tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25123222025866454352024-03-13T16:59:41.686-07:00Bryan's Budapest BlogBryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-4086800348154319452012-12-19T08:31:00.004-08:002012-12-19T08:31:53.675-08:00Signing off: December 17th, 2012We left Budapest at about 4:30 p.m., drove out along the M1 and crossed the border into Austria at about 7 that evening. I suppose that is the point at which our Hungarian adventure officially came to an end. Three years on.<br />
<br />
I started this blog back in January 2010, when, arriving in a frozen, grey city I struggled to make some sense of the world I found myself in. I thought the blog would be a good way to capture my first impressions of Budapest, to keep in touch with friends and family and to fill the lonely hours in my garret before I found any sort of social life. And so it proved.<br />
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But as time went by the unfamiliar became familiar, the incomprehensible obvious and the challenges routine. Then Helen arrived, followed by Open University courses and suddenly I had little time to write and the creativity of mystery faded away. From time to time new things happened and I managed to put some words together, but the output has been slow and difficult for a long time, and only the challenge of the bike ride from Sheffield to Budapest has led to any content in many months. I take my <i>kalap </i>off to people who can keep a blog going month after month, year after year.<br />
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But the blog has brought rewards. In its early months it led Marta, a Hungarian émigré in Sheffield, to contact me, asking for advice about returning to Hungary. I offered what opinions I had, and in due course she returned to Budapest and we became good friends. We would meet regularly in Budapest and chat, and Helen and I enjoyed her hospitality at Lake Balaton many times. Another time I had a call from the BBC, who asked me if I was interested in doing a piece on living in Budapest for “From our own correspondent”. My five minutes of international fame.<br />
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So as Budapest recedes behind me along a wet and snowy autobahn what am I bringing with me?<br />
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Memories of friends made, fun enjoyed with them and the spark of small encounters. I was lucky to have some good colleagues in my office, with whom I shared many laughs and beery conversations, Friday evenings at the Pozsonyi Sorozo, dancing and downing Jagermeisters as the sun rose over an open air bar somewhere in the city. Anna, who gave me my standard “<i>harom millimetre</i>” haircut once a month for three years, and with whom I measured my slowly developing competence in Hungarian. Daily encounters with unknown Hungarians, whom I at first found cool and unfriendly, but whom in recent times I found to be friendly and cheerful if I was the same. Perhaps at first my nervousness was obvious and made them behave likewise; after a few years everything seemed like home, I had a smattering of Hungarian and the mutual wariness disappeared.<br />
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The beautiful city, its Art Nouveau treasures stretching along the Danube as it curves between Buda and Pest. I particularly appreciated its honesty in growing old, the buildings in varying states of repair, the occasional signs of damage from the war and the 1956 revolution. This beauty came home to me when I visited Vienna, with its all-too-perfect structures and frontages giving it a cold, do not touch feel: Budapest, on the other hand, says come and play with me, enjoy me.<br />
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The Danube. I always lived close to the river, cycled along its banks to work and in the final year lived in an apartment overlooking it, from where I could watch its level rising and falling, the pleasure boats weaving in and out as they showed tourists the riverfront buildings, the barges carrying their wares up to Germany and Austria or down to the Black Sea. And in my last months I felt a special affinity with the Danube after cycling many hundreds of miles down the river from Kelheim in Gemany. The river and the light it reflects gives the city a special character: I would sometimes rise early and take photographs of the morning sun casting a red glow over Buda and the reflections it cast in the still waters. By night the light shining off the river turned the illuminated bridges and buildings into a Disney-like fantasy land.<br />
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But now new adventures beckon. At the moment I don’t know what they will be, but I know that from time to time I shall think back to Budapest, its people, its buildings, its river, and smile fondly.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Bryan, the Budapest Blogger blogs his last, 19th December, 2012</div>
Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-17656921567221629882012-06-03T14:08:00.005-07:002012-06-06T14:33:19.006-07:00Day 15 - And he's climbing the stairway to heaven ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbcBfhS-vplRYsZ2TykJpqur5DgHjWPAGLTjohpCQVqHOMRcZ0Ae_mEuwjzJGYyvixQ_MwvJQq6jDU8uHGYYVKb6QSg4obFyM_21_rYcaBP6uClsX5hDD3MPVa6J7ZogjzBymaSr4ZGc/s1600/Day+15+Budapest.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbcBfhS-vplRYsZ2TykJpqur5DgHjWPAGLTjohpCQVqHOMRcZ0Ae_mEuwjzJGYyvixQ_MwvJQq6jDU8uHGYYVKb6QSg4obFyM_21_rYcaBP6uClsX5hDD3MPVa6J7ZogjzBymaSr4ZGc/s640/Day+15+Budapest.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nesmely - Budapest (using bikerouttoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A peaceful night and good sleep. I woke up at about seven o'clock and could sense that the sky was grey.<br />
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I had a morning wash and as I walked back to the tent a light drizzle started. Thinking that I could dry everything out when I got home in the evening I packed up the tent, loaded the bicycle and set off. It was all very quiet.<br />
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For some reason my bottom felt very tender this morning: for the last week it had felt tough and resilient but now perhaps my adrenaline was running out and it felt uncomfortable on the saddle.<br />
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The rain grew heavier. It felt good to be heading home on the last leg but it was slightly dispiriting to be doing it in such poor weather. However, I appreciated the irony and the symmetry: I had left Sheffield on a cold, damp, grey day and was now completing my journey in the same conditions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRvFl0mGs5FfZBzp_gqDpwqfDhf6KWL3aRSS8wfTuKNQzP-0Hlaqn6udBc5M-5_ZkTLPBdfb8_mbtWwVnfB3yQDkgCA2rd_FJgR8triwi4L_eCLaXk0gs7lt0Lw87S9S1SCbAVg0ePKQ/s1600/IMG_1735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRvFl0mGs5FfZBzp_gqDpwqfDhf6KWL3aRSS8wfTuKNQzP-0Hlaqn6udBc5M-5_ZkTLPBdfb8_mbtWwVnfB3yQDkgCA2rd_FJgR8triwi4L_eCLaXk0gs7lt0Lw87S9S1SCbAVg0ePKQ/s400/IMG_1735.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The end in sight</td></tr>
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It was a Saturday, and Hungary was preparing itself for a summer weekend. At one place along the riverside four young women huddled together underneath an umbrella at the entrance to a site where they were obviously planning to have some sort of fun and games. A few yards away a DJ tried to raise damp spirits with some music, but it was hard going. At another place people were having a community clear up, gathering rubbish from the river banks. There was obviously a plan to have a bit of a party at the end of the day, as benches had been laid out and a goulash plot was hanging over what might become a fire later in the day.<br />
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The quality of the cycling was inconsistent. In places I cycled along the road and in others tried to follow a cycle path. This was compulsory through one village even though the cycle path was almost completely unusable due to potholes, bumps and kerbs.<br />
<br />
I stopped to do some shopping in the Spar in Nyirgesujfalu, and after that decided that Hungarian supermarket checkout staff had won the European prize for friendliness. Having shopped in small supermarkets in Germany, Austria and Slovakia, the staff in Hungary were the only ones who consistently said hello, thank you and goodbye. This felt rather pleasing, given the general perception of Hungarian customer service.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BO5u0OqagRZQDfJLJN1ywN5CETKJI1-PDwgglaaJ_BPhZ4m7Lw7hmySa5E3aAk3PuRC-qnz6ej4fZNiO_6PrPDBLTykYEJHrTcZYDGkS8dyRJNkhORtAJTzcdl9_mDGqccGr6Vwk1Sc/s1600/IMG_1736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BO5u0OqagRZQDfJLJN1ywN5CETKJI1-PDwgglaaJ_BPhZ4m7Lw7hmySa5E3aAk3PuRC-qnz6ej4fZNiO_6PrPDBLTykYEJHrTcZYDGkS8dyRJNkhORtAJTzcdl9_mDGqccGr6Vwk1Sc/s640/IMG_1736.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The basilica at Esztergom appears through the rain</td></tr>
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I carried on to Esztergom, and by this time the rain was easing off. I had plans to meet my friend Bernadett in Szentendre at four o'clock, and had plenty of time so decided to spend a half hour of sitting in a very pleasant cafe on the main street, drinking coffee and eating pogacsas: I kept remembering the nice things about Hungary, such as these cheesy scones.<br />
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The rain was easing off and I decided to take the bike path along the river. There were more citizen groups clearing up along this stretch of river. As I was speeding happily along this stretch of the river bank, bang, my front tyre went flat. This was becoming tiresome. When loaded up with panniers punctures are quite time-consuming, as you have to remove everything, unscrew pannier racks and so on. I found a tiny fragment of glass in the tyre, and when one of the citizen group officials came by in his car I explained what had happened and that it was a result of broken glass. He told me that they were all working to clean up the river bank, and we smiled together at the irony of the situation. "Jo munka!", good work, I said to him as he drove off.<br />
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The rain started again in a desultory manner as I cycled on into the deepening Danube Bend. This part of the river looks like the stretches in Austria where wooded hillsides drops straight into the river, and it is a very beautiful stretch. It felt good to be able to cycle along in a more relaxed fashion and not to have to rush, so I stopped off at a restaurant in Visegrad that I had used before, for onion soup. "Love will tear us apart" came up on the music system, and I smiled.<br />
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As I turned the corner of the Bend and headed south towards Szentendre it dried out, and the sun almost managed to break through the clouds. Strawberry sellers were out everywhere, and I wished that I could buy several boxes to take home and stuff myself . I reached Szentendre at just before four o'clock, called Bernadett and soon we were sitting having a drink together. Laci arrived and we enjoyed some Greek food while I told them about what I had been doing, my ride and the inevitable work things.<br />
<br />
Just after five, I left them and set off on the very last leg. The stretch of cycle path between Szentendre and Budakalasz had to be endured, but then I turned towards the river and followed the paths and roads down towards Romaifurdo. It felt like coming home. I recalled the last miles of my ride from Land's End to John O'Groats, when I floated along the north Scottish coast feeling invincible and able to cycle forever. This felt much the same.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5d8sgiWOvsq-UCSJc9_Q92ukEFoSBuHBqlqEofgFuMoTtERN_X2dgrPmACZc4-Tk5SOwiyKk7XYZJ6QBdz3MRuCt0SejPL6rV7tRchz_qM_E0yVZ1kEDvRLPwXKwYh6NIx7jRb4sd_iI/s1600/IMG_1741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5d8sgiWOvsq-UCSJc9_Q92ukEFoSBuHBqlqEofgFuMoTtERN_X2dgrPmACZc4-Tk5SOwiyKk7XYZJ6QBdz3MRuCt0SejPL6rV7tRchz_qM_E0yVZ1kEDvRLPwXKwYh6NIx7jRb4sd_iI/s400/IMG_1741.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Varhegy appears</td></tr>
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Shortly after passing under the Arpad Hid the path took a slight turn to the left and the Varhegy and Parliament came into sight. It reminded me that a first sight of Budapest looks like some kind of Disneyland confection; the beautiful buildings, sparkling light, spires and turrets give it a completely magical quality. And I realised that after a day of cycling under damp, grey skies the clouds were clearing and the sun was coming out.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Qmm68lxt8g6LNH-pu3nHTHNRfOtzbRFICpdXNG2nqZI_BAdKrJ5U2V4pfjM-bLinVpUtPtE43_IY8DPKFudzkDDXVzdVUALF69q1MOFdJL3n2Vdh988UKkg2VOyBqobIRTurwRJDES0/s1600/IMG_1742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Qmm68lxt8g6LNH-pu3nHTHNRfOtzbRFICpdXNG2nqZI_BAdKrJ5U2V4pfjM-bLinVpUtPtE43_IY8DPKFudzkDDXVzdVUALF69q1MOFdJL3n2Vdh988UKkg2VOyBqobIRTurwRJDES0/s400/IMG_1742.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I flew around the cycle path system at the end of Margit Hid, pedalled
across the bridge and accosted some poor tourist, asking him to take my
photograph with the Parliament building in the background. Then on
across the bridge, around to the left, across the road and down to my
front door.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIsMeccrLm5y_11-Nf93RqlKvJqySvbiRxDKUZf7FF7Ju8ApEM11-gO9gNDHW6wmFVcWpxOp1_rp1S-fEF04bi3fdzuTs7vYG-KKq578wqEnOUEhRqP0w7YWaCz_gfs2JV9TGO_sus5k/s1600/IMG_1743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIsMeccrLm5y_11-Nf93RqlKvJqySvbiRxDKUZf7FF7Ju8ApEM11-gO9gNDHW6wmFVcWpxOp1_rp1S-fEF04bi3fdzuTs7vYG-KKq578wqEnOUEhRqP0w7YWaCz_gfs2JV9TGO_sus5k/s400/IMG_1743.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Door to door</td></tr>
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14 days and nine hours previously I had left my front door in Sheffield. I had cycled 1,182 miles across Europe and was home again.<br />
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It felt good.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-4588076696461696362012-06-03T14:08:00.004-07:002012-06-06T14:25:37.859-07:00Day 14 - Back into Hungary<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6McLBEgxYb_B8V9yF67qrwVOaaGaIfS8XmdKrVkrQoVJBwsR7mqCd5SjOhSrC3EhgOVd0tVF47So2-6-kVW7f3T3GJpw_6mzNz9eqh73be6ab6rb01zFuh8wYiHUAXBUMH4BJvhHHQHc/s1600/Day+14+Neszmely.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6McLBEgxYb_B8V9yF67qrwVOaaGaIfS8XmdKrVkrQoVJBwsR7mqCd5SjOhSrC3EhgOVd0tVF47So2-6-kVW7f3T3GJpw_6mzNz9eqh73be6ab6rb01zFuh8wYiHUAXBUMH4BJvhHHQHc/s640/Day+14+Neszmely.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bratislava - Neszmely (using bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
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My sleep was filled with an endless montage of places that I had seen over the last two weeks, and I realised that everything was running into a blur. I was grateful for having kept a diary every hour or so along the way, and decided that I would need to get this typed up into a more meaningful format as soon as possible after getting back to Budapest.<br />
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It was raining when I woke up. I left the hotel by 7:30 and tried to follow a route out of the city that I had planned from my street map. Of course, things went wrong at the first junction, but I followed the direction of the sun and what the compass in my GPS told me and threaded my way out through the pot-holed, somewhat chaotic outskirts of the city. Nevertheless, I was relieved when I saw a sign indicating a cycle path towards the town of Samorin. That was pretty well the only sign that I did see. The roads seemed to be completely devoid of any signs pointing to other towns and cities or indicating road numbers, and I was some miles out of Bratislava before I discovered that I was indeed on the correct Route 63.<br />
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Cycling was tricky. The roads were not in good condition and the traffic was heavy from time to time, with the usual heavy vehicles thundering by at speed. Curiously in places there was a de facto cycle lane, where the tarmac had slumped in the centre of the carriageway due to heavy wear and at the side of the road was higher, making it slightly better for cycling.<br />
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After some miles the traffic eased off and by the time I reached Samorin the road was actually reasonably quiet. I stopped in yet another Lidl to buy supplies.<br />
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I could also see that I was getting into a Hungarian-speaking part of the country. Some places were labelled in Hungarian, and towns increasingly gave both the Slovakian and Hungarian names as I cycled into them. After the small town of Bac I turned off on a side road that ran parallel to the river down towards the town of Gabcikovo. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAnDrMhmWlHpbCe3QyRpu0ZHnd5_grNWPiqX-HxIdIeuPH5cONClY_d8NtFpEPI6cnF5hN9CywbSgJ0vc4rTqNjQMwHCcly-l59yJVDihMlvOZuXzCIXtsZyTnqVaPihubxevlphnNCg/s1600/IMG_1721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAnDrMhmWlHpbCe3QyRpu0ZHnd5_grNWPiqX-HxIdIeuPH5cONClY_d8NtFpEPI6cnF5hN9CywbSgJ0vc4rTqNjQMwHCcly-l59yJVDihMlvOZuXzCIXtsZyTnqVaPihubxevlphnNCg/s400/IMG_1721.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River in background</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had always been curious to see this part of Slovakia because it forms part of the scheme and that was proposed in the 1980s for creating a massive dam and hydroelectric scheme in the Danube Bend. The Austrian government had offered to fund the construction of the scheme in return for the electricity. Czechoslovakia would build a dam at Gabcikovo and Hungary a second dam at Nagymaros. This would have flooded the entire rally from Videgrad up to past Esztergom, an area of particular natural beauty and of spiritual importance to Hungarians.<br />
