One hump or two

"Take the luggage off your bikes and then take them to the right and around the back and park them up,"says the hotel owner, in good English; a relief after days of pidgeon German.

"Next to the camel?" I ask him cheerfully.

"The what?"

"The camel." I'm hoping he doesn't ask me to clarify this as I'm sure my phrasebook won't stretch to a German translation of Camel.

"What?"

With the palm of my hand I draw two bumps. He probably thinks I intend to retreat to the nearby Mcdonalds. But no, he raises his head and lets out a long laugh. "Ah you mean the hysterical market?"

I take my bike through the historical German market which for some inexplicable reason has recreated a cross between a Moroccon souk and a medieval castle. Spices fill the air, a man is gutting something dead in front of me, and donkeys and camels are on every corner. There is a beggar dressed as a medieval peasant who demands euro's but gets none. The archery stall is doing a roaring trade, and scantily dressed women throw coloured lights into the air on strings. A band plays in the centre of the town, and everyone is drinking the usual selection of German beer. Sausage sellers shiver in sackcloths with string waistbands in fairy lit wooden stalls, and the boys are attracted to a stall wholly furnished with animal skins. "Oh it's so fluffy," says Matthew, handling what looks like some kind of beaver fur, getting the same look from the stall owner that Stuart was awarded earlier when he tried to squeeze his tandem and trailer between the camels, a lamp post and a large pile of camel shit.

We go out for dinner, a traditional medieval fayre of pizza, spaghetti Bolognese and egg fried rice in the local Chinese takeaway. Shongau is a strange town. As we approached we could see it high in the air. "Not another medieval walled city," I cursed under my breath, knowing it would be another two hundred metres of climb after a long day. But no, just up a short hill the city walls opened to reveal a rather bland place of chain stores and fast food shops. And of course the quaint, traditional medieval market.

As the rain comes down, and thunder flashes above, everyone rushes for cover with their beers and we retreat to our hotel. The camel is now stationed outside the front door. Both the animal and its owner give us an evil stare. But then the local drunkard offers three euro's to be carried home on it, and we run inside, side stepping the dung, resolving to close the windows in case camels are nocturnal creatures. "Night night John boy, Night night Mary Ellen. Night night camel," says Hannah as she drifts off to sleep, a medieval guitar playing a soft accompaniment to her dreams.       

From the doorway of a launderette

From the doorway of a launderette; the church bells ring, chiming the quarter hour, the half hour, and eventually the hour. People drive by, waving to their friends in the surrounding bars; they wave back, happily supping a morning pint of beer. A mouse scuttles into the drain beneath me.  A pigeon pecks at scraps and somewhere a siren screams. A skater passes, wobbling, his wheels whirring just like my washing. I peer in to see if it's finished its cycle. But I can't get to it. There's a door between me and my washing. Glass upon glass. I am stranded in this doorway, unable to go anywhere. Stuart's cycle grots, my minging socks and an assortment of dirty T shirts have trapped me outside a city launderette in Augsberg. We should be half way to Landsberg am Lech by now. 

If we ever thought we were in control of our own universe, the last two days have been a reminder that we are not. Yesterday, aware that we were behind but not yet out of the game in terms of making it to Venice on time, we put in a long hard day of cycling, heading for the third largest city in Bavaria. Only fifteen kilometres from our destination, a scream went up from my stoker; his fingers were trapped in the chain of my bike. The chain wheel had sliced the skin off the tips of two fingers. On the quiet country path the mosquitos smelt the blood and moved in for dinner. Our efforts at first aid were enough to get us here, all of us running on adrenaline.

This morning we set out for the local hospital to get his fingers checked out. We put some washing in the nearby launderette on the way. With the minor wound closed and successfully bandaged we returned for our washing to find the launderette firmly locked. A sign told us the door mechanism shuts automatically at 22.00. Perhaps it was faulty and shut early?  Or was never meant to open on a Sunday at all ? We waited around hoping an attendant would come back from lunch, trying to see a phone number on the wall inside through the zoom lense on the camera, like desperate paparazzi .    

