The Family Adventure Project

Adventure is all around. If you want it to be.

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 17:42:00 +0000

We weren't planning anything adventurous, just a Sunday stroll up and over Arnside Knott then down to the Old Bakery for afternoon tea and cake. We just wanted to be out together enjoying the bright sunny afternoon and cool autumn air.

But the potential for adventure is all around when you're open to it. And so a simple stroll became an exciting little scramble, off the main path and up some loose scree slopes.

Enough slipping, sliding and exposure to panic the boys into silence and obedience for a while.

Then, slowed by our slithery ascent and with the afternoon sun dropping low in the sky we ambled late into town to find the Bakery already closed.

So we stopped instead to take in the setting sun and found ourselves watching the village fireworks display, postponed from Saturday due to atrocious weather.

Rockets, firecrackers and catherine wheels, whistled and screamed off the little stone pier, piercing the advancing gloom, casting red, green and silver streaks against the darkening orange of an estuary sunset.

With fireworks finished and the real stars emerging we warmed cold hands and feet in a local pub, taking an evening meal instead of afternoon tea, filling our bellies with fuel for the hike home.

Then heading back, in the darkening night, a family torchlight procession through blackened woods, clammy hands pressed together for warmth, comfort and to keep dark thoughts of elves, witches and goblins at bay.

You don’t need to go far for an adventure. You don't need to book it, plan it or pay for it. You just need to look for the opportunities that exist to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Adventure is all around, if you want it to be.

Celebrity Square

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 20:19:00 +0000

My bare arms get me banned from the eclectic marble mayhem of the Basilica
San Marcos in St Mark's Square. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm a
believer, whether or not I've moved mountains to get there, or that we've
been round most churches in Europe in little more than swimming costumes; in
Venice bingo wings cannot be seen in a sacred space. I'm not sure whether to
stamp my feet or congratulate them on their fashion policing. A man in dark
glasses tries to sell me a large aubergine coloured paper napkin to wrap
around my shoulders. I decline, send the family on into the church and
retreat back out to the square, against the flow of the tide. At three o
clock in the afternoon it is still forty degrees, and the queue for the
cathedral is showing as much sign of abating as the queue of pigeons looking
for sweet-corn from the tourists. I step over both, looking for shade to sit
in. There is none. Anyway, I'm not allowed to sit down, as sitting is
prohibited on the grounds that the square is a living work of art. If I sit
down I risk a fine. Art is not all about self expression here. Although if I
wanted to sit in a bar selling a bellini for an overinflated price then that
would be fine; in fact the throng of hovering white jacketed waiters would
be almost pleased to see me.

I am looking at the nuns. A group of them are milling around taking pictures
of themselves against the backdrop of the church. They aren't involved in
the queue for the basilica; perhaps their vocation entitles them to a
fast-track pass of the worlds churches, a kind of ecumenical Disneyland
scheme. The pigeons sense there'll be no snacks forthcoming from ladies in
white dresses and steer clear of them. Then it happens. The only thing I can
compare it to is an eclipse. The sky goes dark, and the birds calm down. The
Italian lap dogs are stiller than ever. For a moment, probably a rare
moment, there is a silence across the square. And then people begin to surge
forward, towards the far end, where the vaporettas dock every few minutes to
disgorge their tourist cargo, lifting the water to very edge of this
historic and internationally celebrated bit of mud swamp.

People are shouting, "look, look" in every language; even the nuns are
sprinting forward with their cameras. I turn back to see what is going on
and the landscape has changed. A celebrity has arrived. A celebrity so
massive it dwarfs everything on the horizon; even a cathedral that has been
dazzling people for hundreds of years, with its ornate columns, Italian
masterpieces and golden mosaics. Stuart has our camera; it seems I am the
only person in the vicinity to see this vision with my own eyes rather than
a lense. The queue for the cathedral has dispersed. More people surge
forward with cameras poised to fill in the darkness left by a
disenfranchised sun. They snap and they flash at the celebrity. And the
visitor snaps and flashes back at this historic monument. This 'living work
of art'; those who've come to worship, to appreciate great Venetian
architecture, or just enjoy an ice cream with a pigeon on their head is
captured in stillness forever.

The Celebrity X cruise ship is five or six stories high, and from this far
away its passengers look like the animated pin people in the movie Titanic.
There are thousands of them; standing outside their bedrooms, on the upper
decks. I imagine them clutching champagne, confetti and Cavalli handbags and
congratulating themselves. They are, after all, on the cruise ship of cruise
ships; so rich and commercially successful that it can dock near the square
and sail right past; as close as you can get, at the peak spot of three o
clock in the afternoon. Celebrity X Cruises strives to give St Mark's
Square what it lacks; some modern glamour; some topical interest, some of
that must have X factor. In one of the most famous squares in the world,
celebrity still counts and money can buy you the best view. And how can a
painting or a fusty old church compete with a cruise liner that can outshine
the sun? Just as the thronging August tourists themselves eat into the
beauty of the square and its buildings, this steel hulk, travelling in the
name of culture and glamour, overshadows the sculptures, masterpieces and
buildings. For a moment it's just them, watching us, watching them. Giotto
is risotto. The cruiser moves on, so slowly you have to pinch yourself that
it is moving at all. But it is. It has other cities to brighten, other photo
calls to attend.

It's all over and people begin to form orderly queues once more. The sun
takes its place back in the sky and people begin to sweat again. On the
Grand Canal the gondoliers get to work. My kids run out of the church to
tell me that anything good to see in Venice comes with an extra charge. Not
quite everything, I reply. Everyone in this square has just taken home a
picture, a living work of art, containing a real life celebrity, for free.

Party time in Venice

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 08:40:00 +0000

Water laps onto stone. The haze of dawn and the morning mist combine on the lagoon, casting blue light over the skyline as it wakes. I have fallen in love with this city, with its early morning waterways, intense alleys and deserted passages. I have one hour to explore it alone. The tourists, and my children have yet to start the day.

I wander along a wide canal, a slight wind against my face, brushing away beads of sweat. A ferry chugs by, pressing commuters against each other like the London Underground in a heatwave. A baggage boat follows, carrying a range of international luggage bound for who knows where? I walk over a bridge, feeling the muscles in my legs, as a water taxi driver polishes the walnut veneer of his prized vehicle with a leather cloth. To the Basilica Santa Maria, where last night we watched as a ballroom dancing club claimed the sacred space by tangoing on the steps. This morning two American women spread out yoga mats and bitch about absent Venetian husbands.

It may have been an unusual choice to finish a cycle tour in a place where bikes are banned, but what more iconic place is there than Venice? Right now, on a wide stone step, with a take away latte macchiato, and the view of St Mark's forming a the backdrop, this is my celebration.

Our arrival was less clear cut, and rather less celebratory. We disembarked from the ferry into rush hour hell. A giant car park, leading to an enormous bus terminal. A dead end, flooded with tourists, street cleaners, coach drivers, police. Gay men parading like peacocks at the start of their night out. Stripy gondoliers hanging out in the sunshine waiting for the next set of honeymooners to step onto their curved black vehicles and take a ride to paradise for a fistful of euros. Our bikes looked strange, as though we'd stumbled onto a film set with the wrong props. So we rode, four kilometres down a narrow cycle path on an endless bridge into Venetian suburbia, where we had booked a hotel for the night. As lorries thundered past along with the night train to Paris, we kept our eyes on the cranes at the end of the lagoon, to our destination; the town of Mestrae. But as the bridge dumped its cars and coaches onto new carriageways, the cycle path ended abruptly, leaving us stranded on the wrong side of the road, with a motorway in between us and our hotel. There was only one thing for it. To cycle back in to Venice, in the dusk, turn around at the bus station, and cycle back out again, in the dark.

We had made it to Venice. But not really. We were here, then not here, then here again, then not. It would be a good few hours before we would get onto the water, and celebrate our arrival.

D&G vs Tescos; battle of the shades

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 08:39:00 +0000

Each time I jumped the handlebars wobbled causing us to weave a more dangerous path along the tarmac strip of land that passed as a two lane road. I wanted to keep us in as straight line, make our movements as predictable as possible to passing traffic. Twitching was dangerous and my stoker sensed it too.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Cameron shouted at me nervously as another car honked and we veered towards it as it rushed to overtake. "Why do they keep honking?" It's not something we'd experienced much of until the last couple of days but as we approached Chioggia hoping to catch ferries to the southern Venetian islands to reach Venice by the back door, it seemed everyone was hooting. I'd like to think it was a gesture of support, saying 'well done for getting so far', applauding our 'beautiful family' and our commitment to human powered travel, and certainly the waves, stares and photographers hanging out windows suggested friendly intent. But more prosaically most were just honking 'Watch out, we're coming past.' Close. And very fast. If the volume of honks showed support, the speed and passing distances revealed a fundamental lack of respect for cyclists.

It wasn't quite the romantic approach to Venice I had imagined. There was nothing on the map to suggest a minor backroad across the lagoon towards Chiogga would be a death trap for cyclists. But then I knew nothing of the volumes of traffic drawn to the Veneto Lagoon, to Venice itself and to the strip of umbrellas, loungers, bars and campsites that choke the Adriatic near Venice.

For days we'd been wondering why the Northern Italians towns and cities we'd been passing through were so empty but arriving in Sottomarina it all became clear; Italians love tacky, parcelled up, all inclusive seaside resorts. After dicing with death for an afternoon we spent the night on a small sandy pitch at a 3* campsite, advertising its own private 20m stretch of access to the Adriatic. "You get free use of a beach umbrella" the lady explained as we checked in at 9pm, in the dark at a cost of 50 euro. We also got free access to the Barbie Doll disco which began at 10.30pm and kept the camp kids entertained opposite our tent into the early hours with special karaoke Italian versions of Black Lace, Cotton Eyed Joe and the Hoky Coky. We arrived glad to be alive but the feeling was soon waning.

