Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

Snails have it made. They’re born into a world of plenty. Surrounded by green lush on all sides, their constant on-tap supply of fuel and energy sustains and maintains. It’s no wonder their growth rate can be phenomenal, though they never outgrow their home. Some subtle mathematics and their fibonacci-like spiral is ever accommodating. A warm, cosy and protective outer is all they need. And when it comes to locomotion, a little slippery slime can take them a long, long way – you just ask our hostas.

Motorhomes are not called motorhomes for no reason. With an eight week jaunt ahead, the list of must takes, plus the forgotten must takes from last time, stuff Beastie’s inners to bursting. Once we’ve packed every item we perceive as being essential to replicate our home situation, he thinks it’s time we put out a call to Norris (R.I.P.) Then, when he’s fully loaded and on his way, his Billy Bunter Belly starts to rumble and grumble like a Moaning Minnie. Rocket propelled he is not. His speed becomes almost snail pace on any sizable incline. But get us there he does.

The eventual end to a long and sometimes frustrating day, sees us pitched up at our favourite pre-chunnel Black Horse site in Densole. A ten minute drive from La Manche. 10.20am crossing all booked for tomorrow (Wednesday) morning.

You’ve written umpteen best sellers. Some even made into blockbuster films. Your advance, nestles nicely in your account. Yet here you sit. Staring blankly at a blank piece of paper. Or a blank screen. No ideas. No fresh thoughts. Devoid of inspiration. A deadline looming. The loneliest place in the world, with only your empty coffee cup for company. A daunting prospect for any author.

My ‘gratis’ Blog comes with a different type of advance. It’s composed of expectation and an inner commitment to continue. Come what may. It’s born of hope too. That inspiration, coupled with clever and amusing witticisms will trip off the tongue and metaphorically dance across the pages of our travels. Acting as a conduit. Bringing three nomadic jesters to life as they move freely from town to city to country. Keeping the reader and sometimes readers (I am an optimistic realist) informed, amused, or appalled. I’m not comparing my Blog to anything the likes of Ken Follet or Robert Harris might pen, but the task of word-finding and placing them in just the right order, can in itself become daunting. Even overwhelming. I exaggerate for dramatic effect of course (he doth pretend).

Words, like notes on a staff, can create music too. An orchestra of soundless characters. Horizontally aligned and arranged like a never ending theatrical performance. A concerto of collaboration, when written with panache, can create every type of conceivable sound. “Crash!”, “Bang!”, “Wallop!” – there! – told you so!

On the subject of a crash – today’s lunchtime stop had one of its own. The three ring gas hob, upon which Mrs S conjures all manner of culinary delights, when not in use, has a hinged & handy toughened glass cover. At times, it provides a little more working space. My lunch (we always eat different lunches) was to be yesterday’s tasty leftover. I’d usually have it cold – for ease and quickness. Mrs S decided to treat me and warm it up. Before preparing her own. A good loving turn. She didn’t need to. Bloke that I am, I’d have happily wolfed it down frozen.

By the time I had wolfed mine down and Mary-Ann had just taken her first bite of lunch, that glass cover exploded with a mighty crack. As if shot at close range by Dirty Harry wielding his .44 Magnum. The effect was literally ear shattering. Thousands of glass fragments clouded our thoughts as to the cause. A once in a lifetime lapse. One gas ring left on. Not visible in the bright sunlight.

No harm done to Mrs S, or her lunch!

Sun drenched culprit – top left

Writer’s block? Me? Never! I needn’t have worried. Every trip has its own can of worms, or box of candies, lying in wait. I just need to be patient.

So to any ‘blocked’ authors out there. A few words of wisdom . . . with your next advance, go buy yourself a motorhome!

Blue seas and blue skies, elicit inner feelings of calm and delight. Sweeping through us like a warm summer holiday breeze. However, if you’re lost and waterless in the Sahara, or floating aimlessly on a raft in the middle of a flat Pacific, then your perspective may be somewhat different. If you were a 19th century slave cotton picker, sweltering day after day, beneath endless blue skies, then feeling the ‘blues’ would come naturally.

The first, of a hat-trick of two-nighters, finds us pitched up at City Camping Antwerp. A Werkmmaat managed site that provides job training opportunities for those needing help to secure permanent positions.

No sad feelings surround us on this edge to edge blue morning; for a mere 1€ return, a five minute waterbus ride crosses the river Scheldt and drops us right outside the oldest building in Antwerp. Het Steen Fortress. Used today as the Tourist Information Centre.

Walking tours are on offer at week-ends only. We scratch that off our list. Rubens’ House is closed until 2027 for refurbishment. We scratch that off our list too. We discover the underground tunnels tour is fully booked for the next four days. Oops. So we head straight towards the huge cathedral that dominates the city skyline.

Continental calmness is in abundance. The locals float about as if having no cares in the world. It’s what we love about these laid back European towns and villages. A sense of order and peace; perhaps brought about by the effects of WWI & WWII.

Its mammoth inner quarters house a mass of art. A museum in itself. Amongst the many Rubens’ paintings, equally gifted artists of the then and now, have their marvels on display.

A series of twenty-four life-size sculptures dominate one wall. The twelve apostles having been interspersed (not a euphemism) with twelve women.

Ninety minutes later our rumbling tums tumble out into the bright sunshine in search of lunch, followed by an afternoons visit to the red and modern Mas Museum, recommended by a couple of German ladies at this morning’s breakfast wash-up. It’s fully clad with hand-hewn, red Indian sandstone from Agra, so we can’t miss it.

With over 600,000 pieces, two hours of intense browsing becomes a mind numbing experience. However, we leave with a greater understanding of Antwerp’s place in the past and present world.

A pre-Columbian display (before Columbus) from the Americas rounds off our visit.

Every site is different. Each with its own pros and cons. Size wise, some are like postage stamps, where you get stuck uniformly cheek by jowl. Unable to sneeze or let rip a fart too loudly, especially at night, for fear of waking your neighbour. Then, when in others, like today’s Huttopia site in De Meinweg National Park, you find the workers moving around in Prisoner-Like Mini Mokes, you know you’re in for some serious on-site hiking.

Some larger sites may resemble a small village, or town. By comparison, this is more the size of the USA. It’s low season and the place is less than a tenth full. Even so, the lady in reception allocates us a pitch that is the equivalent of being parked up in Washington DC, with the shower block way down south in Jacksonville. Despite there being only two other campers between us and the showers. Maybe the other pitches are pre-booked? Or maybe word has gotten round about my wind-breaking capabilities . . . who knows?

In any event, we do as we’re told and pitch up at number 4. Then, the opportunity of a gadabout is quickly curtailed by a severe clouburst that leaves us wishing we’d packed our wellies and oars.

With most of today set dry, we break out the bikes for a morning recce. Netherlands, home of the bike, has an endless labyrinth of car free cycle routes. Numbered waymarked junctions provide a seamless routing system that functions and co-exists with the car driver.

Our totally flat 20K loop is being enjoyed by many other cyclists. We stop for a selfie. Chat briefly to a Dutch couple who’ve pulled up for a Scooby Snack. Discover that their ride is saving them from having to watch Charles’ coronation!

We’ve seen some pretty pictures of a nearby town. So Scoot gets his first outing too. But not before a swift battery change. His flat one came to light on Bank Holiday Monday. An in-stock replacement, from Bournemouth Battery Centre, on our day of departure, to the rescue. Scoot coughs into action and Scoots us into Roermond, where the indoor shopping centre provides shelter from a downpour.

We’re a tiny bit like lightning. We hardly ever strike twice in the same location, unless by mistake. Prefer the unexpected and to be unexpected. So pre-booking, a rarity rather than the norm.

Going against the grain, our first six nights have been pre-booked. A prial of two-nighters. No immediate thought required. A winning hand. Breathing space for planning. So when checking in to Knaus Camping, Koblenz, to be told “I cannot see your name” it seemed at first hand a trump had been played. “But you’ve taken my 16€ deposit. Look, here’s your email confirmation”. “Ah! You’ve booked to stay at our sister site 35K further up the Mosel! – but don’t worry. We have plenty of space for you”. That was unexpected. Preferred? Hmmm . . .

Knaus Camping is perfectly positioned. We look out across the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine. Our home from home Two Rivers Meet, as one might say. We pay through the nose for that privilege. The whole scene dominated from above by the Ehrenbreitstein Fortress. Tomorrow’s must see. However, this afternoon is still young, so we take the small Mosel water-cab. (cue – enters right . . . )

Go for a walkabout in Koblenz Aldstadt.

The Mosel and Rhine attract many cyclists. Over wash-up we chat with a French Couple from Colmar. They and their two boys (10 & 11) are on day ten of a four month cycling/camping adventure – a round trip of over 6,000K, to include Norway. We envy their spirit, but not the thought of huddling inside a tent, when, like this evening, the heavens pour out their misery in bucket loads.

Both rivers are busy. Huge vessels of every description chugging and lugging. Phutting and putting, up and downstream. Like flat backed camels plying the Silk Road, in search of trade. Even containers, shipped in to Rotterdam, are then distributed through Netherlands, Germany, Belgium, France, Switzerland and Austria.

It’s too late now. About fifty-seven years too late. Instead of looking out of the classroom window onto the playing field, wishing I was out there kicking a ball, I should have paid more attention to my German teacher. Then I would have understood now, what “Ich bin ein dichead” means!

The young ticket lady confirms that the majority of information up top will be in German only. My unbelieving English face reveals astonishment. What!? “Well” she sardonically replies, “you are in Germany . . . “

The 118 metre cable-car lift across the Rhine is swift and smooth. Provides a 360 view. We only need half of that as we look back to where we came from. We step out onto the huge plateau that Ehrenbreitstein Fortress and surrounding grounds occupy. It feels like a smaller version of Cape Town’s Table Mountain. Only more ordered.

To the non-initiated military brain, these types of fortresses seem to be constructed to a most bizarre design. Yet, as this one is still standing, obviously successful. A conglomeration of pointy angles, emulate the pointy hats of their day. Create a massive maze of tunnels and alleys. Das (I’m guessing) Haus der Archäologie houses an immaculate presentation of historical artifacts. Our first port of call. We disdainfully brush past each cabinet. Ignore the information boards that fail to divulge a semblance of sense to two of its paying customers. We give it ten minutes max – out of bored courtesy. Move on. Go explore the numerous nooks and crannies.

