Euro Travel Tales

In order to get from Frankfurt to our campsite on the coast of Holland we had to cross yet another European border. Again, I could not help but marvel at how seamlessly these two different countries flow together. A mere road sign marks the start of the Netherlands and if one were to drive too fast it would be missed altogether. A clearer sign? In Holland the fast cars of Germany are replaced by bicycles. Every size and callibre of human being spins through the streets on metal bipeds. There are parking bays on almost every corner fit to store hundreds of them, stacked against each other in a mass of aluminium and rubber. What a refreshing change to the relentless buzz of motor vehicles crowding Cape Town and Johannesburg roads.

We arrived at our campsite 'De Lakens' in full sun. De Lakens is a large ground in the Zandvoort region on the coast of Holland frequented by locals and foreigners alike for the purposes of holiday-making and camping. The area in which we pitched our sturdy, three-man tent is especially, albeit unofficially, reserved for students and the younger generation. Youth unites otherwise entirely different individuals and nationalities. Only a foliage-covered sand dune divides the camp site from the sea.

Owing to the favourable weather we decided that it was imperative that we immediately journey to the beach for some sun and relaxation. A deceptively long walk on sand leads to an area dotted by topless tanners with a monstrous beach bar, standing like the Taj Mahal, as a backdrop. Gaudy pink and unimaginably kitsch by day, some clever lighting converts this bar into the Moulin Rouge by night. A highly laid-back Moulin Rouge that is as travellers lie by a central fire, smoking various substances and listening to the beat of a drum circle happening on the periphery. Mixes of alternative music, Jazz and Blues play and there is inevitably one or two individuals who sway all night, eyes closed, to their own tune. The decor is an odd mix of collectibles, including a manican head that follows you, eerily, with its eyes. The mood is that of summer and soul and youth.

One night we had of this. One night before the weather turned, the skies opened, and the campsite was converted into a swamp of mud and puddles. Torrential rain and wind characterized the following two days of camping. Our tent was beaten and battered and whipped to and fro by the onslaught. Only our sleeping bodies kept it from being ripped from the ground at night. Having little to do in these conditions, our time was predominantly spent enjoying sips of wine and silly banter in the parked car, or in the quaint nearby town of Harlem.

Harlem too was invaded by torrential downpour but at least here we could take shelter in clothing stores or cafes selling the local speciality, poffertjes: mini pancakes smothered in butter and powdered sugar. The old Dutch architecture and cobbled streets of Harlem are apparently worthy of a visit, but unfortunately were hardly visible for us through sheets of rain.

The nights we spent learning German card games from our neighbours under the beating plastic of their tent roof. Alternatively the residents of the campsite would cluster and huddle in the changerooms; an unlikely meeting place but the only dry spot available. Here we would connect cultures and exchange ideas and opinions, however trivial, until the early hours of the drenched morning. Always, always avoiding the wet walk back to the thin plastic dome that was our sleeping place.

Yes, camping in Holland was not quite the expected experience, but from it I learnt and I grew as a traveller. The rain carries certain lessons, I found: to stop, to listen more closely, to connect with others, to heed to those forces that we cannot control. To adapt. In particular, this experience, these three full days of camping in unrelenting downpour, they taught me the art of flexibility and the equally important art of endurance.

One of our first adventures in Germany was a trip to the densely wooded mountains in the southwestern region known as The Black Forest. A key advantage of travelling with a born-and-bred local friend is, without wanting to state the obvious, that you can experience the land through local's eyes. Therefore, instead of staying in a pleasant but somewhat cheesy and overdone hotel, we had the privilege of nestling in an old family-owned stone and wood cottage that stood on the edge of the village, bordered on both sides by thick forest. Here we stayed for three whole days, hidden from the world and surrounded by nature, giving each day a timeless feel.

The view from the front of the house is a small patch of grass on which we lay and bathed in the sun when two curious horses were not grazing. Beyond this is a stream, a few sparsely spaced houses and then the start of a conifer-covered mountain range. (I may be writing too romantically but this is only because there is no other way to capture it). Behind the cottage is a small dust path and then a steep elevation into a towering forest. These forests live true to their name, so dense that they are almost black. I wonder what secrets they hide, what wonderful or horrifying sights they may have witnessed, especially given Germany's controversial history.

