My Covid Escape.

Lola makes me happy, epecially at 5:30 am as she crawls into the single bed, stretches out by my side and we snooze on until around 6, keeping each other warm. It's a memory which keeps me afloat wherein I would've gone under many times during the darkest days of this black dog. As I stretch awake I give her a smile, cuddle and place a kiss upon her beautiful head while I dress to launch myself at another day and another way.

***

Whenever and wherever I go there are particular objects which I require to make me feel I'm setting off in a satisfactory manner. Whether or not I use every item packed orderly and specifically, for various occasions, in the vintage Karrimor (Jaguar S65 KS-100e SA L) I bought off of eBay, they're all stored safely. All these items go into it so that I feel safe switching off all unnecessary power at the mains, leaving and locking flat number 69, taking a meter reading and descending from the eleventh floor out onto Lovell Park Hill .

At the top of my list and top of my pack, which includes Swiss Army knife, warm, wet and cold weather clothing, gaters, waterproof cover for backpack, walking boots, relaxing shoes, antidepressants, toiletries, Credentials for Camino, Nalgene flask, boot conditioner and nylon brush, bag-for-life, headwear, is the initial reading material.

Even though I intend to write for myself, taking something along to ingest stimulates the grey matter by the simplest and habitual means at my disposal. While walking through La Mancha, prior to Christmas 2019, I was reading Don Quixote which helped inspire me through the monotony of that bland flat barren landscape, after coming down from Chinchilla de Montearagón and before Toledo.

This trip to Germany I fall back on Evelyn Waugh, who I had read a lot of over the previous year. His satire is sharp and storytelling is wonderful and I discovered he wrote travel books, as well as novels, in his particular manner.

Labels was just one of dozens on display tables, left arranged as suggestions, in the travel section at Waterstones. Separate from the many travel guides cluttering up the shelves.

None of which I have bought in many years (Rough Guides, Lonely Planet, etc) - as I find that particular subset of literature doesn't really help once you arrive in your destination (and are additionally quite heavy to add to the weight on one's shoulders, back and hips and somewhat expensive too).

Before leaving the airport they may be some subtle amusement, providing a little background to where the plane is heading, but don't help me get into the vibe once the streets are under my feet and I take in the grand scheme of things beyond the final transit point.

***

Being one of them people who generally find just the right locale to unwind, without foreigners butting in and ruining the scene, I usually end up in the "real" centre so don't need a travel guide. Perhaps because I walk so much and am not content to cling to the few streets around where I am sleeping?

***

As a solo travelers I'm not required to speak to any companions and my language skills aren't enough that I can understand every word the locals are bleating. It's fairly peaceful sat next to a group of those native speakers, and not understanding much of the muck they are spreading, like a form of deafness. So naturally I fall into a relaxed form and shrug off a lot of the anxiety I am carrying.

For solitude in a crazy world. Where never a moment skips a heartbeat in which the hiss or drum of society is there snaring the mind with distraction from realisation of truth. Being in a social setting and somehow mute to the incessant ranting of the human tongue. Inhabiting the same space but silent and silenced for contemplative thought.

The voices can lull me into a tranquility which then propels me back within and the doubts cease; perhaps temporarily. For inspiration and a real qualitative shift to the interior monologue. It's an elusive goal, and one I've rarely spent long, but these moments are enough and propel me onto my feet and out on the road to find the natural remedies to the depression, which usually feels all encompassing; although is ephemeral. One single second of clarity in an hour of heaviness is worth all the pain endured.

***

Germany.

Does any modern form of traveling still contain any real romance? With us dashing everywhere at such speeds. With automobile, motorbike, train and plane all exceeding the humble tread of the foot or majestic carriage of the hoof. Flying definitely doesn't engender anything remotely nostalgic or mysterious in me.

This gigantic consumer concrete, steel and glass structure with its corridors forcing everyone through row upon row of perfumes, cosmetics, Toblerones, Milka, M&M peanut toys, Chivas Regal. A massively long structure filled with hundreds of gates housing hundreds of budget, low-cost and national carrier airlines, where thousands of people are narrowly passed and packed into tighter and tighter spaces. To be tempted through luxury watch, food, drink, clothes, sunglasses and souvenir concessions then delivered into the arms of the airline. I find this transit such a odious, joyless lifeless routine where everyone seems forever stuck in limbo. Then there is the pitfall of extortion where you might fall victim to a bottle of Volvic at £2.99 in WH Smith's! It is a modern vision of purgatory - not in the imagination, but in its design - which is steadily pulling everyone closer and closer to the hell, which is climbed into through two narrow and low hatchways! It is a trial which always puts my nerves on edge - I want to run away screaming (and now I cannot find a prayer room on airside within Manchester Airport).

