A few miles out from the campsite, I had to cross the Elbe today on the ferry across to Glückstadt. I could see it, right there, just the other side of the waterworks bridge that was clearly marked on my map. And the bridge was indeed there.
It was just vertical instead of horizontal. Not a bridge so much as a monlith, then.
Ah: I learned it only opens a few hours a week, a fact omitted from Open Street Maps. Luckily, those few hours were weekend brunchtimes. And this being Saturday morning, I only had an hour to wait eating crisps in the sun before somebody pressed a button and the bridge lowered back to position to let me cross.
The ferry was fun: a half-hour crossing of the mud-brown, mundane, Humber-like estuary. This was enough time for a sausage and coffee in the cafe, and for a bloke with a Pinion-geared, Gates-belted bike to tell me everything I ever wanted to know about Pinion gears and Gates carbon belts. And quite a lot I didn’t.
This is the only way across the Elbe for miles, and there was a huge queue of motor vehicles waiting for the next services. (Two boats were in operation.) I was told an hour or more’s wait is the norm.
It was nice sunshine. I headed to Brunsbüttel along a ‘waterside path’ which wasn’t most of the time. To get to the town centre I had to take another ferry. This time it was a free one; more of a floating bridge, really, across the brief river mouth.
Mindful of making progress to tonight’s campsite I went along the main road to Meldorf rather than the leisure D route, which was, well, more leisurely. At St Michaelisdonn I stopped at an Aldi to stock up on evening supplies.
Pleasant flat, smooth, sunny roads – and less smooth tracks – took me alongside a railway line. But my routefinding came a cropper. I shortcut along a back lane which was signed No Through Road, but it wasn’t clear if it meant for cars only or for all traffic.
Only right at the end, where I was expecting it to join a main road, did I find out why. A short bridge over a ditch – barely four metres wide – was very definitely not there. Lots of roadworks vehicles and equipment were, however, though nobody was around to tell me off.
I didn’t fancy the six-mile round trip to get to four metres from where I stood, so I wrestled my bike across the previously well-primped piles of sand and carefully-tamped heaps of earth that formed illicit stepping stones. Feeling a bit guilty, and with mud-caked shoes full of sand, I carried on along the main road.
It was all getting steadily more Danish. Marshes, flat meadows, thatched farm cottages, windmills, big skies. Even the weather was turning Dansk. Clouds closed in, and it got grey and gloomy and breezy.
At a touristy haven with lakes and bikes and lock gates and so on I turned north and whizzed along with the tailwind on the dykeside roads towards Büsum. I was pleased to see a sign for FKK bathing – a nudist beach, in other words – though it was clearly too cold today even for the normally hardy textile-free Germans.
Büsum was surprisingly touristy, for a place that had a pleasant harbour but seemed rather modest on must-sees and must-dos. The shopping streets were thronged with people, mainly families but also many of a retired age, walking round trying to find a restaurant with pavement tables that weren’t already full of people, mainly but also many of a retired age.
All very Danish here too, with brick-paved streets and shiny shops. I found my campsite, where a bloke on an electric buggy escorted me through the rows and columns of campervans and motorhomes to a cosy nook well-sheltered from the gathering winds and next to a wooden shelter with picnic table. I was evidently the only tent camper.
My timing was good. Just as I finished putting up the tent, it started to drizzle. I walked to town and, on a whim, hopped on the electric street ‘train’ my hefty €8 Kurtax (tourist tax) entitled me to use free. I’d expected it to be a sightseeing journey, but, ah, nothing of the sort. It was clearly a functional piece of transport, connecting tourists in their edge-of-town B&Bs and guesthouses with the centre attractions. I spent half an hour in a drizzly circuit of drab, rainy outskirts, passing car showrooms and tool hire warehouses.
At last we got back to the centre. I walked round a bit and popped into a promised ‘Oktoberfest’, which turned out to be a pub doing €12 beers with loud rock music. A few people were in Lederhosen and Dirndls, but most people were in other things, mainly tattoos and a bad state. Somehow I resisted the temptation, walked back sober to my campsite, and had an early night.
Or so I planned. But then I had another Near-Lost-Phone-Disaster. I locked it into a charging box: you configure it with a code of your choice, connect it to the charger, and lock it. But when I came to take it out later on, after a shower and stroll, the door wouldn’t budge despite my entering the right code. (I’d tested it earlier and all worked fine.)
Curses! Reception was closed. Would I have to wait all night until they returned tomorrow morning?
On a whim, I tried a long shot. Perhaps there was a sort of skeleton code that would always work? What would you choose for a skeleton code? 0000 perhaps? Sure enough, the door popped open, and I got my phone back. Phew. Not quite the panic of a few days ago, but a big relief again. I slept well.
Miles today: 49
Miles from Füssen: 765