<br />
However, a small group of environmental activists in Hungary started protesting against the scheme, attracted international interest and eventually the Hungarian government abandoned the plan although the Czechoslovakian government continued even though the absence of the dam lower down the river made the whole scheme much less feasible. In the bigger scheme of things, the sense that citizens could challenge the government had a powerful impact in Hungary and was one of the factors that led to the transition of 1989.<br />
<br />
So along the side of this road ran a massive embankment, behind which ran the arrow straight canal that rejoined the main river just south of Gabcikovo. The massive floodplain here contained huge fields of wheat, barley and corn, fields much bigger than any I had seen elsewhere.<br />
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The village of Gabcikovo turned out to be a somewhat unsettling place. As I entered it I became aware of someone singing a romantic ballad. This faded away and then picked up again, and I realised that it was being played out of large loudspeakers fixed to telephone poles all the way through the town. When the ballad finished a woman's voice started making what sounded like announcements and this continued until I went out on the other side of the village. I had no idea what she was talking about but it all felt rather uncomfortable and 1984-ish.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzcKqzh9x032Rm6X-a6PtmH8d8YB74vuif9sWPfFwTKaJ4LMCsn9_2bIRwvOyUBIIZNGfahK0Vdx5vKOkp-qhnsTZqm6gSPdklJJFfBsp0hZEoYZv8y1JioaF5nVj4m452WUsBBuDxpg/s1600/IMG_1724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzcKqzh9x032Rm6X-a6PtmH8d8YB74vuif9sWPfFwTKaJ4LMCsn9_2bIRwvOyUBIIZNGfahK0Vdx5vKOkp-qhnsTZqm6gSPdklJJFfBsp0hZEoYZv8y1JioaF5nVj4m452WUsBBuDxpg/s400/IMG_1724.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Storking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I eventually came to the bridge over the Danube into Hungary at about 11:30. It was not the easiest of experiences. The road and bridge are narrow and there was a pretty regular procession of heavy vehicles thundering at speed in both directions. I made my way across on a narrow pedestrian path and posed in front of the Hungarian borders sign.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrBcHsiqhjq4SpRKSsQVc3cJvws00C-jWGizhFK4PpQ-cwxa-Zm3LUxWMzYkdzVrgCEwX3yxirrG1PwXsTRJqD8Qg5OweYeVJmgYMIM4qjwHNGfACC_659rXJ6hCD7souwVbdFz8-Ego/s1600/IMG_1730b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrBcHsiqhjq4SpRKSsQVc3cJvws00C-jWGizhFK4PpQ-cwxa-Zm3LUxWMzYkdzVrgCEwX3yxirrG1PwXsTRJqD8Qg5OweYeVJmgYMIM4qjwHNGfACC_659rXJ6hCD7souwVbdFz8-Ego/s400/IMG_1730b.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then, all of a sudden, it started to absolutely pour down with rain. Fortunately I was right across the road from the decaying remains of the old Hungarian border post so I sheltered in the ruins. It felt rather strange: I wondered what stories the walls might tell.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81pc2Se5RllUw7O0CYz3Pk1JA6tqvBUt48KSDczlRFBcUTedeuI9evjaxaqfNI7qelUB6etTazIAMxyKRzAQ-_9LtfUrXfc5PlTMi93auKDdDaRa_uIMnQmGgi2y4tm6x8xJz8hWRVIE/s1600/IMG_1731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81pc2Se5RllUw7O0CYz3Pk1JA6tqvBUt48KSDczlRFBcUTedeuI9evjaxaqfNI7qelUB6etTazIAMxyKRzAQ-_9LtfUrXfc5PlTMi93auKDdDaRa_uIMnQmGgi2y4tm6x8xJz8hWRVIE/s320/IMG_1731.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I waited for the rain to stop and set off along Route 14 into Gyor. After a few miles I came across the old Hungarian cycling conundrum: no cycling allowed along this road, but with no alternative provision, in this part of the world not even an alternative dogleg route through villages. So I just ignored the signs and cycled on as best I could, hoping that these thundering articulated lorries would give me enough space to ensure my survival.<br />
<br />
My plan was to go into the city centre of Gyor, which is apparently very attractive, but as I arrived the confusing road system and general noise of the place disoriented me and I ended up following the Eurovelo 6 sign around the west of the city centre. 'Sign' being operative, as the next sign that I saw was about 15 miles further along. The path that was signed had neatly cut trenches across its width every 3 or 4 m which made it completely unusable, so I pushed on along bumpy roads and pavements until I found my way to a small grassy area next to a large roundabout with road signs that I thought might help. They did not. Also, the wind started to become very strong and gusty, the skies darkened and the road noise increased for some reason. I was so hungry that I had to eat, and then consulted my mobile phone sat-nav system to help me get out of this crazy place.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I was heading in the right direction and soon found a much quieter roads take me in the direction of Babolna. The scenery along the road was almost English: small fields, gently rolling countryside, cool temperatures, grey skies and threatening rain. The road passed through several villages that looked as if time was passing them by. People stopped to look at me on my bicycle as if I was some alien and I did not see any other cyclists of any description for many miles.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEife8BXont9T8ra8JN-0rSHcRqxlewfRWE7KPn2ENNhK4mRrOvIygBsUVhVwe53_k8mijosthxGoxs9nknJZv_QQAv-B5jpJJk5e-XZ-WcfCoHmeY_FwdHvIXEwMMiy3zh82LMq1Ov-th0/s1600/IMG_1733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEife8BXont9T8ra8JN-0rSHcRqxlewfRWE7KPn2ENNhK4mRrOvIygBsUVhVwe53_k8mijosthxGoxs9nknJZv_QQAv-B5jpJJk5e-XZ-WcfCoHmeY_FwdHvIXEwMMiy3zh82LMq1Ov-th0/s400/IMG_1733.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rural Hungary</td></tr>
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Babolna was very different. The town centre looked as if it had had some investment, a large sign advertised WiFi hotspots, there were well laid-out cycle paths, a smart new housing estate with a recycling centre. I stopped to eat a banana and someone pulled up in a car to ask me if I needed any help. I thanked him profusely in a mixture of English and Hungarian and it made me feel more positive.<br />
<br />
The road then took me to Acsa and I now found another Eurovelo 6 sign which pointed me down the main street of the village and took me out into a muddy track that ran through fields and woods until it started to run alongside the railway line and Route 1. As I was bouncing along the track my rear tyre gave an enormous bang and it flattened almost immediately. After 12 days with one puncture I was now having one a day. Philosophically I stopped and repaired it, making a mental note to buy three new inner tubes when I got back to Budapest.<br />
<br />
Through Komarom and I followed the somewhat bumpy cycle track along the side of the road until Route 10 turned off towards Neszmely. I had now done over 80 miles and was feeling tired but knew there were campsites ahead. As I entered Neszmely I saw a sign for the Royal Yacht Club camping site to the left, but this turned out to be non-existent. A few miles further down the road was the Duna Sorozo Camping, which turned out to be the back garden of a small bar. I was the only camper that night, but it was less than five euros and was a pleasant enough spot. I pitched my tent, had a shower and went into the bar for my evening reward beer. The only people there were the young woman who ran the bar and boyfriend(?). We chatted in a mixture of Hungarian and English and I explained where I had come from and where I was going, and then sat down to enjoy my beer and sort out my GPS information for the day. Looking up I saw that I was sitting underneath a poster for Jobbik, and I remembered that I was out in the countryside and that support for such political groups was strongest here. I felt that advertising that I was doing a sponsored bicycle ride for Syrian refugees might not fall on receptive ears.<br />
<br />
I drank up and walked up to the pizzeria on the main road, ordered a beer and a margherita pizza and sat down to take advantage of the WiFi. Various locals came in and out to pick up takeaway pizzas and a group of local youths sat at a table sharing some pizzas. From the way that everyone looked at me as they came in and out it was clear that visitors were rare. However, everyone was friendly enough, and after eating I wandered back to the campsite in the gathering darkness.<br />
<br />
I had now done 1,115 miles and tomorrow would be my last day. I felt excited at the prospect.<br />
<br />Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-84185862211566099992012-06-03T14:08:00.003-07:002012-06-06T14:16:30.429-07:00Day 13 - Challenging preconceptions<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6nOHD3n3NCiI56YtqaFBaYU58nzDrCg0NRZv_RqYYExPNLlhGus_PBoB_LeWHu1p-H61jKp2GaiUsRQoat408tVfCkV2CR9izip_jtgbcJQThvnEspRlM75a62SbvvK9TP431rPij-o/s1600/Day+13+Bratislava.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6nOHD3n3NCiI56YtqaFBaYU58nzDrCg0NRZv_RqYYExPNLlhGus_PBoB_LeWHu1p-H61jKp2GaiUsRQoat408tVfCkV2CR9izip_jtgbcJQThvnEspRlM75a62SbvvK9TP431rPij-o/s640/Day+13+Bratislava.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vienna - Bratislava (using bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Perhaps not surprisingly, I did not sleep well. There were noises outside from the roads and the trains and noises in my head about getting back to work, completing my Open University assignment and other reality stuff.<br />
<br />
So I felt rather dozy when I climbed out of my tent and started to pack my bags. Doziness turned to irritation when I discovered a flat front tyre. With all the noise around me it proved impossible to find a puncture, so I put in the tube that I had taken out way back in Eindhoven.<br />
<br />
I set off at about 9:30. At least I was on the right side of Vienna, and soon found my way out along the Radweg. The path was surrounded by big trees, lagoons with a cacophony of frogs and the very occasional bicycle. Near the village of Schonau I found a little cafe and sat there for coffee and toast. As often happened at these places, I cycled for miles without seeing another cyclist but as soon as I stopped at a cafe dozens appeared.<br />
<br />
Revived by my breakfast, I set off along the empty Radweg embankment. After a while I fell in with three French cyclists, who had cycled from Lyon, through Basle and Donauschingen and were heading for Budapest. We chatted for a while in French which was very satisfying. We both commented on the German fashion for butterfly handlebars and an upright riding position as opposed to our more classic drop handlebar, touring bike style.<br />
<br />
Eventually I drifted behind them as I stopped to make some adjustments to the bike but caught up again with them in Hainburg, the last town of any size in Austria. I did some shopping in the local Lidl, and as I crested the hill outside of the town caught my first glimpse of the tower blocks of Bratislava in the distance.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcLKuPEeejTc9upzeWS7hfAesg9IUp7ngo-0IQ-jtUydTYIEc5PvRVdC6Nk0TCQw24zuX0vwSHtLvhM7N8CMD2uX6AHpNYo7BrRq9T-wzV47pILZ6f20tUaFdaFoTHguDUVLvrrnLWi8/s1600/IMG_1714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcLKuPEeejTc9upzeWS7hfAesg9IUp7ngo-0IQ-jtUydTYIEc5PvRVdC6Nk0TCQw24zuX0vwSHtLvhM7N8CMD2uX6AHpNYo7BrRq9T-wzV47pILZ6f20tUaFdaFoTHguDUVLvrrnLWi8/s400/IMG_1714.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It actually says "Budapest"!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Vienna to Budapest was about 200 miles, which I felt was too much to do in two days, so I had decided to have a short day and get to Bratislava, a mere 40 miles. The sophistication of the Austrian Donau Radweg ends at the border, but the path has been improved considerably on the Slovakian side and it was an easy ride into the city. I had always had a bad impression of Bratislava, probably because Hungarians regard Slovakia with some distaste, and Bratislava itself has a reputation of being an unattractive, somewhat decrepit city. I felt I should visit just to clear my mind of my own preconceptions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFaTvbSsUgx48lc_B6n7acBSUJcvPQoX48J5loRO-X8ITFROzQnF2jL3fcsI1DXwKPVN15kVzFTsZqS8YLUhcLRYxXtUX2rtZvhJAk-YiX4yOH3TAWaYsjXMmpIPkOBBhStUpRp0rxQg/s1600/IMG_1717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFaTvbSsUgx48lc_B6n7acBSUJcvPQoX48J5loRO-X8ITFROzQnF2jL3fcsI1DXwKPVN15kVzFTsZqS8YLUhcLRYxXtUX2rtZvhJAk-YiX4yOH3TAWaYsjXMmpIPkOBBhStUpRp0rxQg/s320/IMG_1717.JPG" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another border crossed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was clear on arriving that Slovakia is considerably less wealthy than Austria. Graffiti, potholes, the way people dress, all of those things reminded me of Hungary and eastern Europe as opposed to the wealthier west. I made my way to the city tourist office and a helpful lady there set me up with a cheap room in the City Hostel. I pushed my bike through the pleasant city centre streets feeling exhausted, perhaps because of the 28° temperature, perhaps because I was letting my adrenaline levels fall.<br />
<br />
I unpacked my bicycle and settled myself into the room and then went out for a wander. Bratislava is not a large city and has the feel of a big town. It felt relaxed, slow, quiet. The city centre, the touristy area, has obviously had a good makeover in recent years and it felt a very nice place to walk around.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6XeI1UCOhirl2cpb_rzRwNL3rEY7w31bLVdqNHOMGJNJGNXPX1Q34EH8OYUmNffdHP53tzjMhUAc_2FNoHVhccvs2JlQOdrcgfQA4Kp1_TD6mH64ps8HsvF_LQNtlWhh1AKoDkPgBic/s1600/IMG_1719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6XeI1UCOhirl2cpb_rzRwNL3rEY7w31bLVdqNHOMGJNJGNXPX1Q34EH8OYUmNffdHP53tzjMhUAc_2FNoHVhccvs2JlQOdrcgfQA4Kp1_TD6mH64ps8HsvF_LQNtlWhh1AKoDkPgBic/s320/IMG_1719.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hvidezdoslavova Square, Bratislava</td></tr>
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I made my way to Hvidezdoslavova Square, in front of the national theatre and found a cafe to sit in front of. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6oes4boWpYVmXsXJC8XpqDiiLR0C-Envb2WjMBDAFYT9SS7ihEbxb9vXQ5Ho9b6NBDp1gkhZWHPTJwh9gSTrxr5fOWZTg4CvHHA_HvEl5RP9Umc_37iN_sYatqqgMgRCowNo2LPhuOA/s1600/IMG_1720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6oes4boWpYVmXsXJC8XpqDiiLR0C-Envb2WjMBDAFYT9SS7ihEbxb9vXQ5Ho9b6NBDp1gkhZWHPTJwh9gSTrxr5fOWZTg4CvHHA_HvEl5RP9Umc_37iN_sYatqqgMgRCowNo2LPhuOA/s400/IMG_1720.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very nice way to spend a few hours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I ordered a Krusovice beer, wrote my diary, studied my maps and watched people walk up and down. I repeated this with another beer and then some food and then a smaller beer. I realised that for 12 consecutive days I had not stopped at all. I had been continually on the move looking at the world race past me at 12 to 15 mph. This afternoon, for the first time in days I was able to stop and stare. And it felt great.<br />
<br />
By 6:30 I knew that I had had enough to eat and drink and decided to walk back through the pleasant evening sunshine to my hotel, where I promptly fell fast asleep until 10 o'clock.<br />
<br />
I managed to make a couple of telephone calls and repair the punctured inner tube and then drifted off to sleep.<br />
<br />
I was really glad to have visited Bratislava as I enjoyed my few hours there. The people I met were friendly and helpful, the city was calm and relaxing and I felt I could leave with my negative preconceptions expunged.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-1262805830712001152012-06-03T14:08:00.002-07:002012-06-06T14:10:25.080-07:00Day 12 - Oh! Vienna!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBLGZsbRRPPh2xFdUuq39EtkIIt9t6Cx80Csx50uIDDM9jH2xTxGk_TGrKPXvBojOFDsziTOjik_Zo0RyVF7prD6u7pdSULwmlZncp_rJd8XwX30SD3FR1eywpitzfOxhEbLBfd6swdQ/s1600/Day+12+Vienna.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBLGZsbRRPPh2xFdUuq39EtkIIt9t6Cx80Csx50uIDDM9jH2xTxGk_TGrKPXvBojOFDsziTOjik_Zo0RyVF7prD6u7pdSULwmlZncp_rJd8XwX30SD3FR1eywpitzfOxhEbLBfd6swdQ/s640/Day+12+Vienna.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melk - Vienna (using bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another night of very good sleep but weird and vivid dreams. It wass getting harder to get out of bed in the morning: I guessed this was the cumulative effect of day after day of hard cycling, but the end was not too far away now.<br />
<br />
I realised that I was getting more and more aware of how my body was functioning: it is, after all, my engine. Today I was suffering with a very sensitive tooth, lips that were sore from days of sun and wind, eyes that were swollen from the effects of hay fever and miscellaneous aches and tensions within my knees. Apart from that, I was feeling great.<br />
<br />
I was the first person down to breakfast and sat at a table with the owner. He spoke good English, and explained that he had worked in an international company most of his life as a buyer, travelling several times to London on business. He suggested that I take a walk up the hill to the Benedictine monastery before starting my ride, and I decided that that would be good advice. It was, indeed.Melk was a very pleasant little town and a street market was just setting up as I walked up and down the main street. The monastery clearly brings in a good tourist trade as there were plenty of restaurants and cafes around.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOPH7oCJ-NF0kKrvrmbVY25G6VEpp-2naskJvcFNFWGFnDggvXiij2ISt3kouoGshzhEs19W2YcYjpMU2zCjbQmF-uhyphenhyphen61M2xKi0nEcvSKyCgeDxs1wcLMjk3sw6ntrrg8I0M777HRGQ/s1600/IMG_1704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOPH7oCJ-NF0kKrvrmbVY25G6VEpp-2naskJvcFNFWGFnDggvXiij2ISt3kouoGshzhEs19W2YcYjpMU2zCjbQmF-uhyphenhyphen61M2xKi0nEcvSKyCgeDxs1wcLMjk3sw6ntrrg8I0M777HRGQ/s400/IMG_1704.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monastery at Melk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After this unexpected tourist detour I loaded up my bicycle and prepared to set off. The owner came out to wish me well, saying, "Take care. Especially in Hungary." Again, those people over the border need watching.<br />