Give it a . . .

A shoal of security guards swim past us and down. They’re on a private tour. Possibly in preparation for a forthcoming event. I lean over and listen. Become a Creepy Peeper. Can’t understand a word! If only . . . I was a pigeon.

The photography house, is more up our alley. Six artists show off their talents. Each in their own unique way.

Some ideas and concepts are universal. Need no assistance from Herr Google’s translator app. We always love a bit of hands on. In the tech house we come across a couple of fun, yet ingenious interactive concepts.

Then it’s time to make our own bit of art . . . “Black Rectangle on White Wall”

Then it’s back down to base to finish the day and meander the Aldstadt sites. As usual, the churches provide some of the best and most interesting architecture.

For a house-proud person, I imagine completing a chore takes on a different perspective. In itself it doesn’t lack importance, or purpose. Once completed, it enhances the living space and with it, the occupier’s satisfaction.

That’s not to say that a person who hates chores, can’t be house-proud too.

There are some chores you expect to take with you on a MOHO trip. Others are best left at home waiting. We had to pay a fee before we could complete today’s chore and then it didn’t even warrant a discount!

On route to Knaus Camping Park in Bad Dürkheim, we stop off at Schloss Stolzenfels. One of the prettiest castles in Germany.

Bavaria, is full of pretty castles. AKA Scloss’s (?) It’s probably the main reason why we’re down here. Problem is, after today’s visit we’ve now come to realise they are all ‘up there’. Up, meaning nowhere to park within a kilometre, leaving the one in five slope the only option. By the time we reach the pay kiosk we’ve developed hooves, grown a goaty (suits me more than Mrs S) and are almost overcome with a desire to head-butt the but of the person in front.

Although we’re upside, there’s a downside. Visits are by tour guide only. In German. We enter to find the wooden floor gleaming with a high sheen. We quickly find out why. Polishing slipper overshoes provided to all who enter. Presumably they get a lot of Sasquatch visiting!

After an hour of German “gobblydegook”, we exit feeling more sloshed than Schlossed, but at least with the satisfaction of completing a job well done.

We all like to step into the limelight. From time to time. Given the right occasion. Given the right circumstance. Given the right planning. Though shining an unexpected light can cause sudden panic. Prompting severe stage fright and an immediate rush to withdraw into the shadows.

It seems that suitable car parks and parking spaces are at a premium in this part of Germany, for Beastie and his counterparts. Surprising, since Germany has a huge MOHO population. Today’s Beastie sally, is brought on by said lack.

On cue, Beastie gets drawn down to where he doesn’t belong. He can’t help him-self. His compass spinning like a wooden-top. Or maybe his driver is the one with the wooden top. He steps out centre stage. Or rather skates into central square – Baden-Baden. Like a skater on thin ice. Fearing an enlarging crack. At first sight all appears completely pedestrianised. However, nobody bats an eyelid. Not one head turns. Are they all silently whispering “Dummkopf”?

“Easy Parking”, a world wide used app, lightens me of €2.80. Following our grand entrance and blind search of the back streets, it seems we’ve secured a good deal for three hours of on-street parking. Once I’ve handed my money over, the app re-sets our stay time. Reduces it to one hour max. In accordance with local restrictions. Argh! Fortunately, three young women in the nearby library come to the rescue. They huddle in front of the computer screen, sounding like excitable girl guides around a camp fire. Each eager to keep the round going for as long as it takes. Eventually, we’re pointed to a quiet lane alongside the Rosengarten auf dem Beutig at the top of town. Literally.

Although famous for its spa and casinos, we give them a miss. Spend the afternoon walking the Lichtentaler Allee. A riverside way that is hemmed in on both sides by the most elegant of hotels, houses and gardens.

Nevertheless, it seems the local council have agreed to allow the construction of a huge ugly glass box of a building – to the left. Public ‘servants’ – the bane of common sense the world over.

Since stepping foot on this side of La Manche, the showers have been coming thick and fast. At times we’ve been under heavy artillery fire. A constant bombardment of earthbound projectiles raining down from above. Attempting to break through and weaken our defences. At others, we’ve been made to skip to the loo, as if a drunken John Wayne was shooting up the ground around our feet, just for pleasure.

Today’s journey down towards Freiberg im Breisgau (as opposed to the other plain and simple Freiberg) enjoys a lunchtime call into Freudentstadt. For no other reason than it’s on the way. Plus it has the biggest market square in Germany. Is there a contradiction there? Thursday is not market day. It’s quiet.

A road splits the square in two. A lower photogenic half, with fountains and Evangelical Lutheran Church, provide a convenient leg stretch.

Beastie rolls into Camping Hirzberg-Freiberg, just in time. Takes the last available pitch. Adopts the pose of a sardine. Slithers in between an earlier catch. Two metres either side. Five metres from the shower block. Three nights in the can.

Friday morning’s 1.2K walk, alongside the Dreisam River and into this eco-city’s Aldstadt, thankfully remains dry.

The cobblestone mosaic pavements meander underfoot, like pretty patterned snakes let loose. Lead us to the Munster, via one of the ancient city gates.

Our chameleon eyes swivel in their sockets, like Marty Feldman’s rogue eye. Beautiful buildings of note fill our onboard and offboard memory cards. Hard copies taken. A safeguard for future software malfunction.

The Munster’s gloomy interior gives a sense of how it must have been and the sombre lighting helps to illuminate the exquisite windows.

With more rain on the way, we stay indoors for the afternoon. The Augustiner Museum conjures culture.

Outside, there’s even a certain amount of artful thought and style put down into every manhole cover too.

We retread our way out and nurse ourselves back to base in a downpour that drowns the rest of the away day.

In general, I’d say that when it comes to ‘live and let live’ I have a pretty laid back nature. It takes a lot to rile me. It’s Saturday. 5.10am. For the next twenty minutes I lie awake. A constant ‘Bumph, bumph bumph’ has started up. You know the sound. It emanates out of passing teenager’s cars. A tuneless twaddle. This is nowhere near that decibel level. But, its low pulsating reverberations agitate, like a mini water torture. Slowly build up behind the dam in my brain. Getting ready to overflow and explode, courtesy of Barnes Wallace. It’s far too early. I want to remain snug as a bug. Curled and laid back. I try my patience. But lose it. By the time I leave the warmth of my bed I’m seeing red, but have turned a Bruce Banner shade of green. I step down and out. Stand motionless. Try to fathom the whereabouts. And the who, as in who the FCUK, starts a party at this time of the morning. It’s difficult to trap. If only I was a bat. It’s echoing around. My stereo ears lead me to the next level. I check out all possible suspects. Not a dickybird. Apart from the rising dawn chorus. Back down at Beastie level (there’s two of us now), I’m certain the perpetrator is near. Very near. In fact I can hardly believe it’s the MOHO next door. I creep up along its side. And just to be absolutely certain place my palm low down on the driver’s door. It’s vibrating!

Three thunderous knocks brings an immediate halt. No other response.

“DANKE!“

Was the idiot’s on/off finger hovering in a state of readiness? Was he, in fact, sitting in the driver’s seat?

With no sign of a break in the weather, this morning’s plans are put in abeyance. A game of Bananagrams prevents us from going bananas.

By 13.45, John Wayne runs out of ammo, so we do a repeat of yesterday, but visit the Nature Museum with what little time remains. The mineral section always a winner. Hidden underground gems. Waiting for eons to be discovered. Bring delight and wonder.

Our city exit leads us past another window of delights.

The day ends with yet another gem. Courtesy of Beastie’s onboard master chefette.

We seem to have been given the impression that evolution is linear. A one way time-line. With no going back. From simple to sophisticated. Then to most sophisticated. If that’s what we deem ourselves to be. Yet it appears from the dinosaur period many marine ‘reptiles’ started their existence on land. A backward step? After all, aren’t we all just adapted fish. Living life in one huge murky pond?

The world over, no matter what the species, the babies and the youngsters seem to have the most fun and bring the most joy.

Our stop off at Affenberg, a short distance from tonight’s Gern Campinghof Salem, comes as a recommendation from a friendly guy at the wash-up. An ex-military engineer, who lives a short journey north of Monkey Mountain. Home to over 200 Barbary macaques.

We spend a couple of hours up in the hills chilling out with our super chilled out rellies.

We all like a bit of romance in our lives. Someone that touches either our heart, soul, or mind. Or even all three. Someone you can share magical occasions with. Drinking in and getting drunk together over life’s special and never to be forgotten moments. Something to bring future pleasure, when looking back over one’s shoulder.

Today, we leave the cloudy and miserable looking Black Forest and head towards Fussen, hoping for better weather. It’s there we join the 460K Romantische Straße, a 1950’s invention to boost tourism. We head for the land of romantic fairytale castles, to do just that. A small town, Schwangau is home to two of them, courtesy of Ludwig II, King of Bavaria.

Our two night stay at Bannwaldsee Camping, with its luxurious spa-like facility, is positioned in a stunning location. A stone’s throw from the northern foot of the Alps. From here we could almost yodel our way over and into Innsbruck. More importantly, it’s only a short free bus ride from the two main attractions in town. (German camp sites add a local tax on to their prices, but that gets us free local bus and train journeys.)

Once pitched up and raring to go, we bus the 7K to Schloss Hohenschwangau

Like a Double Diamond, the brightening day works wonders. If only it could do a twizzle for us . . .

The castles are reputedly to have inspired some of Disney’s inventions. The German owners, return the compliment. We get shuttled in and out at a rate of 1€ per minute. Computer controlled “On the dot” timed entry keeps all ticket holders on edge and in line, and close to the bar-code scanner of the eingang turn-style. The audio instructed way through is roped off either side. We get dragged along at the tail-end of the snaking line. Hoping for better views. No touching, no photos, no videos, no real information, just the bare facts. “This is a . . . ” and “over by that door is a . . . ” Other snake-like lines criss-cross us in one or two of the larger rooms. There must be a fat controller hiding somewhere. We exit underwhelmed. But at least we can put a tick next it, or is that a cross?

As if one schloss wasn’t enough, Ludvig commissioned the building of a new, higher and prettier abode. Maybe to outdo his dad Maximillian. He even installed a telescope inside Schloss Hohenschwangau, so he could keep an eye on progress.

