Eventually, I was required to break away from the canal and head in the direction of some accommodation. Mention of the Ruhr valley conjured up images of a bleak post-industrial landscape but with gas holders painted with bright red polka dots here, not unattractive public spaces created around disused mine workings there and a former railway line converted into a high-quality greenway linking much of everything together, I was beginning to redefine my preconceptions.
The campsite that I had discovered via an internet search was near the town of Datteln and I asked Google Maps to direct me. I was a little suspicious at being led along ever darker and more remote forest tracks but then I spotted the unmistakable signs of a campsite. The owner, as cheerful as he was youthful, broke the bad news that it was full – there was a music festival taking place nearby – but that wasn't a problem for one small tent. Ich liebe Deutschland! That said, there was little evidence of the festival taking place and my night of slumber was only interrupted by the usual suspects – notably the lack of a sprung mattress – rather than anything musical.
The following morning I continued my cycle along the canals. Despite some comically dreadful weather that nearly blew me into the water, I arrived in Münster after a modest 55 km of cycling, chose a city-centre café, ordered a coffee, and watched the hailstones fire down upon Reggie and the rather alarmed population of the city.
Münster would be the second German night of WarmShowers accommodation, albeit with a twist. I met Dirk outside the hospital where he worked as a lab technician. We had exchanged several messages and he had explained that I would be staying in 'the house in the large garden'. I had wondered what this might be. A palatial granny annexe surrounded by lush vegetation and sumptuously furnished, albeit to the tastes of an octogenarian? I could live with the decor for just one night.
It turned out that the Germans like their allotments just as much as the British and Dirk had one close to the hospital. I was given a guided tour of the plants, the rabbit-proof fencing, the ornaments… I could sense where this might be going… the shed.
The interior of the shed was comfortable, with a chair, table, wardrobe... break it to me gently, Dirk… and a sofa bed.
'So Andrew, you will sleep here,' announced Dirk.
'Fantastic,' I lied.
The prospect of sleeping in a shed on an allotment was made somewhat more appealing by Dirk's fondness for beer. He lived nearby with his girlfriend Anita and en route back to his flat we paused at the local supermarket to fill up the trailer of his bike with bottles of the local Münster brew.
It was to be a relaxed evening of light-hearted, congenial conversation that only confirmed just how similar the British and the Germans are in terms of their outlooks on life. It was interesting listening to Dirk and Anita talk about their own big cycle trip from Alaska to Panama, a ride of more than 10,000 km over ten months. I couldn't help but feel envious that they had been able to spread the journey across such a long period of time.
At the end of the evening, Dirk escorted me back to 'the house in the large garden'. You would think that spending the night in a shed was far preferable to spending a night in a tent, and in terms of comfort, it was. Alas, my ears were on edge, listening for the tell-tale scratchings of mice (or worse) and although I never heard them, the worry did keep my mind far too active for sleep to kick in in any meaningful way. In the tent, as long as I didn't suspect that the scratchings were man-made, it was comforting to hear the gentle movements of wildlife outside. Whatever creature was out there, it was unlikely that gnawing through the material of my tent was the most appealing option for dinner.
Dirk had given clear instructions for the morning. It was a Sunday and I was happy to get going without him needing to travel down to the allotment. Locking up behind me and leaving the key under a gnome, I headed back into the centre of Münster to pay homage to a famous poster.
The poster in question was created in 1991 by the municipal council of Münster in an attempt to boost public support for increased spending on cycling facilities and public transport. It consisted of three photographs of the same city street and became rather iconic. Each photograph had been taken from a high vantage point and showed how much space was taken up by 60 people when they travel. In the first, the street was crammed with 60 cars; in the second a bus was the only vehicle and in the third, the 60 people were each on a bicycle. The message was clear but, for those who were struggling, above the photographs it stated: 'Space required to transport 60 people.' Its beauty was in its simplicity.
The distinctive shape of the buildings along the street and its cobbled surface were sufficient clues for me to correctly identify the location used as the Prinzipalmarkt. I found the spot from which the images had been taken but my position lacked one thing: height. Behind me was the tower of the Lambertikirche and the photographs must have been taken from somewhere in its steeple.
The experience reminded me of visiting the site of the Battle of Waterloo; I was there because of what it represented rather than what I could see. It was just another pretty cobbled street, in the same way that back in Belgium it had been just another pretty field of corn. How strange the human condition that we find satisfaction in visiting places not for what they are now but for what took place there many years before.
THE SEVENTEENTH DEGREE
52°–53° NORTH
31 May–1 June
For most of the first 15 km of the cycle from Münster I cycled alongside the Dortmund–Ems Canal, another industrial giant of a waterway with Victorian (well, Wilhelm II for the pedants) origins and not a quaint hand-operated lock or flower-decorated narrow barge in sight. Just as the Rhine–Herne Canal on the previous day, this was a very twenty-first-century canal, capable of feeding the inland industrial requirements of the mighty German economy and then transporting its not inconsiderable output back to the container ships on the coast.
