were two almost identical suspension bridges and on the far side of the river was a broad area of parkland. Things were looking up.
Following mixed results, I had been staying clear of the accommodation sharing website WarmShowers but now, in Germany, I was willing to give it a second chance. I had contacted a woman in Düsseldorf and a man in Münster, and had high hopes of using someone's garden in Schleswig-Holstein. The woman in Düsseldorf was called Andrea and she lived with her husband Matthias somewhere beyond the green parkland. After such a mentally tortuous day, however, I didn't want to rush over there immediately. I needed a beer and, rather fortuitously, a beer festival of sorts was taking place along the banks of the Rhine. As I drained a couple of bottles of the local altbier and my stomach filled with a lip-smacking currywurst, my love of most things German began to return. I cast aside thoughts of sub-standard cycling infrastructure and focussed upon what really mattered in life: good German beer, good German food and the prospect of good German hospitality over the days to come.
I would have to cycle another 10 km before arriving at Andrea's sprawling and fashionably ramshackle house in the suburb of Meerbusch. Both she and her husband were lawyers, and they took anglophilism to a new level. Not only were they both fluent speakers of English, but also great fans of most things British to such a point that I wondered whether they'd never visited the country, just observed it from afar via Downton Abbey.
All four of their children – very evenly spaced out and in strict rotation of boy, girl, boy, girl (that's taking German organisation to a whole new level) – had spent the final two years of their secondary education at a private sixth form college in Lincolnshire. When the kids had been younger, however, Andrea and Matthias had taken the family cycling in Denmark, Sweden and Norway, and this was clearly a mine of information for me to plunder. The evening was spent consulting maps, looking at old photos and trying to remember their top tips.
Come the morning, I felt somewhat better prepared for cycling north of the German border. That was still more than a week away. In the meantime, I would continue to cycle along the Rhine as far as Duisburg and then head in a north-easterly direction towards Münster, hoping to stumble upon somewhere convenient to stop over on the way. And in terms of the cycling infrastructure, North Rhine-Westphalia was about to show me her better side.
This started almost immediately, just north of Meerbusch, where I was able to cycle along the levees of the Rhine, before ascending to a high bridge via a corkscrew incline that was for the exclusive use of bicycles (and the unicycle which overtook me mid-screw). It was impressive stuff for the first 30 minutes of the day.
Once back on the eastern side of the river, I continued to follow the Rheinradweg 15 signs until they started to escape from view near central Duisburg and I began my search for the Ruhr. I knew that as soon as I crossed it, I needed to make a right turn towards Münster but was conscious that the Ruhr itself headed south rather abruptly. I was pinning my hopes upon fi
nding a cycle route adjacent to the Rhine–Herne Canal. The canal and the river ran shoulder to shoulder for a few kilometres after splitting from the Rhine but in such an industrialised urban area it was far from easy to decide which bit of water belonged to which river or canal and after which bridge I should start heading east.
I crossed an unmarked waterway near Oberhausen but then for 10 km didn't spot so much as a puddle. It wasn't until after nearly 40 km that I found what was unmistakably a canal – the Rhine–Herne Canal – and was able to descend from one of its high bridges, and move away from the road and onto the cycling-friendly towpath. I knew that the canal continued as far as Münster and that if I followed it, I would get there too.
Such was the apparent modernity of the canal that, for a few moments, I laboured under the rather delusional impression that it might have been built to celebrate my arrival. Alas, it hadn't (it had been built between 1906 and 1914, and widened in the 1980s) but even taking German engineering standards into consideration, it was impossible not to be impressed by its new bridges, smart pumping stations and one section that had been raised majestically above the farmland which it spanned.
Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie Page 13
