I finished my Germany End to End today at the the country’s northernmost point: a windswept, sandy beach on the island of Sylt looking out over the North Sea towards Denmark. The grassy dunes are a long way from the alpine views of the Austrian border where I started two and a half weeks – in other words, 18 coffees and 18 pastries – ago.
The only way across to Sylt, unless you have your own boat, is on the train; there’s no ferry, at least not from mainland Germany. I was taking the shortest possible rail journey, from Klanxbüll to Morsum.
Irritatingly, the tip-up seats where bikes were supposed to go were occupied – despite there being plenty of vacant standard seats nearby – by grubby people on their way to work gawping at their mobiles. Even more irritatingly, I couldn’t be bothered to ask them to move.
But after quarter of an hour of gliding across the flat, steely waters, here we were on Sylt. It was still before eight when I got off into the drizzly, misty morning. Nobody was around, and no bakeries or cafes yet open.
Sylt is a well-to-do place, thanks to its secluded beaches, discreetly detached cottages and villas, and weekend-break proximity to the media and industrial wealth of Hamburg. Everything is thatched: the houses; the bus stops; the pricey designer shops, Ralph Lauren and the rest.
Celebs come here to not be pestered by the public, because of the understanding attitudes of the locals. Though that could be because in the more elevated villages and suburbs, all the locals are celebs.
Anyway, I could smile and greet all the beautiful, smart-casual couples walking their dog in the happy knowledge that I had no idea who they were. Much-admired news anchor and his weather-presenter wife? Notorious construction magnate with open-secret mistress? Ordinary bloke and everyday-mum partner just up for a break? I didn’t know. I was friendly to them all, and they all returned the compliments.
Trim, well-scrubbed Keitum had a very attractive cafe in clean, simple Danish style overlooking the beach. Alas, it was takeaway only, and in any case a beyond my budget, so I carried on.
The expensiveness of Sylt is most extreme in Hoboken, one of the residential lanes winding through the upscale beach town of Kampen. The villas here – not even mansion sized; no stables, no swimming pools or tennis courts, just spacious few-bedroom villas with gardens – are the most expensive per square metre in all of Germany. Demand outstrips supply, which is limited by planning regs and the difficulty for Germans to buy in Denmark because of special local laws. A trophy house here will cost you several million, and if you have to ask how much is several, you can’t afford it anyway.
Hmm; all very nice, but not much more impressive than say Swanland, the village next to where I grew up in East Yorkshire. Though Swanland has rather fewer Michelin restaurants, true. And isn’t, aargh, in the EU.
Anyway, the mist had cleared and it was getting sunny. From Keitum I joined the excellent car-free that roams north for miles through the island’s western dunes up to List.
Here was the almost-end of the trip, at Sylt’s most northerly town. A ferry goes from here to Denmark, and the harbour’s inevitable shopping centre is a clean if rather soulless Scandi collection of souvenir boutiques, clothes emporia, bars and restaurants.
I had my final morning coffee and pastry of the trip at a petrol station nearby and took the breezy diketop cycle path along the shore towards Ellenbogen. All (well, almost all) smooth tarmac, with big-sky blues above me, wavy-grasses greens below me, breezy-sands yellows around, and the odd lighthouse in the distance for perspective.
At Ellenbogen I could swish past the toll booth where cars have to stop and pay, and rode a kilometre or two up towards to the Northernmost Point. You can only get your bike so far before you have to leave it at a parking spot; it’s another kilometre or so on foot from here through some dunes and along the beach to the sign for the point itself.
A friendly German couple kindly took celebration snaps of me and complimented me on my German, and thought I was Danish, which I took as a double plus.
I plodded back to my bike. My trip was done, and entirely successful. I’d judged my daily distances nicely: never too much to stop and explore, never too little to leave me kicking my heels or pedals or whatever the bike equivalent is. Taking my tiny but feather-light ultralite tent proved perfect for the requirements (eight nights camping out of 18, which not only provided flexibility, but saved me c£300–£400; the lite tent/lite sleeping bag/lite mattress paid for themselves twice over). I enjoyed all my engaging with German culture, except perhaps the AfD flags in certain areas. I had lots of cheap beers, several good doners, excellent lunches, coffees and pastries, and many pleasant personal encounters – speaking enough German to not need English was a big positive.
And I certainly will be back. Next time will be a Side to Side: west to east, Aachen to Zittau, an A to Z of the country in all senses. But for now I had to get home. I rode south to Westerland (where you can’t cycle the promenade, boo), took a train to Hamburg, and finished off my interrail days by getting back to Yorkshire at leisure via Brussels and Bruges. A lovely trip all round. Prost!
Miles today: 36
Miles from Füssen to Northernmost Point: 871