Westwards

Countryside, South – North

Moving on slow trains from South to North, we encounter a lot of countryside – not always voluntarily.

(For more photos from Germany, click here: May/June 2007  May 2008  August/September 2008  October / November 2008  August 2009 October 2009)

After a number of unmotivated stops, our train comes to a halt in Uffenheim. Three people disembark. The train does not move. The conductor, a stout man with a red puzzle piece on his lapel and a name badge (P. Roth), is walking up and down the train talking into his phone. “Will you send one?” Finally, he decides to tell us that we are standing still. “Thank you for your patience.” Another ten minutes later, he returns to the microphone for a new announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please … An important announcement! Errr… I guess we’ll have to wait for a new locomotive.”

The about 80 passengers have to leave the train and wait behind the station building, because the platforms in Uffenheim are too dangerous to stand while faster trains are passing through. The graffitied waiting room is completely empty except for a waste separation box, and outside the station, no town is to be seen. Two women browse through the leaflets in the room where the ticket window used to be. “Your mobility is close to our heart,” they read out and send everybody laughing hysterically. An hour later the next regular train arrives, and Mr. Roth, now wearing an orange safety vest, leads us all to platform 4. The other train is still standing on platform 3.

"The doors on your right will open. We wish all our guests a pleasant onward journey." A week later, the Metronom to Uelzen arrives punctually and leaves a crowd of passengers on the platform waiting for their connection 15 minutes later. This time, the non-smokers at least would have happily accepted a short delay and less time to spend on the windy, if Hundertwasser-designed platform. But this is where Northern Germany clearly beats the South, usually so smug about their efficiency and competence: The Metronom is not only punctual; the trains also offer snack vending machines and regular seats for commuters, and the staff treat travelers as customers.

 At least this area of the North has better weather, too: with a lot of wind but much sunshine, too. The first frost is on the grass, and Thorsten is earnestly checking whether all his hens are scratching for snacks. They are the veterans – Polly and her friends, last year’s newcomers, have all died this summer. Meanwhile Esmerald the gander is devouring the leftovers from their regular food, the floury stuff that the chickens don’t like. This happens to be the power part of the power food they need because they are still programmed to lay too many eggs.  No wonder then that Esmerald is strutting over the pasture as if the Metronom had been his idea.

Hiking the Zugspitze

Hiking up to the top of the Zugspitze from the German side and back down to the Austrian side took us three days. At 2962 meters, the Zugspitze is Germany’s highest mountain.

(For more photos from Germany, click here: May/June 2007  May 2008  August/September 2008  October / November 2008  August 2009)

Day One

A string of coloured flags is fluttering across the Partnach stream. Hikers and mountain bikers step gingerly into the ice-cold water of the stream to cool their feet, or down huge glasses of beer and Apfelschorle (apple juice with mineral water) to cool their heads while a helicopter is delivering fresh supplies to the Angerhütte.

Sherpa Gyalzen has been working on the hut every summer since the 1990s and brought a touch of Nepal into the Bavarian Alps. This evening, the hut's manager plays the dulcimer for the guests. There is not much to do on a mountain hut except for music, beer and cards. Around 10 pm everybody retires to the dormitories. It was a fine sunny day and thus the hut is quite crowded, two people on each mattress.

Day Two

“It's not far now!” The cheerful elderly lady smiles encouragingly at every hiker walking up. “Downhill, I've been walking seven minutes now!” Indeed, ten minutes later, the Knorr Mountain Hut comes into view. After a short break we continue, still facing a few hours more of uphill walking. Beyond a field of gravel on one of the many rocky outcrops around us, we spot a modern building. “But where is the Zugspitze?” Natascha complains. “We should be able to see it by now.” The modern building turns out to be a large platform with the Munich House, Germany’s highest mountain hut, a few fast food cafeterias and summit souvenir shops, and a German as well as an Austrian ropeway station. Everybody seems to be busy on the cell phone, calling Mom and Dad and friends to tell them where they are right now.  Then, they have a beer and take the ropeway down.