<br />
The Czech riders were also packing up to leave. As I manoeuvred my heavy bike around in the courtyard I looked up and noticed one of the young women, slim and blonde in her cycling gear, standing framed in the archway elegantly smoking a cigarette. For some reason it just looked very striking as an image.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiltvdNb2Tqg5Gk2JE_M0s-PffxQ509V2SfC93JZOCo6oUzG5iGsInYH69VjGfMSdlaTyuItVFe-bcF_uMoL1QrR4DSg-1pJ99WKrMtJSDXJ7Ut21umIO40Kku42tgLRFv_dPeNcumkk/s1600/IMG_1705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiltvdNb2Tqg5Gk2JE_M0s-PffxQ509V2SfC93JZOCo6oUzG5iGsInYH69VjGfMSdlaTyuItVFe-bcF_uMoL1QrR4DSg-1pJ99WKrMtJSDXJ7Ut21umIO40Kku42tgLRFv_dPeNcumkk/s400/IMG_1705.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plenty of Radweggers on this bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I took a bridge over to the left hand side of the river now. The hillsides were again closing into the river but not so closely this time. Next to the river to the right of the Radweg was flatter land, and on this grew apple and pear trees for cider making. On the left side and the steeper slopes were vineyards, this being Austria's premier winegrowing area. All along this stretch of the Radweg I could see signs suggesting that I call in to try out the local wine, cider or schnapps. But dedicated to my task, I pressed on (making a mental note to return to this area on a more sensible cycle tour with Helen).<br />
<br />
This is a very popular area for cycle touring, and groups of cyclists started to become more of a problem. As a group they would cycle along side-by-side, chatting, enjoying themselves and oblivious to the world around them. I found it difficult to know exactly how to let them know I was coming: if you called out a warning too early they would not hear you but if you left it too late they might jump like frightened rabbits and lurch unpredictably to one side or the other. This was more of a problem with groups containing people who were obviously not regular cyclists.<br />
<br />
As I cycled on my mind became focused on health issues. The health of the bike: the sounds that it was making, the vibrations, the speed at which it wobbled, the noise of the chain, the slipping of the gears and so on. Then there was my health: my teeth, my eyes, my knees, my lips. My hay fever was at its worst today with the warm sunshine and my nose was constantly running which made it hard to forget about health issues, I guessed.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyMIux6FNEkJco1O3UZD6uVYKtHYlUXxy2fLqEq62E-cvWMf5xl39iL6OE30qT_Cn1Sm8f5WVpnMSlXEOR1PsmDKQw7oaFZPtYNQ3-l9yg7oRkdUFbVcrU7MJxTAVx4x0XeizLJuZQeU/s1600/IMG_1706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyMIux6FNEkJco1O3UZD6uVYKtHYlUXxy2fLqEq62E-cvWMf5xl39iL6OE30qT_Cn1Sm8f5WVpnMSlXEOR1PsmDKQw7oaFZPtYNQ3-l9yg7oRkdUFbVcrU7MJxTAVx4x0XeizLJuZQeU/s400/IMG_1706.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orchards and vinewards</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Along this stretch of the river the Radweg follows the line of the old
road, while cars race along a new riverside road. This means that you
cycle through some beautiful old villages.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7zQdinT0lZcW-LMhodd33A7wX9YAkte6YLC6CtkiYWLiy-SBgyHtyZZrsApJQ6f5NW6wdJATtdKFRJaYLgRs7yrQxKZuOyUdKsldIBDz83tZOuuCLZbUhrofOu7FGfJm4xiHHcAiQgo/s1600/IMG_1707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7zQdinT0lZcW-LMhodd33A7wX9YAkte6YLC6CtkiYWLiy-SBgyHtyZZrsApJQ6f5NW6wdJATtdKFRJaYLgRs7yrQxKZuOyUdKsldIBDz83tZOuuCLZbUhrofOu7FGfJm4xiHHcAiQgo/s400/IMG_1707.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maypole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Several of them still had their maypoles standing, tall constructions with red and white ribbons hanging from them. In one village the road turned down a very narrow old street and there stood a small boy, looking up at the swallows darting in and out of the nests that they had built in the eaves, their chirping echoing in the narrow street.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqz8S8Qlp-_zpuuz-kW6FWEMPRi25uJyFjJSsndS7_YG39-jPsL8XSvXLoNdlPpUdQaUFNefS83d-myINP08UN05sJah1Oo50FGwwV5SoNT8wl1cuQgp9mZgKecfh6_AxTIv0nIXcS8qw/s1600/IMG_1710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqz8S8Qlp-_zpuuz-kW6FWEMPRi25uJyFjJSsndS7_YG39-jPsL8XSvXLoNdlPpUdQaUFNefS83d-myINP08UN05sJah1Oo50FGwwV5SoNT8wl1cuQgp9mZgKecfh6_AxTIv0nIXcS8qw/s400/IMG_1710.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River at St Michel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After the town of Krems the hills again pull away from the river and it flows through a very wide floodplain. Indeed, the main road to the north of the river keeps a respectful 4 or 5 km distance away. I cycled along the south bank, flat and straight, the sort of cycling where your mind wanders. I started to think about how I would look back on the journey. Would I have thought it worthwhile? They say that only experiences buy happiness; if so this amazing experience should give me some degree of satisfaction.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxv6xZzn6S9Hzt1GHzxAnTIfwQhiYq5HasTS-7Cjql795j_Z5uCPFzeJCV0rt8EKLSNa6atRDgni5_peFAc21kZJ2QifEV6KdTERVVzfhcRHfQ79CdoMpwOyhrsfl53gUBlJHZkpnl9bU/s1600/IMG_1711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxv6xZzn6S9Hzt1GHzxAnTIfwQhiYq5HasTS-7Cjql795j_Z5uCPFzeJCV0rt8EKLSNa6atRDgni5_peFAc21kZJ2QifEV6KdTERVVzfhcRHfQ79CdoMpwOyhrsfl53gUBlJHZkpnl9bU/s320/IMG_1711.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch spot in Krems</td></tr>
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In this contemplative state I decided to stop on one long, long straight stretch where the river was several hundred metres wide to sit and eat my lunch. As I did so, I was aware that the air was taking on that excited quality again. Days and days of being out in the open had made me very sensitive to changes in temperature, light and air pressure and I had the distinct feeling that something was about to happen. Minutes after packing up my lunch and setting off a gentle rain started to fall, thunder started to rumble in the distance and the rain grew heavier. I carried on for a while but when I came to a cafe and it was raining pretty heavily I decided it would be sensible to stop. Surreally the cafe was right next door to a disused nuclear power station, and several of the people sitting eating lunch were Americans, working on the site, discussing radiation hazards with some interested visitor.<br />
<br />
I stayed there for a half-hour, but was getting restless and as the rain eased off decided to push on. I cycled onwards for about half an hour and then the rain stopped and the sun came out. Steam started to rise from the Radweg as the sun made the water evaporate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3-j_2eC6iOXuUUGzSNXi08USJxerKJneOMREvodi8UfDmIN4gpAPKchHrjK7DKzNvP94mJr4jbT7hcP7LNwygn2NAzhXHFFUpQOkSuXDxQf3uVGnskwR6pT_9bocwgKlVm8vdhX8shU/s1600/IMG_1712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3-j_2eC6iOXuUUGzSNXi08USJxerKJneOMREvodi8UfDmIN4gpAPKchHrjK7DKzNvP94mJr4jbT7hcP7LNwygn2NAzhXHFFUpQOkSuXDxQf3uVGnskwR6pT_9bocwgKlVm8vdhX8shU/s400/IMG_1712.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Austrians are such wags!</td></tr>
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The Radweg continued for some distance along an embankment, and I noticed that the houses on the right-hand side were all lower than the river. It made me realise that even though the river was a living entity it is, for many miles of its existence, engineered and shaped by humanity. The embankments were thick and high, but I personally would not feel happy living below the river level.<br />
<br />
My target for the night was Vienna. I stopped at the information office in Klosterneuberg, and they showed me where the best campsite would be for me to stay that night. To get there, I had to cycle into the north side of Vienna, cross the river and then cycle down the Radweg some distance to the far side of the city. They gave me a good map, but when I got to Vienna I found the network of roads, railways, cycle paths and waterways completely confusing and the signposting was inadequate. I kept cycling under the magnificent new dedicated cycle bridge across the river, but could not find my way onto the thing. So I cycled around in circles for some time until I managed to stop a local cyclist and find out how to get onto the bridge.<br />
<br />
Once over the bridge I entered a series of riverside parks, which had three or four different paths running parallel to the river, and it was a complete nightmare trying to work out which path to follow. Again I became conscious of the weather, and the sky kept darkening as I switched from path to path trying to keep heading south-east. <br />
<br />
At last I found the campsite. It was just after six o'clock, and I was feeling somewhat stressed as a result of the last 10 miles. I checked in, and then discovered that the campsite had no restaurant and that it was surrounded by motorways and railway lines. My tent was pitched on a threadbare bumpy site where it was almost hard to carry on a conversation because of the traffic noise.<br />
<br />
The thought of venturing out to find somewhere to eat was too much, but when I looked through my food stocks I discovered half a pot of hummus, two Babyel cheeses from yesterday, 250 g of muesli, a bar of plain chocolate and half a hip flask of Laphroaig. That would have to do. So after putting up my tent I sat down against a tree and munched my way through my evening feast.<br />
<br />
Next to me were two tents, occupied by young men whom I took to be eastern Europeans. Their tents looked as if they were well-established, and they arrived in white vans advertising plastering and decorating services. They looked as if they worked in Vienna and lived here on the campsite, perhaps for several weeks at a time, I guess, in between trips home. My gastronomic inconvenience seemed to become less important.<br />
<br />
As the sun set over the motorway, I crawled into my tent and tried to get to sleep.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-71666033700899515442012-06-03T14:08:00.001-07:002013-05-29T05:01:41.252-07:00Day 11 - Beauty and a reminder of darkness<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2vtvOkk8_sQNGp2YIRiLaaPdmn7S5Gsmq-TaeIVbzJCiaTcrO6KdN88s1TXBLAEzZN-RdeWqPzsmcblJxdgvRvgjpRycsD1clR9T3rvBm9c9lepAdphtZ_SSdiQfyc8RT8R3PWxv378/s1600/Day+11+Melk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2vtvOkk8_sQNGp2YIRiLaaPdmn7S5Gsmq-TaeIVbzJCiaTcrO6KdN88s1TXBLAEzZN-RdeWqPzsmcblJxdgvRvgjpRycsD1clR9T3rvBm9c9lepAdphtZ_SSdiQfyc8RT8R3PWxv378/s400/Day+11+Melk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inzell - Melk (using bikeroutetoaster)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I woke early, at 5:30, probably disturbed by the sounds of the first barges going up the river. I peered out of the tent to find that there was a thick mist hanging over the tops of the hillsides and everything was damp.<br />
<br />
But it was still and utterly beautiful, and I packed up my belongings and wet tent quietly , desperate not to disturb the peace. I set off down the river just after seven o'clock.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJvFNftWwhLBNI0cHuA1AKMwn0RD-2juT_Co1Yq1VFlnuOiBAT_Ksx-xGRm4u72TzbSg1bJOzM8uO2X_hojyNsi7H95N9XagYc_nMm0Do_6gkrgF2nav8aeuXGuPyJ-F-ZknDrbcHLQ-I/s1600/IMG_1697a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJvFNftWwhLBNI0cHuA1AKMwn0RD-2juT_Co1Yq1VFlnuOiBAT_Ksx-xGRm4u72TzbSg1bJOzM8uO2X_hojyNsi7H95N9XagYc_nMm0Do_6gkrgF2nav8aeuXGuPyJ-F-ZknDrbcHLQ-I/s400/IMG_1697a.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South of Inzell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was so peaceful and beautiful cycling along the river, just me, some ducks, swans and the occasional polecat wandering across the road, oblivious to the silence of a bicycle. At one point a barge appeared around the corner and came up passing me, its low throbbing engine emphasising the silence elsewhere.<br />
<br />
For miles I cycled on without seeing another soul, and then in the distance saw something that I could not initially figure out. As I drew closer I could see that it was a reclining tricycle with a cover over the rider, and trotting alongside this unusual vehicle was an alsatian dog. It was travelling somewhat more slowly than I was so I drew closer and closer, but as I pulled out to overtake it the dog suddenly crossed the road to the left, the tricycle stopped and the rider, a very portly long-haired middle-aged gentleman leapt out right in front of me. I guess he must have been more surprised than me, not expecting there to be another soul in the world but instead finding a heavily laden bicycle bearing down on top of him. I jammed on my brakes and pulled to a halt. He and the dog ran across the road and down to the river without a word of explanation. I carried on my way, somewhat mystified.<br />
<br />
Eventually the hills pulled away from the river at Aschach, where I was able to find a Spar supermarket and buy a big bag of food for breakfast, which I ate sitting on a bench by the river.<br />
<br />
With the hills behind me, the skies cleared and the sun came out again. For the next few hours the river flowed through fairly wide open countryside and the Radweg followed an embankment. It was all still very quiet, with very few people out. Even the river seemed to sense this quietude and flowed very gently along.<br />
<br />
Eventually the path took me into Linz. This is Austria's industrial capital and is apparently a fine city to visit, but the Radweg follows a very clear straight line along the north side of the river and so there was no reason to detour into the city to explore, get lost and lose time. Instead I carried on along the embankment on the opposite side of the river to the city's enormous chemical factories.<br />
<br />
Some miles downstream of Linz lies the town of Mauthausen.. It has a fine riverfront and beautiful buildings but has a dark history. A few miles out into the woods behind the town was one of the Nazi concentration camps, where apparently 140,000 people were worked to death in a granite quarry during World War 2. You can still visit the camp, but I merely sat on the riverfront next to an enormous block of granite against which an old rusting bicycle was fixed, a simple commemoration of one of the grimmest parts of human history.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S8Pxn5oYJmHvwfDoW114xIN6ix1qcFj_uI0D7HaOpwwuo5LRkg8hxVi2N7jG18yIMBeXWzUBI-LmTqn3VgJ9ucIi7i8gxlY0aurgXetq2CBuDPlvuZZ1sLf_-J4gjLI-JnjwLXANiyw/s1600/IMG_1701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S8Pxn5oYJmHvwfDoW114xIN6ix1qcFj_uI0D7HaOpwwuo5LRkg8hxVi2N7jG18yIMBeXWzUBI-LmTqn3VgJ9ucIi7i8gxlY0aurgXetq2CBuDPlvuZZ1sLf_-J4gjLI-JnjwLXANiyw/s320/IMG_1701.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mauthausen riverfront</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I stayed on the north bank of the river and pushed on at a good speed. The river is wide and slow at this point, and I settled into a good rhythm. The weight of the bicycle makes it slow to get going but once travelling at 14 or 15 mph it moves very easily. I thought that this was a definite advantage of the road wheels and tyres, as I found that I regularly sped past people using heavier bicycles and wider tyres.<br />
<br />
My target for the day was the town of Grain, but I reached this by around 3 o'clock, so decided to carry on. I crossed the river bridge and continued along the south bank as the path here follows an almost unused road, whereas on the north bank the cycle path lies to the side of a busy main road. The cycling was good and I decided to make the most of the flat terrain and my energy, so stopped at the Ybbs information office. Within Austria there are regular information offices all along the Radweg, and these provide all sorts of information about local facilities and accommodation, and will also book places as necessary, which is really helpful. The woman working there fixed me up with a private room in Melk, some 20 km further down the track. As we were organising this a young British couple came in and we had a conversation about where we were going. They had been travelling through Europe on their bicycles since the beginning of May and were doing it at an altogether more sensible pace than me. They also had more time, and were planning to travel on to Bulgaria or Serbia, but were concerned about how secure these places were. I had no useful information to offer, other than pointing out that wherever you go people say the next country is very dangerous.<br />
<br />
I carried on, with my cycle computer showing that I was heading towards another 100+ mile day. I reached Melk at about six o'clock, and cycled along the waterfront just as a stream of people walked back from the town towards one of the enormous floating hotels that travel up and down the river. I was interested to listen to them, and noticed the mixture of principally American and Australian voices. They had stopped at Melk because it has one of the most significant and largest Benedictine monasteries in Austria, sitting on top of the hillside overlooking the town. Again, I had no idea about this.<br />
<br />
However, I discovered that the room that I had booked the day immediately underneath the monastery. My private room turned out to be more of a suite, albeit very simple and functional. It was also empty, but moments after I had dumped my stuff and had my moment of peace the place filled up with a dozen other cyclists, most of them Czech.<br />
<br />
I unpacked my tent to take advantage of my enormous space and dry it out, and then walked the dozen yards into the main square and found a very pleasant restaurant offering vegetarian options of asparagus tart and other delights. I washed it down with a couple of glasses of 'most', the local cider, and then walked on home.<br />
<br />