***

Although we no longer spend such a lot of time passing through customs or passport control, as people once did, and no form of quarantine really exists within Europe in the 21st century(except for during the current pandemic), in my perception the moment still drags beyond tolerance. We have to thank the security measures in place since 9/11, against the threat of terrorism, and the fine margin of turnaround the budget airlines always play with.

Hanging about and waiting anxiously, slowly moving out onto the runway, one stage at a time, shuffling along. Then pressed into the vessel until the plane finally taxis and powers away, leaving in our wake fumes polluting the stratosphere! All this few hours of terror for €24.99, but is it actually worth it? Perhaps ...

... and I am a part of the problem. This form of transport, with all it's dislikeable factors, does get you to the destination speedily and it's usually damn cheap. Once down the other side, I know another place and another way is about to unfold. But should I feel this guilt?

After negotiating passport control, luggage carousel, arrivals lounge, taxi ranks and bus/train something different awaits me! Then I am transported beyond the walls existing inside my head and feel a freedom which can then become feeling of bliss. 

***

Was going through transit ever part of the romance or always just a pain in the neck to be endured? Waiting for a voyage to get truly underway was probably always fairly tedious on trans-oceanic cruises and Mediterranean excursions.

***

Although traveling by ship is more fraught with danger and illnesses I find the space on board, the waves crashing off the hull, gulls coasting on the breeze near the waterline, or the view coming into an enemy port, all aspects which draw me towards Harwich, Dover or Newhaven, rather than climbing into this toothpaste tube of an Airbus A320, which then passes everything in such haste and takes away all the minute and lovely detail of the biosphere.

***

As we turn left towards the North Sea, from Stockport, clipping somewhere near the Medway, I've dug out the remaining Dr Karg's crackers to accompany Leerdammer Light and taken another bite of Evelyn Waugh's Labels (ignoring the passage of time I have been suspended above the clouds and deprived of the beautiful Earth).

Waugh's humourous reflections of his trip back in 1929 contains all the qualities I've come to expect from his novels and it is bound to lift me out of the depressed mode which has been increasing in the last 100 days, during the pandemic, when I haven't managed to read anything for the majority of the time. Schumacher's A Guide for the Perplexed was the last piece I was able to pick up without putting down again. This Covid thing has definitely distracted me from getting deep below the covers. Perplexed was such a short and interesting philosophical discussion to read but still took me ages to grind it out!

***

High above the clouds there are simply no concerns on this Airbus A320  except eating, as the Eurowings team set to work with their trolleys and I continue munching. I have not had anything to eat since breakfast (Duerr's marmalade on toasted Dutch Ryebread) these crackers are doing their job (but I always presumed Duerr's was Scottish and not from Manchester) as I sit on the back row, on my own, faraway from the few people on the flight.

***

The flight is pretty brief, just up to cruise then down to land in a little more than an hour. Below me the Rhine has been snaking inland from Rotterdam. Well passed Nijmegen we are coming down to land in Dusseldorf with the Ruhr spread out around it. An industrial area, grid-like, with many funnels and chimneys belching some gas, water vapour or chemical byproducts, and many roads twisting their way between Essen, Dortmund, Bochum.

One of the key elements in Germany's success is its waterways. Mighty rivers leaving far away in the alpine regions for the North, Baltic and Black Sea's all joined up in mammoth canals which move matter around Germany and out to the rest of the World.

***

After passport control it was time to get the train to Köln, which was direct, finding Mark and Glenn in the Aldtstadt to have a few Gaffel Kölsch - a beer I don't particularly enjoy - prior to setting off up the Rhine on der Morgen. There will also be time for some currywurst before checking into the a&o hostel, near Neumarkt in the area known as Mauritius Viertel, 

It's the third time I've been in Köln and I definitely appreciated it better than before. It's so quiet! I walked passed Früh am Dom Brauhaus without recognition, as there was no one outside a place usually churning with folks, and unlike both previous times, there wasn't such a crowd outside the Dom or the Haupfbahnhof, so I didn't have to battle to find the Aldtstadt. Thank you Covid (in the nicest way possible) for the few American and Chinese clogging up the pavements, infecting the airwaves and generally changing the ambience! Only nice gentle German voices around us as the Aldstadt introduces one to the Rhine in Haxenhaus zum Rheingarten and a warm and welcoming, but clichéd, buxom wench - with "huge tracts of land" and stereotype red and white gingham checked blouse -  who delivers half litre after half litre on this balmy Thursday evening.

***

But then the morning after it is always the same - hungover! Around midnight I left Glenn and Mark in the common room/reception drinking Jack Daniel's, etc, and I crawled up to the bed in the dormitory room (€14 a&o).