Day Three

“Republic of Austria,” a metal sign behind the wire-fence declares. At the Gatterl, about 2000 meters high and opposite the Knorr Hut, the German-Austrian border is marked by a proper gate. Perhaps it's only to prevent the cows from changing sides. The rolling green mountain pastures on the southern side of the mountain range seem impressively Tyrolean to us. A couple of middle-aged Nordic Walkers walk briskly past a small pest chapel. Both have taken off their shirts, and she is walking in an XL-sized dark blue laced brassiere. A group of senior citizens push their rented mountain bikes uphill. The Austrian village of Ehrwald can’t be far away.

Brass band and beer at Lake Kochel

In Kochel, a small Bavarian town in the foothills of the Alps, the summer festival on Assumption Day is still a major event: in the church and at the lake.

(For more Germany photos, click here: May/June 2007  May 2008  August/September 2008  October / November 2008  August 2009)

“Oh Jesus Christ, please protect us from lightning, hail and storm.” The small church is hazy with incense and full of locals in their best dress: Women in dirndls and small black felt hats pinned to their carefully wound buns, and men in lederhosn und loden jackets. They hold pointed hats with feathers and flowers stuck in their hatbands, and some have brought old weapons. The flails, guns, halberds and morning stars commemorate a local revolt against Austrian rule in 1704. The women have brought bunches of flowers and herbs to be consecrated. “There should be more herbs in it,” a woman in full traditional costume admits. “I just took what I had ready to hand: rosemary, basil, valerian, chamomile, chives, …” With that, she sticks a small blue flower to Isa’s bicycle “It will protect you from traffic accidents!”

In the evening, everyone gathers at the lake for the local summer festival. An old man in full costume is stumbling away, having apparently gone through a few Mass (each is about 1 liter) of beer since the morning. Benches and a dancing stage are put up, a brass band in traditional costume plays, and young locals sell grilled fish, grilled pork’s neck and cakes baked by the Kochel housewives.

 “Do you know the area?” The bikers we meet on a gravelly forest path halfway up to the 1731 m high Herzogstand have lost their way. “We were looking for the path along the lake.” Luckily for them, we do know most of the paths in the area by now, having spent several days on various sectors of the sports climbing area around Kochel. Most of the climbing walls are situated deep in the mountainous forests above Lake Kochel, but the approach is worth it: Nice rough limestone with some easier vertical routes, much less slippery than we had expected in a popular climbing area, and with well-positioned bolts.

Chicken on the Run - A new life for Polly

(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

Click to stop (or restart) the noise

The newbies duck in a dark corner, acutely aware that they are the lowest in the pecking order. They arrived this morning. At first they trod gingerly in the garden, nervous but also relieved to have escaped the night’s raid.

When we brought them in with the others, they knew that more trials were awaiting them. The other hens have been living here for over a year. They look fat and healthy, and they take their privileges for granted. Usually they can swarm out not only around the garden but all over the farm, picking worms and exploring sheds and thickets. Today they are suddenly locked into the shed with these fearful invaders, small terrified hens whose bare flesh shows clearly between some rumpled feathers that have remained.

Outside, beyond the garden fence, huge tractors and carts move noisily over the farm, bringing loads of new potatoes. The potato harvest has been going on for several weeks, but it is only these days that the barn opposite is being used. A handful of helpers line the conveyor belts, picking out green, small, mouldy, or weirdly shaped potatoes. The remainder is carried up into wooden boxes on the second floor of the barn. The roar hanging over the scene comes from a huge fan installed there so that the new potatoes can dry a bit more, to prevent them from rotting.

When one of the new hens, which looks almost normal apart from its almost white crest, dares to come nearer, the others peck vigorously at her. Even Gwendolyn, heavy but shy, joins in. Until yesterday it used to be her who was mobbed. In fact, Gwendolyn and the other established hens all looked similarly bare when they arrived a year ago. We propose Polyester as a fitting name for one of the four new chicken that looks only half-plucked. Polly will have to start working on her outfit before the winter sets in.

The hectic work outside intensifies. It is the last day of the potato harvest. We go to visit the workers out on the field, where a huge red machine ploughs up and down the land. Irritated, the driver waves us to hurry up to the second floor. A team of five is busy throwing out stones and twigs from between the potatoes that the machine is digging up and transporting to the top. After this first sorting, they fall into a crate.

“Say, if we have 350 acres, and on each acre we harvest about – no, that should be hectares. How many hundredweights per hectare, do you reckon?” Karl, the owner of the potato rooter, gets entangled in his numbers and traditional measures. “I think we do about 40 tons per day” he concludes finally when we climb down from the iron dinosaur.