I had now cycled 908 miles and was three-quarters of the way to Budapest.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-72567401719239256892012-06-03T14:08:00.000-07:002012-06-06T13:56:25.269-07:00Day 10 - Listening to the rhythm of the falling rain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5npimaVlnedlc9D6NnmCvQ_Ulhury4gRLc0fWi0pDlCIbvALVDSZEdN-UPvwB8KogDWs7AAKvag3i8IrKzyDDJ_jmg6MpeeMvbJeku1oiM3Z0hncO5VZGbaD7feDbwIeZyHLCwlaw_c/s1600/Day+10+Inzell.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5npimaVlnedlc9D6NnmCvQ_Ulhury4gRLc0fWi0pDlCIbvALVDSZEdN-UPvwB8KogDWs7AAKvag3i8IrKzyDDJ_jmg6MpeeMvbJeku1oiM3Z0hncO5VZGbaD7feDbwIeZyHLCwlaw_c/s640/Day+10+Inzell.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Straubing - Inzell (from bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had a moderately good night's sleep, and woke up at about 730 when I heard the other campers moving around. I started packing my bags and folding up the tent and then realised I had a problem.<br />
<br />
A few weeks before starting the journey I had bought a motion sensor security alarm. This was to replace one that I had used without problem for many years that had suddenly expired, and I thought that it would be a good idea when staying in campsites where I could not attach my bicycle to some fixed object. The device worked by looping a steel cable through the bicycle frame, locking it in place, setting a combination and pressing a button that activated a motion sensor. When this was done, any time the bicycle was moved it would set off a loud cheeping noise, and if the movement continued a siren would sound. I had used it a number of times before the journey and it worked perfectly.<br />
<br />
This morning the combination did not work, and every time I tried to change it and open it the thing chirped at me. I wondered what to do.<br />
<br />
Eventually I realised that the only thing I could do was to carry the bike, alarm chirping away irritatingly, over to the reception and ask the campsite manager for help. Fortunately, the device had malfunctioned to the extent that the siren did not sound as I walked as gently as I could across the campsite, desperate to avoid waking up the mobile home campers. Fortunately, the campsite manager knew just what to do. He snipped the cable with some wire cutters and used his penknife to prise open the battery cover and lever out the batteries, silencing the siren that had now started to go off.<br />
<br />
He gave me a look that suggested weary exasperation and went back to his computer. I threw the now useless device into a bin. Less weight to carry at least. I wondered if this was a sign that this would be one of those days?<br />
<br />
The excitement had made me hungry, and as yesterday had been Sunday and the shops had been closed I had not been able to buy any food. I set out away from the Radweg to follow roads into the nearby villages to do some shopping. From a distance I saw the magical sign of a Lidl, but arrived to find it closed. It was, unknown to me, a public holiday.<br />
<br />
So, somewhat despondent, I set off and eventually found a petrol station where I could buy a coffee and some croissants, which I munched disconsolately sitting by the side of the road.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevs-sKv4FZObzrVRCe6yp4G_yHMrqKF0CsVWJuMHYqA_m7X2C1URrPyx3do-C4suvEVsUpCI5of_Xk7x0RkMzmMNISp44iBOaPdeHiZYSVJkUGkPB31juj3B5cwZo4UL9UbFEUj-Vw2A/s1600/IMG_1685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevs-sKv4FZObzrVRCe6yp4G_yHMrqKF0CsVWJuMHYqA_m7X2C1URrPyx3do-C4suvEVsUpCI5of_Xk7x0RkMzmMNISp44iBOaPdeHiZYSVJkUGkPB31juj3B5cwZo4UL9UbFEUj-Vw2A/s320/IMG_1685.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bike takes a rest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On I went and rejoined the Radweg. The land around here was very flat, and the Danube floodplain was very wide so for much of the morning I cycled through fields of young corn. With the wind behind me I was able to keep up a speed of over 17 mph for some time. The flatness of the river meant that it meandered backwards and forwards, so I checked the map and took a more direct route through villages some distance from the river.<br />
<br />
Then the hills converged towards the river again as I approached Passau. The Radweg crosses the Danube here at a massive hydroelectric power station on the river and then drops down into the old town itself. Passau marks the confluence of the Danube with the River Inn and the cycle path crosses this river to resume on the South bank of the Danube.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqs6fyADj6eHENPNYYNgQYzYg5wZyH_t6MHSAd0arywgMDyxC3iCZ8WmUPHLuA5Bo4QjcMArpCiD-fiGJR56vX0j1kpXi5IE_F-Vpcs1S62aih4ylfyOaKbw02NonNkBNlxAbxzO3YlE/s1600/IMG_1689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqs6fyADj6eHENPNYYNgQYzYg5wZyH_t6MHSAd0arywgMDyxC3iCZ8WmUPHLuA5Bo4QjcMArpCiD-fiGJR56vX0j1kpXi5IE_F-Vpcs1S62aih4ylfyOaKbw02NonNkBNlxAbxzO3YlE/s320/IMG_1689.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River Inn at Passau</td></tr>
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I paused on the bridge to look at the jade-green colour of the Inn, fresh from its speedy descent from the Alps, and very different from the muddy Danube that it was about to join.<br />
<br />
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<br />
On the bridge I noticed that the westerly wind was now distinctly cooler
and the clouds were thickening, and this continued as I crossed the
border into Austria and followed the path along the busy Route 130
towards Linz.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh5JUTGl6U3-UTHkLdZxINqidsAtPtEYRnKTvTS6SR24jrS-eM-j3mCbhgCU9oRJz3YPLrgDP_JZaKK8uLN0OuKz7FLHIbPmmJvHjXrA8HX0fQBulQZt_dQB2x8cFYSwf59cTyDOncxg/s1600/IMG_1691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh5JUTGl6U3-UTHkLdZxINqidsAtPtEYRnKTvTS6SR24jrS-eM-j3mCbhgCU9oRJz3YPLrgDP_JZaKK8uLN0OuKz7FLHIbPmmJvHjXrA8HX0fQBulQZt_dQB2x8cFYSwf59cTyDOncxg/s320/IMG_1691.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello Austria - better stick to the 100kph limit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The air became excited, the wind gusted, the skies darkened and the rain started. This was really the first rain I had had since Day 2, and felt somewhat surprised by it. The effect of the dramatic weather was to heighten the intensity of the river's appearance at this point. For some distance now the river would wind between steep-sided wooded hills and the scenery became increasingly dramatic.<br />
<br />
When the rain started falling more heavily I decided to call in at a cafe and have a cup of coffee and consult the guidebook. The Radweg in Austria is of a generally much higher quality than in Germany, and is paved everywhere, usually on both sides. This means that there is a choice of side to follow, and despite reading and rereading the guidebook I would usually find that I was on the wrong side of the river over the next few days. Anyway, my first mistake was to cross the river at the Niederanna bridge and follow the left bank down. This would not have been such a problem but it was getting late in the afternoon and I wanted to find a campsite, and realised that the campsites were all on the right bank. Hah.<br />
<br />
But this left bank the road was empty apart from one or two other cycle tourists, and it was really beautiful despite the increasingly threatening sky. Some miles south of the bridge the river performs a U-turn and doubles back on itself between the hillsides and at this turning point there are several bicycle ferries. These are cheerful little boats that fly backwards and forwards just carrying cycle tourists for 2 euros. I found the map explaining the different ferries somewhat confusing, and fell into conversation with an Austrian father and his two sons. Why we were trying to puzzle it out another group of cyclists appeared, and we all decided to get the same ferry across to the village of Schongen. They were curious to know where I was coming from and going to, and were astonished when I explained that I had cycled from Britain and was on my way to Budapest, a distance of 1800 km. The father translated my story into German for his sons and their jaws literally dropped at the thought that someone would contemplate doing this.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBZFUdqWG2B9WTpGbKMuFUZQM4L_9eg557v4dXHKIZCuBOMoTPvjrM_rl1hoqopjcMjVx1bUHIkRXeVOGKlMUZ_zJ3LFwidEne02ZQqNjUVfbsfuI00OVDLOtE7Bgr6lWLnVJlIlrFjg/s1600/IMG_1693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBZFUdqWG2B9WTpGbKMuFUZQM4L_9eg557v4dXHKIZCuBOMoTPvjrM_rl1hoqopjcMjVx1bUHIkRXeVOGKlMUZ_zJ3LFwidEne02ZQqNjUVfbsfuI00OVDLOtE7Bgr6lWLnVJlIlrFjg/s320/IMG_1693.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bike ferry to Schongen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They were staying at Schongen, but I decided to carry on for a little further to a place on the map called Inzell, a few kilometres further on. As I cycled along the rain started to pour down and I tried to shelter a little under the trees. It eased off a little and I pushed onto the village where I found two gasthofs and a simple camping site. <br />
<br />
Feeling damp and dispirited I decided to get a room, but inside the gasthof everyone was too busy to deal with me so I wandered back outside to find that suddenly the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. The place changed completely, and I headed for the campsite, a simple flat area right next to the river. I pitched my tent and as it was getting late decided to go up to the restaurant and eat straightaway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMjelDg_3mqB5QWUShzFPxcE9EQ1ZxB7Krzr_ydb1PA0450sJRYBtl0hWrTUtgj8Ow8hwB33h4ecD8VFf32YjhBcgdi6edTApuhzmMz5azhtkdbaTKKfuj0kSm4BZ-0XXavZ1T2cObAI/s1600/IMG_1695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMjelDg_3mqB5QWUShzFPxcE9EQ1ZxB7Krzr_ydb1PA0450sJRYBtl0hWrTUtgj8Ow8hwB33h4ecD8VFf32YjhBcgdi6edTApuhzmMz5azhtkdbaTKKfuj0kSm4BZ-0XXavZ1T2cObAI/s320/IMG_1695.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It was a simple place but the food was good and after a couple of beers I felt happy with the world again. I managed a shower before sliding into my tent, and listened to the barges and floating hotels throbbing up and down the river before I drifted off into my own world of sleep.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-13965124359556020172012-06-03T14:07:00.000-07:002012-06-06T13:44:52.708-07:00Day 9 - At last, the Danube<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmS2xwwlWLsqjRy4oNy3DsRhMb6Pus5q0c4wqqJpXBBwoJa2Ho7KFEjLKuH6CvyhiTDiv0Ulcd-lVeqGAckRf8ego4pBPE6DER_T_0XOGEMgR3LlsD077abIhvk9-GeEjqrTZUnr-m8o/s1600/Day+9+Straubing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmS2xwwlWLsqjRy4oNy3DsRhMb6Pus5q0c4wqqJpXBBwoJa2Ho7KFEjLKuH6CvyhiTDiv0Ulcd-lVeqGAckRf8ego4pBPE6DER_T_0XOGEMgR3LlsD077abIhvk9-GeEjqrTZUnr-m8o/s640/Day+9+Straubing.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muhlhausen - Straubing (using bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The wind had changed direction yesterday and this meant that the weather was also changing. In my first week I had had hot, sunny days but from now on things would be changeable, albeit I would have the wind behind me.<br />
<br />
I was on the road that morning before nine o'clock. It was cooler, and the sky was cloudy with the distinct threat of rain. I headed south on the road as it followed the canal as the surface was much better and I made good progress, averaging over 12 mph. As it was a Sunday, there were a lot of people out on their bikes and I was grateful that there were no articulated lorries rushing past me, sucking me into their wake.<br />
<br />
The big target for me at the start of the day was the town of Kelheim. This was significant because it was where the canal joined the Danube, and from there on I would follow the Danube all the way to my apartment in Budapest.<br />
<br />
Seeing more of the Danube had always been a big appeal about this bike ride. For the last two years in Budapest I had walked, cycled and jogged up and down the river and wondered what happened both upstream and downstream. I had read several books about people who had travelled along its length and was keen to know more firsthand, so arriving at the Danube was a big moment for me.<br />
<br />
By the time I reached Kelheim the skies had cleared and it was a warm and sunny day. I found the bridge over the river and stood there looking at it for some time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbSsaWX5knvtVDMbAUz2pK-j6UbjcyhoKZSWG5ahQxFrmCOxve2Ek39GiL0iia0JZ-03B56G45TcfUJr4c1gXEVjPxFWSOZ_5l3fkzGE9HtogmsllnVAWiSDVR1epo5WXqwwuLYWLPyY/s1600/20120527_115744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbSsaWX5knvtVDMbAUz2pK-j6UbjcyhoKZSWG5ahQxFrmCOxve2Ek39GiL0iia0JZ-03B56G45TcfUJr4c1gXEVjPxFWSOZ_5l3fkzGE9HtogmsllnVAWiSDVR1epo5WXqwwuLYWLPyY/s320/20120527_115744.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy guy on Danube bridge at Kelheim</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
How different it was. The canal had been still and silent, man-made, faced with stone and following straight lines. Plant debris sat quietly on top of it, waiting to be washed to one side by a passing barge. But here at Kelheim the river was alive. It emerges out of a steep-sided gorge at this point and strides purposefully onwards, its surface rippled by eddies and its internal movement. People play on it, swim in it, ride their motorboats, water ski on it. It is a very different place.<br />
<br />
I could now join the Donau Radweg, the German stretch of the cycle path that follows the length of the river. This makes travelling down the river is so much easier and enjoyable.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFUb73wfed5aHJnCCrs0pdbyCHYjx04T46CkdKPt8j6wG_Q689ldfO9FdwhPBli6sKhbcpdZPPyJRcKS8vwPthJ5zjRSE5amO6ZpQZ2SIPMhO753kj1wISKTxhinQF1G8n1Gr8Ko3qV8/s1600/IMG_1681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFUb73wfed5aHJnCCrs0pdbyCHYjx04T46CkdKPt8j6wG_Q689ldfO9FdwhPBli6sKhbcpdZPPyJRcKS8vwPthJ5zjRSE5amO6ZpQZ2SIPMhO753kj1wISKTxhinQF1G8n1Gr8Ko3qV8/s320/IMG_1681.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
It is signposted all along the way and is mostly on good quality surface, so full of excited anticipation I headed downstream. As far as Regensburg the track was mostly good quality gravel, but after that the quality improved and it became a smooth well-surfaced track following embankments, leafy lanes and hikes through fields of wheat, barley and corn.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpfOcVSyaR92O9IHyaAjs6coof7rI0clODKW39ToJ33pckDA7cMZXt9uIan2gtdBlpQjXrJfpWOlNomgwYchS7TZwKg93hqXKGinhx1M2-s_q0zDR9qvruR4UveBE8irQdroPysKe9ao/s1600/IMG_1680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpfOcVSyaR92O9IHyaAjs6coof7rI0clODKW39ToJ33pckDA7cMZXt9uIan2gtdBlpQjXrJfpWOlNomgwYchS7TZwKg93hqXKGinhx1M2-s_q0zDR9qvruR4UveBE8irQdroPysKe9ao/s320/IMG_1680.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Regensburg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At one point a man and four young lads joined the track, and he was obviously pushing them to speed along so I was happy to join them as it helped me to keep up a good speed for quite a few miles. As the afternoon moved on I decided to stay for the night at a campsite in Straubing and reached this at about six o'clock. This gave me good time to take my few moments of peace lying on the grass looking up at the blue sky before pitching the tent and having my welcome shower. There were quite a few bicycles and tents at this particular campsite: the Donau Radweg is a very popular cycle touring route and has many facilities all along its length, so I felt like I was among consenting adults, and not the crazy person in the field on their own.<br />
<br />
I ate at the campsite restaurant and fell into conversation with an English couple who were staying there in their (absolutely enormous) mobile home. They were retired and had just bought this vehicle, and were now setting off to explore central and eastern Europe. Their eventual destination was Keszthely at the end of Balaton, so I was able to give them some information and advice about things to do in Hungary. <br />
<br />
I also managed to talk to Rachel, who had this day run the Edinburgh Marathon and was on her way home to Newcastle. Girl done good!<br />
<br />
I had done another 92 miles today and had now completed 704 miles.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-62032210867453587802012-05-26T13:54:00.002-07:002012-11-01T06:37:32.145-07:00Day 8 - All downhill from here<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VExmwA9ue9d-sh_dVUxocnrsPZmfxM2aHNxEpHOwm5BJnZmtfEjWndZbXiAxQ2LSDeCTEGFwPyF5dRg-OB0RaN46kWo8vNOeQlexYSf2DvyMORP1bXAzCYBFFrGAJ4KmnLDCJ1okB7M/s1600/Day+8+Muhlhausen.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VExmwA9ue9d-sh_dVUxocnrsPZmfxM2aHNxEpHOwm5BJnZmtfEjWndZbXiAxQ2LSDeCTEGFwPyF5dRg-OB0RaN46kWo8vNOeQlexYSf2DvyMORP1bXAzCYBFFrGAJ4KmnLDCJ1okB7M/s400/Day+8+Muhlhausen.png" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eltmann - Muhlhausen (using bikroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had been sleeping really well since starting the journey but having very vivid dreams. They never made any sense, but usually seemed to have some vague connection with the sights and sounds of the previous day. As someone who hardly ever remembers dreams, I found it very surprising.<br />
<br />
As was becoming usual I woke up looking a complete mess, with swollen eyes from the hayfever reaction. Eyedrops and a wash usually made me look a little more presentable but I still wondered if I really looked like somebody who could actually cycle another 500 miles.<br />
<br />
A good breakfast in the pension and then off along the next stretch of the Main Radweg. It was a beautiful morning and I made good time, averaging over 12 mph along the riverbank.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K_3y4AE5U-94QVhsbGGoNyfy8-FkDe670AJyBnHDNM-yQ-P6_A0GPnf2_FqTorEfy5VpS1vghAhs7SNO30Njm0mhLgNHoveJoaTacXOT3ip63PhRV369YmoMnnZr2XfBWI20_BxmloA/s1600/IMG_1668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K_3y4AE5U-94QVhsbGGoNyfy8-FkDe670AJyBnHDNM-yQ-P6_A0GPnf2_FqTorEfy5VpS1vghAhs7SNO30Njm0mhLgNHoveJoaTacXOT3ip63PhRV369YmoMnnZr2XfBWI20_BxmloA/s320/IMG_1668.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lock on the River Main</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There were noticeably more cyclists onto now. Most of them were riding sophisticated looking bikes with butterfly handlebars, which seemed to be a German preference. They all had these clever pannier systems and looked very smartly dressed. I felt like some scruffy intruder in my increasingly worn shorts and again somewhat smelly cycling top. Bitterly I reflected that if they had been cycling where I had been cycling they would not look so smart, either. So there.<br />
