I am finally ‘here’. Here being what I consider to be the start of my bike tour. I’ve counted the trains, there were 12. It was a fun, at times frustrating, adventure but it wasn’t my holiday proper.
After a night on solid ground my land sickness has abated and I ate a hearty breakfast. As I was the only one there I also made myself a nice sandwich for later. I packed up and, with some trepidation, headed to the station.
Today the journey was delightfully simple. One train to Hamburg, a little confusion at Hamburg when one train appeared to have three destinations so I asked the conductor. Since yesterday’s shenanigans I’ve gone old school with my travel problem solving, none of this internet nonsense. I’ve resorted to shouting random towns at random people and waiting for them to point me in the right direction. It worked. I got on the right bit of the train; it trundled along to Flensburg; I got off. Easy.
This man is a serious cyclist. So serious he tattooed his chosen race down his shaved leg. Right on the shin bone which I’d imagine hurts. He spent the journey watching bike races and triathlons. I am not a serious cyclist. I have no tattoos about bikes or about any other hobbies. And I spent the journey listening to A Curious History of Sex.
A brief ride out of town, dusting off my German to book a pitch and now relaxing in my cosy tent.
Speaking to the man next door he wondered why my tent was so taught and wrinkle free whilst his - the same rip off brand - was not. I said maybe because it was new? Really it’s because I take pride in my pitching - I do love a smooth tent. The man on the other side is watching a comedy show on his phone. It’s far too loud and he keeps snorting laughter. Someone else is slowly pumping up a mattress with a very squeaky pump.
I have retreated inside. I’ve got my book. I’ve got my crisps. I’m settled for the evening and very, very happy to be here.
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