Germany Calling

…as the lights go out across Europe again

Of the many memorable vistas Europe offers, the view of the A15 from a Starbucks somewhere north of Namur would not normally merit a mention. But this has been an unusual year.

The Swiss Tourist Boards’ meticulous charting of ‘The Grand Tour of Switzerland’ was the plan for  June. But as April became May and one country shut after another, it was clear this was not going to be. By September, there was only one place still open for business and that was Germany. A forensic analysis of the various, Byzantine restrictions suggested it was possible to comply with all applicable laws by not stopping at all in France, having no contact with any Belgians and shooting across Luxembourg in time for dinner in Trier. And so well on my way by mid-morning with the late summer sun beating down, I really wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Trier is packed with Germans denied the chance to venture further afield. The Bitburger Brewery bar is doing a brisk trade despite the impressive social distancing discipline exhibited by staff and punters alike. After an early outdoor dinner at the excellent Restaurant Schlemerule, it’s up early before heading to Koblenz along the winding banks of the Mosel. Sunlight sparkles off the river as it switches back and forth. Villages and towns come and go and, as early as 10:00, the locals are out in force sipping Riesling from the distinctive glasses.

Huf Haus GmbH is headquartered in the Westerwald region and manufactures prefabricated homes. The architecture is in the Bauhaus style, based on the Fachwerk (half-timbered) post & beam design. I’ve seen them dotted around the UK (there is a one spectacular example on the eastern shore of Windermere) and have long been fascinated by them. So I detour to have a look round the Huf Village in Hartenfels.

There are a number of examples of the ‘Art’ and ‘Modum’ variants and the opportunity to see what they’re like from the inside. It’s difficult to think of a concept that could be more German. The park they are in is primped to within an inch and beautifully laid out. The houses, far from feeling temporal, are engineered to minute tolerances and feel as if they will last a thousand years.

The only eccentric touches are the bathrooms. In all other respects, these are spacious and generously proportioned dwellings but have only a single room in which an entire family must perform their morning ablutions. “Yers, in Germany dis is naumal” I am assured. Ok… The art on the walls is curious also insofar it depicts various ladies, err, celebrating their love for one another in athletic fashion. I resist asking if this too is normal in Germany. Overall, the Huf vision might not be up everyone’s straße but as my host commented from the light-flooded living room of one of the Häuser, they are “just really nice places to be in”.

Have you ever heard of Erfurt? No, me neither but there’s a few ways to get to the Harz Mountains for an overnight stop from the pleasant but antiseptic town of Siegen and Erfurt looks as good as any. Plotting the most direct route between the two chances upon the unexpected glory of the Naturpark Sauerland Rothaargebirge that is utterly deserted and stunning. Afterwards, the road winds in and out of the former East Germany. At each border point, road signs graphically depict the Baltic to Black Sea division of the Iron Curtain, and the segregation that persisted until 12 November 1989.

I go to a bar recommended by the hotelier to take a look at the Krämerbrück, who breathlessly described it as like Florence’s Ponte Vecchio. In truth, it lacks the same spectacle. Google tells me Erfurt's old town is one of the best preserved medieval city centres in Germany. While no doubt true, it’s ringed by modern brutalist development and so lacks the charm of somewhere like Rothenburg-oder-Tauber that really does feel like stepping back in time. Restaurant Zumnorde however, promises authentic Thuringian cooking and doesn’t disappoint. A restful wood panelled room, gutsy flavours, great wine and excellent service topped off by a very reasonable bill. Well worth a visit and the struggle through the maze of interconnected buildings to find it.

After a night in the weirdest hotel - a ground floor apartment converted into a small conference venue with the two ‘breakout’ rooms hastily re-purposed as bedrooms and no breakfast - I’m gone by 07:00. Queuing with the locals at a surprisingly good Bäckerei somewhere up the road towards the Harz Mountains, the day has promise. The Harz has tempted many times but as it appears on the map to be in the middle of a fairly featureless landscape, we’ve always played safe and gone elsewhere. I’ve just checked my Times Atlas of the World and even the contour map of this peerless book does not give any indication of what to expect.

But leaving the A71, in the distance is a distinct swell of hills and a series of predictably superb roads leading to the Kyffhäuser. This is the site of a mediaeval castle that has achieved a significance in German, traditional mythology as the legendary resting place of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. It’s a genuinely strange construction alright, surrounded by absolutely nothing other than the plains stretching out in every direction. The hike up from the car park is a good leg stretch and - in full Rukka touring suit - I’m sweating like a glass-blowers arse by the time I get to the top as the mercury reaches an unseasonal 32 degrees.