The church bells chime another hour, Stuart and the kids go for a walk, and I sit, alone. I consider our dilemma. If we stay we will lose a full days riding, and probably compromise our chances of making Venice on time. Do I want to blow our goal for a machine load of dirty washing? Am I shallow for even considering this? But if we leave the city today, we lose most of our clothes. Even if we stay will the launderette open tomorrow? Are my clothes really necessary? Can we get over the Alps easier without them? Can I really spend three weeks in one outfit? I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland. From my launderette step I can see the keyhole, but I can't do anything to open the lock. 

The church bell chimes the quarter hour. Another siren blasts. The dilemma becomes more urgent.  Stuart returns and kicks the door. He puts the question out to the Twitterverse. Stay or go? They say go. Ride like Lady Godiva. So we do.    

Fate, fortune or fortitude

"Why do you like cycling so much?" Cameron asks as he bounces deliriously on the bedsprings of the cheap Augsburg hotel we stumbled into late tonight. Two minutes later he's flat out on top of the bed in a deep, deep sleep, too tired to even get under the duvet.  He's right to be asleep though. We've ridden 65km today, pushing hard to make up for ground we think we've lost against a fag packet plan that said we could get from Amsterdam to Venice in six weeks.

And now I don't know whether I got my distance and gradient calculations right, if we can get there or not in the time we have available, whether we should have ridden further and faster in the first four flat weeks, whether we should change the goal (and all the arrangements we have made for bike return transport, accommodation and onward travel), whether we should keep trying, whether everyone wants to carry on (or even wanted to go in the first place) or whether the whole business has become more of a chore than a happy family outing.  And Cameron thinks I like cycling!

There's a day like today in all our family expeditions; a point at which it all seems impossible and pointless, at which the pain seems to be outweighing the pleasure, a time when fate and fortune seem to play with us, when our fortitude is challenged and faith in our own abilities tested. 

Today the weather cooled off and we made good progress on smooth flat tarmac; was good fortune with us after days on hilly gravel trails in oppressive heat?  Then the growing cloud cover threatened rain; is that better or worse than sun? Is the weather for or against us?

We arrived early in Donauworth, at the confluence of the rivers Worntiz and Danube. Taking time to relax we viewed skeletons of saints in the churches, picnicked and waltzed the Blue Danube by the river, ate ice-cream, drank coffee, soaked up the Saturday morning atmosphere, bought a badminton set to play with and had fun as a family down by the river. Tiredness forgotten, it all seemed worth it for just an hour or two like this.

Then an accident on the road; Matt got his fingers caught in the chain. Some nasty cuts needed roadside first-aid. Fate screamed STOP NOW and get straight back home you irresponsible parents.  Two pedestrians stopped, offered to find a doctor and give us a room for the night in a nearby village.  Was the universe saying 'Don't be hasty, take time to decide.'

Matt said he was OK, he wanted to cycle on.  Only eight yet strong and brave in difficult circumstances, he showed great fortitude. Implicit in his action he tells us all we can do this if we want to, together as a family, even if it hurts a bit.   We used the strength in our legs to ride to Augsburg and the first hotel we stopped at had two cheap rooms available. Fate said rest here, don't give up yet.

We wandered around Augsburg, all lit up and pretty, past Rathaus, church and market place. There was a Saturday night buzz and we picked it up too; we were bike free, out and about, laughing and smiling together, it was magic again. We made it here today, against the odds, through our own efforts, together.  We crossed little canals and talked of St Marks Squares, gondolas and the song of the gondoliers.  Then back to bed, to bounce, then sleep. A deep, deep sleep.  To dream, perchance of Venice?

There's no denying we've bitten off a challenge in this journey but in a sense that's the point. Having that clear, stretching goal creates a focus, narrative and drama that shapes the experience and helps create the rounds of highs and lows that are the holiday from the routine of regular everyday living.

"Why do I like cycling so much?" I'm not sure that I do but I think I maybe addicted to the intensity of experience we create around it and the way dealing with that brings us together as a family and team.