A new day brought more tough choices, the lady at the campsite casting doubt on our plan to take tandems and trailers on the ferries to Pellestrina, Lido and onto Venice. "They are small boats," she explained shrugging her shoulders, "Maybe but maybe not. You will have to see." The shrug of the shoulders cast doubt deep into my psyche. What if we couldn't get on the ferry, or worse if we got on the first and second ferries but were refused the third and had to ride all the way back. Should we retrace our steps on the yesterday's road from hell? Or try and negotiate a private boat crossing direct to Venice? Or ring the man with a van who's due to pick up our bikes and take them home and completely reorganise our rendezvous? With a weeks worth of hotels and travel arrangements all made in advance now was not the time for this kind of uncertainty.

It's easy in these moments to take the easy out but somehow it's not in our nature. At some level I think we relish the greater sense of adventure that comes when you pursue the more uncertain course. We cycled through Chiogga like bubbles in a bottle of aqua frizzante, rushing to escape the chaos and catch the ferry, dodging café tables, market stalls, pedestrians, mopeds, cars, buses and vans all weaving around trying to avoid each other and get somewhere very important. We arrived at the ferry terminal in a sweat. As Kirstie approached the ferry hand started to wave her through. Until he saw the trailer. Then he shook his head. By the time he caught sight of the second tandem his hand was already raised to a firm STOP gesture. He shrugged his shoulders "You will have to ask the captain." I tried to read his eyes to see what the likelihood was but all I could through his dark Dolce and Gabanna shades was my own anxious reflection.

The captain arrived. More D&G shades, clean shaven with a crew cut, his immaculately pressed short sleeved shirt showing off strong bronzed arms, a picture of Italian style. I wondered how I might persuade him, me unshaven, dressed in my dirty black shorts and t-shirt, with tangled hair overgrown after six weeks on the road, trying to look cool in my 4 euro Tesco mirror shades. There was no point trying. This one was in the lap of the Gods. He looked us up and down, surveyed the load and took pity on us in a cool and business like fashion. And so the door opened to Venice.

The ride along Pellestrina and Lido was picture perfect with little traffic, on quiet roads through sleepy Veneto villages. No more nightmare, the approach to Venice finally took on the dream like quality it had always had in the naiveity of my mind. Riding abreast we pedalled along as a family with the Adriatic on one side and the famous lagoon on the other. There cannot be a more picturesque and perfect way to approach Venice. We peered across the deep blue waters to the carless pedestrian paradise of Venice, imagining the personal glory of our final arrival after 44 days pedalling 1900km across Europe. As we hopped across to Lido and to the final ferry terminal for Venice we slowly realised it was all going to work out. Our journey would end as it had begun, amongst the canals of a great European City. From Amsterdam to Venice by bike; two tandems, two trailers, two adults, three kids and a dolly. This family had crossed Europe by bike.

It's not real, it's just a dolly

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 07:08:00 +0000

When we're on the road, our little band of five can seem less like a family and more like a travelling kindergarten or zoo. Sometimes I lose track of who I've got with me at any one time. Still, on the plus side, my ability to uproot my family and take them with me on cycle tours seems to be an aphrodisiac to Italian men in lycra, who quite often screech to a halt at eighty miles an hour to chat, whistle, clap or look longingly at me with an eye to marriage. Have they never seen a woman pedal all her children over the Alps before? But then I remember. Women don't cycle in Italy. It would mess up their hair.

But the latest promotion of Hannah's dolly from the trailer to the back of the bike has been a bit of a passion killer. Somewhere before Bassano Del Grappa, Cameron spotted a very small baby seat abandoned by the side of the road. Just right for Hannah's treasured dolly, 'Baby Findley.' It was quickly cleaned up and attached, and Baby Findley was strapped in. Now we look like two adults and four children travelling together, which wouldn't be so bad if Baby Findley was a rag doll or a teen Barbie look-alike with breasts and hips. Instead he looks like a newborn. And I have become Myra Hindley.

Since the acquisition of the baby seat, it goes like this. Stuart cycles past and men nod with respect. A guy and two kids, off cycle touring. Great. And wow, a tent; guy camping with kids, Bravo. Then they see me and fall in love. Strong woman with eight year old boy cycling companion, and cute little bambini in the buggy. Wonderful, wonderful. But then their eye is drawn to the baby seat. Newborn tot strapped haphazardly onto luggage, and lolling listlessly in forty degrees of midday sun. Not heroic, but criminal. "It's not real, it's just a dolly," I want to shout, but it's too late, they've passed, without the look of love in their eyes. The next vision of testosterone and lycra is fast approaching and I can't reach the baby to stuff it into a pannier as it would unbalance the whole bike. A few days ago Baby Findley's head fell off and that's the best I can hope for as another Italian stud approaches. Yesterday as we cycled into Padova even the nuns were giving me the evil eye.

And if this weren't bad enough, Matthew has decided I really need a Chihuahua to improve my street cred. He is lobbying Stuart to buy one for my birthday. "You could fit it in a barbag and sneak it into hotels at night, they'd never notice," he pleads. No way. Getting a family room in a hotel for five is hard enough as it is. Tourist information has been known to shut up shop when they see us coming. And that was without dolly or dog. We have a routine with hotels. I go in first, with Cameron, who is briefed to look cute and say nothing. I tell them we have two children, and also a baby, and could we all share three or four beds in a family room? Quite often they agree, particularly if they see the bikes or its raining, and they show me the room. By the time I have the key it's too late for the owner to backtrack when a strapping three year old 'baby' jumps out of the buggy demanding to know whether there is a TV in her room as she hasn't seen an episode of Mr Bean for days. But now Baby Findley has scuppered any chances of this system working, as they catch sight of him first, assume he is the baby, and want to know why we are trying to cram six people into three single beds.

From now on, we'll have to go back to camping, where it didn't matter how many people, dogs, animals or dollies we crammed into the tent. And I'm not having a dog for my birthday and that's final. Although if it would fit into my bar bag.

The waiting game

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 08:09:00 +0000

The café on the square looks closed, the tables outside empty, but the door is open. It's an improvement on the other two bars in Cartigliano whose doors are firmly locked for siesta. Where do Italians go for a lunchtime drink or snack?

The kids pile in noisily and head straight for the euro ball machine and I make for the counter. We're gasping for a drink after a hot morning's ride out of Bassano. The Veneto may be easy riding but there's no escaping the heat with little shade between villages on the open plains.

The café is empty except for a silvery haired man behind the counter tidying a display of cigarettes, his brown, wrinkly hands precisely lining up the edges of the packets like a local sculptor might attend to the finer points of his latest cherub statue. I stand at the counter and wait for some kind of acknowledgement, internally practicing my order in Italian over and over, "Vorrei due café per favoure Vorrei due café.." I feel invisible as he finishes arranging the Marlboro's and turns to wash the only dirty glass.

Two young men enter the bar, visions of Italian soccer blue. They lean on the counter and fix eyes on Sky Sports on the TV above the bar. It's Saturday, the football's on and they seem content to watch and wait for service. The old barista polishes the glass, places it on the rack above his head, takes down another smaller glass and places it on a doily he's already put down on the counter.

An elderly man arrives, his stick clattering along the polished floor. He makes straight for the newspaper rack, carefully unfolding the day's news and laying it out on the counter. He says something to the barista who turns, picks up an espresso cup and without a word shuffles towards the coffee machine and places it under the nozzle. Is this how you get service?

Two more men arrive, looking hot from a morning labouring in the fields. They pull up a stool, take lottery tickets and pens from the counter and start to mark their lucky numbers. The barista patiently works to separate two conjoined ice cubes and persuade just one into the small glass on the counter. He chases the ice round and round the ice bucket with a spoon. I am transfixed by his actions and my internal mantra. "Vorrei cinco limonota y due café per favore. Vorrei Cinco limonota y due café per favour" but there's no point saying it out loud yet. He's not ready to hear me. He doesn't even know I'm here. The ice cubes separate and one slides into the glass. The other is carefully returned to the ice bucket. For later.

A young boy arrives and makes for the food cabinet, distracting me for a moment as he looks over the stale looking panninis, toast and pizza. Now I feel hungry. "Vorray cinco limonota y due café y uno pannini y uno pizza per favore" The coffee machine dispenses its shot of espresso into the waiting cup. The old man reaches into the fridge, extracts a bottle of mineral water and drowns the single ice cube. He fetches the espresso and places it on the counter next to the bar then drags a stool over to the bar. He looks like he's finishing up and I psych myself up to order. Think like an Italian, talk like an Italian, I tell myself.

The barista pulls up his stool and glances across at me. I open my mouth and he sits down. He picks up the little coffee cup, sips at it and smiles. He sloshes the water around the melting ice cube and sips at that too, placing the glass down carefully on the mat on the bar. He looks up and down the counter surveying the growing queue of customers interrupting his siesta and nods as if to ask, 'Who's first?'

Little Italy

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:19:00 +0000

A man drove up to Trento's main Piazza in his tiny car. Not a Smart car, but a tiny shiny red vehicle, just room for one. He nodded at a creamy skinned Italian girl in a café and she nodded back. After a moment she reappeared in the Piazza, carefully carrying a cup and saucer as slender as her body. He took it from her, and drank the tiny espresso in second without leaving his tiny car. They exchanged a few cents and he drove off. It was a brief moment in a colourfully faded city, but Matthew loved it. It reminded him of an episode of Top Gear where Jeremy Clarkson drove around his office in the smallest car in the world. "I think this one was smaller, shall I write to Top Gear?" We strolled back to our hotel in the morning sunshine, wondering how you buy such a car.