The ride back down makes it all worthwhile as the 36 turns in 4.5 km prove beyond all doubt that the Germans do have a sense of humour after all. It’s more theme-park than race-track, so not as technically demanding and enduring as the B500, but more fun than the overrated Stelvio and should be on everybody’s list. I send a series of puerile, taunting texts to my normal touring companion suggesting he would enjoy being taken fast up the Kyffhäuser at some later date. He owns and runs a care home, so is rightly taking no chances and has stayed at home.

I take a circuitous route round the Harz, criss-crossing myself several times and not giving a hoot. This mysterious region is it’s own little world and I want to see as much as I can in a day. An endless biking banquet of billiard-table smooth roads, arrow-like pines, blue skies and sun. Wernigerode is the destination and the HKK Hotel is good value and a short walk from yet another pristine, mediaeval town centre. I can’t fault the quality or value of dinner at the Michelin-listed Gothisches Haus that marks the perfect end to a perfect day.

Leaving Wernigerode and reluctant to say goodbye to the Harz, I go south in search of the summit of the Brocken, the highest peak in the region before the Ural Mountains. It’s  home to the myth of Walpurgisnacht, a pagan festival still observed across Northern Europe where folk light bonfires on 30 April to ward off evil spirits and witches. Worth noting that Saint Walpurga was hailed by the Christians of Germany for battling "pest, rabies and whooping cough, as well as against witchcraft”. Given the Covid nightmare about to envelope the continent for a second time, a visitation would have been welcome. Sensibly, the whole area is a Naturalspark with all vehicles verboten. As it’s a good two hours hike (or 45 minute steam train) to the summit, I just enjoy the racetrack roads and the late September sun before heading back again into the ‘old’ East.

Now, I’m no linguist but a few faltering words committed to memory, a hesitant smile and positive attitude are usually enough to make your way across Europe. Except Paris, obviously… But a fuel stop and polite request of “Pump vier bitte und ein Käse-Schinken-Brot mit eine Kaffee mit Milch, bitte” is met with a thunderous look, a volley of guttural Prussian as if served from the barrel of a Mauser and lots of banging and crashing of cups and plates. Charming…

An hour or two later, I follow the signs to a ferry to cross the Elbe but there isn’t one. Initially, I assumed it was my error but there’s half a dozen of people slightly angrier than the woman at the Aral station and clearly local. I’m rather pleased with the “Wie kommen wir über die wasser?” I dredge up from sub ‘O’ Level German forty-five years ago. I get back another outpouring of impotent rage, a furious glare and a shrug that says it all: “I know. The place is utter shit. It’s always been like this. It always will be. You’re lucky. You get to go home”.

After 40 Km. retracing my steps, I find the ferry at Räbel at the end of a long cobbled road. Relieved to be on the other side, my gearchange falls off five minutes later, Bavaria’s finest being no match for East German roadbuilders. After a makeshift repair, I limp on to Plötzenhöhe-am-See. The hotel looked a bit like the sparkly posh ones on Tegernsee & Walchansee but online, they all do. After another couple of miles of cobbles, past trucks on blocks, rusted climbing frames and naff all else, the hotel has no record of my booking.  I’d actually booked somewhere else, so that’s fair enough. But despite being apparently open-for-business, obviously empty and faced with a tired, hungry (and thirsty…) potential customer they can’t even be arsed to take any money off me and I barely get a grunt.

I find the hotel I have booked a couple of miles up the road in the town. It’s a faded but elegant building at one end of a small park that leads to the throbbing heart of Plau. The staff are friendly if suspicious as if they can’t believe anyone would actually come here out of choice. Dinner is at Fackelgarten - the only place open - and is good. It’s clearly a local restaurant for local people but at least I’m treated with polite amusement rather than outright derision. But then my credit card is declined and the mood changes abruptly. It turns out it was cloned earlier in the day but, for once, I’ve got enough cash on me.

Next day, I locate the local BMW connection in Neubrandenburg and set off to see if they can fix the bike. Given the experience of the previous day, expectations are low and plummet further as I sidle between two nondescript cars at some traffic lights on the ring road. Furious revving of engines and a doomed bid to race me away from the lights is on the cards but as soon they realise the absurdity of their endeavour, both of them squeeze the gap with one catching a pannier as I shoot through. Pathetic.   

But Uhlmann Motorräder is a beacon of civility as a mechanic comes out to the carpark and cheerily sorts out the broken linkage. He waves me away when I ask how much the repair is so I go back in to leave them a decent tip. My faith in human nature partially restored, they insist I stay for a coffee before getting on to the holiday island of Rugen and the ‘Colossus of Prora’.