Instructions, whether written or verbal, can sometimes be understood fully, only after a right old cock-up. We are all capable of completing the same task, but utilising a different method. As the saying goes, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. And here in Schwangau that cat is in the shape of a dual purpose bus stop. We’re at the end of our visit and everyone else’s by the look. The 30 foot long stop has, what appears to be, an ‘off’ and ‘on’ at opposite ends. Fifty plus are all crammed and eager to make sure they get on the next bus. But no one is really sure which bus they need. Issued timetables don’t marry with bus arrivals. Not very German-like.

In the confusion, and after an hour’s wait, we miss our bus. It stops at the other end. Only after it’s left do we realise we should have been on it! The next one, and last for the day, a further seventy-five minute wait. We (I) can’t. I talk a very disgruntled Mrs S into walking back (it’s 7K). “We can hitch a ride”. When a squall attacks us head on after only a few hundred yards, we are fast becoming saturated. I have no waterproofs; Mrs S has only her brolly. It’s being battered around like a stunt kite. Any second now she could lift off, like Mary Poppins, go paragliding. She thinks I’m demented wanting to continue. She frantically stops a camper with a UK number plate as it exits a car park. Pleads for a lift. They come over all French “NON”. Head off in the opposite direction. Feeling guilty no doubt. This is proven as they sail past us two minutes later. By this time we’re so wet we’re taking on the properties of a salty solution. My thumb unable to provide a better one. Four or five German number plates splash by. I’m just about to swap thumb for finger, when with disbelief, one slows and reverses towards us. We really do love the German people after all. We’re soaked and dripping. Neverthess, the young female passenger urges us onto the rear black leather seats of their luxury SUV. We are full of thanks, explaining we’d almost given up on there being any kindhearted German drivers out there.

“We’re not German. We are from Latvia. We are on a working vacation!”

Our two Angels, Andres and Evilija drop us right to our campsite ‘door’, just thirty metres from Beastie.

To ensure we get tickets into today’s visit to Schloss Neuschwanstein I bike the 7K to the cental ticket office, nice and early. Arrive to find myself third in the queue. Ten minutes before the 8am opening. It stays dry for both legs. (I’ll leave you to work that one out).

From then on it rains non-stop for the next twenty-two hours.

Our timed visit starts here . . .

We pay the price for being mountain side. But isn’t the mist wonderful?

We join another Disney style snake that slithers its way through each lavish room. Stunning in every sense. Pictures of the interior available only on-line. Paying visitors not allowed that privilege. We all reserve our photo-shoots for outside. Eyes, phones and cameras all popping and pointing upwards to catch and post. Yet nearly everyone misses the best shots to be had . . .

Choices. Life’s full of them. They’re all around you. There’s no escape. Some you make for the good. Others not quite so. Some can bring you down. Others lift you up. At the end of the day we all have to live with the choices we make.

Today, we’re on our way to Bella Augusta Camping, near Augsburg. We need to top up on groceries. Keeping up with the maniacal LIDL check-out girls, world-wide, is a battle at the best of times. Even with only half a dozen items or so, you have to prepare yourself. You need to take on the mentality of a sprinter. Mind and muscles need to be tuned to perfection. Co-ordination key. It’s like appearing on a race against the clock TV game show. Where all the laughs are on you.

With a full trolley load of stuff, we do our best to keep up. But she’s an expert. Finely tuned too. In the art of making you feel a right pillock. The tiny exit shelf becomes the foundation stone for a catastrophe of a Jenga tower. Everything we bought gets piled high in a hash-mash. We refuse to become irritable. See the funny side instead. She’s done her bit. Eyeballs us. Arms fold. Thin lips purse. No doubt hiding a “Don’t they teach you how to pack fast in Tesco?” She waits, impatiently we imagine. As does the queue. They’ve seen it all before. No one is laughing. We are. At the insanity.

We exit on a high. Not on a low.

Augsburg provides our afternoon walkabout. Another aesthetically constructed Aldstadt greets us. There’s a Porsche rally nearby. Five Brits pull up outside the Maximillian Hotel. Mrs S takes a shine to a shiny Porsche 1600 Super. Dream on!

Death is something we all encounter. Our own; a loved one; a relative; a friend; a stranger. As beings who are acutely aware of their own mortality, yet never knowing when life might come to an end, it’s even more important to live in the present. For the future may be nowhere to be seen.

We understand that birth and death are both equally natural in their essence. Yet we greet one with joy, the other with grief. Even horror, if we perceive the circumstances surrounding that death to be unnatural.

There can be nothing natural about rounding up peoples from all walks of life and imprisoning them into a life of hell. For no good reason other than a twisted view on society and what that means.

Our afternoon is spent in Dachau Concentration Camp, just north of Munich. The longest running and prototype for more than one thousand other camps. Our guide Martina, is open and honest. She offers no excuses for the atrocities of the Nazis. No excuses for the closed eyes of the majority of the German population during this period. (over eight million were members of the Nazi party) She poignantly helps us to reflect on how difficult those times were for their nation. The fear they held for themselves and for those they loved.

Not everyone had closed eyes. Did she ever think that she could have joined the resistance? With two children? Never.

Martina leads us for two and a half hours. Speaking with a deep knowledge and authority surrounding the salient issues and circumstances involving the Nazi regime. It’s clear this is her vocation. For too long after the war, the German people and government found it almost impossible to face up to what had happened. Like being unable to admit to a guilty secret.

Dachau camp is surrounded by residential areas. The smells and the screams were not stopped by barbed wire. Local Dachau would turn up their radio. They didn’t want to know what was going on.

As one surviving ex-prisoner says “History will always be there, people will not.”

The gate all prisoners pass through is headed with the words ‘Work Will Set You Free’. The first of many psychological tricks the Nazis played. The only freedom most found was in death. Yet, even under horrendous and torturous conditions we discover that a special camaraderie flourished throughout the camp.

We then drive 3K to the site of a mass burial cemetery, where 7439 bodies from Dachau have been laid to rest. It’s sobering.

The power of a slogan is universal. Link the perfect snappy phrase to your products, then see them sell like hot cakes. Impressionable buyers can’t help to buy-in to the gimmick. They don’t even have to understand the meaning.

For instance, how many non-German speaking people know what this means . . . yet immediately they know the company it represents.

Of course, no matter how good your slogan, if the product is crass, then in the long run it will be doomed to fail. AUDI have no such problem.

Today we bus down to the Audi-Forum. An ultra modern building complex which houses the significant historical vehicles that make up the company’s history.

Our two and half hours finish with a look into the future – the next generation that’s waiting in the wings. No internal controls whatsoever. Just four ultra comfy seats and a heap load of space. Voice activated? Perhaps. Auto GPS navigation? Perhaps.

Everything we own is a copy of an original. Everything man-made stems from an original. If a copy, is not the real thing, but simply a fake, then by extention we must be existing in a fake world.

Following on from the massive destruction of two world wars, most of Europe’s towns and villages had to be rebuilt to some degree. Many almost from scratch. Town councils had to decide whether to build ‘new’, or rebuild the ‘old’. Nürnberg town planners thankfully took the latter route.

Virtually flattened by British and American bombers, it now holds close ties with Coventry after being handed a ‘Cross of Nails” in 1999. As in many Cross of Nails centres around the world, the Coventry Prayer of Reconciliation is prayed at St. Sebald in Nürnberg every Friday at 12 noon.

Knowing Nürnberg only for ‘The Nürnberg Trials’, we are amazed as we cross into the Aldstadt. It seems we’ve walked onto a medieval film set. The stunning architecture peers down at us from all angles. Its beady eyes looking back down. Eyebrows raised. Begging the question “Well? Like what you see?”

It’s hard not to. The immaculate reproductions create a feel good factor. Just the clatter of trotting hooves is missing

We head towards Albrecht Dürer’s old house. Interested in seeing some of his famous works close up. He’s been given super-star status and there are big plans to celebrate the fifth hundred anniversary of his death in 2028. He’s regarded almost as a saint in these parts. It’s Sunday. We’re in luck. No charge.

The first floor houses a dozen or so of his masterpieces. Each with an information board to the side. Each board indicates that the last time ‘this’ painting was held in Nürnberg was in 1818, or 1825, or 1836. Get the picture? It seems the originals are now held in museums around the world. With the knowledge I was looking at copies, despite being masterfully reproduced, my interest dipped in an instant, just as if I’d slipped into an icy plunge pool. Mrs S, with her greater interest, was happy to study and admire these equally masterful copies on their own merits.

We have a two hour walking tour booked for 2pm. Karen Cristenson our guide, is from South Dakota. She’s lived in Germany since 1972 when she met, fell in love with and married her husband, who hails from Wimborne, Dorset! Again we’re in luck. There’s only four of us on the tour. We walk and talk. Karen eager to answer every question we pose, but it’s more like a conversation.

The locals love their ice-cream, more than the Italians we think. The gelato houses are full to overflowing. We stand in line. Our wait rewarded. Aching feet rest while our tongues take over. We choose not to indulge in the top of the range on offer at 25€ per pot. Our 21€ gets us these two.

We can’t leave Nürnberg without visiting the place where the most infamous meglomaniac in history strove to create Germany as the greatest super-power of all time.

A twenty minute walk from camp and we’re looking out across a beautiful scene. Situated as the centre for the huge Nazi Party rallying grounds of sixteen square kilometres, the great Kongresshalle does its best to appear as splendid as the Colosseum. Unfortunately most of the area is subject to massive reconstruction, so we spend an hour in the temporary museum, which details the complete history of the Nazi Party in vivid and honest detail.

Even the Garden of Eden wasn’t safe from the power of Evil.

There comes a point in every trip, when we feel the need to draw breath. Remember that it’s not a sprint. Not a marathon even. Just a gentle jog. There’s no need to go haring around.

We decide to burrow down at Perlsee, situated within the beautiful Upper Bavarian Forest Nature Park. Pitch up almost lakeside. It’s hotting up a little. Low twenties, warm enough for a bit of alfresco dining.

A pre-dinner game of table tennis, helps to unwind the day’s journey. The ‘BOING’ from the cast iron net adds a certain ‘joi de vie’, a lively musical stop to many points. Mrs S is in devastating form. That is, until a particularly ferocious topspin forehand smashes into the net post. ‘Boing’ goes the net – and the ball.

