Stefan, Dominic and Fabio departed around the same time by canoe, bike and food, that sounds like the start of a maths puzzle. I remained transfixed to my transcribing morning chore. Despite an early start I didn’t leave until gone 10, pausing to chat with some chap whose brother had a Guzzi California (much like my T3) and who enthused over the characteristic V-twin exhaust note.
The temptations of the Dornier and Zeppelin museums called, I resisted (sorry Ian, this is no holiday) and exited into traffic, a portent of things to come. I’d tweaked our route, to a random campsite south east of Frankfurt, by adding waypoints to tune the ‘fast but no tolls’ option into something more fun. Also to take in the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) although not going so far as to include the fast and furious section of the B500, instead turning north at Triberg.
The route started out fast and boring, black bottomed clouds prowled the sky but didn’t find me. That figures because I’d had the foresight to don a waterproof jacket.. Turning at Bad Durrheim we headed up into the forest, alpine in nature but hairy with conifers, still peppered with tunnels by necessity. At Triberg I parked in the road, an Italian registered car stopped to ask if it was OK to park there. 207 consecutive days of trying to learn Italian and all I had was “I’m English” in English.
Northwards, past my second waypoint we came to the edge of the furry (fir’y ?) highlands and an overlook onto the flatlands beyond, things were not going to be as interesting any more. The last of the squiggly bits ran out at Hornbach where we joined the motorway. Motorway Hell, eating miles like ready meals or fast food from the siren calling outlets semi-parasitically attached to gas stations along the way. Past Pforzheim things backed up, big time, I found myself filtering, cautiously splitting the lanes as unsure of the legality. Cars moved out of the way so they either are conditioned to this kind of behaviour or mistook me for a cop. Roadworks were to blame, the road cleared by Weingarten but I’d had enough, pulling over into a lay-by I searched for alternatives and found Camping Kollersee (a lake off the Rhine). Less than an hour away and more importantly with a route from the next junction.
Leaving the motorway just in time to avoid another snarl-up we rattled along the back roads until more queues arrested us. The police and fire brigade were attending what looked to be the remains of a very large barbecue with Tesla rims, no tyres. With some relief I checked into the campsite, a very German resort, and pitched in a sloping corner of a crowded field of tents. The lakeside bar and restaurant was exceptional and made up for having to wear a wristband tag that allowed me access to the spotless latrines. Very little English spoke here, terrified I listened out for a number to be called as if my very spaghetti bolognaise depended upon it.
Le Mans man 
Noch eins, bitte. Tschuss.
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