Now a firm annual adventure, part IV of the St Petersburg to Lisbon cycle trip set off from Hamburg, destination Copenhagen. Three days to set aside what remained of Germany and make inroads into Scandinavia via just under 380 km of road and track.
HAMBURG AND OUT
Dave and I had flown in from London mid-afternoon, arriving
just before Uwe who had taken the train from Rostock. We had convened a night
early to celebrate Dave’s birthday and were in the mood for a few drinks,
though perhaps not quite the level of carnage which adorned our last night here
after the Dortmund to Hamburg cycle (I am still scarred). No Reeperbahn this
time! Instead we stayed around the corner in gritty, yet enticing Schanzenviertel
are of St Pauli.
To most of the world Germans are famed for being straight
laced and efficient. From my own encounters and experiences I can’t deny this
strong part of the national character, but think that, at least in the big
cities, it is counterbalanced nicely by an edgy grungy counter-culture which
the Germans do so well. Graffiti, dreads, beats, off the scale art work and
anti-establishmentarianism. Put it all together in an area like St Pauli and it
is undeniably cool. Needless to say we had a good night, starting out at the
best fish and chips place I have ever been to, before milling about from one
bar to another, sipping down the beer and caipirinha and soaking up the atmosphere.
Generally getting in the mood for the trip ahead.
A little too in the mood as it happened… I woke at 6am to
run to the toilet and said hello to second hand caipirinhas. We did not even
drink that much! Age and overly-acidy drinks had clearly caught up with me and
I spent the next couple of hours feeling distinctly sorry for myself. The
sensation of fresh lycra, talcum-powder and vaseline did not help (the daily
pre-cycling routine I will have you know) and as my bum nestled onto the seat
of the old trusty bike, I felt terrible.
Fortunately the first part of our cycle took us less than
500m to a bakery where a session of strong coffee, juice, chocolate milkshake,
croissant and unidentified baked goods set us back on the right course.
Efficient as ever, it was half ten by the time we set off proper. I for one was
though feeling markedly better. As we weaved our way through the streets of
central Hamburg, the caffeine, adrenaline and excitement at the journey ahead
merged to elate and have me positively bouncing along past canals, churches and
a series of lakes dotted with small sailing craft. Then to more canals and
grand residential streets, guided by my compass and a vague heading of Lübeck
(well at least north-east’ish).
It was a surprisingly pretty start to our ride, especially
given the industrialised ugliness that had greeted us when first entering the
city from the south on our previous cycle trip into Hamburg. The city is though
huge, and within 40 minutes the distractions of the centre had given way to
seemingly endless bland suburbs. On and on as the hangover trickled back in and
the sky greyed over. An hour or so of relative drudgery later we finally broke
out into a semblance of countryside and tried to work out where we were.
Our swivelling guess at a north-easterly heading on winding
suburban roads had taken us out further south than we had hoped. The
disadvantage of additional distance was more than counterbalanced by stumbling
across a rather exquisite 16th century castle at Ahrenburg. An
uninspiring landscape was lit up by a whitewashed multi-storey block of
fortification rising from a moat. I pedalled off in its vicinity, with Dave and
Uwe close behind. Quite fittingly it turned out to be a castle originating from
Danish aristocracy. A sign informed me that nearly all of our journey to
Copenhagen was once part of greater Denmark (even though a good half of it is
in modern day Germany).
Cycling on, we passed through fields and small towns through
the early afternoon. Against the odds the heavens had not opened up, leaving us
in good spirits which were further lifted by the inevitable pit-stop for sugar
fuel and some medicinal Jaeger. We flew along and were soon on the outskirts of
our first major destination, Lübeck.
Having passed the city sign, we were pelting down a hill on
the outskirts when I screwed up. Lapping up the smooth cycle path with greed, I
was positively zooming past other cyclists when I made the mistake of running
20 cm wider than intended and touched my front wheel on to the soft leaf strewn
turf which ran beside the path. Most cyclists will know with dread the
sensation of losing control. The wheels take on a mind of their own, ignoring
the breaks and veering on their divergent paths. Attempts to control the skid
inevitably make it worse and before you know it the bike is crashing sideways
and you are left with little option but to jump. Jump I most certainly did, transferring
into an early Man U era Ronaldo multi-barrel-role and, to my surprise, out onto
my feet. Adrenaline pumping, my thoughts quickly shifted from survival via
embarrassment at the fall to marginally compensating pride at ending back on my
feet. I then snapped out of the self-reflection to tend on the elderly German
gentlemen who had to skid stop as a result of my mild calamity. He was not
overly impressed, but was OK and seemed to take on board my half-German
apologies before peddling off in a bit of a huff.
Checking myself over I was relieved to find nothing more
than the odd bruise, minor scrape and a disconcerting cracking of my left wrist
every time I turned it. As this was not accompanied by pain, I chose to ignore
it. We had the best part of 3 days cycle ahead of us after all. The bike was a
little scratched, but not in obviously damaged condition. Gingerly jumping back
on, I followed the others down the remainder of the slope and into the historic
German city.
LÜBECK
Once capital of the mighty Hanseatic League which effectively
ruled the Baltic in 14th century, Lübeck is a beautiful city blessed
with a grand legacy from its past. Entering through the gothic Holsten Gate and
over the river Trave, the towers of churches and cathedral punctuate the sky
above the old town. Despite the trickle of rain, it really was a delightful
place. We meandered our way past medieval streets, up through the more modern
commercial centre and ended up in the main square. Time for the first wurst of
the trip. Just the ticket!
