Cyclists talking about their breakfast is something of a trope. It’s a boring, predictable start to a travel piece, and typical in the work of inexperienced writers. It was a rainy morning and after a hearty breakfast we set off, that sort of thing.
However, Germany is a land of breakfast. So I’m going to talk about it. I had the nine-euro deal from a local cafe in Beverungen, five minutes from last night’s boat club room. Like every other breakfast I’ve had in the country, it was superb. Nothing ambitious, nothing Michelin: just sliced ham and salami, cheese, butter and jam, a bit of salad, coffee, fruit juice and bread rolls.
But these aren’t just bread rolls. These are German bread rolls. They look much like English bread rolls, but when you taste them, it’s like chalk and cheese. And you can guess which one tastes like chalk. Because German bread is, well, just so good. Light, oven-fresh, warm, just moist enough, perfect crusts, perhaps enlivened by seeds.
A local bloke sat next to me chatted about cycle-touring, and told me about his past trips. Sometimes I even understood what he was saying. I told him about the End to End I’m doing. Sometimes I even understood what I was saying.
It was a rainy morning and after my hearty breakfast I set off.
I stood out a torrential downpour under a tree, and that proved the last rain of the day. The morning was, surprise surprise, all lovely flat cycling. Most was on the now-familiar flat smooth wide road-like tarmac paths, with a few less impressive brick tracks or quiet roads linking them. At their worst they were almost as bad as single-digit British National Cycle Routes, so I felt a bit homesick.
(Obviously I can’t make jokes about ‘Sustrans standard routes’ etc. All those tired old cracks about UK cycle infrastructure along the lines of ‘oh, it’s a top-of-the-range Sustrans-quality path, in other words rubbish’. Because thanks to recent changes, these cheap jibes are not applicable any more. Some proper money has been spent. Except not on bike routes. On rebranding instead. They’re now the Walk Wheel Cycle Trust. Same routes, just not Sustrans any more. So I’ll have to rewrite all my jokes. At least I can do it with a simple Find-and-Replace.)
Anyway, I excellent breakfast notwithstanding, I got a pastry in Höxter’s modest historic centre from a plausible looking bakery and rolled along grey-green riversides.
There were some amiably silly statues at Holzminden, of tourists taking pictures. So, being a tourist, I took a picture of the tableau. Which felt a strangely meta-situation.
A bit further on, at Reileifzen’s scenic bend in the river, was a wooden hut selling refreshments. The sun was now out, which was reason enough to stop at their tables to admire the view. Mainly the view of my opened bottle of pils.
Soon afterwards came Bodenwerder. I was intrigued to see this was Baron Munchhausen town. The 18th-century nobleman was born and lived here, and had a reputation as a raconteur, entertaining dinner parties with tall tales of his war exploits.
History would have largely forgotten him… except that, in 1785, writer Erich Raspe anonymously published Baron Munchausen’s Narrative of His Marvellous Travels and Campaigns in Russia. The central character, very loosely based on the real Baron, was a deluded fantasist telling ludicrous stories of his own genius. (Insert your own joke about modern-day political leaders here.) The real Baron was outraged, and thrown into depression by the success of this highly exaggerated portrayal and subsequent ridicule he faced.
Anyway, Bodenwerder celebrates its famous son, most notably with statues of the fictional Baron riding a cannonball. His name is attached to the affliction of those who seek attention through imaginary medical conditions: Munchausen Syndrome. So it’s appropriate that, right behind the monument, is Munchausen pharmacy.
The Baron’s birthplace in Bodenwerder – a compact but fine manor house – is now a museum, though (like Tourist Info) it was closed today. I admired the decorated housefronts in the old town and carried on. It was only about ten miles to my guesthouse accomm in Tundern, just outside Hamelin, but with a ferocious headwind it wasn’t easy going despite the flat terrain of wide river valleys.
I picked up a picnic tea from the supermarket and scoffed it in one of the frequent cyclist shelters these paths provide. The cosy wooden hut and its table was much appreciated: outside it was still blowing hard, if not quite the forecast gale force headwinds.
It was a windy afternoon and after a hearty tea I set off for my guesthouse.
Miles today: 54
Miles from Füssen: 517