Dirk, however, had recommended that I take in Tecklenburg, a small town at the top of a hill en route to Osnabrück, so I peeled away from the towpath to find it. After such a long period of cycling on the flat, the required steep climb to 200 metres was sufficient to provoke mild altitude sickness, but the recommendation had been well placed. Tecklenburg delivered in most respects as a small German hilltop town: higgledy-piggledy timber-framed houses clustered around a cobbled square with a fountain and freshly hoisted Maibaum at its centre. There was a relaxed Sunday morning atmosphere and for an hour or so I drank coffee and listened to a succession of traditional Germanic tunes, courtesy of the local brass band and its generously lunged operatic singer. The musicians of the Noorkerländer Kapel were smartly co-ordinated in their black trousers, white shirts and bright red waistcoats, but they weren't the only ones to have dressed up to coincide with my arrival.
I was surrounded in the square by several cycling groups. Each consisted of about four or five men and although they all had different expensive-looking racing bikes, every member of each group was wearing a perfectly co-ordinated cycling outfit: the same shoes, socks, Lycra leggings and tight-fitting shirt emblazoned with the name of a company who probably wasn't sponsoring them. There were no suggestions of any race taking place; they were simply weekend enthusiasts out for a ride. But the care and attention each group must have taken to decide upon a distinctive 'look' for its members was commendable. There was no intergroup fraternisation and as I watched the various huddles sip their espressos, I wondered if I had inadvertently stumbled upon a stand-off of rival Münsterland cycling gangs. One false move of a pump and it might all kick off. As the Noorkerländer Kapel's vocalist hit some alarmingly high notes for a Sunday morning, this stranger in town shuffled off over the cobbles, lest he be hit in the crossfire of compressed air. My own 'look' was decidedly less co-ordinated, the cold morning requiring functionality over fashion.
The first large town in Lower Saxony was Osnabrück. It was now mid-Sunday afternoon and the streets were quiet, the shops closed, the traffic approaching non-existent
and the people at home being happy. I knew this, as my guidebook told me that in a nationwide poll, the citizens of Osnabrück had been declared the most content with their lives. How did you measure such a thing?
'Excuse me. Are you content with life?'
'Yes.'
'Thanks.'
I stared intently at the few people who passed by. They didn't appear to be deliriously happy with their lot in life but neither did they look particularly hard done by. Further research into the minds of the Osnabrückers was required and perhaps I could conduct it at the out-of-town campsite.
Campingplatz Niedersachsenhof was deserted; I wondered whether another RAF-induced evacuation had taken place. I loitered around the reception area for a while, pondering my options. Much of the site was hidden beyond hedges and trees but from what I could see, it had many of the unwelcoming charms of the Montargis 'wild camping' place back in France, albeit with fewer prostitutes or dodgy young men.
I went online and discovered a reasonably priced hotel option a few kilometres further north but as my finger hovered over the 'book now' button, a man appeared and asked if I was planning to stay the night. He wasn't one of the happy folk of Osnabrück; my finger touched the screen, I made my excuses and cycled off in the direction of the Landgasthaus Kortlüke.
The employees of the Gasthaus were a happiness researcher's dream. Even the prospect of washing my somewhat soiled clothes didn't faze them in the slightest and, once laundered, they were delivered to my room with a smile. In the meantime, I had been lying on the floor, somewhat minimally dressed, perusing the map and my onward journey to Bremen. It being a large city that I had never previously visited, I planned to take a day off and explore on Tuesday. Monday would be spent cycling the 100 plus kilometres to the campsite to the north of the centre of Bremen. My eyes scanned the towns and villages through which I might pass: Venne, Diepholz, Twistringen, Bassum… Syke. Syke! There was a town in Germany only one consonant short of being my surname. Goodness.
Syke. Home to the Syke people, or the Sykes? I was a little unsure of the linguistics but I wasn't going to let that prevent me from cycling into town, seeking out the Rathaus and announcing that I had returned home.
Suddenly, a suspected day of inconsequential cycling across lower Lower Saxony had been transformed. The following morning I was up early and eagerly demolished the buffet breakfast. I wondered if the other guests could sense my excitement.
'Excuse me. Are you excited?'
'Yes!'
The flat terrain allowed me to pick up considerable speed and by midday I was in Diepholz. It was interesting to note on a roadside information panel that the D7 cycling route also passed through the town. The D7 was subtitled the Pilgerroute, or the 'pilgrims' route'. There was no mention of EuroVelo 3, the long-distance route I had been following in my idiosyncratic way since northern Spain, but that too was called 'the pilgrims' route'. I could only guess that I was indeed following the European route as it continued to piggyback upon national and regional ones in the direction of Trondheim in Norway. And to think my ancestral home was on that very same route! Amazing.
The path continued to be as flat as a Wiener Schnitzel and I was soon starting to see unnecessarily precise cycling signage for Syke: 40.9 km, 24.3 km, 7.9 km… And then the moment itself, on the Bassumer Landstraße, a blue sign:
SYKE
Partner in Europa
It was good to see that my 'hometown' had also embraced all things European. Yet another thing to bind us together.