The next day, when we open the flap to the outside world, the old chicken team sets out into the garden. Thorsten, the rooster, crows energetically, and soon the hens are at work frightening the local worms. The newcomers stay in, but at least they get some food and some rest, and they start laying eggs as soon as they can grab a seat. After all, that’s what they have been bred to do, and they can’t help laying an egg at least every other day. Although they are survivors from an organic farm, the hens are genetically programmed to produce more eggs than their bodies can manage even with the high-tech power food they are fed. Huge group numbers and a lack of space add to their stress. After a year or two, when their productivity drops below market requirements, the whole stable is cleaned out and the hens are taken away to be made into chicken stock. Polly and her friends have managed to hide somewhere during the evacuation. Thus they have earned their ticket to this refuge opposite the potato barn. H., the friend for whom we are house-sitting, offers them a Retirement Residence without egg-laying pressure. “Just because it’s so nice to see them run around.”

Congratulations, Polly: Lifelong Learning means that you will soon figure out what a worm is.

Oktoberfest for Beginners

(Click here for more Germany photos: May 2007, May 2008, August/September 2008, October 2008)

“It seems you have almonds, over there.” Andre belches and leans over to view the end of the bench. “What was your name again?” he adds clumsily. But the girl in the lilac mini-dirndl isn’t keen on sharing her roasted Caipirinha almonds, let alone a conversation. “That’s a false impression,” she shrugs and continues munching. It is half past eleven, the world’s biggest fun-fair, the Munich Oktoberfest, has just closed for the day, and the local train is full of cheerful people who are tipsy but rather entertaining. 

Many of the young men are wearing traditional knee-long lederhosen, although some combine them with stylish white sneakers and cosy fleece sweaters.

In specialised Trachten shops all over Munich, the lederhosen are marked down already. Next to them glare flashy mini-dresses in pink and turquoise, with patterned blouses and many frills. They are certainly not traditional garments, but they resemble the classic dirndls just enough to create a stout Bavarian beery atmosphere. “So many people are wearing these fake dirndls,” we had commented to a Bavarian friend. “Fake? Oh, the ones with petticoats? They are called Wiesn dirndl, made especially for the Oktoberfest.”

For the weekend, S. and T. from Bochum are coming to visit the Oktoberfest. The idea of enjoying huge quantities of beer in large beer steins and riding merry-go-rounds seems rather strange to them. Even Isa, who has been to the Oktoberfest only once before, can almost feel like an insider. When we meet S. and T. at the station on Friday afternoon, some of the teenagers in lederhosen are already drunk. They are wearing them a couple of sizes too big and well below the groin. Never mind. S. is keen to taste the Bavarian beer and see a bit of Munich, and T. is toying with the idea of a roller coaster ride.

The Oktoberfest is held every year for 16 days - strangely in late September and only a few days in early October. The festivities date back to the wedding of Crown Prince Ludwig (later Ludwig I) and Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen in 1810. Originally, they organised a big horse race on the meadows outside town for the citizens of Munich. Apparently the crowds liked it and some sort of fair was repeated almost every year from then. From 1835 a parade has been added to the festivities, which today forms an important part of the Oktoberfest: Almost 8000 people in traditional costumes walk through the centre of Munich, to the fairgrounds on Theresienwiese. The traditional horse races, however, were discontinued after WW II. Today the Oktoberfest is still a highlight in the Munich citizens’ calendar, but many visitors come from other parts of Bavaria, Germany, and the world. “Italians!” a friend sighs. “But mind you, after a couple of those one-litre steins they don’t live up to the cliché…”

The next day we mingle with the Oktoberfest crowd. A bunch of giggling girls in turquoise gingham skirts jostles past us. Gingerbread hearts screaming „Darling“ or „I love you“ in sugar icing dangle at their hips like handbags. They are wearing neon-coloured wristbands. They are among the chosen. The chosen thousands, that is, who can still get entry into one of the 14 beer tents. For those who don’t have a reservation – like us – the tents remain closed. Inside there may be music and dance, roast pork and pretzel, beer and Oktoberfest atmosphere, but today they have been closed at least since 11 am due to overcrowding, and we can’t even get a glimpse inside. Outside, there is also beer, pretzels, and Oktoberfest atmosphere, but it’s raining. Dripping wet, T. returns from the roller coaster. He admits to having closed his eyes all through the loopings, but is nevertheless enthusiastic about the world’s biggest mobile rollercoaster. Like the other thousands of none-chosen, we resort to the fairground rides and the outdoor foodstalls: they offer all the Bavarian classics from roast pork to smoked mackerel and from Magenbrot to roasted almonds. Those are not simply caramelised – the stalls offer a wide choice of classic, vanilla and chocolate-strawberry almonds; but this year’s selling hit are the Caipirinha almonds.