Today stays dry and warm. We crack open our walking boots. We’ve learned of the remains of a deserted village, just across the Bavarian border. A 4K predominantly uphill wooded trek takes us towards Czechia and into Bohemia.

Short of our crossing we pass through a small village. In the UK we have our gnomes. It seems many folk up here prefer baubles. Most garden arrangements flaunt shiny objects.

As we near centuries old Grafenried, it’s apparent little remains. A beautiful and peaceful trail loops up and around. Boards designate the exact location of each home, along with photos and a brief family biog.

We discover that after WWII, its total demise came about simply because of its unfortunate location. Slap bang on the Iron Curtain border zone. The Czechs changed its name to Lučina (translates as ‘meadow’ – prophetic?). By 1956 the village had been depopulated and bulldozed.

We look up to the skies and see; there’s no escape from reality. We don’t need no sympathy, nobody’s gonna put a gun against our heads, make us do the Fandango! Not even Freddy . . .

Our planned three-nighter at Waldmünchen is foreshortened. It’s drizzling and 9C as Beastie heads away from one of his and our favourite spots. We agree it’s better to travel when its cold and wet.

Our three nighter at TriCamp, 10K north of Prague, provides two full days of acting like real tourists. Bus 162 and tram 17 seamlessly link. Drop us off at Charles Bridge. Like a couple of right Charlies, we’ve never heard of this 15thC icon. Seems the rest of the tourist industry has. They’ve only gone and funnelled all of their customers here. City Breaks-R-Us have not put on the brakes. It’s full to the rim. A patient Vltava below ever ready for an overflow.

The 516 metre crossing is a joy. It’s party-time. Buskers, artists and crafts people line the length. Hoping for hands to dip in. Coins or notes to dip out. Guides vainly try to keep their gaggling gaggles moving along by flying the flag.

Once across, we come across that not everybody is moving along. Two duty doers, doing nothing. Guarding nothing. Silently stand. Act accordingly. Play their two-bit parts as visitor after visitor snaps or stands alongside. “Hey, FB Buddies, look where I am today” Sunnies hide their roving eyes and thoughts.

Once tickets are bought and we pass security (yes, SMGs on show with the ‘real’ military) we make our way, but the queue doesn’t, to the main Cathedral.

Down at street level the tranquil scene above not emulated.

It doesn’t get any better inside. Just as well there’s a pretty ceiling to look at.

It’s amazing how quickly one’s geographical internal map learns its new whereabouts. Like a couple of blind automatons, we mechanically drop down into town on day two.

Today’s plan includes a looksee of the Astronomical Clock. A guaranteed midday performance.

The analogous crowd gathers. Heads tilt. Eyes fix. Waiting worshippers wonder patiently. Silent swirls of anticipation sweep overhead. Urging the curious curtain to rise. Clouds gather too. But not rainy ones.

At a stroke, arms raise in praise. Uniformly uniformed. Matching monitors monitor. Like a mid-summer Bottom of fools, all simply pleased. Obviously oblivious. “That’s all folks!”

Our visit to the main synagogue with its famous cemetery get scuppered. The site is closed. It’s a feast day (Feast of Weeks).

We spend the next couple of hours indoors. Tempted by Warhol, Dali and the unknown (to us) Mucha. A massive triple exhibition of works, spread over three floors. Curiously, all have links with Czechia.

We’ve seen his designs and replica’s of it on many a tea caddy and biscuit tin. Not many painters can claim to have been acknowledged on their country’s bank notes.

Andy Worhol’s floor is more of a tribute/memoir to his life and includes a room of family correspondence; subliminally overlayed with classic music from The Velvet Underground, managed by Warhol in the 60s. We get a better feel for this huge icon and why he became revered worldwide.

We need no introduction to Dali’s crazy mixed up surreal world. An all-time favourite in the Sheasby household. Always amazes with his artistic skill of being able to turn the world upside down in a slightly silly and comical way.

Dali, is quoted as saying . . . “Each morning, when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure. That of being Salvador Dali!”

Our Prague city-break ends where it started. Where to next?

We all react to events and situations in different ways. To differing degrees, we all possess a sense of humour. What one person finds funny though, another may not. Some can laugh at themselves, for instance. Others, in a similar situation, may freak out in embarrassment.

We’re currently pitched up for one night at Autokempink Konopáč, Heřmanův Městec. Jonas, an English speaking Czech, with a definite Irish lilt, is on hand as part of his tourism management secondment. He very kindly ushers us to our pitch. He’s developed the Irish gift of the gab from a two year stint in Donegal. Words trip out of his mouth as fast as Guinness from a toppled glass. Beastie is given an acre to roam freely. The sky is blue and the view across the natural swimming lake, almost enchanting.

When we’re looking around inside a church Mrs S tends to make judgement, not on its state of repair, but rather on its state of cleanliness. If the statues and icons are covered in dust, then it’s liable to receive a thumbs down. Afterall, cleanliness is next to Godliness, isn’t it?

We apply a similar principle when on site too. A nice pitch. A nice view. All very well, but if provided with a dirty toilet block, then grey clouds can materialise, even on the brightest of days.

First item on the agenda is usually to go check out ‘the facilities’. So I do just that. The block looks as if it’s been transported in especially for the occasion from the Soviet bloc and wouldn’t look out of place in Stalag 17. I presume those green tanks contain water. (see what I mean about sense of humour?)

Oddly, I find it funny. It’s either that, or spend the next twelve hours feeling annoyed and frustrated. The ancient owner who outdates the block by at least half a century, speaks nor understands a word of English. So we make do with Beastie’s onboard home comforts.

Earlier on route, we make two stop offs to break the journey.

Sedlec Ossuary, at Kutna Hora, the number one attraction. If you can call it that. Consists of a macabre display of skeletal remains of over 40,000 people. The black plague and Hussite Wars providing plenty of ammunition for the constructors.

Photos not allowed, but that doesn’t deter Mrs S taking a sneaky couple while the attendant’s back is turned.

Money for old rope? In this case money for old bones. A £10 concession, gets us no more than fifteen minutes worth. They make a killing each year from the 400,000 touring numbskulls.

We cross town. Go visit the Gothic masterpiece of St Barbara’s Cathedral. Can’t miss it. Same name as my mum. The saint is the patron saint (amongst others) of miners. Mum was the daughter of a miner.

No one thing makes us human. There are a whole basket full of traits that collectively make us human. Distinctive idiosyncrasy in abundance covering and governing everything in and around us. A bounty of beauty, to be found in no other living creature.

Today, that basket pops open like a spring loaded jack-in-the-box. Ejects one of those traits that we can’t pass by. It’s virtually roadside. We park Beastie up at the nearest pull in and walk back to enter a land of ‘silly’.

A brief interlude and good reason for a leg stretch send us on our way still scratching our heads and in a jovial mood.

It’s not long before we’re drawn to a halt again. We do a double take . . . this time into a whole village of ‘silly’.

Then it really is time for us to get going – we’re on our way to Camping Bozanov. A highly rated site that was founded and has been run by a Dutch couple for the last eighteen years.

Although Czechia is just one third the size of the UK, it has a sixth of our population. As a consequence, we’ve been surprised and delighted by the amount and beauty of its countryside and small villages.

As ever, Mr Gee, provides some ‘silly’ answers. It’s all been a Fairytale invention and creation of Jaroslav Horák. (www.mlyncernilov.cz)

Having a routine is important. It creates order and sense. It diffuses thoughts of “What’s the point?”. Helps to give a little ‘raison d’être’ to each day. But sometimes it’s necessary to break out of a routine. If only for a short time.

We’ve probably been on hundreds of walks. At home and abroad. Repeated quite a few favourites too, especially around the New Forest. However, there’s no better feeling than to take on a new and adventurous walk. Especially when in a land far from home.

Today, we break out from our cosy routine of city sightseeing. Pull on real walking boots. The local landscape swarms with ‘nature’ trails. Most of them within short starting distance from camp. Site owner Natasha says that all routes are colour coded and can be found on the brilliant app, mapy.cz. It gets dutifully downloaded. Kamenná brána the reason for our 12K loop.

With no hedgerows to cram and delimit the rolling Czechia landscape, it seems bigger than it probably is. Especially at ground level. Everywhere is as lush and green as back home. Surely, there can be no better colour combination than blue, green and yellow.

To get up there we skirt an enormous planting of rapeseed and then turn left. This is the easy bit.

It’s not long before our first little tester aligns itself with our thighs. Silently whispering “OK then. It’s 5K and all uphill. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

At this point, we thought we were supposed to be following the ‘red’ route. After an hour we’d seen not one red mark. Not even a drop of blood. Eventually remembering that that was planned for another day! Doh!!! We carry on up regardless.

The exciting terrain is a joy to be within. Feels almost pre-historic. Thinking about that, it probably is! We’re not the first to walk this way . . .

After a two hour climb of delight and with all muscles still in good working order, it’s time for some sarnies.

We’ve had the ‘mountain walk’ all to ourselves and don’t expect to see another living soul. We forget however, that part of this ridge borders Poland. Then an alien couple suddenly materialise to our right. As if beamed down from the Enterprise. After a polite “good-day” is exchanged, he says “We’ve just crossed from Poland.” “Ah! Illegal immigrants are you?” “Don’t worry” he replies, “We’re not carrying any guns!”

Now then . . . is this what all the fuss is about . . .?

People change. It’s inevitable. Society changes. That’s inevitable too. Living standards improve. In line with salaries, expectations rise. Naturally. But if not met, then dissatisfaction can set in. What was once considered a luxury, becomes a norm. And then very soon, a right.

Seven years into retirement brings about many changes. And opportunities. For some. Not all. We’re fortunate to be part of that elite group of ‘seniors’. Enabled and free of work, or money worries. The only hindrance to our being able to realise our expectations lies with our ageing bodies and minds.

Our MOHO ‘trips’ are considered to be holidays. Yet living the dream from day to day in different places, doesn’t always feel like being on holiday. More like being a nomad, with no herd! Just one lone Beastie!!

Four nights at Camping Bozanov gives us three full days of local exploration. On occasions like this, when we drop anchor, it can feel as if we really are on holiday. Especially when the weather is glorious.