In the main Piazza, opposite our hotel, stood another creamy coloured apparition. It was early so the main doors of the cathedral were still closed. But in the corner we found a narrow door which Hannah might have called a fairy entrance. It was open; its' cool darkness inviting us away from temperatures already in the mid 30's. We crept in, straight onto the altar where five priests were saying mass, to a congregation of four. Perhaps they thought Matthew was a choirboy. Anyway, they said nothing, barely registering our presence. Perhaps people stumble in through that tiny door all the time. We did a U turn, back out into the blistering heat.

Stuart and the kids were having breakfast when we reached the hotel. "Look Mum, teeny rolls," said Hannah, trying to break open a small but perfectly formed piece of bread. And there were teeny croissants to go with them, along with a teeny weeny espresso for me, which I drank in one sip. We ate the rolls, and then examined the basket of cellophane wrapped goodies that also appeared. Titchy but perfectly formed pieces of toast, like miniature copies; little chocolate filled croissants and individual wafers. All the excesses and big coffees of Germany were now well behind us. We now had both feet firmly in Italy, where everything seems small but perfectly formed.

We looked at our map, and realised that our days of downhill riding were about to end. We had a mountain to go over to switch valleys and continue our journey along the Via Claudia. And time was ticking by. It was eleven before we got our act together and left the hotel. We bought some baguettes; little thin ones that the baker cut to fit into a small paper bag, and checked with tourist information that our only option was to leave the city via a steep cycle path. And so we set out in the midday heat, pedalling straight uphill. We managed a hundred metres of vertical climb, often getting off to push the bikes. Italian hills were anything but tiny. We collapsed outside a café in the village of Cognola. The woman was mopping the floor, but said she'd let us have ice creams before she closed for the afternoon. The shop next door let us buy some pizza slices before they too closed until four o' clock. We sat outside two closed café's as the shop owners wound in their shutters and awnings, leaving us burning in heat that was registering 44 degrees. "I don't believe it. The Italians have a siesta. Everything closes in the afternoon," said Stuart despondently. "They have their tiny rolls and tiny coffee and then do a tiny bit of work before shutting up shop for most of the day. Leaving us stuck on one of their bloody great big hills all day. Powered by the smallest bread roll known to man."

We pushed on, stopping outside a bus shelter when Cameron started showing signs of heat exhaustion. It was only ten kilometres to a lake warmed by natural thermals, but at this rate it would take the rest of the day. He swapped with Hannah and continued in the buggy, shooting himself with a water pistol to put an end to his misery.

Lago Di Caldonazza was huge. And warm, and choppy. We were all in it like a shot. This was no tiny swim. We stayed forever.

The Fashionista

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 07:27:00 +0000

It's ten days since we left behind half of all our clothes in the wash-o-mat in Augsburg and no-one seems to have noticed, well at least amongst the family. We adapted worryingly easily to wearing the same outfit day after day, washing it where we can, drying it in the sun and thanking our lucky stars that we were mostly left with black. But I sense things changing now we are firmly in Italy.

It took a while to realise we were in Italy for while the border was obvious this time nothing much changed when we crossed it. Despite 90 years as part of Italy (having been 'given' to the Italians after the 1st World War) the Italian South Tyrol remains very Austrian in character; most people speak German, serve wurst and strudel and live in Tyrolean style villages. Cultures are not easily changed from the outside; you don't become Italian just because someone tells you you are, changes your name, rechristens your village or makes you learn the language. But this part of Italy's fascist history is a diversion from the fashionistas who are troubling me more. You see after only a few days here I am feeling pressure from elegant Italians to clean up our shabbily dressed family.

The first thing you notice as you accelerate down the Val Venosta towards Merano, Bolsano and Trento is the apples. In fact it's almost the only thing to notice. I've never seen so many fresh red, green and yellow apples, hanging by the dozen from thousands of rows of trees. Millions of fruits ripening in the sun in orchards that stretch for 100km or more, down and across the entire valley. A giant apple factory serviced by little blue, green and red orchard tractors, trundling up and down the rows, lifting and moving enormous green plastic crates to carry the fruit down the valley to giant fruit processing plants. There must be something about the soil here that is particularly good for apples. And the water, fed by pipe and pump to a network of spray heads stretching right across the valley, many of which cast an inviting spray across the cycle path.

It was the spray that first brought my attention to the fashionista. In the sweltering heat the irrigation sprays are so enticing, chattering around and around, casting fine mist into the air and pummelling water jets across our path. It's a refreshing game cycling along, adjusting your speed to try and ride through the mist but avoid the full force of the jets. Although we seemed to be the only ones playing it. While we merrily rode in and out of the sprinklers the Italian riders seemed more cautious. At first I thought it was vanity for compared to Holland and Germany where cycle fashion was eclectic, the Italian riders all look so neat and tidy. There's more of a cyclists uniform here, less tourers, more sports riders, mountain bikers and racers and all spotlessly clean in pristeen lycra bibs and tight shorts, little white socks, shiny helmets, clip in shoes and mirror shades. Just looking at them makes me feel dirty as they shoot past in packs of two, three, four or five, looking so cool, feeling so cool they obviously don't need cooling down. Staying so cool means avoiding the sprays, timing your run so the spray can't touch you because nothing can touch you when you look like that.

We arrive at a camping café after a particularly good dousing and stop for coffee. We're happy and high, soaked from head to toe, our gear dripping and notice the washing we'd hung out on the bikes to dry (for we'll never trust a launderette again) is not just wet but spotted too. Sitting down over coffee I read up about the valley and the irrigations systems, about how committed they are to water conservation and recycling and of how it is common to recycle grey water from septic systems for irrigation. Slowly the truth dawns on us. There are perhaps reasons other than fashion for avoiding the sprinklers. At least we kept our mouths closed. No wonder people stare, not only do we look rather unfashionable and unkempt cycling along on our loaded bikes in our single set of dirty black, unironed clothes, we also choose to bathe in shit water. We have a thing or two to learn from the Italians yet. We are going to need to clean up our act.

Encounters with a tranny granny

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 06:44:00 +0000

It is 34 degrees. It is late and we are in a big city. We have no hotel for the night. We are having a row in the middle of the street about what to do. Stuart wants me to ask at a four star hotel for a family room but I've just been turned away from a similar one by a snotty receptionist. While I'm shouting, in English, I'm also wondering how I'm going to communicate in Italian to find us a hotel at all. And it's the night before a bank holiday, although we don't know that yet. We have cycled sixty four kilometres and have no food supplies and haven't eaten for hours. We also have no cash left and need to find a cashpoint. It's getting very dark and we have no bicycle lights. Stuart is now shouting in English and German. It appears to be my responsibility to find us a hotel.

Frustrated, I cycle off and turn a corner. There are lights in the distance so I make for them. It's a little bar and one star hotel. I hop off the bike, no easy task in this heat, and grab the phrasebook, cursing myself that I didn't bother learning some Italian before we came into the country. For some reason we assumed it was the same as Spanish and we would get by on the fly. It isn't. And why would it be?

I cobble together some basic Italian and ask the woman at the bar, with very short hair and an earring, for a room. She doesn't seem to understand my hopeless Italian, as she speaks back in very fast German. Too fast for me. But it seems natural to slip back into the bad German we have been speaking for a month, so I negotiate in this language. She takes me to see a room. It's very basic, but expensive, but we have no other option. The toilet and bathroom are filthy. I leave the room to sit outside the bar in the heat and wonder if children are allowed in bars at night.

I'm now dripping with sweat, hungry, and thirsty, so I proceed with my guidebook to the bar to order a drink. Every phrase needs every new word looking up, and I flick through the little book feverishly. At last I have enough words to ask for a beer. The bar woman answers my request again in German, filling two very small glasses with her lean muscled arms. I can only conclude that she thinks I am German and that I can't even speak my own language, let alone hers. Next to me at the bar sits another blonde woman who has had too much to drink. She begins to speak to me in Italian that is way too loud for such a small bar. Keen to placate her, I nod, saying 'si,' the only word I do know without looking it up. Suddenly, her hands are all over me, on my back, around my waist, running up and down my arms. I know enough Spanish to realise she is calling me a beautiful little girl in Italian. Then behind the blond wig, defined bone structure, and green halterneck top, I catch sight of her face. It is masculine. It is not young. I'm being assaulted by a trannie grannie. She is shouting 'beautiful girl' as she moves in to kiss me. The woman at the bar tells her to simmer down and passes me the two beers over her head, signalling for me to make my way back to the patio.

I stick ten euros on the table and grab the beer. Outside the kids are playing hangman and want to know what I have found them to eat? I drink my beer in one gulp, tell them its time to go in to town, and don't look back in case granny is interested in showing me around.

In town we find a panini for the kids, but go without ourselves due to the cost. Everyone is out on the streets in the heat and it's a party atmosphere down by the river. There are hundreds of tiny metal locks on the wall by the water and back at the hotel Stuart fetches a guidebook to see what they are. He can't find anything about them, but does note this was a former Austrian region that became Italian after World War One. Much of the population still speaks German and holds onto their Austrian character and dialect quite fiercely. I realise that it hasn't been necessary to speak a word of Italian all night, and that asking for a bed in pidgeon Italian probably only got the trannie granny excited. I swear, in one language only, and kick the bed.

It's only a hill stupid

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 20:10:00 +0000

"Number seven. Number seven. Over to number seven, " Matthew shouts. It's only minutes since we passed number eight, and yet, forever. Since then the lactic acid in my legs has burnt faster than a Sunday footballer with every sluggish revolution. I feel like a sweaty bloke as I use my T shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It runs into my eyes, stinging like an insect. I mop it with baby wipes and the chemicals in them sting some more. Several flies have tried to land on my skin and each attempt to swat them wobbles the bike. Adrenaline mixes with sheer determination as blood pumps fast around my heart. My arms tense as fingers try to grip on to slippery handlebars. Bloody hills.