Finding Romance on the Romantic Road

For the first few days, I didn't get the romance of Germany's romantic road. The towns were pretty, but no more than any other European tourist destination. The roads were great for cycling; shady, tree lined, quiet and traffic free. But I didn't fall in love. Until I entered Rothenburg Ob Tauber. Getting into the place was a knight's quest in itself. The walled medieval settlement stands high on a hill, a Rapunzel tower providing a beacon in the hot afternoon sun. Then, once we'd achieved the height, pedalling furiously in the heat, it was still a push around the walls to find a way in. Penetrating the walled grounds was like entering an old but well preserved picture book; every street a new page of muted pastel colour and antique sculptured design. The terracotta shell shaped tiles on the sloping roofs caught the afternoon sun,  dappled light falling onto the wooden beams and colourfully painted houses and shops, with their stepped or rounded edges. The children pointed out the tiny wooden doors built high into the houses which were used to store grain in medieval times. We admired the ornate gold and brass clocks and intricately forged metal signs, clinging onto buildings adorned with aqua blue sundials, and window boxes filled with bright flowers. We breathed in the sights and smells of mass tourism; hot dogs, fresh coffee, tour guides carrying umbrellas, and Japanese people pointing cameras at the horse and carriages clip clopping through the town.   

At dusk, the streets became lit up by old fashioned lanterns, fairy lights and the glow of restaurants and expensive shops. The stained glass windows of the churches darkening for a few brief hours before being flooded with morning light. Princess towers and domed masts drew the eye up cobbled streets, past the ornate Rathaus in the central square. And the shops! Windows filled with the 'snowball' treats this region is famous for; egg whites shaped into balls and sprinkled with icing sugar or dipped in chocolate or liquor, or filled with caramel or vanilla custard. Displays of ornate toys, shoes, table cloths or Lladro china figurines, and huge market place that just sold Christmas baubles and lights. Hannah and I went for a walk and she was transfixed by the window displays, but not over fond of the ever present smell of horse urine, a reminder that in medieval times the party atmosphere might have been diminished by the supplement of human waste, tumbling down from chamber pots being chucked out of high windows.

We took a tour with the enigmatic Night Watchman, and he explained how tourism had been the salvation of this town many times. Once after the Thirty Years War, when the town was plundered and left to rot in poverty for over two hundred and fifty years, visitors came and injected their cash into the place. Then, an American General saved the town from being destroyed in the aftermath of the second world war, when he realised it was a place his Mum had been fond of in her youth. In the depression that followed it was rescued again when the tourism officials wrote to friends of Rothenburg around the world asking for cash in exchange for their names being written into the town wall.  And now, tourists were still keeping it alive. There are few other businesses in the main town apart from the shops, museums and restaurants. "It took the tourists forever to come," said George, the Nighwatchman. "But then they came and they came and they came. Thank you for coming!" He flashed a cheeky smile, pushing his cloak and spear behind him and set off up the square, with a hundred people scuttling after him.

In the morning, the town was even busier, though no less pretty. But for us it had lost some of its glitter overnight. The baubles, snowballs and fairy lights had no purpose. The cafes were too expensive, we couldn't find a supermarket to restock, and everywhere the groups of tourists made us wobble on our bikes. If we'd had more time we'd have visited the museums, gone up the towers, absorbed the history and found the quiet places and backstreets this stunning picturebook place had to offer. We'd have hunted out life beyond the tourist and their euro. But we were on a schedule and a budget. It was time to move on, and find more of the romance of the Romantic Road.  

Stay calm, stay calm. OK now PANIC!

"Is it time to panic yet Dad?"

"No not yet Matt. I'll tell you when."

"Ok."

"Good. Right. Now then…PANIC!"

At some point in every trip; usually roughly half way, we panic that we aren't going to make it; either in time or at all. Often this happens at a low point, when we are tired, or having an off day. Sometimes it occurs when we remember to consult our fag packet schedule to see where we should be, and find out we are miles off. I clearly remember a day of unbridled panic on both the Land's End to John O' Groats and the Santiago trips.

A couple of nights ago we went out for a beer, and congratulated ourselves on being  half way in distance at the half way point in the trip; on schedule for the first time in many expeditions. In fact we appeared to have a day in hand. And we had also moved into a part of the country where the English speaking guidebooks came into play and could tell us about the landscape and history of the area, allowing us to enjoy more of the towns and villages along the route.