After yesterday’s exertions, Scoot becomes our chauffeur for the day. A short 5K up and over across the border into Poland, finds Scoot parked in front of the Basillica at Radcow. Supposedly designed on St Peter’s in Rome. A trifle smaller, but impressive nonetheless.

Having no original blueprints to hand, our short lap inside, can neither prove, or disprove, its claim to fame. So we do what we do best. Move on to Wambierzyce. We quickly learn that when in Poland, there is going to be absolutely no point in trying to even imagine how to pronounce most of their words.

We’ve barely removed helmets, when Pavel, noticing the GB on Scoot’s number plate, starts up a conversation. Asks us if we’re English. How did he guess? His English is very good. Turns out he studied up the road from our old place in Boscombe, at Anglo World Language School in Bournemouth.

Often, there can be interesting and funny plays on words between languages. In need of a public loo, we come across this sign. From now on we’re going to “Do Windy”.

It’s good to spend shared time with a loved one. But, it’s also good to spend some time apart. Having different interests alongside shared ones helps to bring a vitality to daily conversation.

Today is one of those paired and shared days. Time for me to go off-roading. Work up a head of steam in the local hills. Get lost. Or, do my best not to. Time for Mrs S to relax. Unfold her drawing pad. Sharpen her pencils. Enjoy a morning of peace and quiet for a change.

The houses and plots of land in this area are extensive. There’s so much space. The term “Built up” will not apply here for some time to come, if ever.

Early part of my ride takes me past a couple of opposites.

A month out of the saddle can leave you wondering what you’ve got left in the thighs. There’s only one way to find out. And that’s to head ‘up’.

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You guessed it? Yes, I did make the wrong boggy decision. But it was all part of the fun. Even if at one point my phone dropped from my saddlebag (not noticed by me) and plopped into the mire! Half a K further on I discover the loss. Back track to find it. Luckily on end and only partly submerged. Good old SONY – designed for water spoilsports!

Once back at base. A quick shower. An energy replenishing eggs on toast. Then it’s off again. A Scoot into Broumov. Home to an interesting Benedictine Monastery. We arrive just in time. Book the last tour of the day. Discover their card machine is not in operation due to internet failure. We all know about that. Euros not accepted. Only Polish Zloty. A quick nip around the corner to Moneka, the local money bank, solves that issue. The tour is in Czech. Us and a Czech couple. We listen. Don’t understand a thing. Thankfully, an all English folder has been prepared for us unlinguisticals.

Near the end of our tour, we come across the most unusual of saintly statues.

The mind is a crazy mixed up entity. Even though it resides a few centi-metres above your eyebrows, you never get to know what it’s doing, how it’s doing it, or what it’s really thinking. It has secret thought processes that it keeps from you. Jumbles some of them up. Constructs Dali like playlets in the middle of the night. Disturbs your sleep. You wake. Confused. What was all that about?

It can fool itself too. Unintentionally. It can see things that aren’t really true. Is it two faces nose to nose, or is it an octopus holding a bucket and spade? It can associate noises incorrectly. Creaking floorboards in the middle of the night can only mean one thing. Right? Wrong!

Day 32 sees us set off for Camp-Wroc, just outside Wrocław (Warsaw to me – and to you?) – all Polish words harbour mysterious spellings and pronunciations. Hardly surprising with an alphabet that includes three versions of their favourite letter Z. As a result, Polish conversations tend to sound like a buzzy bee convention that’s been smoke bombed.

Our intention is for a three night stay. Two full days ‘down town’ on the cards. During the journey, Mrs S has been doing some forward planning for later on in the trip. Seemingly finds another Wrocław that sounds a good place to visit. “We could do that one in a couple of weeks, on our way out of Poland then.” I suggest. Mrs S considers it strange there are two Warsaws (Wrocławs). I just think it’s not uncommon. There are three Christchurch’s in the UK, for instance.

It becomes a long day in the saddle. A mind numbing fifty minutes of slow moving queues to get through and past Łódź, doesn’t help, We hit the city outskirts during rush hour. Beastie is coping better with the mayhem than we are. To make matters more unbearable, we find ourselves unable to find the site. We discover I’d put slightly wrong co-ordinates into Missy SatNav. It’s as if Beastie is on a gone wrong Apollo mission and plopped us down on the dark side of the moon. Missy’s having a field day. Laughingly pointing one way, then the other. Our synchronised pirouettes obviously in need of more practice. More by luck, than judgement, the massive camp sign appears miraculously on the only section of road we hadn’t driven up. Relief. We confirm our three nights at reception and Beastie clambers onto a lovely sunny pitch. Our spent energies soon revive with an alfresco steak and red wine dinner.

Day 33. We’re up bright and breezy. Looking forward to seeing what Wrocław has in store. The day’s itinerary at the ready. Mrs S has prepared sarnies and drink. We’re all set. We just need to establish which buses and trams to catch and connect, to get us to the Uprising Museum. Mrs S plots the route into MAPS. “I don’t understand” she says, “it’s telling me it’s a 3 hours 48 minutes journey.” I tap into my phone. Get the same result. The route is pointing back down south west. “That’s weird, why would it direct us to the other Wrocław?”

At this point my mind is resembling a whirling slot machine. Cherries spinning. Out of control. Unable to all fall on the same line at the same time. Hit the jackpot. Suddenly the penny drops. Along with my blood pressure.

Feverishly, I widen my search on MAPS. My mind can’t believe what it’s seeing. Warszawa (the real Warsaw and capitol) actually is 3 hours and 48 minutes ‘up the road’.

I not only put in slightly wrong co-ordinates yesterday, I mysteriously and obviously without thinking too hard, also put in the co-ordinates for the wrong site, in the wrong city. My mind didn’t think to question whether Wrocław was, or wasn’t Warsaw. It visually looked similar and in spoken English phonetically sounded even more similar.

An embarrassed and very hurried two night cancellation ensues.

After all, we need to get to . . . Wrocław? Warszawa? Whatever!

There are many ways one can define a life. But none can ever truly establish an accurate description of what it is to be alive, or to live that life. In some way its indescribable, because every life on planet earth is unique.

A time-line can create a list of life events in chronological order. Time and space connected. A linear link between the past, present and future. History teaches us that this line stretches further back and further forward than we can imagine. But imagination is of the highest priority when the present consists of unjustified destruction of life and property. That imagination is built on hope. Hope that lives can be repaired. Property restored.

Camping Motel-Wok, 13K south of the capitol is our base for the next three nights. It’s in easy striking distance via the superb transport system. Buses, trams and metro seamlessly sewn together, like clockwork cogs on a never-ending time and motion machine. Use of the Jakdojade app provides us with an accurate time-line of bus and tram numbers. Plotting each stage and even indicating the walking distance and time to take between stops. With weather set fine we climb on board Bus 146.

Today’s port of call, the Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego – AKA The Warsaw Rising Museum. Dedicated to the Warsaw Uprising of 1944. Another event we want to scribe into our historical time-line of WWII.

Worldwide, the French Resistance movement has been made known through all forms of media. Not so the Uprising in Warsaw. The huge labyrinth of rooms and corridors give first hand testimony to the plight of Warsaw and its people, during the Nazi destruction and occupation. We learn how the resistance was formed and how it gradually gathered momentum. Determination from all parts of society galvanised by one unifying aim. To repel the invader. Even young children were engaged in vital activities. Secretly and efficiently, distributing food and communications. Sometimes at a personal cost.

The perpetual rumble of a bomber’s engines, sparks imaginations. Creates a constant background barrage. Attaches a sense of reality to the huge life size Liberator B-24J, poignantly suspended above the main concourse, which links the exhibition’s diverse displays.

In complete contrast, today’s modern Warsaw rises skybound. Cascades of huge glass superstructures confidently face the future. Symbolically, backs turn away from the past. Standing tall. Defiantly. Whispering to one another “Never again shall we succumb to the invader”.

Not all high rise is glass. Completed in 1955, the Palace of Culture and Science at 778ft one of many to rise from the ashes.

We complete our first day with a late afternoon amble along the Royal Route. A cosmopolitan ambience with a mix of shops and entertainers add to feelings of freedom.

It seems the whole city is on the march today, Sunday. An anti-government demonstration, with excess of 100,000 protesters, plans to walk the Royal Route. We change plan. Give the Royal Castle the heave-ho. Second choice Polin Museum, as it happens, a better fit to our WWII time-line.

It’s home to an incredible exhibition. Details 1,000 years of Jewish history in Poland and in particular Warsaw, where the Nazis moved and walled in over 400,000 Jews. Creating a ghetto of hatred, with unbearable consequences. Many of course, shipped out to end their lives inevitably in the gas chamber.

On entry we’re greeted with a full scale security check. Body and bags scanned, airport style. Sadly, it seems the Jewish nation can never fully relax its guard against the hidden and determined foe.

We follow the path of the Jewish diaspora across Europe. Their victories and failures within the changing societies of their time. A nation in vain. Praying and hoping for a Palestinian place to call home.

Each room is given over to a certain aspect of either time, place or custom. Giving a real sense of the importance that lies behind the Moses tradition that’s been handed down and cherished for over three millennia.

The Polin stands within the long dismantled walls of the ghetto. As we walk away in contemplation, we come across one of many ground level reminders. Each delimiting, for most, the boundary of no future.

Again the entertainers are out in force as we search for a restaurant.

According to the owner of Kamienne Schodki Restauracja, we complete our Warsaw experience with the best Polish duck dinner in town.

They say that ‘doing without’ is good for you. So that when you’re back in a time of plenty, you can really appreciate that previous ‘lack’, even more. The idea of fasting, as a way to bring benefit to mind and body is nothing new. After all, it’s about willpower and calories, isn’t it?

Being on the road for eight weeks, without the usual home luxuries, can sometimes feel like a fast. Whether it be due to the ‘lack’ of decent site facilities, or, when the weather is poor, the ‘lack’ of space to exist, or operate in.

Then, speaking wholly for myself of course, there’s the fast of no Eurosport, BBC Sport and BT Sport. A fast from watching football, tennis & cycling. (Mrs S probably thinks that this is really good for me) This trip has also brought on an additional unexpected ‘lack’ too. Away from the coast and no on-site pools. A fast from swimming.