We deliberately began the climb through the mountains late as the weather was so hot. But we spent the morning getting into position, pushing up sun coated hills and pined plains. A final leg up to the town of Pfutz had us cycling in the midday sun up a steep hill, the kids primed for a swim in the open air swimming pool. But it was over too soon. It was time to make for the border. The climb wasn't so brutal at first. Fifteen kilometres of gentle hills took us into Switzerland. Empty winding shady roads, and long spooky avalanche tunnels made cycling a pleasure. In the settlement of Martine, four officials stood outside their border post and wished us a good evening. I wondered what they did with their time now apart from watching cyclists go by. A kiosk offering money changing lay abandoned, a memory of past customs. We crossed another line, back into Austria. No one marked it; we hardly noticed it.

And then, a sharp left and the real match began. Us against the mountain. Two puny cyclists up against a giant. After two hundred metres of climb I panicked; Matthew and I couldn't sustain this level of effort over the next three hours in the evening sun. We would burn out, crash down, noses in the dust. Ninety kilos of weight pulling us back down the hill. This load should need an HGV licence. And then, the voice of reason and experience, "The switchbacks are numbered" said Stuart. "Stop and count them as you pass. Or pause every fifty metres of climb for a rest." We threw away the milometre; distance no longer of importance, and concentrated on the altimetre. Metre by metre, switchback by switchback, we worked our way around an Alp. Matt and I had a game. He had the instrumentation and I had to guess our height. I lost 18-4. In my head it was always higher. In between guesses, I could hear the sounds of cicadas, the squeak of handlebars, my own breath, and Matt humming the Star Wars theme. Each breath forcing my body to push onwards and upwards, through pockets of humidity and pine.

"Come on, come on. Number one. That was the last switchback. Yay!" Burning legs, slipping fingers, hot tyres crawling up the road. Then up and over. It's suddenly dark. There's a hotel, but it seems inappropriate somehow. We spot a football pitch, and make for it in the twilight. The tent goes up faster than we did, next to the pitch. I lie awake, thirsty, adrenaline still pumping, thinking of switchbacks and passes, and the goal we just achieved, me and my eight year old son, on an Austrian mountain in the fading light. "It was just a hill, stupid," I whisper into his ear. But he's tipped downhill into a deep sleep.

Garlic spam? Is that all?

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 19:12:00 +0000

"Is that all?" says Hannah as she sits down to breakfast. She echoes my own sentiments as I take in breakfast. One bread roll each and some garlic spam. I look around for the buffet, then remember we crossed a border yesterday. We are in Austria, not Germany. We are also in the worst hotel in the world, a dirty place full of mouse droppings. It's not like it's cheap either. Perhaps Austrian breakfasts are lovely and it's just this hotel. Or perhaps we need to let go of the delightful breakfasts and so many other treats that Germany had to offer.

After nearly a month in Germany we all came to love it in different ways. Stuart and I were besotted by a country that methodically builds cycle paths along every single road, whether a main road or a back road. For a thousand kilometres we hardly touched traffic; a cyclists dream. For me this was only surpassed by the breakfasts; eaten outdoors or indoors and every one of them a delight and surprise. Freshly soft boiled eggs, five different types of cheese, cake, croissants, plates of ham and salami, breads and rolls of every kind, basil, mozzarella and tomato. Sometimes olives and pickles. Hundreds of varieties of jams and marmalades. Chocolates and sweets for the kids. Hot chocolate and coffee and juice.

For Cameron it was a different type of food; bratwurst and doner kebab. Trying both for the first time he declared them delicious and then proceeded to order them in every fast food joint. One of his favourite projects was learning German from either the MP3 or the phrasebook and every so often he came out with a new word; often a variation of bratwurst. As we sat around the other night with beers and lemonade he shouted "Prost!" explaining it was the German for cheers.

For Matthew the best of Germany was in the swimming; splashing about as the barges and cruise ships pushed past him on the Rhein, the glacial lake swimming in the Bavarian Alps, or the huge open air swimming pools with slides, with a backdrop of pine trees or the mountains, where even the rain fails to put him off diving in.

For Hannah? The playgrounds, with their swings, slides and more exotic play equipment shaped into pirate ships or castles, or diggers. She particularly remembers those where she has found treasure, like the new teddy she has named Smelly, perhaps in honour of this Austrian hotel.

Ah yes back to the travesty of breakfast. Matthew and Cameron come tumbling into the hotel restaurant. "Is that all?" They chorus. "Garlic spam? Yuk. That's a really rubbish breakfast. Does Austria have McDonalds? "

What is the opposite of stone?

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 07:46:00 +0000

“Dad?” shouts Hannah. She’s close enough for me to touch her, sitting right behind me on the tandem. I shift gear as we accelerate down the mountain, trying to maintain a steady cadence and stop her tiny legs spinning too fast. We’re a harmonious team, her legs and mine spinning together, locked in father daughter synchronicity by the drive train. The chain clunks, the sprockets chatter and the spin of our legs slows to a more comfortable pace.

Hannah waits a moment until the business of the gear change is done then tries again to catch my attention; “Dad?”

Two ‘Dads’ and I know she really wants to talk. But she won’t continue without a verbal acknowledgement. I’m not sure what’s worse, incessant Dadding or the incessant chatter that follows. I opt for the chatter; “Yes, Hannah.”

“Dad?” she continues, “What’s the opposite of down?”

Opposites has become one of our regular tandem games. It’s sweet the way she plays it with me, revealing something of the world she’s in as we pedal the road together. “The opposite of down?” I pause to give her time to think wondering where the question came from. “Is it up?”

“Yes, it is Dad.”

There’s a moments silence while I wait for more. Because there’s always more.

“Will we have to go up again? Because when we do I will pedal harder if I’m not too tired. I can pedal harder than Cameron. And when I do get tired can I swap with Cameron and go back in the buggy and he can pedal harder can’t he Dad?”
It amazes me how much our kids commit to the journeys we do together, not just in pedalling the ups and downs on the hills and mountains but in handling the physical and emotional ups and downs that come with journeying this way. We may pedal up and down the hills at the same time and pace but our individual highs and lows are much less well synchronised. Still we find ways to handle them together, like our tandem teams find ways to power up and down the Alps together.

We ride on and through a sleepy Tyrolean village, a rush of painted houses, wooden balconies and window boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers.

“Dad?” Hannah’s chatter continues, “Is this a village?”

“Yes, sweetheart, a little Austrian village.”

A pause. And then, “What is the opposite of a little village?”

The first round of opposites is always easy; up, down; big, small; fast, slow; tall, tiny; but that’s boring for playful little minds. I try and imagine where she’s coming from. Sometimes there’s a ‘right’ answer; other times it’s pure exploration.

“Is it a big village?” I ask.

“No, Dad.” she responds. I’ve clearly got it wrong. “It’s a big town. That hotel town we stayed in last night was a big town, wasn’t it Dad? With that TV and that camel. Do all towns have camels?”

It amazes me how much kids take in while we travel around. It’s not like we set out to teach them stuff but they show an amazing capacity for learning all kinds of stuff from the experiences we have. It’s not force fed or curriculum led but experience based and experience led. They notice stuff, things you often fail to notice; ask questions, often ones you’d never think to ask; and concoct fantastic explanations that explain their observations, stretch their (and your) imagination and sometimes challenge the way you make sense of the world. It’s not hard work but a natural process and usually fun. Watching the kids learn like sponges, get it right and get it wrong, reawakens my own curiosity and desire to keep on learning no matter how old I get.

We ride on and onto a section of steep, loose gravel on a trail leading up to the Fernpass. It’s too hard to ride so we dismount and start to push. Well at least I do. Hannah has other ideas. To me the path is a horrible steep gravel obstacle, getting in the way of us making progress over the Alps. But to Hannah it’s something else, a place to play, a chance to walk, a change of scene, a new train of thought.
“Dad?” she asks, scrambling around on the ground behind me. “What is the opposite of stone?”

Round three of opposites bends my mind. It’s about things that have no opposites, at least to grown-ups. But as a child perhaps they could have, should have, do? I try to imagine what she is thinking and play for time.

“The opposite of stone. That’s a good question. What do you think it is sweetheart?”

“I don’t know. What is it Dad?”

Pushing the tandem and trailer up the stony hill I can think of nothing else but stone. It has no opposite. It’s all there is. As a grown up I feel I should have an answer, that’s my job isn’t it? I try to find my imagination but my mind is just filled with stone.

Hannah throws her stone into the woods and picks up another. “What is it Dad? What is the opposite of stone?”

In my growing irritability I want to tell her that some things just don’t have opposites. But I know I forget this myself. How often I contrast the kids, one with another, saying how Matthew is the opposite of Cameron, Hannah is the opposite of Matthew, but they are not opposites; they are simply different. And travelling with them in this way I see those differences more and more clearly each day. Some things don’t have opposites; they are simply different. But this is too philosophical a point for now.

We reach the top of the hill. I put the tandem down and take a moment to rest and find my imagination. The opposite of stone. Could it be grass, sponge, water, sky? Finally it comes to me.

“The opposite of stone is… tarmac.” I announce.

Hannah looks at me confused. “No, Dad. It’s not. It’s not tarmac. The opposite of stone is shelter.”

We sit together, sharing the moment, perhaps contemplating each others answers. But only for a moment. Then we’re off again.

“Dad? What’s is tarmac?”

What is the opposite of stone?