We used these days to find ourselves again after the bustle of travel and work, to centre our balance and to catch up with old friends. The furthest we ventured from the house was to journey through the forest on an hour-long hike in search of good traditional food. An hour's walk through some of the most indescribably stunning terrain leads to a permanent camping site (where caravans have fences and street numbers) and then on to a blessing of a restaurant, Kleinenzhof. Here we enjoyed schnitzel and spätzle and salad while looking on reindeer and kid goats bouncing up the grassy slope. And, of course, to finish we treated ourselves to a real mouth-watering, man-sized slice of traditional black forest cake.

On our reluctant return from the Black Forest to Hünstetten-Görsroth, we stopped for the afternoon in Heidelberg, an old town that I had heard of before but wasn't quite sure why. We parked in the more modern, industrial end of the town. I found myself wondering what was so special about this place. But as we walked the architecture grew progressively older, the streets progressively more cobbled, until I found myself standing in the middle of 13th Century Germany. A medieval church stands squarely in the middle of the old area of town, surrounded by small restaurants and houses, the style of which indicates that they were all built at a similar time in history. High on the forested hillside, a grand brick castle, magnificently preserved, looks out over the hundreds of steep rooftops. A cobble-stone bridge built in the 1200s extends across the river that snakes though the town. And to add to the atmosphere, it was Christmas in July. Little stores at every turn had ornate christmas decorations in wood and glass for sale, most with some sort of Bavarian reference. Red and green characterized many of the roadside shops. My absolute delight were the wooden cuckoo clocks carved in intricate detail that chirped hourly from the store walls, begging to be bought. When the skies opened and I found myself standing in the centre of medieval Germany, clothes drenched and hair plastered to my face, I didn't mind at all.

After a month of frantic work in Italy, we finally touched down on German soil and welcomed a decidedly slower pace of life. I find it fascinating that in the time that I can fly from Johannesburg to Cape Town in South Africa, I can find myself in a distinctly different country in Europe. A simple relatively random border divides two quite contrasting lands and cultures. The most obvious contrast being the relative disorder, chaos and unpredictability of Italy and the classic 'German efficiency'. Some stereotypes in Europe are not mere cliches. They may be generalisations but I have found them to be relatively accuarate representations of reality. In Italy the locals do talk with their entire being. Food is the centre point around which their lives orbit. In Germany everything is clean and orderly. It really does all run on time. Which is why our local friend was there to fetch us from Frankfurt airport at exactly 11:07am, the moment we arrived.

My first experience of real Germany was the Autobahn, which, I must say, was somewhat of a disappointment. Somehow I had conjured in my imagination an eight lane highway with ferraris and lamborghinis streaming down the fast lanes as though race tracks. The Autobahn is a normal three lane motorway on which, and only at certain points, one is permitted to travel at any speed. Something that South Africans tend to do in any case. Nevertheless, merely being on terrain so symbolic o Germany was exhilirating in itself.

The second aspect of Germany that impressed on me as we drove to our destination, a tiny village called Hünstetten-Görsroth, was the immense greenery. The villages, cities and roadways appear to be carved into a mass of forest and shrubbery. Nature ever encroaching. I am forced to imagine what Germany must have been before man inhabited it, and what it would be again if man were to turn his back for a moment too long.

On arriving in Hünstetten-Görsroth I was delighted to find that Germany has retained so much of its fragile past in the form of tiny historical villages. Quaint is the first word that springs to mind. These small collections of houses appear to be tied together by some old invisible familial bond. Only a 20 minute drive from Frankfurt, the town of Idstein (neighbouring Hünstetten) is one of the oldest areas in the region with the local school being a converted castle which stands next to a tower historically used for burning 'witches'. Remnants of a time so alien to now.

On our first full day in Germany we travelled into the bustling city of Frankfurt. To enter the city from where we had parked we had to cross the bridge over the Main river. It was a spectacular sight with swans edging the river banks and an oddly-placed Turkish boat blaring traditional Arabian music and selling Döner kebabs. The city centre is an eclectic mix of old architecture restored after the War and contemporary buildings and shopping centres. Massive chic steel and glass structures stand not far from an old series of buildings erected in the traditional German style, reminding me of rows of 'Hansel and Gretel' gingerbread houses. A fascinating timeline of architecture and a place well worth a visit.

As I walked through the streets of this city there dawned on me a thought; some stereotypes may be accuarate but there is far more to this beautiful country than can be captured by such generalisations. Only the human eye can do such a place true justice.