However, when it comes to food and ‘home cooking’, the word fast daren’t show its head anywhere near Beastie’s tiny kitchen. Day after day, Mrs S produces the same fabulous culinary delights as she would back home, albeit, in a kitchen twenty times smaller.

For us though, at the moment, we know we have more than enough to compensate . . .

Perfect summer evenings, empty stretches of sandy lakeside beaches and red wine in abundance. So, who needs TV?

Our two days away from city life at Eco-Camping Bindunga 69, is not all 100% relaxation . . .

No site is perfect. We don’t expect perfection. Each comes with its own little and usually, unforeseen quirk. Something that can be a minor irritation, or drive you absolutely potty. This site has such a quirk. Each morning at 4.08am we’re woken by, not as you’d expect, the dawn chorus, but the crazy cawing cacophony of a ‘murder’ of crows. Early morning’s drifting reveries rudely broken by a crazy gang of swooping and diving loud mouths. By the time they exit to their breakfast field, sleep has been replaced by the thought of one thing only – ‘murder!!’

Apart from the crows, we’ve had this massive site virtually to ourselves. Home to a retreat of over a thousand happy campers, just one day before our arrival. Today that changes. Tomorrow, Thursday 8th marks a Polish Public Bank Holiday, to celebrate the Catholic feast day of Corpus Christi. Camper after camper after camper arrives. Brimming with families. Eager to get away for a long week-end. All taking their own city-break.

Come evening the usually quiet and dark site is a bright and chattering festival.

We leave the site, shortly after 10am. Just in time. New arrivals are queueing at the gate. City break over.

The ancients used the heavens to determine many day to day activities. Constantly peering into the past. Looking for answers to the future. Searching for signs to make sense of life on planet earth.

Thousands of years have passed, yet we humans are still fascinated by what’s up there. Wondering about its impact, on what’s down here. At least nowadays though, we don’t need to say things like “Let’s meet after the first full moon, when Jupiter is rising in the east and the sun is at its lowest“.

Today we keep our heads down. No need to look up. Missy knows the way. Curiously, only because of what’s up there. We’re travelling to Toruń. Famous for two reasons. Its medieval old town didn’t get bombed during WWII. As a consequence, the buildings from that time are original and not reconstructions. Secondly, the man who put the sun at the centre of the universe (metaphorically of course), was born and lived here. None other than Nicolaus Copernicus.

We split our journey with a couple of stops.

A little further we give Beastie a second breather. Go stretch our legs. A church service is echoing around the block. A Corpus Christi celebration being broadcast loud and clear.

So far, campsite entries have been relatively straight forward. Mundanely easy even. Today’s provides some livelier entertainment. We (I) obey the instruction from above. “Turn Left”. The no entry sign is telling me “You idiot. Can’t read Polish? This red circle is universal”

No need for bike, bus, tram or train. today. We head into old town Toruń on foot. Search out the house of Nicolaus Copernicus. Now a dedicated museum to his life, works and family. It’s a brilliant display spread over five floors. From the outside, its tenement façade disguises its tardis-like interior.

The wealth of information tells us little about the man himself. Seems he kept things close to his chest. We learn more of the times he lived in. Seen below in typical attire of the day, with his wife – perhaps he had good reason.

Late afternoon and the intense heat hasn’t relented. The local kids know just where and how to get some welcome relief.

Our amble back to camp harks exciting news. Bells throughout the city ringing the changes. Crypto-currencies worldwide falling like tenpins. It seems someone can read the signs after all. Bitcoin and its like are no more . . . all to be superceeded by . . .

Since man decided it was better to stand on his own two feet, he has constantly searched heaven and earth. Hoping to find the answer to the greatest mystery. What is the meaning and purpose of life?

From basic cultures, through to today’s so called advanced civilisation, religion and belief systems have been paramount. Shaping the hearts and minds of individuals and whole societies. Whether you have faith in the power of an unseen God; a golden statue; a stone circle, or none of these, one thing will always remain true – it’s how your belief affects your principles of daily living that is important. As St James clearly points out, “Without good works, your faith is an empty vessel” . (I paraphrase here)

Current day Poland, and its people, have shown what can be achieved. With a willing mind and a heart of love. 1.5 million fleeing Ukrainians can testify to that truth.

With around 90% of Poland’s population Catholic, it’s faith is openly demonstrated.

We pass a busy co-ordinated gang. Men hammer wooden stakes into the ground. Stringing cord between each one as they go. Women try to keep up. Unravel and attach rolls of coloured small triangular flags.

After three consecutive days of travel, we’re currently pitched up at peaceful Camping Clepardia, a few kilometres north of the beautiful old town of Kraków.

Previously, Saturday’s overnighter at Camping Rafa, is short-lived. Its pretty lakeside beach marred, (IMHO), by a ‘launch’ jetty for the local in-crowd of jet-skiers. Roaring engines and an overpowering air of kerosene, do nothing to encourage our sunbathing hopes. So, one night it is.

Sunday sees us move on to Camping Bakow. Hopes high. Website indicates a large pool, swimming lake and nature. A lovely open site; great facilities and a sunny pitch.

We walk out around the lake – take a welcome leg stretch. Check out the nature. An invisible cuckoo leads us up the path. A duckel of relaxing ducklings scuttle out into the water. Get their flippers wet, for fear of being trampled. A silent surreptitious statue of a heron on the other side bides time. This tree fellow below, caught with his pants down perhaps?

Hopes get dashed on the rocks – the 50metre Olympic size swimming pool will be fully operational by the time the Polish summer season commences in July. It’s flamin June and hotter than July, for heaven’s sake.

A boy was throwing beached starfish into the ocean. A man approached and asked, “What are you doing?” “Throwing starfish back into the sea. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.” The man laughed. “Do you realize there are miles of beach and hundreds of starfish? You won’t make any difference.” Then the boy bent down. Picked up another starfish. Threw it into the deeper water. “I made a difference to that one.”

On our travels I can’t help it. I inevitably bring this story to mind. Especially when inside an overly ornate church. Its walls adorned with masters’ paintings. Treasured artifacts flaunting every nook and cranny. Statues finished to perfection with lavish splashes of gleaming gold. Or visiting an art gallery, stuffed to the ceiling with ‘priceless’ artworks. Billions of dollars hang lifelessly. Achieving what exactly? Is the preservation of historical artifacts worth that much? Worth more than the life of any human being? Are plain and empty churches and galleries the price we must pay in order to make a difference to the world’s poor and impoverished? Oscar Schindler may have thought so. As John Lennon emphasised so eloquently . . . Imagine no possessions – I wonder if you can – No need for greed or hunger – A brotherhood of man.

Of course, I can’t help but reflect on my own personal ‘treasures’ – briefly. Move on to the next church, or gallery . . .

Oscar Schindler’s factory, although near, is not on our Kraków ‘to do’ list. Wawel Royal Castle is. The main square, our starting point, is buzzing. Columns of tourists curl this way, then that, like lines of drunken soldiers. Earphones tuned in to their guide’s guiding chatter and natter. Eyes focus on the raised coloured brolly, or bright flag.

By the time we collect our own personal audio guide headsets, it’s hotting up . . .

We discover our ‘tour’ is for the grounds only, not inside the cathedral or main rooms. All other items on the menu are paying extras. Initial disappointment quickly dissipates. The ninety minute, twenty-eight bullet point route, proves to be bullet proof and well worth the £12.64!

The whole aesthetic complex sits high up on Wawel Hill, overlooking the Vistula.

Today we’re back in town. The rain keeps many under archways of cover. A few brolly loads play follow the leader. We don’t need to. A timed visit to the Rynek Underground soon to get underway.

Sitting just four metres below the square lies a fascinating multi-media exhibition. Artifacts found around the Cloth Hall, lead to a mammoth dig in 2005. Now expertly converted into a permanent visitor attraction.

A couple of hours later and it’s drying up top. A demo is in progress. The message all too clear.

This afternoon we stroll into the Jewish Quarter. Visit the 15thC and oldest synagogue in Poland. Inside, surprisingly scant of elaborate furnishings and wall decoration. Now integrated into the Historical Museum of Kraków.

The Nazis created a Jewish Ghetto here too. We stop off at Ghetto Heroes Square. Empty chairs, each represent the lives of 1,000 Jews murdered in the holocaust. Before WWII 60,000 Jews lived in Kraków. After, just 5,000 survived.

Our day completes at a fabulous Jewish restaurant. With live entertainment too, it’s a perfect way to end our time in Kraków.

History tells us many things. About how things were. About peoples lives. Their work. Their families. Their achievements. Occasionally we get insights into their hopes and dreams.

The hopes and dreams of those Holocaust victims never materialised. Abruptly cut short. In terror. The megalomania of an evil mind in practice.

The number one reason for visiting Poland is our ‘go-to’ for today. Entry is advertised online as being free. So we don’t book in advance. Then, yesterday evening, according to the official website, we discover the only tours in English are four days from now. Russian, French, German & Polish our only options and available places are running out quickly. Not wanting to believe this to be the case, Mr S contacts GetYourGuide. At a price of £75 each we could join an English tour with a 9am start from an inconvenient meeting point. That would mean a 6.30am wake up time – out of the question. We could however, if we’re willing to pay £240 each, (you read right) get an afternoon slot. The term ‘ticket touts’ springs to mind.

With the weather set fine, we decide to turn up on spec. Do a recce. Suss the place out. It’s on our way to our two-nighter at Katowice anyway. Might as well get an outside view at least. Official looking men in dayglow yellow gilets direct us. Their hand-held signs read “Museum Car Parking”. It’s a bit of waste ground. Some inner city scrub, waiting for a developer. They want 40 zloty. We drive in. We drive out. Find the actual official car park. They want 90 zloty. We drive in. We drive out. Beastie gets left in a side street. Told to keep his head down. Zero zloty.

We enquire at the ticket office. There’s an English speaking guided tour at 3pm. A ninety minute wait. Total cost £35! The mind boggles.

We’ve only ever associated Auschwitz with being a Nazi concentration camp. Expecting it to be a place somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Shamefully hidden. Never considered it to be a town in its own right. We visit a local park and indulge in an ice cream to while away the time.