Built between 1936 and 1939 as part of the sinister ‘Strength through Joy’ program of the Nazis, Prora comprises eight virtually identical concrete monoliths. In the Bauhaus style and designed to provide forced recreation for 20,000 German munitions workers, it’s a holiday factory, no less. Never finished, it was abandoned after WWII and used for a variety of military purposes before falling into disrepair after German unification.

I spend an hour and a half walking past two of the blocks. One is still derelict and the other converted into smart looking apartments. Ghostly reminders of the intended purpose of forced jollity abound: a concrete ping-pong table; a vast communal exercise yard and the husks of a never-completed cinema and swimming pool.

Back on the bike to go and have a look at Binz, the ritzy little resort at the southern end of the shallow bay, I realised I’ve only walked an eighth of it rather than half.  The other blocks have been more or less fully restored and feature an expensive if nondescript hotel, a youth hostel, more apartments and a couple of average restaurants.

The scale of Prora is staggering but the question lingers about what to do with these reminders of such a dark period of history? Demolish them and all they stood for or leave then exactly as they were as reminders of the horrors they represent? The latter is very much the French way as the ransacked village of Oradour-Sur-Glane and the WW1 battlefield at Le Linge attest. The third way is to put them to work. It’s what’s happened here and probably the right decision. The Besucherzentrum is comprehensive and respectful to the past while the restoration acknowledges the inherent scale of the vision and architectural importance.

It’s a long slog home from here. Two days to Aachen at the Belgium order, bisected by a memorable but toppy stopover at Ole Deele’s excellent Michelin-starred restaurant with rooms near Hannover. But the journey turns out to be oddly therapeutic as the cats-cradle of deserted autobahn enable coverage of vast distances in record time.

Many of the vistas remind me of a photograph by August Sander taken in 1936 of a recently completed stretch. Like Prora, it’s got a troubled back story. Some believe it to be a commercial job on behalf of  a local civil engineering company. But revisionists interpret it as nothing more than naked propaganda for the regime that funded it. I realise my route takes me close so I work out where the view is from (north of Oberdahlhaus overlooking the E35/A3 and Neanderthal if you’re interested…) and take a detour. While still recognisable, the sense of serenity and order of Sander’s image is lost forever.

Left image above: August Sander; Expressway Built during the Third Reich, Neanderthal c1936 Gelatin silver print 17.1 × 22.9 cm.  Reproduced by kind permission of  The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles

With full tank & empty bladder, passenger declaration completed and lodged, the morning 214 mile flit across Belgium in one hop to avoid quarantine takes less than two and a half hours hours. It’s a Sunday morning with virtual lockdown so little traffic to keep an eye on and plenty of time to reflect on the week. Given the dearth of alternatives, it’s been a minor triumph. The Mosel Valley & Westerwald have a winning modesty about them and the Harz is a gem: definitely worth a return trip. Prora is only for the truly committed but it’s a spectacle and I’m glad I’ve been. But the ‘old East’ was the real eye-opener. I’d be told over the years by many people who have worked in Germany that the temperament is very different between East & West with the collective view of the former spanning qualified to unprintable. My limited experience echoes this although such a polarised view excludes Berlin that is about as cosmopolitan and liberal as you can get.

But why? I consulted the best authority on the subject I know (Modern History degree from one of the UK’s better seats of learning) who pinpoints it to the ‘General Treaty’ of 1952. Antagonised by the ‘March Note’ from Stalin, France, USA & the UK decided there was more mileage in backing West Germany than the East and allocated their support and resources accordingly. This single act of diplomatic polity condemned the East to 37 years of authoritarian incompetence, the partition of Berlin and abject misery for all. As a result, an enduring loathing of all things French, American and British exists to this day, particularly in the sticks. Assuming this is the case, it explains a lot but can’t be justified in context of a Europe where most people have long since buried the hatchet. But I can only speak as I find and if the 31 years since reunification isn’t long enough for a collective sense of charm, perspective and forgiveness to develop, another decade  or so probably won’t make much difference and I’m not minded to find out of it has.

At Calais, my paperwork is checked by a UK Immigration Official who politely asks for proof I’ve not stopped in Belgium. My hotel bill and fuel receipt from the day before are sufficient and he asks me what he think’s of our chances tonight at Leicester and am I travelling all the way back today? His accent gives the game away but he’s spotted I was born in Burnley in my passport and seems surprised I no longer live there. If you've won first prize in the lottery of life by being born in the Cradle of Civilisation, why leave?  Friendly, fair and funny, we tend to take our public servants for granted.

I can’t imagine any of Erich Mielke’s Stasi, according to historian Edward N. Peterson, the "most pervasive police state apparatus ever to exist on German soil” (given stiff competition from the Gestapo, that’s some accolade), ever having a similar conversation with a hapless East German citizen and a timely reminder that it’s always good to be going home, whatever the failings of the current Ruling Party.