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 07:34:00 +0000

"Dad?" shouts Hannah. She's close enough for me to touch her, sitting right behind me on the tandem. I shift gear as we accelerate down the mountain, trying to maintain a steady cadence and stop her tiny legs spinning too fast. We're a harmonious team, her legs and mine spinning together, locked in father daughter synchronicity by the drive train. The chain clunks, the sprockets chatter and the spin of our legs slows to a more comfortable pace.

Hannah waits a moment until the business of the gear change is done then tries again to catch my attention; "Dad?"

Two 'Dads' and I know she really wants to talk. But she won't continue without a verbal acknowledgement. I'm not sure what's worse, incessant Dadding or the incessant chatter that follows. I opt for the chatter; "Yes, Hannah."

"Dad?" she continues, "What's the opposite of down?"

Opposites has become one of our regular tandem games. It's sweet the way she plays it with me, revealing something of the world she's in as we pedal the road together. "The opposite of down?" I pause to give her time to think wondering where the question came from. "Is it up?"

"Yes, it is Dad."

There's a moments silence while I wait for more. Because there's always more.

"Will we have to go up again? Because when we do I will pedal harder if I'm not too tired. I can pedal harder than Cameron. And when I do get tired can I swap with Cameron and go back in the buggy and he can pedal harder can't he Dad?"

It amazes me how much our kids commit to the journeys we do together, not just in pedalling the ups and downs on the hills and mountains but in handling the physical and emotional ups and downs that come with journeying this way. We may pedal up and down the hills at the same time and pace but our individual highs and lows are much less well synchronised. Still we find ways to handle them together, like our tandem teams find ways to power up and down the Alps together.

We ride on and through a sleepy Tyrolean village, a rush of painted houses, wooden balconies and window boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers.

"Dad?" Hannah's chatter continues, "Is this a village?"

"Yes, sweetheart, a little Austrian village."

A pause. And then, "What is the opposite of a little village?"

The first round of opposites is always easy; up, down; big, small; fast, slow; tall, tiny; but that's boring for playful little minds. I try and imagine where she's coming from. Sometimes there's a 'right' answer; other times it's pure exploration.

"Is it a big village?" I ask.

"No, Dad." she responds. I've clearly got it wrong. "It's a big town. That hotel town we stayed in last night was a big town, wasn't it Dad? With that TV and that camel. Do all towns have camels?"

It amazes me how much kids take in while we travel around. It's not like we set out to teach them stuff but they show an amazing capacity for learning all kinds of stuff from the experiences we have. It's not force fed or curriculum led but experience based and experience led. They notice stuff, things you often fail to notice; ask questions, often ones you'd never think to ask; and concoct fantastic explanations that explain their observations, stretch their (and your) imagination and sometimes challenge the way you make sense of the world. It's not hard work but a natural process and usually fun. Watching the kids learn like sponges, get it right and get it wrong, reawakens my own curiosity and desire to keep on learning no matter how old I get.

We ride on and onto a section of steep, loose gravel on a trail leading up to the Fernpass. It's too hard to ride so we dismount and start to push. Well at least I do. Hannah has other ideas. To me the path is a horrible steep gravel obstacle, getting in the way of us making progress over the Alps. But to Hannah it's something else, a place to play, a chance to walk, a change of scene, a new train of thought.

"Dad?" she asks, scrambling around on the ground behind me. "What is the opposite of stone?"

Round three of opposites bends my mind. It's about things that have no opposites, at least to grown-ups. But as a child perhaps they could have, should have, do? I try to imagine what she is thinking and play for time.

"The opposite of stone. That's a good question. What do you think it is sweetheart?"

"I don't know. What is it Dad?"

Pushing the tandem and trailer up the stony hill I can think of nothing else but stone. It has no opposite. It's all there is. As a grown up I feel I should have an answer, that's my job isn't it? I try to find my imagination but my mind is just filled with stone.

Hannah throws her stone into the woods and picks up another. "What is it Dad? What is the opposite of stone?"

In my growing irritability I want to tell her that some things just don't have opposites. But I know I forget this myself. How often I contrast the kids, one with another, saying how Matthew is the opposite of Cameron, Hannah is the opposite of Matthew, but they are not opposites; they are simply different. And travelling with them in this way I see those differences more and more clearly each day. Some things don't have opposites; they are simply different. But this is too philosophical a point for now.

We reach the top of the hill. I put the tandem down and take a moment to rest and find my imagination. The opposite of stone. Could it be grass, sponge, water, sky? Finally it comes to me.

"The opposite of stone is tarmac." I announce.

Hannah looks at me confused. "No, Dad. It's not. It's not tarmac. The opposite of stone is shelter."

We sit together, sharing the moment, perhaps contemplating each others answers. But only for a moment. Then we're off again.

"Dad? What's is tarmac?"

Hans but no Gretel

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 20:00:00 +0000

Deep in the forest a tractor is blocking our way. A log is chained to the front, and a man in dungarees darts out from behind a tree as we wonder how on earth we are going to get past. He puts down his chainsaw, to ask where we are heading. His name is Hans, he was born in a nearby village, and spent his childhood growing up with the trees. He tells us they were planted in the 50's when he was a boy. "People come here on holiday. But why would I ever need a holiday when I have all this? I am a lucky man." We gaze up at the tall trees, at the light bursting through the upper branches, and agree that Hans is indeed a lucky man. He is at home in this peaceful place. We are so transient, just passing through as we have done for the last thousand kilometres, like the Roman soldiers who marched this route.

Hans says he hopes we have sun. "But it's all the same to nature. Sun rain, the trees like it all." He places huge scuffed leather gloves down on my handlebars and together we gaze up the gravelled forest track at the hills that will fill our day. The gravel hills I normally hate, but recently mind less. Our encounters with the Romantic Road, which we ditched faster than an annoying boyfriend, were anything but romantic. The route was longer than advertised; we suspected towns were being surrepticiously added to the road for commercial gain, and it was all rather hard and unrewarding. The Via Claudia Augusta, on the other hand, has been our friend. We've happily travelled in the path of the Romans, sometimes on gravel, mostly on the road, usually uphill, but not excessively so for the last week.

Hans tells me he learnt his English in Glasgow and Oxford. He liked England but Germany, and this forest are his home. Today he is cutting down a sick tree. "I will move my tractor now, so you can finish your journey," he says, shaking my hand and smiling sweetly. I am sorry to leave the clearing. The air is cool, the trees atmospheric, and even the children are quiet. But Hans has leapt into the red machine and pulls it off the road, waving us on. We weave around him and up the hill, looking for other pleasant distractions.

One hump or two

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 08:18:00 +0000

"Take the luggage off your bikes and then take them to the right and around the back and park them up,"says the hotel owner, in good English; a relief after days of pidgeon German.

"Next to the camel?" I ask him cheerfully.

"The what?"

"The camel." I'm hoping he doesn't ask me to clarify this as I'm sure my phrasebook won't stretch to a German translation of Camel.

"What?"

With the palm of my hand I draw two bumps. He probably thinks I intend to retreat to the nearby Mcdonalds. But no, he raises his head and lets out a long laugh. "Ah you mean the hysterical market?"

I take my bike through the historical German market which for some inexplicable reason has recreated a cross between a Moroccon souk and a medieval castle. Spices fill the air, a man is gutting something dead in front of me, and donkeys and camels are on every corner. There is a beggar dressed as a medieval peasant who demands euro's but gets none. The archery stall is doing a roaring trade, and scantily dressed women throw coloured lights into the air on strings. A band plays in the centre of the town, and everyone is drinking the usual selection of German beer. Sausage sellers shiver in sackcloths with string waistbands in fairy lit wooden stalls, and the boys are attracted to a stall wholly furnished with animal skins. "Oh it's so fluffy," says Matthew, handling what looks like some kind of beaver fur, getting the same look from the stall owner that Stuart was awarded earlier when he tried to squeeze his tandem and trailer between the camels, a lamp post and a large pile of camel shit.

We go out for dinner, a traditional medieval fayre of pizza, spaghetti Bolognese and egg fried rice in the local Chinese takeaway. Shongau is a strange town. As we approached we could see it high in the air. "Not another medieval walled city," I cursed under my breath, knowing it would be another two hundred metres of climb after a long day. But no, just up a short hill the city walls opened to reveal a rather bland place of chain stores and fast food shops. And of course the quaint, traditional medieval market.

As the rain comes down, and thunder flashes above, everyone rushes for cover with their beers and we retreat to our hotel. The camel is now stationed outside the front door. Both the animal and its owner give us an evil stare. But then the local drunkard offers three euro's to be carried home on it, and we run inside, side stepping the dung, resolving to close the windows in case camels are nocturnal creatures. "Night night John boy, Night night Mary Ellen. Night night camel," says Hannah as she drifts off to sleep, a medieval guitar playing a soft accompaniment to her dreams.

From the doorway of a launderette

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 17:34:00 +0000

From the doorway of a launderette; the church bells ring, chiming the quarter hour, the half hour, and eventually the hour. People drive by, waving to their friends in the surrounding bars; they wave back, happily supping a morning pint of beer. A mouse scuttles into the drain beneath me. A pigeon pecks at scraps and somewhere a siren screams. A skater passes, wobbling, his wheels whirring just like my washing. I peer in to see if it's finished its cycle. But I can't get to it. There's a door between me and my washing. Glass upon glass. I am stranded in this doorway, unable to go anywhere. Stuart's cycle grots, my minging socks and an assortment of dirty T shirts have trapped me outside a city launderette in Augsberg. We should be half way to Landsberg am Lech by now.

If we ever thought we were in control of our own universe, the last two days have been a reminder that we are not. Yesterday, aware that we were behind but not yet out of the game in terms of making it to Venice on time, we put in a long hard day of cycling, heading for the third largest city in Bavaria. Only fifteen kilometres from our destination, a scream went up from my stoker; his fingers were trapped in the chain of my bike. The chain wheel had sliced the skin off the tips of two fingers. On the quiet country path the mosquitos smelt the blood and moved in for dinner. Our efforts at first aid were enough to get us here, all of us running on adrenaline.