Stuart is a guidebook man. Where I'm happy stumbling into an unfamiliar town and making for the nearest coffee shop to people watch, he loves nothing better than digging around in a book to find the single most important sightseeing event or monument that the location has to offer, and then finding out every last fact about it, and translating it to the children in a child friendly way. So there he was, in a campsite bar, with a cold German beer and a handful of guidebooks, happily devouring information. But before he'd drained the froth at the bottom of the glass his face became as long as his pint. He'd suddenly realised several things. That while we had done 900 kilometres and neatly had a matching 900 to go, the first 900 were all done on the flat and now the road would be continually uphill. And we'd miscalculated the distance. Our estimates of mileage were based on our earlier plan of cycling from Calais. The way we were now going involved more miles. And now we had boxed ourselves in with ferries, trains and hotel reservations in three weeks time so there was no extra days cycling to fall back on if we got behind. And it was raining; never the best weather for planning as it just reminds you what little control you have over the universe.

"Ok, Kirstie we need to PANIC."

"Panic? Why?"

"Because we're behind."

"But I thought we were a day ahead?"

"Not any more."

"I hate you."

In fact I hate panic. I loath cycling deadlines and get angry and stressed when I have to go uphill against the clock. I'm a slow and steady cyclist, happy to put in extra hours, but at my own pace.  So I refused to panic. Instead, I planned. If we could catch up a few kilometres every day, by getting up earlier or riding later, then we'd soon catch up the extra distance. I began by trying to rouse everyone early so we got an earlier start. Cameron refused to get out of his sleeping bag and Hannah grumped all day. So we rode on into the evening instead, turning up at a campsite in the dark, putting up the tent in pitch black and trying to order food from a camp kitchen that had long closed.

This morning we all awoke tired after my efforts, and only managed twelve kilometres overall today. Kids don't do panic, and trying to make them keep up with our pace, or increase that pace further, at our will, just invites rebellion or fatigue. We need their buy in, their input and their full energy. We know this from experience, but sometimes we forget.  

We get tired by all the panicking and decamp to an apartment in Weikersheim to catch up on some sleep and rest our legs. Meanwhile we spend the afternoon at the castle in the town, admiring the stone gnomes standing on parade in the garden. Stuart has his nose in a guidebook, and the kids have a lovely afternoon bombing a pretend palace they've drawn into the gravel with an orange bouncy ball. I relax, and watch the world go by. Panic, for now, is on the back burner.  It may yet have its time.

I'm swimming in the rain

"What time is it Dad?"

It's the fourth time of asking. Captain Matthew is taking his responsibilities very seriously.

I check my watch. "It's twenty five past nine."

"OK Dad just five minutes and then we go"

I don't want to go though. Not this morning. Not in the rain.

It seemed a good idea last night in the hot evening sun.  I was hot. We were all hot and the pools and slides looked so refreshing. But we were too late; the baths were closing. So I made a com-promise; swimming in the morning, as soon as the pool opens.

Mist lines the hills, feeding the river Main in the valley around Bestenheid. The tent is mopping wet. Water drips off the wooden shelter. Across the campsite the poncho posse are out in force. It's nine thirty and I've already had enough of water this morning.

"Time to go," announces Matthew and what the Captain of the Day says goes; it's what we all agreed. The daily Captaincy is no puppet role; it's a job with real power and real responsibility. For one day in five, you're the boss, whether the others like it or not.  

"Do you really think swimming is a good idea in the rain?" I ask, trying to influence the situation without appearing to take over.  But I don't really need an answer. On the starting block in front of me stand three grinning kids, costumes and towels at the ready. I feel like a recalcitrant child, mooching along but with no intention of going in.

"Come on Mum, Dad. The pool's open now." We obediently follow the Captain and his crew. They'll be no mutiny this morning lest we should get one on our shift.

