After medicating myself with an early night I woke from my long sleep with the usual tent dilemma: being warm, comfortable, and busting for a wee. I’m more of a night owl than a morning lark so having such a forceful alarm clock is actually quite handy. I thought the trip might re-tune my circadian rhythm and I would rise with the sun like a medieval farm labourer, but apparently not yet.
As soon as I sat upright it was clear my back pain had much improved and I would be able to carry on towards Hamburg. I cooked up an extra large bowl of porridge and offered a few oats to my new neighbour the mallard duck, who had been justifying my anatidaephobia as he sat and watched me eat breakfast. The oats were enthusiastically received.
The Worpswede campsite was remarkably empty and I hadn’t seen a single staff member since my arrival. It would have been quite easy to just leave and save a few euros, but this is Germany – where following the rules and making money are part of the national DNA – so I wandered further in to try and locate a reception.
As I carefully leaned my bike against a wall I was greeted by the campsite owner. There was a warmth to his character and he quickly expressed an interest in my trip, boasting of his passion for the British countryside. When the conversation turned to my sore back he suddenly disappeared behind the counter and returned with a tube of ‘Voltaren’ pain killing gel, insisting that I take it with me free of charge. I don’t really know how effective the Voltaren was, but the gesture lifted me for the rest of the day; I realised the importance of communicating with people I meet along the way, and the power they can have to change a situation with their knowledge, resources, and little acts of kindness.
With my new lease of life I began to cycle my way north-east through the flat pastoral landscape of fields separated only by the occasional patch of woodland. Curiously, one of the larger villages I passed through was equipped with a vending machine stocked with trays of eggs – those on higher shelves in the machine were cheaper than their lower counterparts. I like to think a German chicken farmer has sat down and developed a pricing formula that accounts for the probability of eggs breaking when dispensed from different levels of the machine, I wouldn’t put it past them.
Over time the open fields of grass and cereals were interspersed with dense orchards, sleepy farmyards were replaced by industrial estates, and the once occasional traffic was becoming more of a constant. Hamburg was approaching, but there was still a significant barrier between us: the river Elbe.
Hamburg
The cycle path was becoming busier and I tucked in behind a group of commuters heading in the right direction. After around 20 minutes our little peleton arrived at the airport ferry crossing – a small jetty floating on the south banks of the Elbe.
As we waited for our ferry there was another boat making its way downstream towards the North Sea, a colossal 125,000 tonne cruise ship from German operator AIDA. Looking like a skyscraper that had been toppled by a giant toddler and scribbled on with a crayon, even the locals seemed bemused at the ridiculous spectacle that was floating along in front of us.
The hostel I was staying in was in the northern part of St Pauli district and not far from the lively Schanze area, basecamp for the regional hipster population. The heavily graffitied buildings are not in a state of abandonment, they are full of life and activity. The streets are dotted with countless ‘kiosk’ shops – each a slightly different hybrid of newsagent, off-licence, post office and café – and the countless bars and restaurants seem to effortlessly draw in the punters even on a Tuesday night. It seems there is no shortage of money changing hands in Hamburg.
I wanted to stay for a bit longer in Hamburg to explore and catch up on travel admin, but with only one night booked and a lack of beds I had to move hostels. The new one was nearby and turned out to be more of a ‘proper’ backpackers hostel, with key ingredients including a big common area with free tea & coffee on tap, and sociable members of staff including the very down to earth Irishman who shared my name. The hostel functioned partly as a little haven for the city’s English speakers, some of whom were studying in Hamburg but just liked to swing by for the good vibes and a break from the Germanic world.
As a sort of ice-breaker for guests the hostel put on a weekly open mic night, where if you’re lucky you might hear Martin the compere play something from his wide busking repertoire, and if you’re unlucky you might hear Martin The Cycling Brit butchering Johnny Flynn’s theme tune to The Detectorists – the problem with forgetting both the lyrics and chords to a song is that, well, there’s not much left to perform at that point. We decided the best course of action was to try another song, so I went for The Divine Comedy’s My Lovely Horse which I knew Irish Martin would join in with, which thankfully went a bit more like it did in Ted and Dougal’s dreams than their performance at the Irish Eurovision qualifiers. I declined the free beer offered to open mic participants though, I’ll grab one when I do that Johnny Flynn song justice.
I would spend four nights in Hamburg in the end, with an extra day to have a look around the Harbour festival with my new hostel friends from India and Pakistan, who calmly elevated themselves above the aggression of their country’s governments only hours after missiles had been fired in the ongoing Kashmir conflict.
Although I didn’t quite get around to all of the tasks on my travel admin list, after much research & confusion I did eventually manage to send a package home – partly to send birthday goodies for Mum, but also to return a few stowaways that had snuck into my panniers. Yep, I cycled from Amsterdam to Hamburg carrying a 60W power supply for a Wahoo Kickr turbo trainer, i.e. an exercise bike. If there is one thing you don’t need on a cycle tour, it’s an exercise bike, so you probably don’t need the power supply for one either.
I did find time to get out of the hostel and explore the city to be a bit of a tourist. The ominous concrete bunker – built by forced labourers under instruction of the Nazis – might be the most solid looking building I’ve ever seen, and clearly strong enough for them to stick a multi-storey hotel on top and cover the roof in trees & shrubs.