This morning we set out for the local hospital to get his fingers checked out. We put some washing in the nearby launderette on the way. With the minor wound closed and successfully bandaged we returned for our washing to find the launderette firmly locked. A sign told us the door mechanism shuts automatically at 22.00. Perhaps it was faulty and shut early? Or was never meant to open on a Sunday at all ? We waited around hoping an attendant would come back from lunch, trying to see a phone number on the wall inside through the zoom lense on the camera, like desperate paparazzi .

The church bells chime another hour, Stuart and the kids go for a walk, and I sit, alone. I consider our dilemma. If we stay we will lose a full days riding, and probably compromise our chances of making Venice on time. Do I want to blow our goal for a machine load of dirty washing? Am I shallow for even considering this? But if we leave the city today, we lose most of our clothes. Even if we stay will the launderette open tomorrow? Are my clothes really necessary? Can we get over the Alps easier without them? Can I really spend three weeks in one outfit? I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland. From my launderette step I can see the keyhole, but I can't do anything to open the lock.

The church bell chimes the quarter hour. Another siren blasts. The dilemma becomes more urgent. Stuart returns and kicks the door. He puts the question out to the Twitterverse. Stay or go? They say go. Ride like Lady Godiva. So we do.

Fate, fortune or fortitude

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 06:47:00 +0000

"Why do you like cycling so much?" Cameron asks as he bounces deliriously on the bedsprings of the cheap Augsburg hotel we stumbled into late tonight. Two minutes later he's flat out on top of the bed in a deep, deep sleep, too tired to even get under the duvet. He's right to be asleep though. We've ridden 65km today, pushing hard to make up for ground we think we've lost against a fag packet plan that said we could get from Amsterdam to Venice in six weeks.

And now I don't know whether I got my distance and gradient calculations right, if we can get there or not in the time we have available, whether we should have ridden further and faster in the first four flat weeks, whether we should change the goal (and all the arrangements we have made for bike return transport, accommodation and onward travel), whether we should keep trying, whether everyone wants to carry on (or even wanted to go in the first place) or whether the whole business has become more of a chore than a happy family outing. And Cameron thinks I like cycling!

There's a day like today in all our family expeditions; a point at which it all seems impossible and pointless, at which the pain seems to be outweighing the pleasure, a time when fate and fortune seem to play with us, when our fortitude is challenged and faith in our own abilities tested.

Today the weather cooled off and we made good progress on smooth flat tarmac; was good fortune with us after days on hilly gravel trails in oppressive heat? Then the growing cloud cover threatened rain; is that better or worse than sun? Is the weather for or against us?

We arrived early in Donauworth, at the confluence of the rivers Worntiz and Danube. Taking time to relax we viewed skeletons of saints in the churches, picnicked and waltzed the Blue Danube by the river, ate ice-cream, drank coffee, soaked up the Saturday morning atmosphere, bought a badminton set to play with and had fun as a family down by the river. Tiredness forgotten, it all seemed worth it for just an hour or two like this.

Then an accident on the road; Matt got his fingers caught in the chain. Some nasty cuts needed roadside first-aid. Fate screamed STOP NOW and get straight back home you irresponsible parents. Two pedestrians stopped, offered to find a doctor and give us a room for the night in a nearby village. Was the universe saying 'Don't be hasty, take time to decide.'

Matt said he was OK, he wanted to cycle on. Only eight yet strong and brave in difficult circumstances, he showed great fortitude. Implicit in his action he tells us all we can do this if we want to, together as a family, even if it hurts a bit. We used the strength in our legs to ride to Augsburg and the first hotel we stopped at had two cheap rooms available. Fate said rest here, don't give up yet.

We wandered around Augsburg, all lit up and pretty, past Rathaus, church and market place. There was a Saturday night buzz and we picked it up too; we were bike free, out and about, laughing and smiling together, it was magic again. We made it here today, against the odds, through our own efforts, together. We crossed little canals and talked of St Marks Squares, gondolas and the song of the gondoliers. Then back to bed, to bounce, then sleep. A deep, deep sleep. To dream, perchance of Venice?

There's no denying we've bitten off a challenge in this journey but in a sense that's the point. Having that clear, stretching goal creates a focus, narrative and drama that shapes the experience and helps create the rounds of highs and lows that are the holiday from the routine of regular everyday living.

"Why do I like cycling so much?" I'm not sure that I do but I think I maybe addicted to the intensity of experience we create around it and the way dealing with that brings us together as a family and team.

Finding Romance on the Romantic Road

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 06:50:00 +0000

For the first few days, I didn't get the romance of Germany's romantic road. The towns were pretty, but no more than any other European tourist destination. The roads were great for cycling; shady, tree lined, quiet and traffic free. But I didn't fall in love. Until I entered Rothenburg Ob Tauber. Getting into the place was a knight's quest in itself. The walled medieval settlement stands high on a hill, a Rapunzel tower providing a beacon in the hot afternoon sun. Then, once we'd achieved the height, pedalling furiously in the heat, it was still a push around the walls to find a way in. Penetrating the walled grounds was like entering an old but well preserved picture book; every street a new page of muted pastel colour and antique sculptured design. The terracotta shell shaped tiles on the sloping roofs caught the afternoon sun, dappled light falling onto the wooden beams and colourfully painted houses and shops, with their stepped or rounded edges. The children pointed out the tiny wooden doors built high into the houses which were used to store grain in medieval times. We admired the ornate gold and brass clocks and intricately forged metal signs, clinging onto buildings adorned with aqua blue sundials, and window boxes filled with bright flowers. We breathed in the sights and smells of mass tourism; hot dogs, fresh coffee, tour guides carrying umbrellas, and Japanese people pointing cameras at the horse and carriages clip clopping through the town.

At dusk, the streets became lit up by old fashioned lanterns, fairy lights and the glow of restaurants and expensive shops. The stained glass windows of the churches darkening for a few brief hours before being flooded with morning light. Princess towers and domed masts drew the eye up cobbled streets, past the ornate Rathaus in the central square. And the shops! Windows filled with the 'snowball' treats this region is famous for; egg whites shaped into balls and sprinkled with icing sugar or dipped in chocolate or liquor, or filled with caramel or vanilla custard. Displays of ornate toys, shoes, table cloths or Lladro china figurines, and huge market place that just sold Christmas baubles and lights. Hannah and I went for a walk and she was transfixed by the window displays, but not over fond of the ever present smell of horse urine, a reminder that in medieval times the party atmosphere might have been diminished by the supplement of human waste, tumbling down from chamber pots being chucked out of high windows.

We took a tour with the enigmatic Night Watchman, and he explained how tourism had been the salvation of this town many times. Once after the Thirty Years War, when the town was plundered and left to rot in poverty for over two hundred and fifty years, visitors came and injected their cash into the place. Then, an American General saved the town from being destroyed in the aftermath of the second world war, when he realised it was a place his Mum had been fond of in her youth. In the depression that followed it was rescued again when the tourism officials wrote to friends of Rothenburg around the world asking for cash in exchange for their names being written into the town wall. And now, tourists were still keeping it alive. There are few other businesses in the main town apart from the shops, museums and restaurants. "It took the tourists forever to come," said George, the Nighwatchman. "But then they came and they came and they came. Thank you for coming!" He flashed a cheeky smile, pushing his cloak and spear behind him and set off up the square, with a hundred people scuttling after him.

In the morning, the town was even busier, though no less pretty. But for us it had lost some of its glitter overnight. The baubles, snowballs and fairy lights had no purpose. The cafes were too expensive, we couldn't find a supermarket to restock, and everywhere the groups of tourists made us wobble on our bikes. If we'd had more time we'd have visited the museums, gone up the towers, absorbed the history and found the quiet places and backstreets this stunning picturebook place had to offer. We'd have hunted out life beyond the tourist and their euro. But we were on a schedule and a budget. It was time to move on, and find more of the romance of the Romantic Road.

Stay calm, stay calm. OK now PANIC!

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 20:14:00 +0000

"Is it time to panic yet Dad?"

"No not yet Matt. I'll tell you when."

"Ok."

"Good. Right. Now thenPANIC!"

At some point in every trip; usually roughly half way, we panic that we aren't going to make it; either in time or at all. Often this happens at a low point, when we are tired, or having an off day. Sometimes it occurs when we remember to consult our fag packet schedule to see where we should be, and find out we are miles off. I clearly remember a day of unbridled panic on both the Land's End to John O' Groats and the Santiago trips.

A couple of nights ago we went out for a beer, and congratulated ourselves on being half way in distance at the half way point in the trip; on schedule for the first time in many expeditions. In fact we appeared to have a day in hand. And we had also moved into a part of the country where the English speaking guidebooks came into play and could tell us about the landscape and history of the area, allowing us to enjoy more of the towns and villages along the route.

Stuart is a guidebook man. Where I'm happy stumbling into an unfamiliar town and making for the nearest coffee shop to people watch, he loves nothing better than digging around in a book to find the single most important sightseeing event or monument that the location has to offer, and then finding out every last fact about it, and translating it to the children in a child friendly way. So there he was, in a campsite bar, with a cold German beer and a handful of guidebooks, happily devouring information. But before he'd drained the froth at the bottom of the glass his face became as long as his pint. He'd suddenly realised several things. That while we had done 900 kilometres and neatly had a matching 900 to go, the first 900 were all done on the flat and now the road would be continually uphill. And we'd miscalculated the distance. Our estimates of mileage were based on our earlier plan of cycling from Calais. The way we were now going involved more miles. And now we had boxed ourselves in with ferries, trains and hotel reservations in three weeks time so there was no extra days cycling to fall back on if we got behind. And it was raining; never the best weather for planning as it just reminds you what little control you have over the universe.