It takes three rings on the bell to get an attendant to the admission kiosk. They're clearly not expecting visitors. Inside the pool is empty; I'm not surprised.  Raindrops tickle at the pools, patterning the surface with thousands of tiny rippling circles. Then a splash and a scream as the boys spiral down the water slide and into the pool.

"Come on Dad," they shout, "it's really fun."

Their enthusiasm tugs at me. I think of all the things I've done to them as Captain Parent; all the times I've taken them out of their comfort zone, encouraged them, cajoled them, bribed them, forced them to do things that perhaps they didn't want to do. I remember how I tell them it will be good for them, that they might even enjoy it, what will happen to them if they don't do what they're told, and of how ultimately they usually comply.

The air is cool on my skin. Raindrops tickle my neck and back. There's a great view of the Main twisting down the misty valley from the top of the slide but I'm not there long enough to appreciate it.

"Go on Dad, down you go."

I feel a shove from behind. The clouds spin above me as I'm slapped from side to side down a giant yellow plastic tube and brace myself to plunge into the pool. Heart pounding, I emerge from under the icy water with a cough and splutter as I try to rid myself of a mouthful of chlorinated water.

"It's good isn't it Dad?"

I have to admit it is.  Over and over again.  Up the stairs and down the plastic tube.  I'm swimming in the rain and I love it. It's crazy, it's stupid, it's invigorating, it's fun.  No more the recalcitrant child but another over-excited kid.

I'd never have done it on my own. Kirstie could never have persuaded me either. But Captain Matt has made me do it and I thank him for it. Why not try a little power inversion in your family and see what you end up doing?

I have trousers I call Manchester

"You are from Manchester, England?"

"Well, not exactly Manchester, but…"

"I have trousers I call Manchester."

"Oh. Right." Stuart has told me all about the traditional Bavarian trousers; -long leather shorts that they go walking in. Now I feel more on top of the conversation. "You mean like Lederhosen?"

There is a seconds silence while he looks at me aghast. "Lederhosen? No! Cord. Manufactured in Manchester."

After this gaffe, I need to steer the conversation back to cycling. "This is a very good Festival. I hear it's been going for eight years. Who puts on all this lovely food in each village."

"Clubs," he replies. "In this village it's the singing club and the motorcycle club. You like the cake yes?" he says proudly. I look at the stocky young man with a slight smattering of stubble and conclude he must be there to represent the latter. "So you are a biker then?"

Again he is shocked by my lack of insight. "No, no, no. I am choir."

"Right," I say nervously.

"But I don't sing," he adds, in case I were to misunderstand him once again.    

 

Today across the whole of the Tauber Valley, it is 'auto freier sonntag' day. In every one of eight villages and the long valley road that connects them all, cars are banned. Cyclists and skaters take over the road, pedalling and scooting between villages offering every type of cake, beer, coffee and sausage you can buy with a euro or two. It's a party atmosphere, despite the morning rain. And we needed a party atmosphere to lighten our mood.   

Our first day on Germany's romantic road started with a wet bed.  Even at home that might not be the most romantic occurrence, but here, it was a disaster. As the rain poured down, we struggled to scrub thermarests and clean up sleeping bags. We pulled down a drenched tent and attempted to stuff the weighty mass of canvas and water into a bag. But while the day had begun badly for us, it was still on course for the kids. The night before, in 40 degrees of heat we promised them a morning at the open air swimming pool next door. They danced about in the rain on the open air chessboard, charging around as queens and knights, dreaming of water slides and water pistol fights, while all the campervans make for home; disappointed by the weather.

Unsurprisingly, we were the only people in the pool, but for a change we were in the majority on the road. We soon cheered up as grannies, toddlers and even dogs under umbrella's were pedalled or pedalled themselves past us on the hills. Up to thirty thousand people apparently. The festival happens here every other year and is very popular. People read about it in the papers and come from miles around.

But at 6pm, it's all over; the barriers are lifted by teams of stewards, and it's something of a shock when cars push past you on the road once again. "Quickly, pedal quicker," Matthew hurries me along, as the first car revs up behind me. "Relax, it's not going to turn into the M1," I say. And it doesn't. But it was better by bike, and only bike. What luck for a family of cyclists to stumble across a day just for us.