<br />
After an hour or so I arrived in Bamberg. This is a beautiful old town at the point where the River Main and the canal join.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaf9zA4Le3_crZKfE39AbHspehMNMhAj7yfTVn20olgpqDVsEzlsLgCDMrflaaU2hVqIRVgjdjmrhr3-B72C0-1N_peo73fKW16_LPSMM_WpfJCLnWRrVq_nYCkZlD2C0t2mf8cJHPKsM/s1600/IMG_1669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaf9zA4Le3_crZKfE39AbHspehMNMhAj7yfTVn20olgpqDVsEzlsLgCDMrflaaU2hVqIRVgjdjmrhr3-B72C0-1N_peo73fKW16_LPSMM_WpfJCLnWRrVq_nYCkZlD2C0t2mf8cJHPKsM/s320/IMG_1669.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bamberg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I reflected that as I had done absolutely no research about where I was
going I had no expectations about anything that I saw. Finding a lovely
place like Bamberg was such a delight, with its old town straddling
several islands in the river, all connected by different bridges. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkxp1yjDQSDOouPIUKZzUbHjsebtCSB8Wt7uTEZLkg0Ip2XZePMspgqofNjTAq8mlYuuocyuJ09tbCr4nePL5j3lXhDjcDHwtBT3hr_rpPD7D1kiohz0aBMJ_jwgIdigLcSHTc9PUt4c/s1600/IMG_1670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkxp1yjDQSDOouPIUKZzUbHjsebtCSB8Wt7uTEZLkg0Ip2XZePMspgqofNjTAq8mlYuuocyuJ09tbCr4nePL5j3lXhDjcDHwtBT3hr_rpPD7D1kiohz0aBMJ_jwgIdigLcSHTc9PUt4c/s320/IMG_1670.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
This time the tourist information office was very helpful and they explained to me how to find the Main-Donau Canal towards Nuremberg. I took time to push my bike through the pedestrianised centre of town where there was a large and bustling street market, with everyone selling asparagus and strawberries. I wondered if I would arrive in Budapest in time to catch its own strawberry season?<br />
<br />
The canal towpath out of Bamberg started off as tarmac, but after a few miles gave way to good-quality gravel. However, the surface then deteriorated and I decided to follow the main road that runs parallel to the canal for a little while. This gave me the chance to buy some lunch in a Lidl, and as I set off again heading south I realise that the wind had shifted a little and that the easterly that had been pushing against me all week was now coming more from the north and that I now had a good tailwind. I sped along the road at over 15 mph.<br />
<br />
At Forchheim I rejoined the canal and found that there was a
good-quality gravel surface. With that and the tailwind I was able to
speed along again and maintained a good 13-15 mph for the next hour or
so until I stopped for lunch at one of the massive lock gates on the
canal. Sitting there with my bread, hummus, tomato, bread and chocolate
in the sunshine with a flat canal towpath ahead of me I felt pretty good
again.<br />
<br />
All through the afternoon I battered on down
the canal apart from a brief detour around commercial premises at
Erlangen. Nuremberg was next, and I passed its distinctive pylon as the
canal took me through the outskirts of the city. I was rather worried
about whether or not my tyres would cope with the gravel surface, and
initially feared for punctures, but nothing happened and I just kept on
going.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8THLZ-NyXaE_vrVJfexM28HRRWv5QnGivq0qjyJvswltXzFv4GXz_xkQ2daEXqSQcCKpMWM9WOkwa7EQzv4WoPjdd5cCQ1eWTHT_OXzmbBvWcjlbQnOhToSQBPDT31Yo_8TPRfgm0a2M/s1600/IMG_1674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8THLZ-NyXaE_vrVJfexM28HRRWv5QnGivq0qjyJvswltXzFv4GXz_xkQ2daEXqSQcCKpMWM9WOkwa7EQzv4WoPjdd5cCQ1eWTHT_OXzmbBvWcjlbQnOhToSQBPDT31Yo_8TPRfgm0a2M/s320/IMG_1674.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barge heading down the Main-Donau Canal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It started to become somewhat hypnotic. The canal was built in a series of largely straight lines with gentle curves, and I focused constantly on the narrow line of smooth surface on the path that lay between the loose gravel. For hours all I was conscious of was the crackle of the tyres on the stones, the occasional "zit!" as a small stone shot up through the gap between the tire and the mudguard and the occasional twang as a stone hit one of the high tension spokes. The routine only changed when I came to one of the enormous locks that lifted the canal ever higher up towards the watershed.<br />
<br />
The feeling of hypnotism was magnified by the physical isolation of the canal. Occasionally I could see villages in the distance, but essentially I was travelling through empty countryside, surrounded by forests and big fields of green wheat. Occasionally a recreational cyclist would pass my way, but I did not see a single pannier-laden tourer.<br />
<br />
At one point I could see in the very far distance a point of light, apparently moving towards me. After some minutes I realised it was another cyclist with a powerful front light and eventually we crossed. It reminded me of be seen in one of my favourite films, "Lawrence of Arabia", where Lawrence, sitting at a water hole, sees Omar Sharif appearing out of the desert haze, slowly getting bigger and bigger.<br />
<br />
After some hours of this I realised that both the bicycle and myself were covered with a fine white dust, and again my thoughts drifted to Lawrence of Arabia. I imagined that after more hours of this that I would suddenly emerge on the Danube, and as in the film, a ship's funnel would suddenly appear above the embankment. But that would only happen when I reached the Danube, and I realised that by six o'clock I was becoming very tired and that I would need to stop for the night. Where roads crossed the canal the local villages had erected noticeboards advertising accommodation and at one of these I rang the Brunnerwirt Gasthof in Muhlhausen. They had a room available and I cycled the last few miles to get there.<br />
<br />
I unloaded the bike and put it away in their lock-up garage and threw everything on the floor in my room. My evening routine, when finishing the ride for the day, was to lie on my back and pull my knees up towards my stomach, staying there reflecting on the magical stillness of that moment. After the non-stop intensity of cycling all day this was truly a wonderful few minutes.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtFPqHg1tl3I8wxEJu2PlFA9jiVPLZnUYQ87F0BmaQfp1EAgRbijOUvRkCPot1PljtbvBzVrBbuMB2a0TqqI77-aGuLilDDb3qOWCgoVQkW4JslJ2g6D6WMey_UqFE1vcconbaixnUNI/s1600/IMG_1676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtFPqHg1tl3I8wxEJu2PlFA9jiVPLZnUYQ87F0BmaQfp1EAgRbijOUvRkCPot1PljtbvBzVrBbuMB2a0TqqI77-aGuLilDDb3qOWCgoVQkW4JslJ2g6D6WMey_UqFE1vcconbaixnUNI/s320/IMG_1676.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rhine-Donau watershed (Rhine to the right!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It had been a good day. Along the canal I had passed a large concrete monument which signified the Rhine-Danube watershed, and I had now passed the hydrological halfway point. This was the second watershed sign that I had seen, and it made me reflect about how Germans are conscious about their physical place in the world and the pride they take in their environment.<br />
<br />
The evening meal was very satisfying, helped by two glasses of Glossner Neumarkter beer, a particularly fine brew.<br />
<br />
Up until today I had been cycling away from the North Sea but from tomorrow I would be cycling towards the Black Sea. I had now done 612 miles and was over half way to Budapest.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-81259071979460642932012-05-26T13:52:00.002-07:002012-06-05T23:21:54.755-07:00Day 7 - At last, the sunlit uplands<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillF31AnuvrRSF76iIk7QPPV5kqxYw7cH4G5Eug_FzhpmPdHbBh7BEstXGn_T1MKcEiRirpJNBRGZiA3tN-xgqatOewNAvelSJiEj5Kd3Kw9BmwBtABaaZ18bafRaCpBnKExSws5rKlFY/s1600/Day+7+Eltmann.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillF31AnuvrRSF76iIk7QPPV5kqxYw7cH4G5Eug_FzhpmPdHbBh7BEstXGn_T1MKcEiRirpJNBRGZiA3tN-xgqatOewNAvelSJiEj5Kd3Kw9BmwBtABaaZ18bafRaCpBnKExSws5rKlFY/s400/Day+7+Eltmann.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Motten - Eltmann (using bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
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The bells in the village church woke me at seven o'clock, and after a quick chain change I was off on the road by eight. I had imagined a pleasant glide down the valley towards the Weser (I supposed), but after a few miles suddenly found myself on a three-mile long 5% climb, immediately followed by a three-mile 5% descent into Bad Bruckenau.<br />
<br />
But this sharpened my appetite for breakfast, and I went into the local Lidl, scored some muesli, milk, fruit juice and bananas and found myself a riverside park where I sat on a bench and enjoyed muesli from the collapsible camping bowl that Rachel had given me as a birthday present. It was very pleasant indeed sitting in the park.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzjZD-PLba3zbxPgaN3ZhLMlTtPU5DXOF6l-mK1LMo1cQ4rJmbY3WMm0D2OI47fHGTUQ2QejwpU5HhlmLciHRCpN0f6SCxVOnJJzZNRmPMqPpwCCRdpfDfK1Cq5qxGo4-cpvOJm_ITUHw/s1600/IMG_1664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzjZD-PLba3zbxPgaN3ZhLMlTtPU5DXOF6l-mK1LMo1cQ4rJmbY3WMm0D2OI47fHGTUQ2QejwpU5HhlmLciHRCpN0f6SCxVOnJJzZNRmPMqPpwCCRdpfDfK1Cq5qxGo4-cpvOJm_ITUHw/s320/IMG_1664.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muesli for breakfast</td></tr>
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I sat and looked at the map and tried to work out where I was heading for. On a journey like unless you find yourself focusing on the next point on the map ahead, and this becomes the most important place in the world. It then disappears from importance as you pass through it to be replaced by the next one. My particular next target was Hammelburg, 20 km further along .<br />
<br />
Fuelled up with oats, raisins and other natural goodies, I set off again, to be immediately confronted by 10 miles of up and down over steep hills, including one long 13% climb which I took at little more than 2 mph. It was very tough going. As I approached what I hoped was the top of the climb a bewhiskered gentleman of advanced years wearing cycling gear in German national colours and riding a heavily laden bicycle came past in the other direction, waving happily. I waved back grimly, and reflected on the perversity of cycling, that other people always seem to be going downhill when you are struggling uphill. Riding along this road was perhaps how the German word 'schadenfreude' had been invented, the joy from seeing someone else grinding up an endless series of hills. But of course, it does not work like that, as you can only enjoy going downhill if you have done the work to get up it, but sometimes it is hard to see the truth in this when all you can feel is the aching and exhaustion in your legs.<br />
<br />
Indeed, the long and winding climb emerge from woodland into open farmland, flattened out a little and then set off on an exhilarating twisting descent down into Hammelburg. Time for a coffee, so I pulled into the attractive main square and headed towards a cafe. A lady came up to me and started talking in German, clearly asking where I was coming from and where I was going to. She spoke no English, but again we managed to communicate in some way. All I caught from her was that she thought I was "mutig", which I then discovered to mean "brave". My goodness, if I thought I was being brave I am not sure I would be doing this.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUJTUlK5Oh8Fi3uabKw1k2Ufk7S5FMEqqu8x3R-KPC8E9h0VyqESOSA8_iG0VK_crEvykBDP8xbRMDTzE0Ok0jpYBwtcJg4qSQ1eUx9Z0cTL8IbDDhesR2apec_R-88CPD4uozWuGLgw/s1600/IMG_1665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUJTUlK5Oh8Fi3uabKw1k2Ufk7S5FMEqqu8x3R-KPC8E9h0VyqESOSA8_iG0VK_crEvykBDP8xbRMDTzE0Ok0jpYBwtcJg4qSQ1eUx9Z0cTL8IbDDhesR2apec_R-88CPD4uozWuGLgw/s320/IMG_1665.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main square in Hammelburg</td></tr>
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Anyway, as I sat feeling life coming back into my legs other cycle tourists appeared, the first I had seen for many days. I was particularly struck by one group, four middle-aged people, two men, two women, who all seemed to be wearing identical clothing, riding identical bicycles equipped with identical panniers sets. The panniers were perfect, like a suitcase set, and I felt somewhat embarrassed by my own bicycle, with its green rear panniers and black front panniers, each one bulging in different directions with their miscellaneous contents. I wondered whether this was touring German-style or whether they had rented all of their equipment from one place.<br />
<br />
The physical effort of the previous few hours made me wonder why on earth I was doing this, why I was being so 'brave'? Well, it was actually very exciting, constantly heading into the unknown, making decisions, seeing new things and having no idea what was round the next corner. It felt much better than working for a living. It is also a very intense experience, you just go on and on with little space to stop and think about other things. You are constantly aware of the road, the gradients, the noises the bike is making, the feel of the bike moving along the road, the brightness of the light, the aches in your legs and your increasing tiredness.<br />
<br />
Well, of course, after all of that philosophising I left Hammelburg and soon found myself struggling up yet another long, long, 13% climb, out of a little village called Fuchstadt, the worst of the journey so far. Again, the yellowhammers in the fields beside the road kept up their demand for bread and no cheese: it is a song that I love very much, but there were moments in the climb when I felt like throttling every last yellow bird.<br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, the terrain changed. As I approached Schweinfurt the land flattened out and it looked as if it would stay flat for some distance. It was now mid-afternoon and I cycled into the city looking for the tourist information office hoping that it would be, like Fulda, able to point me towards a campsite. However, the people there were useless. They said they only had access to local information and could not tell me about anything near my destination of Bamberg, which was after all, 60 km away. I refrained from pointing out that in the Internet age I could find out about camping facilities in Tierra del Fuego from my home in Sheffield, and so found it difficult to understand why she could not tell me about facilities in the next German city. A German might have put it down to the fact that I was in Bavaria.<br />
<br />
However, while she was uselessly searching her computer, I did pick up a leaflet which told me about the Main Radweg. This was the cycle path which followed the River Main all the way up to Bamberg. And one of the magical things about rivers is that they are more or less flat. After my experiences of the day so far, this seemed like absolute magic.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhwgrxNtC8zse7T9itFKpfZpDyaaa1BG6yQvpi2FiJ4f5XX_Q5vwGB8bFzC72pMD_OOnPpqaIuRd8K8AsqQY6iMXMNa-J-5KYkth6MSsHJ7DSb43cIKdXXmCKLDk7AaFeZD5-J7gKgiU/s1600/IMG_1666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhwgrxNtC8zse7T9itFKpfZpDyaaa1BG6yQvpi2FiJ4f5XX_Q5vwGB8bFzC72pMD_OOnPpqaIuRd8K8AsqQY6iMXMNa-J-5KYkth6MSsHJ7DSb43cIKdXXmCKLDk7AaFeZD5-J7gKgiU/s320/IMG_1666.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note flatness of path</td></tr>
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So clutching my leaflet I set off and soon found myself speeding along a flat tarmac track along the banks of the Main. I felt pretty good. This took me as far as Hassfurt, after which I needed to follow a cycle track along Route 26 which took me to Eltmann. I had now done about 70 miles, most of which had been over the most difficult terrain so far, so I decided to look for a gasthaus, and found the Pension Maintal.<br />
<br />
By now I felt on the verge of collapsing, and had to turn down the proprietor's invitation to join him and other guests at a music festival that evening where they would be beer, music, food and dancing. It sounded wonderful, but I could barely make it to the shower, let alone to a wild night out in the Bavarian countryside.<br />
<br />
I dragged myself out into the pretty little town, and found a Chinese restaurant where I wolfed down huge plates of bean sprouts and noodles. Somewhat revived I looked at the map and tried to figure out the next day's journey, and with nervous excitement noticed a thin blue line connecting Bamberg with Nurnburg called the Main-Donau Canal. A canal? Which would have a towpath? Which would be flat? Which would go all the way to the Danube? It all sounded too good to be true.<br />
<br />
I went to bed with a feeling of excited anticipation.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-56719960639135584752012-05-26T13:50:00.003-07:002012-06-05T23:15:20.589-07:00Day 6 - After the watershed<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPfzdQrv3gMPuKd4oYGxnqLdOn4gdQm9fwOM4WCJyHUL29u1tbvOrcO-oR-9lWY0jqrokQyC3DKfiB639IQum93zU8O1HS5BTpbNdKja17OXdWzhitaAqMU6B63JkVQGjBZQZqH9v8M/s1600/Day+6+Motten.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPfzdQrv3gMPuKd4oYGxnqLdOn4gdQm9fwOM4WCJyHUL29u1tbvOrcO-oR-9lWY0jqrokQyC3DKfiB639IQum93zU8O1HS5BTpbNdKja17OXdWzhitaAqMU6B63JkVQGjBZQZqH9v8M/s400/Day+6+Motten.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marburg - Motten (using http://bikeroutetoaster.com)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I left Marburg at about nine o'clock and was straight into hills. But after about 10 miles I emerged from the woods to see a much flatter, rolling countryside in front of me. I felt hugely relieved and realised that I could make quick progress today. I also decided to steer by the map, and place less reliance on the GPS. The route that my Active 10 had suggested for me was a straight line to my destination, Schweinfurt, but it took me over at the highest point in the region. I felt that I had seen enough beautiful views for a few days and was happy cruising along on the flat.<br />
