A Long Road – Saarland to the Black Forest

A broken bike, a sopping tent and dodging rainstorms, riding out was starting to show us the other side of the coin.

At a bit of a stalemate, and finding ourselves (perhaps to Stef’s delight) temporarily quarantined, without a meter to pedal. We slipped into a Wasserfangen bakery, ordered a couple of laugenbrot pretzels and both started tapping out some words on our respective electronic devices – I produced a blog, and Stef cemented a rendez-vous with a friend. In no time at all, we were raiding the local supermarket for all of it’s calories. Tempted by the prospect of a barbecue, we secured anything that we’d struggle to cook in our one-pot setup. Freed from our bikes, but still laden with our luggage, we quickly came to sympathise with our bikes. As Will strained and stopped in 200 meter segments, we sampled the delights at hand.

Being off the bike…

With a couple of hours until our meet up, we picnicked by a river, ground our own coffee in a supermarket (yes -they do that in Germany) and generally loafed around in some shade until the roar of Maria’s glorious VW Bulli camper electrified the sleepy streets. Night by this point having already fallen, we slung our panniers in the van and headed to a spot we had already scoped out. A little car park nestled in the plateau above the Saar valley, we lit the coals, unsheathed tongs and beheaded a few stubbies. An evening stood around the embers of our grill proved just the ticked to take our mind off some of the events of recent days, as well as the bill awaiting at the bike shop, and we made sure to continue it until 3.30am, just to be sure…

Waking with what can only be described as debilitatingly puffy eyes and self-diagnosed allergic conjunctivitis, the secluded nature of the spot seemed not to agree with our particular lack of appreciation for pollen. Teary eyed, we popped out our V60, boiled up some water and sampled some coffee between frantic searches for pocket tissues. Without bikes but with the luxury of motorised transport, we made tracks towards one of the Saarland’s hottest spots, the Saarschleife. For what is essentially a river bend, this spot is a bit of an impressive one. With massive hulks rounding the corner and forests sliding between the blues of water and sky, it’s a spot to see.

Rounding out the day by a waterfall in Tunigen, we made tracks to look for another place to spend the night. Driving around in the camper, it was clear that we were a little more conspicuous than on the bike, regardless of the unusual shape and form of our now distinct tan lines. Stopping on one spot by some unused land leading to a water treatment plant, we were surprised to be confronted with our first unhappy “whad’ya think you’re doing here?” moment as a rather portly German farmer took ire at our impromptu parking. Packed up again, we scouted for other spots but settled eventually in the same place we’d enjoyed the night before.

Following the tried and tested morning ritual of tent disassembly, we picked up Will’s bike, now repaired and in fine fettle at a price that didn’t make a miser wince too sourly. On this note, I’d like to extend a debt of thanks to Carsten at Heinz Ehl bikes in Wasserfangen – if you ever fall off your bike in the Saarland, you could do far worse than shaking this fella’s hand at the end of things.

Four wheels on the road…

We said our goodbyes to Maria as she packed up her own assorted items into the Bulli and made a straight line back towards Wiesbaden. For us though, we were headed south. Sticking closely to the extensive cycleways that slip down the side of the Saar and through the old rusting pipes, tubes and chimneys of the factories that litter the stretch of the river into Saarbrücken. Stopping only to repair a puncture along the route, we tapped a solid tempo, and soon snuck across the border to Sarreguemines. Carrying on through to Keskastel, we took refuge from the embers of the day at a campsite, showering for the first time in a solid four days.

Waking with the not unsubstantial effort of the day before still lingering in our aching legs, we lazed about the campsite some more, profiting from a quiet and peaceful Alsatian scene and the unmistakable gurgle of froggy ponds. Setting off a shade into the shortest shadows of the day, we made our goal the town of Saverne. Not all too far, but laying claim to the first Col our map highlighted, we gave it a nod of respect in making it our target. Making good early progress, we slowly rose until the blue line of Voges mountains loomed on the misty, muggy horizons. Soon it became clear that the heat was to lay claim to the day as thunderstorms and downpours sprung from each silver lining, and we found ourselves bus-stop hopping, dodging a real drenching. Soon enough though, we were to get caught right under a particularly bolty cloud. As we scouted places to take cover, we spotted what we suspected to be a victim of the weather, and dashed across to the local farmhouse to let them know that one of their cows was looking as though it had moved on to pastures new.

Slug-gate…

Typically, we were stone faced-ly told that it was someone else’s cow – that said though, the act of offering that intel seemingly earned us a space in one of their barns, as they opened up their doors and let us keep our gear dry as it really began to batter. Heaven knows what the dispute was that caused such schadenfreudeic delight and generosity on our host’s part…

Pedalling on, we got to Phalsbourg and made the last little wiggle up the modest Col De Saverne. A little spot opening up in the trees, we bedded down amidst the spongy wet leaves and made ourselves a pesto pasta.