Liquid bread in Germany

Lauter tuns in the Bavarian Brewery Museum in Kulmbach
(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

„We have the highest density of breweries in the world!“ Michael, our guide, takes regional pride in the area's beer culture. „Today there are around 1200 breweries in Germany, about half of them in Bavaria, and 204 of these are located in the region of Upper Franconia.“ The small village of Aufseß alone, with a population of around 240, boasts 4 breweries. We are on a tour of the old Maisel's brewery in Bayreuth. When the factory moved to new premises, the Maisel family decided to conserve the old production facilities as a museum for the public. Listed in the Guiness Book of Records as the most comprehensive brewery museum in the world, it shows the beer brewing process in goneby times. We follow Michael through the malt drying room to the mashing and lautering facilities, where an aromatic liquid is produced. In the fermenting room, finally yeast is added to the mixture. It is the yeast that metabolizes the malt sugar into alcohol, thus creating a first, raw form of beer. “Better not drink it,” our guide grins: “The young beer induces very strong bowel movements...” The fermentation process also produces carbon dioxid, and thus brewing could be a dangerous business – occasionally workers have passed out from the toxic gases. „But I haven't heard of anyone dying in the brewing process.“ Drinking, well, that's a different matter.
Like most German breweries, Maisel's uses only the ingredients authorised by the „Purity Law.“ The famous regulation, which was first formulated in 1516 in Bavaria and applied until the 1980s,  restricted the ingredients for beer brewing to water, malt, yeast and hop. The original sole use of barley was intended to prevent price competition with bakers for wheat and rye, but later, wheat malt was also accepted as an ingredient. Nevertheless, there are countless variations on the exact mixture and ratio of ingredients and their processing, resulting in dozens of different beers. 

Whereas some sort of grain (and often added sugar) were part of the brewing process since the earliest times of beer (around 3000 BC in ancient Mesopotamia), the hop was a later addition. It adds bitterness and flavour to the beer and became en vogue as a beer ingredient around the 14^th century. Only the unpollinated female hop is suited for brewing, and 30 grams are enough for flavouring about 38 litres of beer.

With the strong odour from the hop storage room still in our noses, we continue to the workshop. In the past, every brewery had its own barrel making facilities on the grounds. But the permeation of the flavour from the oak barrel into the liquid, so desirable for exquisite wines, has to be prevented in the case of beer. The inside of the barrels was therefore clad with pitch. In fact, today all beer barrels are made from steel, even those that have wooden planks on the outside for the benefit of traditionalist Oktoberfest visitors.

The last exhibition rooms show a wild mix of beer paraphernalia: 3,300 beer glasses and jugs and 400 rare enamel signs from various breweries and beer brands, as well as a collection of beer mats. After 2 hours of beer theory we are glad to sit down in the tasting room and have a well-earned Maisel's Hefeweizen. “Quite a twirl” a holidaymaker from the Rhineland region remarks appreciatively and starts a debate about Kölsch versus Hefeweizen. “Doesn't a a top-fermenting Kölsch taste rather similar to a bottom-fermenting Pils? “Rubbish,” a beer afficionado sitting next to us exclaims, “that is such a difference in taste!”

A little sugar in my bowl

The old Rosenthal factory building near Selb, today a porcelain museum
(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

„But how does the cavity get into the “Maria” sugar bowl, then?,“ smiles the attendant with the bleached 1980s haircut. She has just poured thin porcelain slip into a compact cast and is straining a bit to recite her little speech. „Oh yes, it took me ages until I figured out how it works,“ a petite woman with a mop of greying hair and stylish horn-rimmed glasses avidly agrees. Her two companions nod understandingly. The two men, apparently her husband and the father-in-law,  have been in the porcelain business for decades and today they are visiting the Rosenthal porcelain museum together to reinforce the new family member's knowledge of the production processes.