<br />
However, being in the open exposed me to the wind. The warm weather came with a fresh easterly breeze, and I often found myself heading straight into it or struggling to balance against a cross-wind.<br />
<br />
The land here was largely agricultural, fields of wheat and barley, and yellowhammers sang insistently all along the road. After passing through a village called Appenrod I stopped by the side of the road to try to figure out the way ahead, and a car pulled up beside me. The driver wound his window down and asked if he could help. He told me how to find a cycle path that would avoid the main road ahead and told me how he was himself planning a cycle tour later in the year that would take him down to Regensburg on the Danube. I was starting to realise how helpful people were being to me. Perhaps there is something about a lone cyclist and their vulnerability that makes people keen to offer help.<br />
<br />
As the driver had indicated, just ahead was a side turning which became a cycle path running parallel to the busy Route 62. It was pretty well signposted but at one point I got lost and cycled backwards and forwards along a village street until suddenly an old chap wearing shorts and a grubby singlet emerged from what looked like a hole in the road. It was in fact the village spring, and he was keen that I sluice myself off to freshen up in the cold water. It was indeed a good idea. He then pointed out the right direction and off I went again. This took me to Alsfeld, a pleasant little town with a narrow, pedestrianised old street where I enjoyed a coffee. <br />
<br />
The next leg of the journey was along the third category Route 254 to Fulda, but this turned out to be one of the worst parts of the whole journey. It was about 30 km across open countryside with a strong and steady cross-wind. The road was busy, and every time an articulated lorry rushed past me I had to hang on tight to avoid wobbling too much. By the time I reached Fulda I felt that every lorry in Germany had passed me in the previous two hours.<br />
<br />
While all this was going on my mind went back to fluid mechanics at university, and I reflected on Bernoulli's principle, where when two plane surfaces move through a fluid medium, the pressure between them drops. This is what gives an aeroplane's wing its lift, but was also sucking me in to the juggernauts as they rushed by. Sometimes a little knowledge can be very helpful, or perhaps not.<br />
<br />
What with the traffic and the difficult wind I felt at a low point. I spent some time thinking about how good it had been seeing more of Lewis while I had been back in Sheffield, and doing something to help him move his life forward. It seemed that the apprenticeship possibility was not going to happen and I felt disappointed that I had left to come back to Budapest when I could have perhaps helped more.<br />
<br />
It was a relief getting to Fulda. It seemed like an attractive city and I cycled around until I found the tourist information office. A very helpful woman gave me a little booklet which listed campsites in my south-easterly direction and suggested that I should head for one in a village called Motten, some 20 km away.<br />
<br />
However, getting out of Fulda was not easy. It was now late afternoon and everyone was leaving the city. The roads were busy and the signposting was geared towards the autobahn and vehicle-only roads. I therefore struggled to find a way out of town in a direction that was going to take me towards my destination for the night. I needed to travel along Route 27 but in the city it was vehicle only, so I had to navigate a somewhat circuitous route along country roads until I was well out into the countryside, by which time Route 27 turned out to be a very quiet road indeed.<br />
<br />
Motten was now not far away at all, and when I arrived at about seven o'clock, exhausted, I was pleased that I was nearly there. However, when I rang the campsite they told me that they were actually in Motten-Khotten, which was another 5 km further on and was over a steep hill. To climb the hill I had to negotiate a series of hairpins, and wound very slowly up the hill. The top was a sharp ridge indeed, and a large sign indicated that it was the watershed between the Rhine and the Weser basins: I took this to be a potentially good sign, and that everything from now on would be downhill. The descent was immediate and reviving, and as I arrived at the valley floor the Rhonperle campsite appeared.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgjteZqxIdBjH7iRxkdki5Ujgy28FgQyRhqEGSXDGCuE__8dzvUCGG2PJhWQtYziFVHlt3j8XHXqcH1omJc4aQaq8IcrHcqGsHFM_Ca4sh5mI2S9uOLwJaznlDf0xNLzBJVSXBLkQSxY/s1600/IMG_1662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgjteZqxIdBjH7iRxkdki5Ujgy28FgQyRhqEGSXDGCuE__8dzvUCGG2PJhWQtYziFVHlt3j8XHXqcH1omJc4aQaq8IcrHcqGsHFM_Ca4sh5mI2S9uOLwJaznlDf0xNLzBJVSXBLkQSxY/s320/IMG_1662.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first watershed</td></tr>
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I pulled over, lent the bike against a wall, went into reception and while I waited for the site manager to appear enjoyed a long, cold beer.<br />
<br />
As I would find usual, I was the only tent in town: plenty of caravans and motor homes but few other crazies like me. The campsite was delightful, sitting in a beautiful valley with hills all round. It was a lovely evening and I enjoyed putting up the tent, having my evening wash and going to the camp restaurant to enjoy the mashed potato with applesauce, a German favourite, and grilled trout with boiled potatoes. And, of course, another beer.<br />
<br />
I made my way to bed as it was getting dark and looks forward to another good night's sleep.<br />
<br />
449 miles now done.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-81066396015833179302012-05-26T13:49:00.002-07:002012-06-05T23:12:16.647-07:00Day 5 - Escape from the hillsAnother good night's sleep. I realised that now when I was going to bed that my legs did not ache, which must be a sign of getting fitter.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvErxh0dh0907LLU8Zi0LRhIxWEGjBaqGqVQKKkO2bta6QIH57TgeZx6Oy4Jo3BnyWSjUH1as8iknfygpiL0Qu_CkM_gGD6XsJcckkuFqogeJBdEforbkm_0mq_OSz_zo8pS_v0Vig5fI/s1600/Day+5+Marburg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvErxh0dh0907LLU8Zi0LRhIxWEGjBaqGqVQKKkO2bta6QIH57TgeZx6Oy4Jo3BnyWSjUH1as8iknfygpiL0Qu_CkM_gGD6XsJcckkuFqogeJBdEforbkm_0mq_OSz_zo8pS_v0Vig5fI/s640/Day+5+Marburg.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilgersdorf - Marburg (using http://bikeroutetoaster.com)
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Alfons had gone to work so I had breakfast with his wife, Korola. It was the same spread as last night, but the gaps that I created had been filled, and there was also fruit and yoghurt. Korola spoke good English and she told me about her family, her work, and how she had had a wonderful time visiting Ross-on-Wye the previous year. She looked after two gardens, ran 10 km several times a week, managed three teenage boys at home plus Alfons and worked in an office three days a week. She rode to work on a big black BMW motorbike. An impressive woman.<br />
<br />
Breakfast over, I asked her how much I owed her for the night's stay. "Nothing!", she exclaimed most insistently. She loved England so much when she visited it that she felt that this was a way of saying thank you. I was amazed. Is England really that good?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgz7ryt17pWskZ2pn9rYt_fdsOZVhgSkwLLBGKEBTCL8lUpwvIHrvuAX-hvhvFpM3ju8QlkKZhQPkbGAAuXsUOVkxU7dkeIo1kOLzcW-UaER1wya7jBlkFr2_5QKeSkHjs5VgFCJcX6g/s1600/IMG_1659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgz7ryt17pWskZ2pn9rYt_fdsOZVhgSkwLLBGKEBTCL8lUpwvIHrvuAX-hvhvFpM3ju8QlkKZhQPkbGAAuXsUOVkxU7dkeIo1kOLzcW-UaER1wya7jBlkFr2_5QKeSkHjs5VgFCJcX6g/s320/IMG_1659.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alfons' handy map</td></tr>
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So, belly full and clutching Alfons's hand-drawn map, I set off down the hill into the next valley and off to the first 5% climb. The countryside was still beautiful and the weather kind, although the 25° temperature was perhaps a little high. I pushed on through the forested countryside and felt my spirits soaring, glad that I had taken this opportunity for such a wonderful experience. These sort of things happen too rarely.<br />
<br />
Just as I approached the top of one climb a mature German in all the cycling gear and on an expensive carbon bike caught me up and started chattering away in German. I explained I did not understand, but this did not stop him. However the similarities with English and sign language meant that we were able to communicate, and I told him where I was coming from and going to. He was delighted. As we crested the hill he said something that sounded like, "Alles ist gut! Auf wiedersehn!" and sped off down the hill.<br />
<br />
Alfons's route took me on to Route 62, and this followed the River Lahn down towards Marburg, so it was much flatter. I found a delightful place by a small, old bridge over the river for lunch. I lay on my back in the sunshine, closed my eyes and felt the pressure disappearing from my sitting bones. I had noticed over the last few days that my bottom was definitely feeling less uncomfortable each morning. I guess it was toughening up and my Brookes B-17 was becoming even more adjusted to my anatomy.<br />
<br />
I arrived in Marburg in the middle of the afternoon and lay down on a bench by the Elisabethskirche, where Oliver came to meet me. We went back to his apartment where I had a great shower and managed to wash some clothes. I noticed how by the end of each cycling day my skin felt tired, dry and stale, and that having a shower really revived me. My hayfever symptoms were largely confined to sore eyes, and after a day of concentrating on the road ahead and the wind rushing past them and they were often tired. I used the showers to flush them clean and bring them back to life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSI1fvrYG_c0cZHw7vxOr4Hv-18td_Ub6OCXx8O6i0hdhUddduNeqEyot9v51twpJEYada_I0QsvKwmbjy5dtGU74PA_UWVhwFufNvs3Hg2-F6DpMvasRhz_HL8cZ5sEvAasVSI5AZpR0/s1600/20120523_195252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSI1fvrYG_c0cZHw7vxOr4Hv-18td_Ub6OCXx8O6i0hdhUddduNeqEyot9v51twpJEYada_I0QsvKwmbjy5dtGU74PA_UWVhwFufNvs3Hg2-F6DpMvasRhz_HL8cZ5sEvAasVSI5AZpR0/s320/20120523_195252.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marburg from its castle</td></tr>
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Oliver was keen to show me Marburg, so we walked into the town on this beautiful warm, spring evening. Marburg is a lovely little university town, retaining much of its 14th and 15th century architecture, including a castle on the top of its hill. There was a lovely view over the town from the top of it, and after walking back down to the main square we found a restaurant where we could sit outside, I could enjoy my usual evening reward of beer and Oliver could tell me about all things German. He is a very well-educated and interesting person, and I learnt a lot sitting and listening to him explaining about the relationship between the different parts of the country, its politics, its history, its culture... and the Bavarians again!<br />
<br />
We discussed my route out of the town and the next day and what might lie ahead. He didn't know that part of the countryside very well, but felt that there were plenty more hills to come.<br />
<br />
375 miles gone. The last few days had been slow because of the hills, and I was keen to try to increase my daily mileage. It would all depend on what lay ahead.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-64294759691419822702012-05-26T13:48:00.003-07:002012-06-17T04:16:50.361-07:00Day 4 - Saved by the German police<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuSH6_hGx6kxfFZab7bJPOsqDAhrlFXVmTdcQa3Fbrzuw9_UQ2CukTojNHKxN7oNPe8Kosz4Bbae93zo1TqiQ-3j8guFczEpzWkOVYtsaz2YzoiTh4jufHb3sPdZnQGNtaSkBkV5z8Ek/s1600/Day+4+Wilgersdorf.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuSH6_hGx6kxfFZab7bJPOsqDAhrlFXVmTdcQa3Fbrzuw9_UQ2CukTojNHKxN7oNPe8Kosz4Bbae93zo1TqiQ-3j8guFczEpzWkOVYtsaz2YzoiTh4jufHb3sPdZnQGNtaSkBkV5z8Ek/s640/Day+4+Wilgersdorf.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cologne - Wilgersdorf (created by http://bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
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I had breakfast with Frida and Niels and then set out on a cool, grey morning. I found my way across one of the bridges over the Rhine and then headed out through the eastern suburbs. I was starting to discover that cycling through cities was frustratingly slow, lots of traffic lights and navigational problems. Several times I had problems with drivers or pedestrians who pointed out that I should be on the road when I was on what I thought was a cycle path and vice versa.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUp76BAwcndcmKnB4VXeayjDjFri8tW7omcmsDaQGaKTGNKBy0cXAMO3tiAyhOkAeIFasVgDQI8OvO4VbPNwSGh8wrjUtnEY6i0k6cc0Omb2u15ZpvEtaFFz-RYAC6mCl7JPsjJzfFZPI/s1600/IMG_1653.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUp76BAwcndcmKnB4VXeayjDjFri8tW7omcmsDaQGaKTGNKBy0cXAMO3tiAyhOkAeIFasVgDQI8OvO4VbPNwSGh8wrjUtnEY6i0k6cc0Omb2u15ZpvEtaFFz-RYAC6mCl7JPsjJzfFZPI/s320/IMG_1653.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glimpse of Cologne Cathedral in the morning mist</td></tr>
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Fortunately, my trusty Active 10 kept me going in the right direction and I was soon clearing the suburbs but felt that I needed to turn in a more south-easterly direction. The A4 motorway was something of a barrier and I was glad when the GPS told me to take a right turn down a side road through a motorway tunnel. I was less impressed when I found myself in a forest with a rough track ahead of me.<br />
<br />
The 28 mm tyres on the bike are great for travelling on the road but are really not designed for off-road use. They dig into soft ground and are much more prone to punctures than off-road tyres. But it was nice to be away from the traffic and grumpy road/pavement users so I pushed on through the forest. It was indeed very beautiful, climbing slowly on reasonable quality tracks, just me and the birds singing in the trees. <br />
<br />
Then suddenly, the track dropped down a hillside, I emerged onto a tarmac road and the countryside had changed completely. Gone was the softly swelling flood-plane of the Rhine and in front of me were steep sided forested hills winding away in every direction.<br />
<br />
I dropped quickly down into the first small town, saw a sign for a cycle path to the next place on my route and suddenly found myself confronted with a 15% climb. That was the moment where I decided that this would be a combined cycle ride and push. When I had ridden from Land's End to John O'Groats I had managed to avoid pushing at all, but the bicycle I had used then had mountain bike gearing (and I was eight years younger). So I pushed and pushed to the top of the hill and then flew down the descent on the other side into Overath. This set the pattern for the next few days.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMiAO6sU9J0HdasTfw23-D0h3K9_nKlcpSWVhx2LZ8LM_rFw37Yd38IBDb-ZTAs39Sh2jwRCoWH00LliilI_92XWhU78wbtnNR3aneNeUPM_GP5ooKSJs_5sbLAE4iiYl738fIlTcBTI/s1600/IMG_1654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMiAO6sU9J0HdasTfw23-D0h3K9_nKlcpSWVhx2LZ8LM_rFw37Yd38IBDb-ZTAs39Sh2jwRCoWH00LliilI_92XWhU78wbtnNR3aneNeUPM_GP5ooKSJs_5sbLAE4iiYl738fIlTcBTI/s320/IMG_1654.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've definitely left Holland ...</td></tr>
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Another long climb out of Overath and into beautiful, green, rolling countryside. There were hills around the in every direction that I could see, and the scenery was truly splendid. I reflected that the route the GPS had plotted me was indeed in a straight line according to the map but took no account of topography. Apart from the sheer physical effort of climbing, my average speed dropped considerably. Over the first few days I was averaging about 11 mph, but was now down to little more than 8 mph. This meant that during the average cycling day I would not be able to cover more than 50 or 60 miles which would have implications for how long it would take me to complete the trip. Not knowing the countryside, I had no way of judging whether or not I had miles or hundreds of miles of this ahead of me. All I could do was press on and try to interpret the map to follow flatter routes. <br />
<br />
At the top of one ascent I collapsed on the grass for lunch, bread, cheese, tomato, banana, what was becoming my staple diet during the day. A walker came along and greeted me in German, but we managed a few words in English. He was walking through the hills on a pilgrimage to Cologne and must have been on the road for many days. It felt like a very gentle and rewarding pursuit, to be walking through this lovely countryside heading for somewhere where you could make some peace with the world.<br />
<br />
I took a break in Wiehl and reviewed my GPS-led strategy. A straight line on the map maybe, but topographically a struggle. The map showed some roads that skirted a lake, and I imagined that this might be flatter so I abandoned my electronic line of blue dots and set off following the paper. For a good few kilometres all went well, but then I turned a corner at one signpost to see this enormous hill winding off into the hills again. My lowland lake was a hilltop reservoir. Plan C? What might that be?<br />
<br />
The afternoon continued with more climbing and descending, including one particularly exciting swoop down a series of hairpin bends into Wildburgerhutte. It was now starting to get late in the afternoon and I wanted to find somewhere to camp for the night but could not find any campsites. I pushed on until I arrived in the industrial city of Siegen at around six o'clock. There was no tourist information office in sight, and when I asked some taxi drivers at the railway station if they knew about any campsites they said there might be one 40 km north. I was heading south east and 40 km at this time of the day after over 50 miles of heavy climbing was not even worth considering. So they suggested asking a policeman.<br />