As usual, setting off late meant we couldn’t linger too long
on route, but we had just enough time to visit St Mary’s church with its
searing twin towers and cracked bell. A chilling reminder of European
self-destruction, an Allied WWII bomb damaged the cathedral and sent one of the
giant bells hurtling down from one of the high towers. It crashed into the
ground splintering as it gauged out the earth. Today it lies as it fell in 1942.
There was also just about enough time for a beer… An almost
overly-friendly buxom middle-aged German bar lady let us wheel our soaking
bikes and kit into her narrow old fashioned bar. She clearly found us amusing.
I digged the 80’s big hair rock on the radio. The beer was good as always.
The rain having slightly abated we jumped back on the
saddles. The day quickly running by we decided to head to the Baltic coast by
the most direct route, straight up. It was mid-afternoon and we still had half
the day’s distance to pedal.
THE BALTIC
Out of the city and through more greenery, we cycled for an
hour or so via Bad Schwartau - I don’t recall anything of the town but the name
just stuck - fields and then the sea. The Baltic conjures up images of
ice-strewn channels, wind, cold and fjords. If we are to make it to St Petersburg
we will circumnavigate half of the sea via Denmark (imminently), Sweden,
Finland and Russia (god know when). Our first sight came at Timmendorfer Strand.
Startling. Special. Unexpected. We waddled – disembarking
from a long cycle you always waddle – across the boardwalk and onto the powder
white sand. This picture-perfect beach stretched into the distance on both
sides. Neat German buildings fronting small grass-tufted dunes, the beach and
then the blue sea.
Apart from its beauty, the other stand out feature were
hundreds of what looked like large hooded wicker chairs. On closer inspection,
this description did not do justice to a quintessential German invention. Scattered
across German beaches since 1882, Strandkorb (literally beach basket) are a
product of the co-mingling of the deck chair and beach hut to produce something
of pure practicality and a sort after dollop of privacy. Carefully designed to
shelter from sun and wind, (the latter being a bigger problem in the Baltic),
Strandkorb include comfortable cushions, easy-boy type adjustable foot-rests,
airline type fold away tray tables and ample storage space. Past their heyday
but carefully preserved, they are items of local pride and are largely
frequented by older members of society.
The sun had burst out and we decided to push on to Neustadt
our absolute minimum end point for the day. It was a lovely ride. The smooth
road followed the beach-line and, via a bridge over a river, led us to the
small old port. Our luck was in. As it just so happened, the river front was
adorned with a brauhaus. Time for strong, cold local beer and herring in the
late afternoon sun. Perfect.
With our spirits when and truly up, we all agreed we had a
few more km in the legs and carried on to the north on the beach side road.
Another 45 minutes and we would make it to the upmarket seaside resort of Grӧmitz
and, with a bit of luck, to a bed for the night.
By the time we made it to the town we had travelled nearly 120
km, the legs were starting to feel it and the sun was sinking low. We popped
into the first hotel we saw and asked for a room. No rooms. Where do you
recommend? A response of no rooms in town accompanied by a bewilderment at why
on earth people would ask or expect to obtain a room at such short notice in
high season. It clearly was not the done thing in these parts. It is Germany
after all.
We asked in another hotel. Same answer. We asked in a bar.
Same answer, accompanied by confused laughter. Bugger. In a stick or twist
scenario, we chose to twist. A couple of km up the coast were some campsites
and, if that failed, a final flip of the coin at a smaller town 10 km to the
north.
No luck at the campsites where we were greeted with friendly
signs of “No reservations after 1800”. There went my dream of adding caravan to
the lengthening list of accommodation on the route (boats, hostels, prisons,
floors, B&Bs etc.).
We were getting desperate and the sun was setting as it
dawned on us that we might be sleeping rough. Still surrounded by lovely scenery,
we took a “short-cut” along a coast edge path. A thin, wobbling dirt track
which went over dunes, fields and then into a wood. Something appealed to me
about dodging roots in the dark in a Baltic forest. Well past 9 pm it was
getting quite comic.
Finally we arrived at Kellenhusen. We asked at the first
hotel. No luck and the same bewildered looks. We asked at another. No rooms,
but a glimmer of hope. A friend down the road had a place that might just have
a room. We rushed across town and in the pitch dark arrived at a plush yet
homely small hotel. A lovely lady greeted us with the even more lovely news
that they had two single rooms. One of us would get the floor, but who gave a
damn. We had shelter!
It had been quite a day and I
soaked up our post-clean up walk along the sea front. A huge helping of
pizza,
a beer and we were off to bed.
THE END OF GERMANY
After a calorie fuelled German breakfast, with talcum powder,
vaseline and lycra in place, we were off again for our final stint in Germany.
Veering inland, we pressed ahead at good speed throughout
the morning, passing pretty countryside as we went. Despite our rather
freestyle approach to navigation, we made it to Hellingenharfen in good time.
Our last meaningful stop in Germany, we stocked up on German baked goods (to be
missed on the rest of this journey) and loitered on the twee high-street of
this tourist town. Away and over the sea bridge to the isle of Fehmarn. We had
left continental Europe and had one small island and a short ferry between us
and Scandinavia.
Wind turbines littered the landscape to both sides as we
detoured off the main roads. A small village or two later our approach to the
port was heralded by the onset of ugly industrial buildings and cheap hotels.
Appreciating the wonders of free movement of people within the EU we pedalled
through customs and straight on to the waiting ro-ro ferry, at least in my
case, singing as I went.
After a combined 7 days on the saddle across Germany via
some 700 km, dozens of differing towns, villages and cities, the Rhine, the Weser
and the Elber, a prison and castle, wurst and beer, we were on to the next
country. We parked the bikes and went on deck to sip a beer and try to sight
Denmark!
