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.