<br />
The police station was just a few hundred metres down the road so I walked in and explained my problem. The policewoman on the desk listened most sympathetically, explained that this was not a tourist area and that there were no campsites, but that she might be able to find the name of a hotel. Off she went to her computer, clicked away, wrote some telephone numbers down and made some calls. She came back to the desk with a piece of paper bearing the name and address of someone in the village of Wilgersdorf who had a room that night waiting for me. I thanked her profusely and said she was most kind. Which she was.<br />
<br />
The only problem was that Wilgersdorf was another 20 km further on down the road, and as it turned out I had to push the bike up a 15% climb to get out of Siegen and then do yet more climbing to arrive at Alfons Leyener's house, which was, of course, at the top end of Wilgersdorf. I had now done 73 miles of hard climbing and was totally exhausted, but felt the need to be sociable.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, a shower revived me somewhat and I went downstairs to the Leyener's dining room to find a table laid out with bread, cheese, sausages, red peppers, yellow peppers, pickles and beer. Alfons was there with one of his neighbours who spoke good English, and they were keen to find out what had brought me to this corner of Germany. I explained my journey, and it turned out that Alfons had at one time been a professional cyclist. He proudly showed me his 30-year-old carbon fibre racing bike, which had a distinctly retro look to it, compared to today's carbon fibre machines. He also drew me a cyclist's map of the route I should take to my next destination, Marburg. It showed all the things that were important to cyclists, like tricky junctions, gradients and distances.<br />
<br />
They also explained that the policewoman in Siegen lived in Wilgersdorf and knew that Alfons and his wife kept a room for lost souls. Aren't their police wonderful?<br />
<br />
The conversation moved on to football. They wanted to know what I thought of the Champions League final, which had been on Saturday night. I admitted that I had collapsed halfway through the second half and had no idea of the result, and with some delight they told me that Chelsea had beaten Bayern Munich. I was somewhat surprised that they were pleased that an English team had beaten a German side, but they then explained that Bayern Munich were not actually Germans, but Bavarians. They are also so successful that 'Germans' love it when ever anyone beats them.<br />
<br />
It was by now and well after 10 o'clock, and both Alfons and the neighbour had to get up at six o'clock in the morning so I made my excuses and wearily climbed up the stairs to bed.<br />
<br />Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-38789540666612717462012-05-26T13:46:00.004-07:002012-06-05T12:50:21.379-07:00Day 3 - And as I wind on down the road ...The day dawned sunny and bright, but not so my spirits when I saw that I had my first puncture of the journey. I cheated by swapping in a new tube, took the opportunity to put a new chain on (as I have a rotating chain policy) and eventually set off by 9:15.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eindhoven - Cologne</td></tr>
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The first part of the journey was a long day long, straight road, through a canopy of trees and I reached the small town of Asten by 10 o'clock, so I stopped for coffee. When I had set out on Saturday it had been about 10° C, but now it was about 25° and sunny. As I sat enjoying my coffee and cheese on toast the church bells chimed the hour with a short tune. It sounded familiar, and I realised that it was Led Zepplin's "Stairway to Heaven". Appropriate, I guess, for a church, but I wondered what Messrs Page, Plant and Bonham would have made of it when they were busy throwing TV sets out of hotel rooms to know that one day one of their songs would be rendered by church bells in a small Dutch town. I waited for the guitar licks, but they did not come.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stairway to heaven ...</td></tr>
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On again, and I eventually came to the River Maas, where I had to take a ferry. From there it was but a few miles until the German border. The first country crossed.<br />
<br />
It was now a case of adapting to a different approach to bicycle lanes. There were some, but they were inconsistent and of not such good quality. It was also not clear when they needed to be used. The terrain was starting to swell a little, not hilly, just not the pancake flatness of the Netherlands. "Stairway to Heaven" continued to go round and round in my head.<br />
<br />
The GPS was still proving to be very useful, and it guided me effortlessly through the city of Monchen-Gladbach and out along a series of narrow lanes that stretched in a straight line across ploughed fields in the direction of Cologne. Things were going really well until the lane I was on became a ploughed field itself and the GPS unit battery ran flat. Unfortunately the back roads I had taken left me with absolutely no idea where I was, so I had to retrace my steps, guess the right direction and cycle off until I found a landmark, a railway station at Rommerskirchen. I knew then that I had about an hour and a half to go to Cologne.<br />
<br />
In Cologne I was going to be staying with Frida, a daughter of one of Helen's friends, and her partner, Niels. The GPS had details of where their apartment was, so I managed to plug in the emergency backup and this took me through the city streets right to their front door. By now it was about 7 o'clock, and there was a very pleasant, warm, summery feel to the streets of the city as I pedalled on through. It felt like a nice city to live in.<br />
<br />
Frida and Niels made me feel very welcome. This was just as well, as I arrived looking a mess, the first symptoms of the summer's hayfever just hitting me as I arrived at their apartment. My eyes swelled up with an allergic reaction and I could barely see. Getting under a shower was a lifesaver.<br />
<br />
To my surprise, even though I had cycled 83 miles I was still feeling energetic enough to agree to go out for a look around the city. We ate pizzas and then they showed me the magnificent cathedral, the bridges and the ceiling of the opera house. This was of interest because the opera house is underground, and after completion it was discovered that if people walk across the roof, which is in a public space, their footsteps can be heard in the auditorium. So when there is a performance a small group of people stand on guard on the ceiling, stopping people walking across the open space.<br />
<br />
They were keen to take me to a brauhaus, and introduce me to the traditional Cologne way of drinking beer. Waiters walk around with trays of 0.2 l glasses of beer and slap them down in front of you. When you finish one glass, with impressive dexterity they replace your empty glass with a full one in a one handed sweep. If you do not put a beer mat over the glass, it never ends. Anyway, after three or four of these rather delicious, fresh-tasting glasses of beer we tottered out into the warm evening air and walked home.<br />
<br />
I slept well. 251 miles down, pretty well a quarter of the way there. But I was not really prepared for what was to come in the next few days.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-67161168750413522232012-05-26T13:45:00.001-07:002012-06-05T23:06:10.256-07:00Day 2 - Across Holland<br />
I love overnight ferry crossings, the throb of the engine, the sense of anticipation at arriving somewhere new and foreign. By 8 o'clock we were slowly moving in towards Europort on a cool, grey and misty morning. Fortunately, I no longer felt sick.<br />
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The few bicycles on board disembarked first, by 9:30. Remembering to keep to the right, I set off through the eerie quiet of the Dutch morning, cycling along smooth, flat cycle paths through an industrial area of cranes, storage tanks, chemical works and boats of all shapes and sizes. As a Sunday morning it was completely quiet, and the place had that strange post-apocalyptic feel. The only people around were occasional joggers and cyclists: at one point a small group all wearing Rabobank strip rushed past me in a tight bunch, and I wondered if they were the professional team out for a training run. They certainly had the tanned, tough-jawed look of professional cyclists.<br />
<br />
I pressed on across the flat islands. Everywhere was shut being a Sunday and I was a little concerned about where I would get today's carbohydrates from.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferry linking islands </td></tr>
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Eventually I came across a small village on a tiny hill surrounded by miles of flat farmland and sat outside a closed bar in the sunshine: somewhere along the street someone was practising playing their bugle. Many of the roads followed the tops of dikes, and the few metres of height and gave good views across the huge open spaces.<br />
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I started to notice some of the peculiarities of Dutch rural life: many houses had a small patch of land outside where they kept animals, sheep and goats mainly, but I did see one house that had four cows grazing happily in the front garden.<br />
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Before starting the journey I had used my GPS unit, a Satmap Active 10 and its website, to plot routes for each of my days. For these few days across Holland it had picked out wonderful cycle routes, which gave me the sense of travelling in a more or less straight line across the entire country. Cycle provision in Holland is, indeed, fantastic. Everywhere has dedicated cycle paths, whether it is a clearly-marked lane by the side of the road or a separate track running alongside. Where these tracks score over the largely useless cycle tracks in the UK is that they have right of way at junctions, so motorists always stop at turnings to allow cyclists to continue. As any cyclist knows, keeping your momentum is important, and having to constantly stop at side turnings makes most British cycle lanes a waste of time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7B_62W8uKHcwj3TcYdIX1ZqHjkzjLN-Dj_sbQ9RUHUe221pfMmL_is2qvH71gkpElmYPdb_qqiFdMbV7dzu_vpUKqd1KAMOilysK2Guif-UecgR-dRphCYysTRRhKV_5kmTqYNBjdxSw/s1600/Day+2+Eindhoven.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7B_62W8uKHcwj3TcYdIX1ZqHjkzjLN-Dj_sbQ9RUHUe221pfMmL_is2qvH71gkpElmYPdb_qqiFdMbV7dzu_vpUKqd1KAMOilysK2Guif-UecgR-dRphCYysTRRhKV_5kmTqYNBjdxSw/s400/Day+2+Eindhoven.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roterdam - Eindhoven (from http://bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As a British cyclist, I treat cycle lanes as somewhat optional, but in Holland they are compulsory. If you find yourself cycling on a road where there is a cycle lane, cars blow their horns and people shout. You also have to be careful about if there are lanes on both sides of a road (in which case they are one way) or on just one side (two way). Signs to indicate what they are, are of course in Dutch, but by the end of the first day I had just about worked it out.<br />
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People ride bicycles everywhere, and older people are often seen on new electric bicycles. At one point I saw an elderly gentleman pull out on a side turning some distance ahead of me, and he set off along the cycle path at well over 15 mph, so I found it difficult to catch him up. When I did I saw that he was riding one of these electric bicycles. I look forward to having one myself, in later years to extend my cycling activity!<br />
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In fact, the whole country seems to have been designed for people, rather than cars, to live in. Communities seem to have a well-thought out layout. Junctions are often raised with no rights of way, so that everyone has to slow down and look. In many places there is no distinction between pedestrian space and car space: the ambiguity makes drivers instinctively slow down. Entrances to decide roads are raised, and the roads themselves have different surfaces, so they feel like different spaces. All of this goes to make travelling through Holland a very pleasant experience.<br />
<br />
The water helps as well, everywhere there are ponds, streams and rivers. In Tilburg I sat under a tree and looked at a small river that meandered through a housing estate: people sapped by the waterside fishing, chatting, enjoying themselves.<br />
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Just before Breda I saw two cyclists with panniers looking at a map, and as one of them was wearing a jacket saying "UK to Venice, me, 2012" they were clearly Brits. I stopped and chatted to Dave and Doug. They were cycling to Venice, where they were going to meet their wives and spend the Jubilee weekend. They had also set off from Rotterdam that morning and we all hoped to arrive at our destinations at about the same time. We cycled along together for several miles and it was good to have some company. At one point Doug and I moved to one side to let someone pass, and it turned out to be a low-profile, aerodynamically-shaped white tube that was shooting along the cycle path. Doug called out to Dave to move to the side and when he looked around to see what was happening he almost fell off his bike at the sight of this wheeled missile heading towards him. It vanished into the distance, and none of us could quite believe what we had just seen.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilhelmina Canal after thunderstorm</td></tr>
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This was a long day. I was heading for a campsite just south of Eindhoven, and was held up for some time by thunderstorms. But thanks to the GPS I found my way through the city and to the campsite at Heeze. By this time it was 8:30 and I had to quickly pitch my tent and walk into town to find somewhere to eat. A kindly Italian restaurant agreed to serve me with pizza at 9:15.<br />
<br />
I eventually collapsed into my tent at just after 11. 100 miles in the day and 168 done altogether.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-19681389540912912002012-05-26T13:24:00.003-07:002012-06-05T23:04:36.886-07:00Day 1, 19th May 2012 - So it beginsApparently the Olympic flame started out from Land's End this morning.<br />
<br />
It's a place for starting journeys: with the Atlantic waves crashing in below and ocean to the north, west and south there is really only one way to go. I remember the excitement when I signed the End to End book in the Land's End Hotel back in 2004 and set off east to find John O'Groats.<br />
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Leaving Southgrove Road did not have that drama. Although it was really good to be setting out right from the door I felt flat and unsure why I was doing it. But Helen, Lew and Matt gave me a good send-off and even the neighbours Jenny and Alistair came out into the cool, grey, damp morning.<br />
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Some people may find technical details of interest. My bicycle is a Van
Nicolas Yukon, a Dutch-made titanium framed model, described by the
makers as an audax or light tourer. I was running on 700 x 28mm tyres,
which is really the narrowest you can ride on for carrying any sort of
load. Long Eaton Cycles, where I had bought the bike originally, had
swapped the original carbon forks for a steel pair, so that I could
mount front panniers. The total weight of bicycle and gear was just
under 30 kg. I worried that this was more than a light tour, and that the Fulcrum Racing 7 wheels were not really designed for this sort of weight.<br />
<br />
The power unit was a 58-year-old Devonian four-chamber heart muscle,
fuelled for most of its working life on a largely meat-free diet and
lubricated by red wine and hand-pulled bitter, where possible.<br />
<br />
Training for the ride had been limited and in my mind, inadequate. But I
knew from previous experience that I could build up my fitness as the
days went along. Well, it was a plan.<br />
<br />
I headed up through Tinsley, remembering the years that I cycled out to the British Steel offices at Ickles. Onwards through Rotherham and Doncaster and on across the flatlands of north Lincolnshire. The cold notherly headwind made it a bit of a grind: in my imagination I had pictured myself rolling on through warm May sunshine. Not today.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first day's route (from http://bikeroutetoaster.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Eventually I climbed over the little hill at Flixborough to be rewarded by the sight of the Humber Bridge, but then it was a cold slog into the wind along the muddy river.<br />
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Crossing the bridge was exciting though: I have always loved suspension bridges and cycling or walking across them brings you into contact with the immense delicate strength of the cables and steel. Then in through Hull, trying to avoid the dual carriageway and find the docks.<br />
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Seeing the ferry was a great relief: 68 miles on my first day was exhausting. So I collapsed into my cabin, stayed a while under the hot shower then had a nap. Later I made my way up to the buffet restaurant to carbo-load on potatoes. To the point of feeling sick, so nauseous, exhausted and aching I slunk off to my cabin by 9:30.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-53887824266050702812012-05-18T09:48:00.000-07:002012-05-18T09:48:54.923-07:00Time to get on my bikeSo tomorrow, Saturday, at about 10 o'clock I shall swing my leg over my rear panniers and set off down the gentle slope of my road to head off for Hull and the overnight ferry to Rotterdam.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="450px" id="mmf_blog_map" src="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/embedded/93731257" width="550px">&lt;p&gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/embedded/93731257"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Imported File Route (04/18/2012)&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;br/&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/?location=Sheffield"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Find more&amp;amp;amp;amp;nbsp; in Sheffield&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;gt;&lt;/p&gt;</iframe><br />