"Ok, Kirstie we need to PANIC."

"Panic? Why?"

"Because we're behind."

"But I thought we were a day ahead?"

"Not any more."

"I hate you."

In fact I hate panic. I loath cycling deadlines and get angry and stressed when I have to go uphill against the clock. I'm a slow and steady cyclist, happy to put in extra hours, but at my own pace. So I refused to panic. Instead, I planned. If we could catch up a few kilometres every day, by getting up earlier or riding later, then we'd soon catch up the extra distance. I began by trying to rouse everyone early so we got an earlier start. Cameron refused to get out of his sleeping bag and Hannah grumped all day. So we rode on into the evening instead, turning up at a campsite in the dark, putting up the tent in pitch black and trying to order food from a camp kitchen that had long closed.

This morning we all awoke tired after my efforts, and only managed twelve kilometres overall today. Kids don't do panic, and trying to make them keep up with our pace, or increase that pace further, at our will, just invites rebellion or fatigue. We need their buy in, their input and their full energy. We know this from experience, but sometimes we forget.

We get tired by all the panicking and decamp to an apartment in Weikersheim to catch up on some sleep and rest our legs. Meanwhile we spend the afternoon at the castle in the town, admiring the stone gnomes standing on parade in the garden. Stuart has his nose in a guidebook, and the kids have a lovely afternoon bombing a pretend palace they've drawn into the gravel with an orange bouncy ball. I relax, and watch the world go by. Panic, for now, is on the back burner. It may yet have its time.

I'm swimming in the rain

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 18:45:00 +0000

"What time is it Dad?"

It's the fourth time of asking. Captain Matthew is taking his responsibilities very seriously.

I check my watch. "It's twenty five past nine."

"OK Dad just five minutes and then we go"

I don't want to go though. Not this morning. Not in the rain.

It seemed a good idea last night in the hot evening sun. I was hot. We were all hot and the pools and slides looked so refreshing. But we were too late; the baths were closing. So I made a com-promise; swimming in the morning, as soon as the pool opens.

Mist lines the hills, feeding the river Main in the valley around Bestenheid. The tent is mopping wet. Water drips off the wooden shelter. Across the campsite the poncho posse are out in force. It's nine thirty and I've already had enough of water this morning.

"Time to go," announces Matthew and what the Captain of the Day says goes; it's what we all agreed. The daily Captaincy is no puppet role; it's a job with real power and real responsibility. For one day in five, you're the boss, whether the others like it or not.

"Do you really think swimming is a good idea in the rain?" I ask, trying to influence the situation without appearing to take over. But I don't really need an answer. On the starting block in front of me stand three grinning kids, costumes and towels at the ready. I feel like a recalcitrant child, mooching along but with no intention of going in.

"Come on Mum, Dad. The pool's open now." We obediently follow the Captain and his crew. They'll be no mutiny this morning lest we should get one on our shift.

It takes three rings on the bell to get an attendant to the admission kiosk. They're clearly not expecting visitors. Inside the pool is empty; I'm not surprised. Raindrops tickle at the pools, patterning the surface with thousands of tiny rippling circles. Then a splash and a scream as the boys spiral down the water slide and into the pool.

"Come on Dad," they shout, "it's really fun."

Their enthusiasm tugs at me. I think of all the things I've done to them as Captain Parent; all the times I've taken them out of their comfort zone, encouraged them, cajoled them, bribed them, forced them to do things that perhaps they didn't want to do. I remember how I tell them it will be good for them, that they might even enjoy it, what will happen to them if they don't do what they're told, and of how ultimately they usually comply.

The air is cool on my skin. Raindrops tickle my neck and back. There's a great view of the Main twisting down the misty valley from the top of the slide but I'm not there long enough to appreciate it.

"Go on Dad, down you go."

I feel a shove from behind. The clouds spin above me as I'm slapped from side to side down a giant yellow plastic tube and brace myself to plunge into the pool. Heart pounding, I emerge from under the icy water with a cough and splutter as I try to rid myself of a mouthful of chlorinated water.

"It's good isn't it Dad?"

I have to admit it is. Over and over again. Up the stairs and down the plastic tube. I'm swimming in the rain and I love it. It's crazy, it's stupid, it's invigorating, it's fun. No more the recalcitrant child but another over-excited kid.

I'd never have done it on my own. Kirstie could never have persuaded me either. But Captain Matt has made me do it and I thank him for it. Why not try a little power inversion in your family and see what you end up doing?

I have trousers I call Manchester

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 09:31:00 +0000

"You are from Manchester, England?"

"Well, not exactly Manchester, but"

"I have trousers I call Manchester."

"Oh. Right." Stuart has told me all about the traditional Bavarian trousers; -long leather shorts that they go walking in. Now I feel more on top of the conversation. "You mean like Lederhosen?"

There is a seconds silence while he looks at me aghast. "Lederhosen? No! Cord. Manufactured in Manchester."

After this gaffe, I need to steer the conversation back to cycling. "This is a very good Festival. I hear it's been going for eight years. Who puts on all this lovely food in each village."

"Clubs," he replies. "In this village it's the singing club and the motorcycle club. You like the cake yes?" he says proudly. I look at the stocky young man with a slight smattering of stubble and conclude he must be there to represent the latter. "So you are a biker then?"

Again he is shocked by my lack of insight. "No, no, no. I am choir."

"Right," I say nervously.

"But I don't sing," he adds, in case I were to misunderstand him once again.

Today across the whole of the Tauber Valley, it is 'auto freier sonntag' day. In every one of eight villages and the long valley road that connects them all, cars are banned. Cyclists and skaters take over the road, pedalling and scooting between villages offering every type of cake, beer, coffee and sausage you can buy with a euro or two. It's a party atmosphere, despite the morning rain. And we needed a party atmosphere to lighten our mood.

Our first day on Germany's romantic road started with a wet bed. Even at home that might not be the most romantic occurrence, but here, it was a disaster. As the rain poured down, we struggled to scrub thermarests and clean up sleeping bags. We pulled down a drenched tent and attempted to stuff the weighty mass of canvas and water into a bag. But while the day had begun badly for us, it was still on course for the kids. The night before, in 40 degrees of heat we promised them a morning at the open air swimming pool next door. They danced about in the rain on the open air chessboard, charging around as queens and knights, dreaming of water slides and water pistol fights, while all the campervans make for home; disappointed by the weather.

Unsurprisingly, we were the only people in the pool, but for a change we were in the majority on the road. We soon cheered up as grannies, toddlers and even dogs under umbrella's were pedalled or pedalled themselves past us on the hills. Up to thirty thousand people apparently. The festival happens here every other year and is very popular. People read about it in the papers and come from miles around.

But at 6pm, it's all over; the barriers are lifted by teams of stewards, and it's something of a shock when cars push past you on the road once again. "Quickly, pedal quicker," Matthew hurries me along, as the first car revs up behind me. "Relax, it's not going to turn into the M1," I say. And it doesn't. But it was better by bike, and only bike. What luck for a family of cyclists to stumble across a day just for us.

Allo Allo and the Mexican Tandem Wave

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 14:37:00 +0000

The Allo project has been running for almost a week now, working tirelessly to bring a friendly Allo to cyclists we pass, challenging the German norm of passing other cyclists like they were invisible.

The Mexican Double Tandem Allo is our latest invention. In this manoeuvre we ride directly behind each other so we occupy about 8m of path. When a target is approached the leading tandem captain starts the sequence by firing a loud Allo, quickly followed by Allo from their stoker, an Allo and honk on her twin horns from Hannah in her buggy and Allos from the following tandem and stoker. The passing rider experiences a wave of smiles and Allos that can't fail to make an impression. Although initial results suggest even this can't break the concentration of a hardened road racer or break the ice cool pose of bandana man. Perhaps cycling is a more serious business than we thought.

Allo Allo is a simple friendly game. It's a lot of fun and brings a smile to our day, but not always to others. Reactions vary wildly from looks of shock horror to mild bemusement to wholehearted return Allos or fits of giggles.

Lycra wrapped, helmet clad cyclists on shiny bikes seem impermeable to even the most threatening Allo. We've tried everything: loud and cheery, quiet with a nod; gruff and manly, but nothing gets a response, barely a flicker of recognition. You're looking at a 10% response rate here and lucky if you can even make eye contact. Our verdict: don't waste your energy and Allos on this lot, let them stay focused and miserable.

Local recreational riders are much more up for it. The trick here is to catch their eye when they're 10 to 20 metres ahead of you, then fire a firm Allo with a friendly nod in their direction, letting them know it's for them. Response rate? 50% or better, usually bringing a smile, chuckle or Allo in return. Our verdict: worth a shot at brightening up their day. The other 50% nearly fall off their bikes into the river so that's good value too.

Baggage laden tourists are the most productive. Perhaps it's because travelling more slowly it takes longer to pass us making us harder to ignore. Or maybe they're just in more sociable mood. With this crew maybe 75% or more respond. Exceptions seem to be anyone wearing a bandana, those with exceptionally tight cycle shorts and young single females. Obviously their various circumstances make it more difficult for them to respond. Our verdict: leave the young girls alone but otherwise fire away, you might even make some friends and you'll have a lot of fun trying to annoy bandana man.

Not just desserts

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 08:03:00 +0000

Rows of spiralling colours, with peaks standing as proud as the mountains we will climb in two weeks time. Sauces swirling, usual flavours enticing. Bailey's, Amaretto, Fererro Rocher, gummy bear or as many types of chocolate as there are types of chocolate. The kids stand for hours, peering in, paralysed by choice.