After a few minutes our guide checks the texture of the porcelain cream in the cast, swivels it one more time and then pours out most of the liquid. Triumphantly she shows us the hardened porcelain layer that has been left stuck to the walls of the cast. „The plaster of the cast dehumidifies the porcelain slip,“ she explains. „And thus only a thin wall of porcelain remains sticking to the cast.“ In an hour or so, the cast can be removed and the squarish Maria-design sugar bowl will be ready for firing – first at 900 degrees, and later, glazed, at 1400 degrees. During the firing process it shrinks by about 39%.

Rosenthal has been producing porcelain in Selb since 1891. The whole region had become a thriving centre of porcelain production after 1814 when Carolus Magnus Hutschenreuther discovered Kaolin here, one of the main ingredients for the elegant ceramic ware. For centuries, the production of porcelain had been a Chinese secret. Johann Friedrich Böttger “discovered” it in Europe at the beginning of the 18^th century. In the lowly developed agricultural region of Fichtelgebirge and Oberpfalz, porcelain painting and porcelain modelling became attractive career choices well into the 20^th century.

„Resting Place for a Burning Cigar,“ bold Gothic letters scream from the ashtray. It looks like a cheap made-in-China product. Back in 1886, it was Philipp Rosenthal's big hit. Originally a porcelain painter, he went on to establish one of Europe's biggest porcelain factories, designing dinner services and porcelain sculptures. In 1916 he named a set of dishes after his wife, Maria, and it became the best-selling service ever produced by Rosenthal, boasting over 170 different items at one point, including a fish bone bowl and knife rests. Today, the collection still includes more than 80 plates, bowls, chandeliers and tea cups in different sizes. While few people would buy the ashtray, generations have grown up with “Maria” on Sundays.

The Rosenthal headquarters have moved closer to the city centre in Selb. In the outlet sales-room we watch a young couple inspecting a seconds 21-piece dinner set. “Is it broken?” they ask suspiciously as the set sells for a third the original price. “No!,” the attendant assures. “Some of the plates have small blemish, but in most cases you won’t even see it.” The factory shop has a whole presentation room dedicated to the Maria series. And of course the Maria sugar bowl is also here, now glazed and decorated with a variety of flowery patterns.

Are you good at praying?

Vierzehnheiligen Basilica in Upper Franconia
(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

„Are you good at praying?” Brother Paul asks us, with a disconcerting gingerly smile. “Ummm, not really” we stutter. “If you want to pray I could open the confession chapel for you.” “Actually, we just want to have a look at the work of art” we explain. We have seen photos of a huge blue disk, the “Blue Sun” by a local artist in the exhibition room of the monastery of Vierzehnheiligen (Church of the 14 Holy Helpers). “I am sorry; in that case I can’t open the chapel for you.” Just at that point our friend Monika comes to our help: “Pray a little? Why not?,” she says innocently. We are all let into the small square room at the back of a functional building. It has white walls and is sparsely furnished with a few chairs and frosted glass screens in front of the windows. The huge blue circle and a modern brass cross with a punched Corpus Christi dominate the room.

From the last row Brother Paul watches us praying. „Tell me when you are finished - and try to pray,“ he advises when he leaves after nearly ten minutes. Again this gingerly smile, which we guess should be benign, but to us it seems as if he is making fun of us.

In stark contrast to the confession chapel, the main church is anything but modern and sparsely furnished. It is one of the marvels of the flamboyant German Rococo.

In September 1445 a young local shepherd saw a crying baby sitting in the fields near the small hamlet of Staffelstein not far from the River Main. But when he bent down to pick it up, it suddenly vanished. Next time the shepherd passed by, the baby reappeared. It had a red cross on his chest and smiled. Fourteen other children were happily sitting around it. They told the flabbergasted shepherd that they were the Fourteen Holy Helpers who would help anyone in trouble and that they would like to have a church erected on this very spot so that they could reside here.