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<a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/?location=Sheffield">Find more in Sheffield</a><br />
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The first day's journey will take me through the delights of Rotherham, Doncaster and Scunthorpe, but at least there will only be showers and not the heavy rain that has followed my (admittedly) limited training programme. The highlight will be crossing the mighty Humber suspension bridge before gliding into Hull docks and pedalling onto the P&O ferry.<br />
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I shall then have the delight of an overnight crossing to reflect on the wisdom of what I have started. But I have told too many people now to back out, so perhaps I shall just sneak onto a train and then hide in Budapest for 10 days…<br />
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No, seriously, could I live with myself? (A moment's pause).<br />
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I have lined up meeting friends in Cologne, Marburg and Vienna, which will keep me going, and I reflect that once I hit the Danube it will all be flat and downhill. Perhaps a reflection on life itself.<br />
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Anyway, the hours on the bicycle will give me plenty of time for cod philosophy, and with luck I will be able to remember some of it so that I can upload it to my blog at the end of each day. So if you would like to share my pain, login from time to time over the next few weeks.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-10293980238477433762012-05-10T04:01:00.001-07:002012-05-10T04:01:15.873-07:00Why do it?With just over a week left before I set off on the bicycle ride, the reality starts to become more and more daunting.<br /><br />For many months I have just thought about the concept of riding a bicycle 1200 miles, and reflected on the joys of pedalling through sun-kissed countryside, gliding down gentle hillsides, having amusing conversations with bemused Dutch, German, Austrian and Hungarian people.<br /><br />However, I can now start to imagine the reality of aching legs, exhaustion, bonking (technical cycling term for running out of glucose and therefore energy), punctures, falling off, traffic, getting lost, and so on.<br /><br />So why do it, one of my colleagues asked me? Well, it is good to do it for a cause that I think important, and that whatever money I raise will go to help people who are less fortunate than me. There is also the sheer joy of cycling, of pedalling onwards, using no expensive fuel and just hearing the swish of rubber on the road.<br /><br />But after a few weeks at home meeting and talking to old friends I realise that I just want to be able to celebrate the great fortune of my own health. At 58 years of age more and more people I have shared the world with are starting to suffer; various cancers, arthritis and tragic accidents. I feel very lucky to have escaped so far, and to be able to contemplate two weeks of heavy duty cycling.<br /><br />We can take health for granted, but as time goes by it becomes more and more precious.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-62774043886982664262012-05-03T02:27:00.000-07:002012-05-03T02:27:29.596-07:00Stuck inside of Sheffield with the Buda blues againThis is the first Budapest Blog written from outside Budapest, but with Budapest very much in mind.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before the pain begins ... </td></tr>
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I am actually back in the UK, working temporarily here for personal reasons. However, in just over two weeks I will be jumping on a bicycle and cycling back to that beautiful city on the Danube.<br /><br />There are a few reasons for doing this. One is that I enjoy the Zen-like process of cycling onwards and onwards day after day, just focusing on keeping the pedals turning and enjoying the countryside passing by. Another is the sense of achievement at getting it done, which becomes more and more significant as birthdays keep coming.<br /><br />And a third is to try to raise some money for UNHCR's Syria appeal. This is a cause close to my heart as Helen and I spent some weeks in Syria late in 2010, and were very touched by the warmth and hospitality of everyone we met there. Seeing the human tragedy of what is happening in that country at the moment is distressing, and so I decided to try to do something to raise some money to support an organisation that is providing relief to people seeking safety.<br /><br />If you would like to donate to this cause, please go to the Ammado community "<a href="https://www.ammado.com/community/126553" target="_blank">Cycling for Syrian refugees</a>". Or scan my QR code:<br />
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<br />I shall try to update the blog as I travel along the road. I have invested in a solar charger for my mobile phone as apparently, in continental Europe the sun shines.<br /><br />Watch this space.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-25194406078032724022012-02-07T11:45:00.000-08:002012-02-07T11:45:28.784-08:00Winter comes at lastWinter in Central Europe normally starts in November, with the temperature suddenly plunging to below zero. But this winter nothing really happened: the temperature dropped to a feud degrees above zero and stayed there, almost English.<br /><br />On 21 January I left Budapest to join Helen for a two-week holiday in Thailand, where we sat around in 30° heat, avoiding the sun and letting our sweaty clothes dry. Then one day, to my horror, I discovered the weather report for Budapest said that the temperature had dropped to -16°, and we were going to be returning to these conditions within a few days.<br /><br />I hoped that spring might suddenly arrive while we were flying over the Indian Ocean, but nothing like that happened and we arrived back to "Siberian conditions", as the BBC reported.<br />
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So while a few days ago I was looking at palm trees waving in the breeze I am now looking at ice floating down the Danube and getting used to wearing multiple layers of clothing every time I leave the apartment. The weather forecast does not look promising: Spring still seems to be a long way away...Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-23323196741523086322012-02-07T11:28:00.000-08:002012-02-09T11:58:07.008-08:00The rhythm of life<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.389923368571062" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As
I move ever closer to the prime of my life I find myself thinking
about annual cycles and their markers more and more. Perhaps because
each year there are more and more...</span><br />
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My
latest reflection came as I walked back up the delightful Pozsonyi utca
early one afternoon, thinking about the chilly January wind blowing
over my shaved head. This particular reflection had been triggered by my
latest session with Anna, my <i>fodraszat</i>, or hairdresser.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
I arrived in January 2010 I looked around for a `barber's`, but all I
could find were women's hairdressing salons. Not wishing to make some
western European metrosexual faux pas I asked my colleague Balint if he
could suggest somewhere I could go. He recommended a place on Hollan Erno
utca, and made me an appointment. So one winter lunchtime I duly walked down
the ice-covered pavements in the sub-zero temperatures to organise my first Hungarian haircut.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
nervously walked into the salon clutching my Lonely Planet phrasebook
and mumbled "<i>hajvagas</i>". Anna pointed to the chair and I sat down so that
we could discuss style. Back in the UK I had a No. 1 all over, but this
meant nothing to her, as she spoke no English. So we experimented with a
succession of ever shorter passes until we got to a length that felt
right - <i>harom milimetres</i>, three mm.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ever
since that day, every three or four weeks I go back to the same place,
smile, say "<i>Jo napot</i>", sit down and get my 3mm cut. So we now have a
relationship, and one that grows a little each time as my Hungarian
vocabulary increases.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So
as I walked up Pozsonyi utca the other day I smiled to myself about our
conversation that day, which had.covered the date of my last visit,
where we had each spent Christmas, our presents, her favourite perfume,
my wife's favourite perfume, the price of a bottle of that, and which
ended.with my final, pithy male observation that "<i>Minden nok draga</i>", all
women are expensive, an observation whose enunciation in terrible
Hungarian caused great amusement around the salon.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Learning
Hungarian has been a long haul, and I can still only manage absolute
basics, but it is worth it for moments like that, when I can make some
unexpexted connection with another human being. </span></div>Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-37762956235921105972012-02-07T10:49:00.001-08:002012-02-07T10:49:23.422-08:00Moving home (again)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">In the
middle of January we moved home again, to our third and probably final resting place
in Budapest.</span></span></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">The
move was prompted by Helen's return to the UK in April, and the consequent desire
to find somewhere cheaper. We had really enjoyed living overlooking Szabadsag
ter for 18 months, watching the tourist groups, the dog walkers, the pairs of policemen
endlessly walking round and round the Soviet war memorial, and, of course, monitoring
the growing fortifications around the US Embassy.</span></span></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">So I
spent some time in November looking at potential new apartments and reconciling
myself to living somewhere smaller, darker and less convenient, although I was
keen to move further from the office so that I could cycle more and get to know
a different part of the city.</span></span></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">But I
didn't find anywhere I liked until I suddenly started looking in Ujlipotvaros, the
lower end of the XIII District, and immediately found a fantastic place overlooking
the river and at half the rent.</span></span></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">So the
deal was done and one cold day in mid-Jan I helped three likely lads move all
our belongings the 2 km up the road. It took three trips and 8 hours, the long
time being largely due to the difficulty<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>of betting stuff out of the old apartment, as the Embassy’s ring of
steel meant that they could not get their<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>an near the front door. I had then to stay outside and watch the van
while they moved stuff, and of course it chose that day to snow for the first
time. So it was a rather chilly experience.</span></span></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ParaAttribute0" style="line-height: 130%;">
<span class="CharAttribute1"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">By 5 I
was in the new apartment, surrounded by boxes. Home-making had to start again.</span></span></div>Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-54623379472715960822012-01-16T12:11:00.001-08:002012-01-16T12:11:17.033-08:00Smoking moves outdoorsA few days after arriving back in Budapest after my Christmas and New Year leave in the UK I went to a cellar bar nearby for a drink one evening with some people visiting from home. We walked downstairs and I was aware that something was a little different, but could not quite put my finger on it.<br /><br />After a little while one of the people I was with worked out what was different: no cigarette smoke.<br /><br />Yes, after several years of prevaricating and finding various excuses to avoid doing it, the government here has finally banned smoking in bars and restaurants. And what a difference it makes. Many of Budapest's bars are small or subterranean, and after an hour in one of them your clothes would be absolutely reeking with tobacco smoke. No longer.<br /><br />What it does mean is that, as in other countries with a smoking ban, you can spot the bars up and down a street by looking for the huddles of people standing outside puffing on their fags. But here in Hungary, where the great majority of people smoke, the crowds are obviously larger. Probably fortunately for the government this has been an extremely mild winter so far, with barely any sub-zero temperatures. I suspect the smoking ban would have been harder to get started if evening temperatures were the more normal -10° at night.<br /><br />But what to me seems to be the ultimate irony is that currently Hungary is getting criticism all round for introducing new legislation regarding small things such as limiting media freedom, the independence of the judiciary and suppression of parliamentary debate while nobody praises it for finally introducing the smoking ban.<br /><br />Sometimes, life is just so unfair.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-15160076307975589822012-01-06T11:01:00.000-08:002012-01-06T11:01:37.644-08:00State of the nationMy morning shave was interrupted today by a report on BBC Radio 4's "Today" programme about Hungary.<br /><br />It was talking about the big demonstration in Budapest on Monday night, where 'tens of thousands of people' demonstrated in Andrassy ut against the government's celebrations of the coming into being of the 'Basic Law'.<br /><br />According to the government spokesman quoted, this simply removes the final vestiges of the old pre-1989 socialist regime, but to the protesters it marks another step towards what many people see as a new dictatorship. A huge majority in the 2010 elections has given the current ruling party a mandate to make enormous changes to the constitution, many of which seem to, ironically, be using democracy to stifle democratic freedoms.<br /><br />One comment I read in an English-language news feed likened what is happening now in Hungary to the Fascist regime of Admiral Horthy in the 1920s and 1930s, where the regime curried favour by stoking up memories of old nationalist resentments relating to the loss of Hungarian territories in the 1920 Treaty of Trianon. Which is what we see here now.<br /><br />The problem that Hungary now faces is that the European Union, of which the country is a part, sees human rights and democratic freedoms as a cornerstone of its values, and is making it very clear that it is not happy with the trajectory along which the current government is moving.<br /><br />That would be bad enough, but this unease means that Hungary is not being given a loan to help it meet its debt obligations that are racing up to meet it in a few weeks time. Consequently the forint is sinking lower and lower (in January 2010 my British pound bought 290 forints, now it gives me 385).<br /><br />All everyone is talking about is the state of the nation and what is going to happen next. We wait and see.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2512322202586645435.post-16393482797068068172012-01-06T10:43:00.000-08:002012-01-06T10:43:17.620-08:00Seconds out, Round 3Towards midnight on January 2nd I arrived at Budapest Airport, two years to the day since I first arrived.<br /><br />I remember stepping off the plane that night in early 2010, and feeling the intense cold, and the first months as I tried to get to grips with my work, the city and the language. And thinking that I would only be here for two years.<br /><br />Yet now I am just starting my third year. So why the decision to stay?<br /><br />Well, Helen and I had many long conversations about returning to the UK or staying, and these covered many practical issues, like the security of a salary in these uncertain economic times, but another factor was our relationship with Budapest.<br /><br />During our first year many friends in the UK commented that we seemed to find it a difficult place to be living, and in truth we found that to be the case: the incomprehensible language, the reserve of local people all contributed to this.<br /><br />However, after Helen had fallen off her bicycle and had been 'confined to quarters' for some months we both realised that we had turned some sort of emotional corner and had now really come to enjoy living in the city. So why is that?<br /><br />In no particular order:<br /><br />It's a beautiful city. Every time I walk or cycle along the river my heart is lifted by the beautiful buildings, the shimmer on the water, the light and so on.<br /><br />We know local people. Through our conversations with Hungarian friends we have started to come to understand some of the reasons why the place is like it is, and so it all seems to make more sense. And I now wonder why when I first arrived people seemed somewhat unfriendly; nowadays most people seem perfectly okay. Maybe it was me...<br /><br />The language seems a little less impenetrable. Although I still find constructing a sentence nearly impossible, I know enough vocabulary to be able to make sense of the world around me and to articulate important needs in terrible Hungarian.<br /><br />So we approach 2012 with great optimism, sure that we will continue to enjoy living in this fascinating place.Bryan Hopkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987906587316174096noreply@blogger.com0