At 3pm sharp, Magdalena soberly leads our party of twenty-two. It looks as if there could be at least another twenty-two groups. All take turns to enter various blocks on the same planned route. Magdalena tells us the bare sorry facts. No punches pulled. We listen and follow. Auschwitz housed 20,000 prisoners. All stripped of their dignity. Anything associated with being human, taken. Or removed – gold teeth, hair (more than two tons!), prosthetic limbs. Hardly anyone survived. Very few escaped. The enormity of the atrocity numbs the group. With Auschwitz and it’s forty such sub-camps over 1.3 million killed. And for what?

Our tour is in two parts. We now move across into what was the Birkenau camp of death. A town of 100,000 prisoners. The sheer size of the ‘plot’ is staggering. Trainloads arrived daily. Herded in, in carriages. Like cattle. Those that survived the journey were immediately separated. Those that didn’t, incinerated. Men to one side of the tracks. Women and children the other. Destined never to see one another again.

Our three and a half hour tour ends here. At what remains of the massive crematoria.

If being European was simply down to town and city aesthetics, especially in and around the ‘old town’ areas, then the UK would stick out like a sore thumb.

The concept of building an infrastructure around a main square, has either never existed, or has been long abandoned in the UK. A square seems to create order. A central focus from which to work around, in a logical way. In the EU, no matter which country we travel through, it seems to be the norm. Poland being no exception.

Our day of rest at Camping 215 in Katowice is dry and sunny. It’s not Monday, but that’s no excuse. The laundry basket is overflowing. Not all sites are equipped with a washing machine. This one is. Perfect drying weather. Perfect for tan topping too. So we do. Soak up some rays like a couple of solar panels. Recharge batteries.

We’re now pointing west. Heading homewards. Three weeks to get there. Camping Forteca our one-nighter and penultimate Polish stop. Dutch owned and one of our most picturesque pitches this trip.

Advertising has been around ever since man learned how to communicate. An important trading element if you have wares to sell, or services to provide. Word of mouth its origin.

It’s developed into a highly sophisticated art, with a growing proportion now being done for next to nothing. Logos silently shout out on anything that can be printed, or stitched and worn. So called image creators fill stores with the next ‘must haves’. Volume is king. No longer the customer.

Nowadays, it’s gone full circle. You have a product or service to sell? Then let your customers do the advertising for you. Set up and encourage every purchaser to leave a review. Use their word of mouth. Job sorted.

And that’s what we do, when looking to purchase. Check out the reviews. The star ratings. If we want something bad enough, then we’ll ignore the poor reviews. Skip them. Focus on the rave reviews. Convince ourselves. Yea. That’s just what we need.

That’s how we find ourselves pitched up at Rosenhof, in the suburbs of Görlitz – suggested as being the prettiest town in all of Germany. We want to believe it’s true. Can’t miss it. Just in case it is.

Split into two unequal halves, having been arbitrary divided at the end of WWII, we’re on the western German side. Across the river sits Zgorzelec, its eastern sister, destined to be our very last port of call in Poland. Courtesy of a LIDL and an intended wine cellar re-stock.

Rosenhof is an interesting camp site, although it’s not really a camp site. It’s a huge equestrian centre and sports complex. A handful of MOHO places at the back, earn some extra bunce.

With one badminton court, three indoor tennis courts (if only we still played), four squash courts and a fitness room Rosenhof also has an ace up its sleeve – a squash court with a pukka table-tennis table – it’s a no brainer.

Original thinking, observation and inventiveness. Three pillars that have been at the core of man’s endeavours since his time began. Insatiable curiosity to discover and understand all things, his perfect catalyst.

Today we step back into the land of the giants. Decide to culture some culture. Refresh what we used to know. Learn what we didn’t know. Gather up something new, from something old.

Lucky bus number 66 clickety-clicks us up directly outside Campingplatz Mockritz. A twenty minute free-be, drops us into the heart of old Dresden and its Zwinger. A massive palatial complex that houses today’s main go-to.

A couple of hours fly by. Trance-like, we lose ourselves in the remarkable galleries. Marvel at the marvelous. Many paintings portray towns and cities as they were centuries ago. The incredible and skillfully applied detail sits on canvas after canvas, like immortal time capsules.

We complete our visit with a move just around the corner. Go step inside the Mathematisch-Physikalischer Salon. Throughout history there have been golden eras of thought. Times of unique revelations. Brought about by intense study and original consideration. Manifested inspiration. A world of clocks and invented scientific instruments on display. Demonstrably illustrate the base on which today’s technology depends.

It wasn’t sufficient just to create a utilitarian piece. Precision engineering was an artistic endeavour in its own right too. From the simplest compass, to a miniature pocket watch. Have we lost that element of art?

Earlier, back in the gallery, some twenty-first century inventions are being put to use. Computer components collaborate. Investigate. Establish ingenious ways to repair and restore original masterpieces to their former glory.

Today’s technology and inventions are often put to use in the most unusual of ways. In the Porcelain Museum, this amazing vase had lost one of its elephant handles. What to do? Answer? Scan the other. Then 3D print it!! Sorted.

Whether it be hill, mountain, tower or skyscraper, we’re always willing to go that extra mile, step the extra step. Especially if the end result is a stunning view.

Today, we’re on our way to Meissen, but first we travel south east. In the opposite direction. Head towards the Bastei rock formation and its famous bridge.

The pretty spa village of Rathen prohibits non-resident vehicles and those not bringing in supplies or services. We leave Beastie parked 1K uphill to fend for himself. Uphill in this instance is a long 18% incline. So we walk down before starting the climb.

There’s a certain feel good factor that’s brought on by a lovely view. It even seems enhanced if a little effort has been put in beforehand. As if all that sweat adds an extra layer of pleasure, like a sprinkling of icing sugar. There’s plenty of that available today (sweat, not icing sugar). It’s 30C as we slowly make the steep climb of a couple of hundred metres.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re almost there. Reach our first real vantage point. The languid Elbe River stretches out below, as if taking a breather on our behalf. We take the hint. Use the view to do just that. Allow calves, knees and thighs to sympathise.

Not many people can claim to be the best in whatever sphere they operate. If they are fortunate to achieve that position, it’s often short lived. Perhaps their ‘purple patch’ ran its course. Maybe someone more capable came along. Or, more than likely, a combination of both.

When it comes to skill sets, the majority of us reside in the average sector. We marvel and admire those who have been dedicated and determined enough to try and become the best at what they do. We are fascinated by those who demonstrate extreme skill. Silently thinking “I could never do that”. Occasionally, we become inspired.

Today we have a 12.20 tour booked at the world famous Meissen porcelain factory and museum. The infrequent bus service from CampingPlatz Rehbocktal gives Scoot an opportunity to scoot us alongside the river Elbe and into town. Plonks us (biker’s terminology) literally opposite, with five minutes to spare. Perfect.

Our tour takes us through five separate studios. Within each, a Meissen expert demonstrates their skill set. They need to be constantly on top of their game. Especially when there can be upwards of twenty or more gobsmacked gawpers. Yet each makes it look so easy. Every piece requires so much hand-work throughout each process. We now appreciate why their products are so valued and so expensive. Each item becomes a unique work of art in its own right. No two exactly identical.

Then we’re left to peruse the two thousand plus pieces on display – some are for sale.

From time to time the factory collaborates with other artists. Creative geniuses from across the globe get to have their fantastic fancies famously fired with cross swords.

The exterior hides the interior’s classical look. In keeping with the majority of traditional pieces on display.

We manage to escape without paying a penny more than our entrance fee. Then go Aldstadt walk-abouting, before Scoot gets us back on camp a little quicker, with help from a heavy drizzle that soon becomes a massive downpour.

Long trips like this are testing. It’s all about memory. Or rather, the lack of it. The days, then weeks, become a sort of fuzzy blur. The eyes go dim. Overloaded. Too many snap-ables. Concentrate too hard on the readables. The ears hear, but without listening. Is all this information really so necessary?

Multiple combinations of museums, look-alike town market places, plus pretty stylised buildings by the thousand, add to the memory’s confusion. Its semi liquid filing system a disaster. It’s filled with images with no names. Place names that can’t be placed, or pronounced. Bring back the Rotadex it moans.

On many occasion, blushes at the wash-up have been in order, when asked, “Where have you travelled so far on this trip?” (thinks . . .), “Yesterday?” . . . “Erm . . . erm . . let me think now . . . erm . . . pass”

We then speed back and revisit the blog, or Mary-Ann’s journal. These help back home too. A go-to, when our memories don’t tally.

Fortunately, helped with the photo below, I can remember quite distinctly, that it was taken in Grimma. A stop off on route to Leipzig. Our two-nighter at Knaus Camping Auensee.

It’s today already. More by luck than judgement, our heads pop up from the below ground train station. Like a couple of meercats checking if its safe. Find ourselves on the corner of Leipzig’s remarkable market place. We’d jumped on the number 80 just as it was about to leave from outside camp. Number 80? Correct! Direction north? Wrong! By some stroke of luck, its route intersected with a train station leading back into the city.

We have a chalk and cheese day planned. Set off in search of Johann Sebastian Bach’s old haunting grounds. Heads down. Follow the arrows. ‘His’ museum there, gives an opportunity to learn something of the great man. The people he kept in favour with and the times he lived in. His talents were sought incessantly. Composing. Singing. Playing. Repairing. For royalty, the rich and the church. As a consequence he became prolific. A cantata a week his norm – and that was just for starters. His compositions, then and now, have enshrined Leipzig into the world’s music hall of fame.

The museum, is an interesting mix of information, artifacts and interaction. The hanging metal pipes below, each play a different piece when held.

At the time of his appointment as Musical Director, it seems the church and school had firm ideas of what was required from their pupils when attending service.

We leave JSB in our tracks. Hunt out a twentieth century source of punishment. Punish ourselves. But ours has good reason. To learn about bad reason. The files in the STASI museum know all about that. The museum is housed in the Leipzig HQ as was. The offices and decor remain untouched. Everything left in tact. The crazy paranoia that fueled the pursuit of personal information on its citizens is mind boggling.

After the fall of the Berlin Wall, their power game is over. At one point they have 600,000 ’employees’ monitoring their fellow citizens. Upwards of 250,000 imprisoned. All post intercepted. Steamed open. Read. Cash removed. (Millions filled the coffers) Resealed. Or filed away. Intercepted music cassettes were used to record millions of telephone conversations before a new technology took over.