With a smile on my face, I slowly cycled into the centre of Syke; every mention of the name made me grin even more broadly. 'Herzlich willkommen in Syke', 'Stadt Syke', 'Gymnasium Syke'... And then into the town centre itself. 'Syker Mangelstube', 'Syker Bierhaus'... I was desperate to find a reference to 'Sykes'. Never had I regretted more not having a black marker pen in my pocket.
Alas, the real Syke wasn't meeting my high expectations and the smile on my face was beginning to wither a little. This was no Tecklenburg. The streets weren't as well kept; the buildings looked somewhat less photogenic and the shops a tad more functional… My ancestral home appeared to be home to a large number of €1 outlets, although T€Di Top Euro Discount had expanded into the 5€ market with its range of colourful 'Tupperware' and plastic sandals.
Where was the magnificent central Marktplatz, medieval Rathaus and my ancestral coat of arms?
I eventually found the central square but it displayed all the architectural merits of the 1970s rather than the fifteenth century. At its heart was an interactive steel water feature that wouldn't have looked out of place in a children's playground. It had been built upon modern cobbles that were now home to a collection of weeds and fag ends. No town hall that I could see. No coat of arms that I could adopt.
Undeterred, I was keen to find someone in authority to whom I could report my arrival. I continued to cycle through the centre and towards the western edge of the town. I wondered how the people of Syke might have fared in the great German survey of happiness.
'Excuse me. Are you content with life?'
'Well, I stack fake five euro Tupperware at T€Di Top Euro Discount and I wish my kids would keep away from that filthy water feature in the main square…'
Then, leaning on a railing beside the smart McDonald's McCafé and McDrive (by far the most impressive building I had seen in Syke up to that point), I spotted two police officers. Both looked very authoritative in their all-black uniforms. They would have to do.
'Excuse me. Are you content with life?'
Sorry… Wrong question.
'Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me...'
It had seemed like a good idea up until the moment I opened my mouth. How would they interpret my decision to visit Syke based simply upon the similarity of my surname? They were armed.
'My name is Sykes… It's Syke, with an s on the end.'
'OK,' the female officer responded, hesitantly. Her name was Sandra and she spoke good English. Her colleague Olaf didn't.
'I thought perhaps there might be a connection.'
'OK, interesting. I don't know,' replied a rather bemused-looking Sandra before she turned to Olaf and told him to get back-up, quick.
'I don't come from Syke – it's pronounced Zyke in German – but Olaf does. He was born here.'
At this point a short exchange took place between Sandra and Olaf.
'Look Sandra, love, just get rid of him. I've met these Sykes idiots from England before. They come over here with their permanent marker pens and cause all kinds of damage. "Syke" refers to the bottom of a valley I think,' explained Olaf, perhaps, in German.
'Olaf says that "Syke" refers to the bottom of a valley,' explained Sandra.
What about the rest?
'What can you tell me about the town?' I asked.
'Well, about forty-five thousand people live here; there's not much industry and most people work in Bremen,' she went on.
'Where can I buy a permanent marker pen?'
I took their photograph just to prove that I had spoken to someone in authority in my ancestral home. Whatever its lack of physical beauty, I guessed that Syke wasn't a hotbed of criminality in Lower Saxony and that I hadn't distracted them too much from their crime-fighting duties. I left them to continue the vital job of leaning against the railing and looking important.
I thought that that would be that with Syke, but not quite. My conversation with Sandra and Olaf had taken place beside the main road to Bremen and, after a wander around a bike shop for no good reason other than it being a bike shop, I set off north. Within a few minutes, I noticed a monument by the side of the road under some trees. Written beneath the bronze silhouette of a soldier were the following words:
HIER
LAGERTEN DIE SCHWARZEN
UNTER
FRIED. WILHELM
v. BRAUNSCHWEIG_OELS
AM 5. AUGUST 1809
'Here camped the Blacks of Frederick William of Brunswick and O
els.' 'The Blacks' referred to his soldiers, the Black Brunswickers, famous for wearing all-black uniforms. Perhaps Sandra and Olaf hadn't been in the police after all.
There was also a small plaque on the ground. One word caught my eye: Großbritannien or Great Britain. A connection between Syke and Sykes after all? I carefully pieced together the meaning of the rest of the text.
On 5 August the Duke and his troops rested here… The fight against Napoleon's troops… had failed. When the troops reached Syke safely, they only had one aim: escape to secure Britain.
Could it be that they had taken a small brethren of locals to Great Britain with them and a colony of these people had created the dynasty of Sykes?
Of course not. Onwards…
THE EIGHTEENTH DEGREE
53°–54° NORTH
1–7 June
No one has ever made a movie called The Hanseatic League, but they should. Conflict, intrigue, espionage, adventure… A Hans Zimmer score? It has Oscar success written all over it. Mr Spielberg?
Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie Page 14