Eis cafés are in my opinion the best invention in Germany. I'm almost tempted to export home the idea to my village. On a hot day we anticipate the signs and gravitate towards the buildings. Eis café's are all about ice cream, although they do a pleasing range of coffee. Who can resist?

At the front of the café, the individual flavours are displayed in their smart trays. But this isn't what most people come for. Here ice cream is a whole meal. Literally. Locals and tourists make for the menu's, and greedily select. Will it be spaghetti carbonara -piles of vanilla, somehow shaped like a plate of spaghetti, with a combination of fruity flavours making up the sauce? Or pizza, with a pastry base and kiwi and pineapple taking the place of salami and onion. Or perhaps something with chips? Or a concoction for the children in the shape of an animal or cartoon character. Pinocchio's head, with smarties for eyes and a cone for his hat? Or a traditional Sunday in a towering glass, washed down with ice cold water?

However different these inventive ice creams are, there's one thing they all have in common; the price. On a budget, we are in the habit of choosing a small cone of something nice and refusing the more expensive variety of refreshment. But sometimes this isn't allowed. Sometimes an ice cream sundae is the minimum purchase, even though the window display is full of cones; it all depends on the café owner.

After a soggy wild camp one night, we were desperate for breakfast to warm us up. "You can have anything you like," we told the children, who pedalled even harder every time we said it. Ten kilometres on, we came to a small town, where the only shop open was an eis café. "You said we can have anything we want," Cameron reminded us, choosing a huge bumble bee. It took pride of place in the centre of the table, an artistic mix of striped vanilla, peach and melon home made ice creams, with liquorice for antennae and M and M's for eyes. Between us we polished it off, and then reverted to cones in the future after seeing the bill.

The ice cream may have quickly disappeared but the phrase stuck. If I want Matthew to push up a hill or go faster on the flat in return for a small reward I shout 'ice cream breakfast' and get an instant response.

Yesterday was a hot and punishing day. On the outskirts of Frankfurt, there was no breeze and the city's tower lay miles ahead, taunting us with its distance, as we pushed up pointless hills, around unnecessary barriers, and up steep bridges only to discover steps all the way down; classic tandem traps. The children were keen to get to a museum in the city, but were tired, unmotivated and drained by the heat. Even the words 'ice cream breakfast' got barely an extra pedal.

Ten kilometres from the city, we stumbled across a town and tumbled into the eis café. Stuart opened a menu. "Let's have something special," he said, and asked me to order a 'burger and chips,' as well as three cones. I talked to the waiter, ordering the meal and three small cones of chocolate ice cream as well as a glass of iced water for me. Hannah and Cameron were overtired, overheated and hungry and both took a strop. Hannah was the worst so I took her to the toilet to wash her face and cool down. When I returned the table was packed with plates. The meals were undeniably beautiful. The burger; a rich mix of chocolate and truffle ice cream, carefully shaped and sprinkled with chocolate to appear grilled. The chips, extra frozen chunks of vanilla, surrounding the plate like perfectly cooked French fries. The vegetables, covered in a rich raspberry sauce to resemble ketchup. But the trouble was there were three of them, each accompanied by a large glass of sparkling water. "I've tried to send them back, but he says you ordered them," Stuart said helplessly as the children, instantly cheered up, picked up a spoon and heartily dug in. I glanced at the waiter, who looked directly back at me, as if waiting for the row. I rummaged around in my very limited arsenal of German words, and realised I just didn't have the vocabulary for an argument. Also, the children were happy. I shrugged, picked up a spoon, and tucked into my unusual lunch. The most expensive burger and chips we've ever had? Perhaps. But very memorable. Powered by our ice cream breakfast lunch, we were in Frankfurt within the hour.

The pleasures of forbidden fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Kirstie) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 06:36:00 +0000

We leave the vineyards behind and hit fruit tree alley; kilometres of cycle
path' lined with orchards. From the night blue of the ripening plum, to the
seductively pink cherry hanging from the tree just waiting to be picked, the
colours are set against a blue sky with clouds like people paint them in
murals. But I feel a bit like Adam. I can't eat the apple because, while it's
not entirely forbidden, it's not mine and stealing it would set a bad
example to three impressionable kids. Well that's the theory in any case. In
reality, every cyclist and pedestrian has their hand outstretched as they
pass to pull a pear, or pick a plum, and I start to feel a bit prudish.
Eventually I give in. It seems cruel to deny the kids a taste in order to
feel good about being an upstanding citizen. We will be gorging magpies like
the rest.

But I don't want them to do it in the best orchards. Instead we select some
random trees by the roadside, and send the kids in by stealth. First Matthew
tentatively picks an apple, which comes away immediately in his hand, It's
pale green with a hint of pink, and he bites into it with enthusiasm
declaring it the most delicious apple he's ever tasted. Then we progress in
our thieving academy to plums. This time both boys give it a go, picking
what looks to be the ripest. We all take a bite of one, it's tart but juicy.
But then there's a shout and a smartly dressed short man charges out of the
bushes, crying, "Don't eat those" in German. Despite our limited knowledge
of the language, its clear we have violated a rule. "Oh God it's the owner,"
I say, dropping the plum like it's hot. I try to formulate an excuse in
German about the educational benefits of examining fruit trees up close,
while the man thrusts a bucket at me. It's full of fat blackberries. "Don't
eat those plums, they're not ripe," says shorty. "Eat some of these." He
pushes handfuls of the berries he has obviously spent some time and effort
nicking, into all of our hands, and another handful into the buggy for
Hannah. They are ripe and delicious and guilt free as someone else has
stolen them for us. He's no policeman, he's a kindred spirit.

But then we get more confident. We squeal as we spot apricots and pears,
pretending to stop and examine the map, then the kids bomb in. The cherry
trees are declared the absolute favourite. We have to restrain them from
stripping the branches.

As we move out of the countryside and into the town, heading for the city of
Mainz, the kids tell me they need no vegetables tonight. They've had their
five a day. In town, boxes of fruit sit on window ledges with prices
attached. I wonder if they've been stolen too. But with a price tag on their
heads they look less appetising, less succulent. Less naughty. Fruit's
better when it's forbidden.

A word from Father Rhine

noreply@blogger.com (Stuart) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 06:32:00 +0000

I negotiate an evening off from the kids and skip off to an orgel konzert in the Munster Basilica in Bonn. It's a strange experience for the uninitiated, sitting silently in a sacred space, with a hundred or so other people, all sat two or three to a pew, all eyes towards the altar, listening to the mighty organ sitting high above and behind. Facing this way there's no performance to watch, just relics, icons and symbols of faith to look upon.

The music fills every inch of this cavern as the organist takes us on a musical Promenade in Provence. Powerful reverberations envelope me and resonate within my physical body. But the organ has a power beyond the physical, stirring a lifecycle of emotions, memories of christenings, weddings and funerals. In its dischordant tone I can feel the wrath of God while joyful pipes and sifflet quickly summon joy, peace and the hope of eternal life.

I sit transfixed for an hour, enjoying the space, the sound, the feelings, the contrast, the sweet smell of incense ingrained in the Basilica. I imagine the organist, a wise, old virtuouso and am surprised to find a youngish imp appear to take a bow at the end of the performance. For a moment I see a little of myself in him; a younger self with my life before me. I wonder if I'd followed a musical path with focus and discipline whether I could have been as talented and not just a play at home pianist. Is he the young man I could have been?

At the Deutches Museum of Technology in Bonn, I'm in my element. There are exhibits here as great as any work of art. Why are art and science seen as so different when the skill, attention, perseverance, ingeniuity and commitment to perfection needed to create an ion collider, mp3 compression algorithm or computer tomograph is surely as great as that for an artistic masterpiece? While the kids enjoy the simple pleasure of button pushing I am fascinated by the stories and details of German inventiveness, research and development that lie behind so many of the things that shape our modern technologically dependent existence. I recognise so many things here; the racks of equipment, chunky switches, circuit boards and silicon chips, shiny metal, dirty solder, sub atomic particles. As a former engineer I know this place. It is a kind of home for me. It is the man I was but am no more. Although when ever anything goes wrong I'm still always the one who's asked to fix it. Once an engineer, always an engineer. A part of me yearns to be back in this world, to enjoy the satisfaction of complex problems, fixing things, making things work, understanding how the world works.

Sitting in McDonalds letting the kids enjoy a Happy Meal (or at least a happy toy), I stare out the window and gaze at a loaded bicycle and trailer passing. The rider struggles to balance the load and move it forward, negotiating inconsiderately placed street furniture. I laugh and go to point it out to the children. How ridiculous, pulling all that weight and a baby. Why would anyone want to do such a ridiculous thing, especially in a city? But in a moment I realise I am looking in the mirror laughing at myself. For this is the man I have become. At least for now.

Towards the end of our time on the Rhine, we visit Burg Rheinfels in St Goar, one of many castles and fortresses overlooking the Romantic Rhine. This one has dominated this stretch of river and St Goar below since mediaeval times. We climb up away from the riverside to visit it and from the castle ramparts get a whole new perspective on Father Rhine. We wander around crumbling dungeons, scramble in the dark through ancient tunnels and perform belly dances in her damp, candlelit cellar. The dank stone walls remind me of our 200 year old stone house back in England. As I run and play with the kids I wonder how I will age, what will it be like when they leave home, what will I do with myself then. Will I grow old gracefully, running round and having fun or become a wreck and ruin?

As you travel up the Rhine you come to see its many different characters, the different forms it takes on in different phases of its life, the differently textured landscape it passes through, the different uses it has, ways it looks, paths it carves. My journey up the Rhine and encounters along the way leave me wondering about my life journey. What will I become and how will my encounter with the Father Rhine shape me.