clairedavieswriter

I dined at the campsite restaurant last night. The place is Dutch-owned, and the tall, blond, very Dutch-looking server offered me a choice of mayo or ketchup with my fries, in a manner that suggested there was really only one correct answer. I chose diplomatically and just like that, we were friends. Though our new friendship was tested by his enthusiastic recommendation of the ‘vegetarian schnitzel’ which turned out to look and taste suspiciously like a Findus pancake, circa 1979:

But all was forgiven when he knocked up an excellent beschorle – this time with apple juice. So good, I had two:

I can’t say whether that contributed to my good night’s sleep or whether it was the comforting warmth of my cosy barrel, but regardless, I felt refreshed on setting off this morning. It was another grey start, and I was back in long sleeves, but with my enthusiasm undimmed. Would I rather be speeding towards Hannover/Hanover (why do we drop an n in English?) in a metal box? Hell no.

Though poor Bernard might be in need of a day off, and ideally a visit to a bike shop, as he is suffering from a bit of chafing in the gears department, so this village seemed apt:

But as we tackled a stiff southerly once again, this more cheerful place lifted our spirits:

And once again we found shelter at precisely the right moment – this time in the lee of a barn. The wind was blowing hard from behind it, so although we had no cover overhead, we remained miraculously dry:

In my best German (sic) I talked my way into getting a coffee at this place where they were serving a pricey buffet brunch:

The boss lady wasn’t all that keen, but her much more friendly staff spirited me away into an empty dining room to enjoy my illicit brew. I was extra careful not to mess up their table settings

The riding surface varied more widely today, from the customary tarmac (even out in the fields):

To some proper gravel:

To the hybrid two-strips-of-concrete-on-gravel kind of thing:

Riding into a big city is often quite hectic, but may I remind you that we’re in Germany? First there was this, a quiet cycle street through allotments:

Then, as if the cycle paths elsewhere in the country weren’t good enough, in Hannover they add paint:

Then there was a section that went through woodland (in the middle of the city):

And even allowing for it being Sunday (hence the lack of traffic), this kind of thing made cycling into the centre a doddle (note how the light for bikes goes green before the one for cars, to give us a head start – it makes a real difference to your comfort levels):

And not content with all this, the good folk of Hannover were busy improving their cycle paths (while ensuring we had a temporary path to follow in the meantime):

I always check with potential accommodation in advance whether they have bike storage, and in cities I ensure I can bring Bernard inside. In this case, the owner had assured me that my room would be on the ground floor, so having to carry him down this was a surprise (in fairness, on my side of the building, it is the ground floor):

My accommodation is smarter than of late – even dedicated cycle tourers can allow themselves a little luxury every now and then, especially for a two-night stay (Bernard even gets his own towels):

Although to be honest my choice was mostly predicated on the availability of a washing machine:

Which necessitated a trip to a supermarket to buy detergent. Virtually everywhere was closed (Germany takes Sunday very seriously) apart from the Lidl at the main railway station (the building across the square below), where it appeared the entire city was stocking up, and the queues to checkout stretched way back through the aisles. I baulked on my first attempt, but put my big girl pants on and plunged back in, because how else would I do my washing?

My highlight of the day, without a doubt, was the blink-and-you-miss-it (in a car) village of Oegenbostel, where I realised I’d become a barn fancier. I mean, just look at them:

Every building seemed to date back more than two hundred years, although admittedly some were less well tended:

Than others:

This one was a good example of the apparent tradition in those days to write the names of the family living there on the outside (this one was dated 1846):

I spotted my Sign of the Day in the loos at my coffee stop. It reads:

“When Plan A doesn’t work, don’t panic: there are 25 other letters in the alphabet”

Excellent advice, which nonetheless I hope I won’t need on this trip. Tschüss!