The miraculous healings that were soon reported began to attract pilgrims. In the 18^th century, finally, a proper pilgrimage basilica was to be built. An enthusiastic abbot engaged Balthasar Neumann, the famous Baroque architect, who came up with a plan for a big pompous pilgrimage cathedral. Not everyone in charge fancied the costs and the design, however, and so a different master builder was secretly called in to build a reduced version. A year later, when the church was already partly-finished, Neumann came to see the progress. All wrong! The place where the Holy Helpers had appeared was now somewhere near the entrance, instead of under the crossing. So Neumann improvised with some oval balustrades that emphasised exactly that spot, and the church was officially consecrated in 1772. Today Vierzehnheiligen is still a famous pilgrimage site for Catholics from all over Germany

Initially we came to Upper Franconia for rock climbing as it is the most famous climbing area in Germany. We had even brought our bicycles, planning to move leisurely between places such as Pottenstein, Streitberg , and Plankenfels. As the weather was too bad for climbing during the whole week we spent in Bayreuth, we went sightseeing. We marvelled at the Baroque theatre which Countess Wilhelmine, a sister of Frederick the Great, had built for her own cultural edification and where she directed her own operas. Excursions to Bamberg and Würzburg even added to our fill of putti, churches, and proselytising. We have now started our summer in the Alps and are looking forward to more hiking and climbing.

Cherubs and Garden Gnomes along the Isar

Traditional wooden raft on the Isar
(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

“1500 meters altitude.” The two sun-tanned boys with stubbly faces and sinewy cyclists’ calves in the seats opposite are bent over their route map. “Next to nothing,” the other one adds showily. At Mittenwald they get off the train, energetically heading for the mountains on their posh bicycles.
We stay on the train for another 10 minutes and get off at Scharnitz, on the Austrian side of the border. For the next 4 days we will cycle along the Isar, a Bavarian river originating near Scharnitz and eventually flowing into the Danube near Deggendorf in Lower Bavaria. Here in Scharnitz, the Isar is still a small stream, turquoise water bubbling over blinking white stones. Cows graze on the path along the embankment, and white clouds dot the light blue sky above – the colours of the Bavarian flag.
A few kilometres downstream, we pass the small town of Mittenwald again. Mittenwald is famous for the fresco paintings on many house fronts and for its violins. In the 17th century, a local boy was sent to Italy to learn the luthier craft. On his return he set up a workshop and established a tradition of violin making in the village. The local timber turned out to be a good material for violins, and today there are still a number of violin workshops in Mittenwald. We stroll through the small streets gazing onto the colourfully painted saints and noblemen high up on the walls. After visiting the Rococo church of St Peter and Paul, we set out again.
Now the valley becomes narrow, and we follow a small road along the stream, the mountains of the Lower Alps towering above us. Only beyond the spa town of Bad Tölz, the mountains recede, and the stream broadens. At one point, where the river makes a sharp turn, we see several groups of white-water rafters screaming as they pass over some rapids. To our surprise they pull their rubber rafts out of the water after 50 metres and carry them upstream again. Then we realize that the Isar is calm like a pond on both sides of this spot. Soon we also see traditional wooden rafts travelling downstream. They are popular with groups who want to spend the day on the river with lots of beer and loud Bavarian brass music. Day-trippers flock to the numerous beer gardens along the Isar banks. In one of them, at the monastery of Schäftlarn, we too stop for Apfelschorle and Auszogne, a round fried pastry with a soft edge and a thin crispy middle that is eaten warm with sugar and jam. In the monastery’s church we come upon an electronic offertory: Donators can transfer money directly from their bank account to the church restoration fund and get a printed donation receipt.
On the second day, we reach Munich. Although the river is broader now, the banks are still lined with smooth white stones. As it is Sunday, thousands of sun-worshippers relax in the green belt along the Isar, having barbecues and taking a quick dip in the cold stream. Riding through the centre of Munich, we never have to leave this huge recreational area, nor do we have to cross a street. Beyond Munich, however, the Isar starts to look like a canal. Every couple of kilometres there is a dam, each feeding a power plant. Built in the 1920s, this is one of the oldest barrage systems in Germany.
We can see the Church of St Mary and St Korbinian at Freising on its mountain top from far away. The city has been a seat of bishops since 739, and today it is still the religious-administrative centre for most parts of Upper and Lower Bavaria – and one of the former workplaces of Pope Benedict. For the renovation of the church during the 18th century Bavaria’s foremost Baroque masters were employed. Experts such as the brothers Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam, Francois de Cuvillies and Johann Baptist Zimmermann gave the interior of the cathedral its present face. White putti sit on the ledges or bounce playfully around golden saints. The ceiling above the light pink walls is covered with paintings that merge into the plastic stucco work and fake windows. Colourful garments seem to hang out of the frame, and cherubs fly into the painted pictures, thus blurring the lines between reality and fantasy.
After never-ending green meadows, we reach the campground at the outskirts of Landshut, another sleepy town with an old castle and a famous church tower. Like many German campgrounds, it is occupied mostly by permanent campers. They rent a space for their camper van year-round and use it as a holiday home, complete with parasols and garden gnomes. “Permission by the landlord is required for pavements, fences, and flower beds,” a sign announces. Just when we have pitched our tent the looming thunderstorm arrives.
We spend the last day of our bicycle tour changing in and out of our rain wear, labouring through mud and gravel from one barrage to the next. Between showers, we meet a local couple on a shorter bicycle tour, still dry and clean. “Oh, did it rain on you?,” they ask in the peculiar lower Bavarian dialect that even Natascha takes a moment to understand. “Have you seen the Growing Rock? There have been several newspaper articles about it and it has been shown on TV!” “But well, if you haven’t seen it, you did not really miss anything” the wife thoughtfully remarks. We make the detour to have a look at the strange rock formation: Like a wall covered with algae, it has been formed by limescale accumulating just along the course of a spring.
Again heavy showers and thunderstorms set in, and exhausted we decide to skip the last 10 km to the estuary of the Isar. From Plattling, we board the train back to Munich.