Waking at a start with 3 am with the sensation of a spider crawling across my face, we made a joint decision that a bathroom break was needed. Just as Will’s recoil jolted us from sleep, Stef suddenly let out a shriek. No reader – there was no fire. There was no earthquake or natural distaster – instead, Stef had discovered sock-free and foot first that a slug had made steady progress deep into her shoe. With adrenaline now running high, we slept poorly and dogged by mozzies on our hill top camp, and woke early to get the frick out of there.

The wavering slopes dropping us pleasantly into town, our first mission was to secure coffee and croissants in compensation for Stef’s overnight trauma. Sitting in a little café on the high street, we read up on the town – particularly it’s role in the Zabern affair. Careful not to insult any Alsatians, we paid up and pedalled out past the decorative medieval houses and onto the canal paths that wound into Strasbourg.

Leaving France

Packed with tourists, this wasn’t our first visit to the city. Swinging into town by the European Parliament, we made sure to digest the sights quickly, but with our day having been consumed in exchanging pleasantries with canal types, we were a little cream-crackered by the time we were due to strike south. The lure of familiarity an appealing prospect at this two week waypoint, we made tracks towards the campsite we stayed in when last we were in town. Heading over a cycle bridge, we left France, not to turn a pedal in anger in that fine country for over a month and a half…

And so we woke in Kehl. Wedged now between the Vosges and the Black Forest Mountains, we took the rat in a drainpipe approach and ploughed along the flat. With a tailwind joyously pushing us with great gusto, the first half of the day saw us make a good 50 kilometers. With dots of rain highlighting a good time to stop at a bar, we turned off the road and into Riegal – a small town just 20 km short of our day’s target and the warm bed promised us by the fantastic Dorte and her partner.

Any (s)port in a storm

But the weather never turned – in fact, it just got growlier. Then rumblier. Then just downright angry. We took lieu of the bar we were propping up to have a scout about for places to stay. With a roof being the best option, we asked around if anyone had any ideas. One B&B owner, with lightning flashing Adams Family-esque throughout our conversation told us his entirely empty rooms were “too expensive for us” and instead pointed to a campsite about 3 kilometers away. Not content to sit in a tent on one of the flattest stretches of land in central Europe, we scoped out bridges and the like before once again making our way to a bar.

Sat quite miserably, we pondered the efficacy of toughing one out in a storm, and resolved to stick around in the bricks and mortar as long as we could, whilst outside the strobing sky suggested to all intents and purposes that we had instead secured tickets for the hottest DJ set in the Rhineland. As floors got swept, we had no other choice but to brave it. We made it to the local football club, blew up our mats, parked our bikes and laid down under the thin tin roof, listening to the spatter of rain at 3am, as distant flashes served as prequel for the morning’s storms…

We woke just three hours later, smoke filling our nostrils as some psychopath had decided that 5:15 am was precisely the time to get some allotment work done. Rolling our mats, and waiting for our water to boil and coffee to breathe life into us, we stared bemused at the antics of these gardeners as they arrived steadily, with hedge trimming beginning at 6am. At this point, things were bleak.

With our panniers packed and sharing out a lonely square of bread, we weren’t all smiles. As a car pulled up, we were ready to ride out, but instead, a chirpy fella popped his head around and asked us what was happening. We explained that we had ridden from England, and were just breakfasting. Clearly taking pity, he opened up the sports ground and pointed us to the showers. Instantly feeling more human, we thanked him and were hopping back onto our bikes when he pushed a bottle of red wine into Stef’s hands – a far sweeter memory of what was an otherwise testing stay in a small town.

A roof at last…

We rode on again. Yearning for pastries, it became clear that our luck hadn’t quite turned completely. With the 31st of May being Corpus Christi bank holiday in Baden-Wurttemburg, shopping wasn’t going to be so easy. Nevertheless, we found a bakery and plodded on to Freiburg, nestled in the foothills of the Schwarzwald.

Extremely old and with a university that dates back to the 1400s, this cobbled town shouts more for it’s church than it’s rather glamorous position as Germany’s warmest city. Ample green spaces and quaint old alleys, the city felt like it was opening it’s arms. And then I got a puncture. Fiddling with inner tubes, it quickly became clear that we had bought a faulty valve, and as frustration grew, our mini-pump disintegrated. With one co2 cartridge left and only a patched inner tube to hand, this wasn’t a nice situation. All shops closed for the bank holidays, we rolled the dice and came up trumps. Aspirations to maybe make a dent into the mountains evaporating, we messaged Dorte, who kindly offered some cover the previous night, and asked if she was still able to put up two bedraggled bike riders. To our eternal gratefulness, she was.

A gas filled tyre rolling us to her front door, we sat on their balcony, surveying the forest and chatting about the city we found ourselves in, the trips we’d each done, whilst taking chunks out of the freshest watermelon ever to have graced our lips. Joyous, we dropped our jaws at the loveliness of their place, the overwhelming kindness and coolness of our hosts, and our good fortune to be sheltered from the next bought of thunder. We heard the wind rise and the rain trickle, as we sat entirely closed off, away from the wind, in the highest of humble luxuries.