Times were changing. Just as the Nazis did, they hurried to destroy the evidence, when the wall fell. There was so much of it. Most in paper format. The pulping machines broke down and couldn’t cope. Fire destroyed more. Fortunately not all. A whole block of offices next door now the official archive. Houses tons of the remaining files.

We wander back into town, in search of iced-coffees. Spot this sign. A near miss. Clearly someone has come up with a brilliant USP – unique selling proposition – the best USPs are usually succinct, just like this one.

Further on we wonder some more. What could the USP have been for these very high heeled boots ?. . .

Wherever we pitch up, from our very first trip in France, to now, we get serenaded. We call this bright chorister Monsieur Dix-Huit. Never seen what he looks like. Until today. Back at base, he jumps down onto our mat. Out of the blue, onto the blue. Sings a short verse or two. As if saying, “Yes, recognise the tune? It’s me! Monsieur Dix-Huit!!” Flies off. A few tempting seeds later he’s back. “Merlin” identifies him as a Chaffinch.

Our days of visiting hither and thither, are punctuated. Either by more travel, or of rest. They can be expressed in a variety of ways. It just depends on what type of a journey, or day, we’ve had.

As fully matured and seasoned Cheeses, and having mastered and overcome our fair share of challenging situations, it now seems that with each additional trip, the number of incidents and catastrophes has lessened. This may be our distorted view. ‘Stuff’ still happens, almost daily. We just don’t make a song and dance about it the way we used to. Just briefly send the air blue – &#%@ – then get on with it.

Each journey is broken with a comma. A brief stop. A place to leg stretch. We’re always on the lookout for a small town, or village along the way. If it has added interest, even better.

Today we stop off at Nordhausen. Another town jammed full of pretty buildings. And of course a church. (I wish we’d have kept a detailed record of the number of churches we’ve gone into.)

Before we can draw breath, our comma gets upgraded to a ! A storm blows in. Quickly. We’ve barely arrived. We’re not fully waterproofed. Eight hundred metres can seem a very long way when you’re being pelted head on. Back at Beastie a full change is in order.

Today, another journeying day. We afford ourselves a very full stop. Courtesy of Northeim. A delightful surprise. Like Nordhausen, it’s another of the numerous towns along the ‘Half-Timbered House Road’.

Over one hundred towns form an alliance to preserve their cultural heritage.

There’s usually some weird or whacky monument too.

Each trip tells a story in its own right. One that gets written as we travel. A new town, a new place, a new chapter. Every scene different. Sometimes fiction. Sometimes fact. Sometimes making sense. Sometimes a complete mystery. A series of unco-ordinated mini playlets. We make it up as we go along. A sort of fairytale. We play the main protagonists. Beauty and the beast.

Entry onto Campingplatz Hameln an der Weser, surprises. Its gateway an extravaganza of put together nick-knacks. Tied, screwed, nailed and glued. Are we entering the OK Coral? No. We’re in Hameln, better known for its main protagonist. The Pied Piper.

The shower facilities are pukka, if a little on the unusual. The theme is clear. Piped music plays. (Get it?) A looped assortment of George Michael, The Gypsy Kings, Joe Cocker and the best of the rest.

We’re well accustomed to these half-timbered house scenes, but even so, the variety of visual props employed delights. Heads turn from left to right, as if trying to keep track of the ball on Centre Court.

More by luck than judgement we’re in town on a Wednesday. A free outdoor performance scheduled for 4.30pm. This end of town is packed. All bench seats taken. Standing room only. It’s warm, but not hot. The sun is shining. Perfect.

Forty minutes of fun is a mix of opera, traditional and even a bit of rat rap . . .

Here’s a taste of the sunny atmosphere . . .

Sometimes it seems you can’t win. At other times it feels like you can’t lose. Your miss-hit shot goes in. You get a lucky richochet. Your decisions continue to work out well. You turn left instead of right, but it happens to be right.

Our three days of good fortune start the second our first two choices of site, have no vacancies. We didn’t know it at the time. It wasn’t until we’d pitched up at Euro Parcs De Wije Werelt. We’re in a perfect location for Beastie to become our personal shuttlebus. Just as well. The infrequent bus service is nowhere to be seen. Scoot has to sit out these last few days.

Today we venture into the Nederlands Openluchtmuseum – Arnhem Open Air Museum. Since 1912 its massive 44 hectares has offered an idyllic setting to showcase the many buildings associated with the old way of life in the Netherlands.

We’ve only really thought of windmills as being grain grinders. A clever piece of machinery designed to be more efficient than the horse, ox or donkey. Here they have grain grinders, sawmills, and one, with the use of a huge Archimedes Screw, that draws water – quite a necessity for the low-lying Netherlands.

No matter where we travel. Or what ‘things’ we see. It’s the people we come into contact with, that often heighten the memory. Bring about a greater understanding and appreciation. As part of the museum, there are a few operating businesses of old too. A traditional Italian ice cream shop from the 60s. With very indulgent rum & raisin. We indulge. The young woman at the weavers patiently explains how the ‘of its day’, hi-tech loom works. Even then, it remains a mystery as to how such intricate and elaborate colourful patterns can be constructed.

Over the way a young photographer’s shop is open for business. His studio of the time, set up with a large wooden box camera. Not your average Brownee, For effect only. He has all the garb. Customer ready for those wanting to look the Edwardian part. Smiles optional. Photos taken digitally. Nowadays customers want instant results.

He explains how best to pronounce his name. Guus. The G is gutteral. So you make the sound goose, but clear your throat at the same time as uttering the G. It feels and sounds unnatural to a non native. He’s OK with a simple Gus. Guus is in his element. Super keen. And super eager to teach us all about basic photography. How light travels. How the images get captured. Types of paper needed. How the images get developed. The windmill photo he’s holding was taken with the large tin on the top shelf. It has a small hole in the front. An example of the quality achievable with a basic camera obscura. Fifty minutes flash by.

Our second bullseye sees us visit the Arnhem Airborne Museum at Villa Hartenstein. It served as British HQ for British airborne troops in 1944 and it now tells the story of the failed Operation Market Garden and the Battle of Arnhem.

What makes this museum special are the personal stories. Written and recalled. It has plenty of them. The individual bravery and sacrifice immense.

Just before closing time we head for the basement. Airborne Experience is a visual and very audible re-construction on a small scale to give a feel of how things were on the ground. Though we start off sitting inside a glider simulator. Taking off and then being commanded to “Jump, jump, jump”. Once down we’re in the thick of battle. Bombs, mortars and bullets fly and ricochet all around. A thought provoking end to our five hours.

We can’t help but end the day at the Oosterbeek War Grave. Pay our respects. There is no compensation for a life not fully lived. Yet, as long as there is a Commonwealth War Graves Commission their plots will be forever tended. Never left unkempt and forgotten, when passing generations no longer survive them.

Our third bullseye scores a direct hit on Kasteel Doorwerth. Moated and set in beautiful countryside.

We, and the other paying visitors have the run of the castle. All rooms have been set up National Trust style, to visually expound how life in the castle may have been. The info boards are frustratingly all in Dutch.

It houses a tiny ingenious prison room . . .

It’s clear that the Dutch love their bikes. Dedicated cycle lanes, free of traffic abound.

We round another bullseye of a day off with a round the estate walk, starting here . . .

Each trip is like a repeating mini lifetime. A reincarnation. We’re shot out from a dark abyss. Drip fed. Signs repeat drive on the right. Baby steps follow. Eyes big and wide. Slowly get used to the new environment. Is it new? Haven’t we been here before? Negotiate a roundabout here. Another one there. An ancient memory sparks. Karma kicks in. We’ve got this. Then just when we feel we’ve mastered it all again, we find it’s time to go . . .

Our penultimate day’s travel towards chez nous is one long frustration. We don’t like Mondays. Especially this one. Seven hours on the road. To top it we find camp number one doesn’t have a pitch big enough for Beastie. Site number two is not too far away. However, it’s closed on Monday and Tuesday. Weird or what? A further 8K down the road finds us rumble and grumble onto a totally deserted and overgrown site. Argh! Perfect for wild camping. Last resort Camping Vlasaard, lets us in. Hardly a resort. Each second of hot water used costs one cent.

Currently pitched up at Camping des Noires Mottes, Sangatte, for our last night and ready for tomorrow’s Sous la Manche crossing at 9.50am. The forecast heavy rain has set in. We don’t care. We’re coffee’d and comfy in the dry of Beastie’s belly, while he takes a shower.

Every tour is different in its own right. But this one seems more so. Totally inland. A series of inter-city breaks. Occasionally interspersed with some in the country time-outs. Not a single swim. Scoot has been used only thrice (is that still a used word?) The MTBs only twice. City public transport systems in Poland and Germany have played an immense part. Getting us from place to place like clockwork and timed to perfection. Especially in Poland. Beastie has done us proud again by staying trouble free and has now ferried us over 40,000 miles to date. Then of course we’ve walked and walked and walked and walked. Mrs S’s FitBit reads 669,997 steps.

We’ve been blessed with sight of some wonderful scenery and amazing architecture. Saddened and moved with visits to Dachau and Auschwitz. Uplifted by each survivor’s tenacity for life. Touched deeply by the bravery and sacrifice made by the young of WWII. Always remembering what a privilege it is to be 2-cheeses-go-rolling.

As in life, everyday has something new in store. Some little thing that can raise a smile. At Waldasruh Camping in Arnhem we were allocated the tightest of places to manoeuvre Beastie into. I heard recently that as part of the current driving test, learners are not expected to reverse around a corner. Obviously MOHOing will be off the agenda for generations to come. This successful ‘third’ attempt of mine, came on day three of our stop. Having twice previously needing some of the flower pots to be moved.

And of course, we’ll never forget the hundreds, or was it thousands, of half-timbered houses we’ve seen and photographed.

Well, that’s it. Another one truly done and dusted. I hope you’ve had some enjoyment catching up with our wanderings and wonderings. We certainly have. By the day after tomorrow, it will feel a lifetime away. Then we’ll reincarnate. Become our old selves again. Certainly not as daddy-long-legs. It’s always a nice feeling to be back home. With friends and loved ones.

Until next time . . . auf wiedersehen & do widzenia