Sadly the Church of St Nicholas did not survive the allied bombing raids quite so unscathed, the ruins of which remain as a memorial. I’ve seen the ruins of countless monasteries torn down at the behest of everyone’s favourite fat-man Henry VIII, but there’s something quite unsettling about the church of St Nicholas, probably the fact the enormous spire is still intact; you can see the soire from miles around, it’s only when you get close it becomes obvious the rest is missing. Apparently it was destroyed by a fire in the 19th century too, so they might struggle to get building insurance after rebuild no. 3.
Finally I couldn’t leave without sticking my head in the cunningly named Miniatur Wunderland (not ‘The Model Railway Museum‘, which might somewhat narrow the demographic appeal). It’s quite easy to imagine how dull a badly executed version of this museum would be to your average city tourist, but kudos to them – they have put together a small army of craftsmen & women in the workshops to create this little parallel universe spread across several floors of an old warehouse by the docks. Everything comes to life too thanks to thousands of hidden electric motors, circuits and LEDs, all overseen by a slightly overkill control room that seems to be modelled on NASA’s Houston.
After making my way through the miniature exhibits – each showing a different geographical area and various human & economic activities – I sat down for a coffee in the cafeteria and got talking to an English couple from York who were in Hamburg for the weekend. The topic turned to the museum and how long we had been inside – they’d been told by a friend back home that it would take three days to see everything properly.
“Three days in here, can you imagine?!”, the wife exasperated.
I took a sip of my rapidly cooling cappuccino and looked at the husband. It seemed like he might be on the verge of launching a defence of their friend’s position – maybe with a monologue about the time needed to truly appreciate good craftsmanship – but he thought better of it. They had negotiated to spend 5 hours max. He finished his slice of cake and headed upstairs to checkout the Italian Alps on level 3, she ordered another cup of tea.
My time in Hamburg was coming to an end. I had met a variety of interesting people at the hostel, from both Germany and beyond, and felt that despite the short time we had spent together we became friends. Before my departure I grabbed lunch with a German man of a similar age who was in the process of renovating a boat; it sounded like a long and complex project, but one I could understand. We were both finding meaning and satisfaction in our own journeys.
From campingplätze to trekkingplätze
It felt good to be out in the countryside again. The sun was still beaming in the unseasonably warm spring heatwave that had started on day 3 back in Horn and continued ever since.
I was now heading north towards Denmark through Germany’s most northern state: Schleswig-Holstein. The area is famous for its classic black & white Holstein Fresian dairy cows, which you see all over Shropshire and pretty much everywhere else that produces milk on an industrial scale.
I had a rummage on Google Maps and picked out a small campsite in the hamlet of Hodorf not far from the city of Itzehoe, about 50km away, so not too arduous for my first day back on the road. As I slowly emerged out of the suburbs and into the countryside the first sense I had of being in a new region was the number of wind turbines, they were multiplying! There was no shortage of turbines in other parts of Germany, but here they seemed to be sprouting up from every direction.
I was greeted at the campsite gate by the owners, who were in the midst of a struggle with a newly purchased hosepipe. It was designed for a yacht and so was super light weight, but you have to fully unwind the pipe for water to flow…not ideal. There’s usually a compromise with ultra-light gear, as well as the price.
The owners were a sociable couple and made me feel extremely welcome, recommending I watch the sunset up on the dike with the rare absence of wind, so I did. As the sun approached the horizon it melted through shades of orange to red, and the sound of birdsong and insects filled the perfectly still evening…then a sheep started to use my foot to scratch the itch on its head, rude!
The next morning I got back onto my pre-planned GPS route and continued the journey north, stopping in the picturesque coastal town of Husum to wander haplessly in search of a public loo and seek out a German B&Q to pick some gas for my stove.
Not long after leaving Husum I found myself on some of the longest and straightest cycle paths I have ever bore witness to, and with the sea & mudflats on one side and a tree-less grassy embankment on the other, it was barely obvious that any progress was being made at all. But with a sympathetic tailwind the progress was good. I treated myself with a food product sold to me as ‘Fish & Chips’, and immediately regretted it.
One difference about this final section of touring before entering Denmark was the nature of my camping spots. Until now I have always stayed in ‘proper’ campsites that are run as businesses and always have the basic facilities: a shower, toilet, wash basin etc. But when scanning the map for places to stay I noticed a new word popping up, Trekkingplätze. They seem to be a northern Germany phenomena and are provided specifically for people travelling by foot or bicycle. You can only spend one night at a time, but they are free!
Maybe I just got lucky and picked a couple of good ones – and everything seems better in good weather of course – but the two I stayed in at the end of my journey through Germany were bloody great. The first even had a shower (albeit cold and in full view of any passers by) and the kind lady whose garden it sits in came and dropped off a thermos of coffee before leaving for work, bless her. The second was nestled away in a woodland glade and had its own private island. Yep, an island with a picnic bench that you can row a boat to, which in early May is basically one big dragonfly orgy.
The trekkingplätze were a glimpse into how you can trade in a bit of convenience (and cleanliness) for a massive accomodation cost saving, tactics I will surely need to survive mega-pricey Scandinavia without falling into destitution. A timely lesson, I was mow only 10km from the Danish border.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: Schleswig-Holstein
The Cycling Brit 
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