Nice Weekend

(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

“Letzter Halt: Osnabrück“ roars the automatic announcement through the local train. This train ends in Osnabrück. “Halt” can also mean “support”. Osnabrück as our last remaining support? Sceptically we watch the small number of people get off the nearly empty train.

It is not only the local train between Münster and Osnabrück that seems deserted. We are surprised that few people travel by train in Germany, not only during the day but also on evenings and weekends. Regular train tickets have become far too expensive for anyone in their right mind to go to the station and just buy a ticket on a whim. “A flight costs half as much and is twice as fast” our friends tell us. As we have more time than most people, we make use of cheap train offers such as the “Nice Weekend” ticket that allows unlimited travel on local trains for a whole day (only on weekends). This way, the journey from Cologne to Berlin took us 9 hours on 5 different trains, but even the discount airlines can’t beat the price of 33 Euro for both of us.

Our fellow travellers on the local trains are amazingly friendly, considerate, and occasionally even talkative. “That’s 5 Euro, then.” Wolli is standing in the aisle and turning to a passenger wanting to pass through. He and his friends are on a day excursion to the Zoo in Münster. It is 11 o’clock in the morning and they just had a few cups of red wine mixed with Fanta. “I’ll pay on my way back,” the old lady grins and shoves him aside.

We had expected more of a culture shock – Germans having a reputation of being stiff and dull – but our friends remind us that it’s summer, and that people are more relaxed and friendly now.

Relaxed is also the predominant attitude to alcohol. The Rhein-Ruhr Transport Agency has noticed the same. “We want all our customers to feel comfortable in our trains. Alcohol and warm meals are now prohibited on all our trains.” Nevertheless, on Saturday night, half of the tram passengers swing their beer bottles, shouting at each other or their dogs, or fall asleep in their seats, snoring. At town festivals, every overheard order of “another Caipi” makes us cringe. It seems that almost seven months in Islamic countries have made us quite sensitive to the public consumption of alcohol and its unpleasant effects.

We also see more women wearing headscarves, and more men sporting knitted skull-caps and prophet style beards. But perhaps they have always been there, and it is only us who failed to notice them before.

We indulge in German food – quark, white asparagus, poppy seed and nut pastries – and have to browse through every large bookshop. Whereas printed information is available in abundance, we have difficulties to get online for the first time since we left Japan. Public hot-spots are obscenely expensive, and private wireless networks are habitually password-protected. In the Internet cafés, we often search in vain for a USB slot to up- or download information. “We had that for a while, but then people stuck chewing gum into the USB slots, so we gave it up,” an attendant tells us.

Well, if everything fails, we can always return to Osnabrück (with the “Nice Weekend” ticket) to claim that last support.