Only two other guys in a room for six, so plenty of space, but I didn't make the effort to make my bed comfortable, for fear of waking either of the other two who were deeply asleep, so slept out the haze of the midnight hour.

Slightly later: around 2am I suppose, I realised I needed a bowel movement. Being in the stuppor I forgot the room had two bathrooms so left looking for one outside the sleeping area.

In only my pants the door clicked too and I then realised my mistake. So, while getting quite desperate and hoping no-one saw me(including Mark and Glenn), I went down to reception hoping I did not shit myself, while standing there virtually naked. The prospect of warm faeces running down my legs was getting very close indeed!

When I spoke to the guy on night duty I'd forgotten what room I was in and asked for the wrong room key. Luckily he had checked me in so gave me 316 not 216 (which would've been another story) and I fled, in desperation, to the downstairs lavatory just as I was at the point of no return! Such relief, but such mess! After cleaning myself up I retired to the unmade bed and didn't shift until 7am when I ventured down for coffee and sparking water in the hope I could climb the ascent to total sobriety. Two coffees later I felt I was ready to take my stuff and move out into Köln, and give it the once over, before heading south.

The near catastrophe of last night reminds me of a much more embarrassing moment back in June 1999 at the beginning of my working holiday visa in Australia.

Back then, while staying at a large city centre backpackers in downtown Perth, I went out to use the toilet, which was close to the private room I occupied, without clothes on. As it was late it didn't occur to me to get dressed in my sleepy state.

Thinking I'd left the latch off the door to the room I returned to my door to find it firmly locked! So I had no choice but to creep down the three floors, hoping no one was using the stairs, and present myself to the night duty staff, covering my tackle.

In the common area a load of Brits had stayed up to watch a rugby or cricket match being played back in the UK. Luckily they were simply not looking in my direction as I snuck up to the window on reception, rang the bell and smiled at my predicament.

***

In my still fragile state, and only a meager croissant for breakfast, I caught an early train - explaining I'd meet Glenn and Mark later in Koblenz. I was in no mood for conversation and thought by the time I'd been on my own a while the badness would finally pass. Also it gave me a chance to find us a place to stay at the Jugenherbergen, if possible.

A biological shop called Alnatura, which I'd come across before, is fairly common in Germany (is about the same size as 7 to 11), was on a corner next to the Forum shopping centre and before I found my way into the Aldtstadt.

They provide fresh bread, patisserie, etc, fruit and veg, frozen meals, milk substitutes, pasta sauces, cereal grains, organic free range meat products and, amongst a host of other products, Kombucha. After a couple of spirulina protein bars and a bottle of original Kombacha I felt a bit fitter to go up to the castle on the right bank of the Rhine, near the German Corner where the Mosel tributary meets it's other, and onto a cable car.

Now Germany began to bite: €11 for a short return trip on a cable car! What a joke! Apart from food and drink everything else, including transport, seems so expensive. Luckily the guy behind the counter, selling cable car tickets, told me the Youth Hostel was full. Now it was up to Glenn to find us an Airbnb we could afford together. They'd arrived an hour after me and it was time to find a place to eat

***

This is where Glenn's skills come in. He will find us the cheapest place to stay on Airbnb, but it's rarely less than two bus journeys away. And this time was up a mammoth hill away from Koblenz in a village called Höhr-Grenzhausen - famous for its earthenware vessels. Thankfully it was quiet and allowed me to get my head together as they went off to Rewe for food and drink. The lady who ran the b&b also willing washed my laundry so last night's little disaster wasn't following me all the way home...

In the morning I folded my clean and dried laundry back into the sack and we set off, after breakfast, for the buses back to Koblenz. There is nothing for me to say about Koblenz really. Hangovers don't bring out the best in tourism - which doesn't really interest me any more - and it was pretty warm when those two were taking photos of the Deutsche Eck yesterday: all I wanted was solace and a good night's sleep.

The Aldtstadt wasn't so big and didn't excite me much. Along the river front I spotted at least one Weinstube, but felt that was not the way to go. The confluence of the two rivers is something special, but I've seen quite a few of these in Germany in the last few years for instance the Danube and Inn at Passau and the Rhine and Main at Mainz and also the Maas and the Rijn confusion through Brabant in the Netherlands, so it's easy to get blasé about such a fantastic spectacle.

The train journey, for which we able to get a Länder ticket and save some money, passing through the Rhine Gorge between Koblenz and Bingen, on the right bank, heading up towards the confluence of the Main and Rhine at Mainz, brought us to Boppard.

If there is a couple, or group, travelling it ends up considerably cheaper to use the, intense and impeccable, train system with the Länder. And if bit is necessary to put some distance between yourself and the destination you're heading the Deutsche Bahn is the recommended solution.

Half way up to Bingen is Boppard. A quaint riverside town, with cute central square around the rathaus and kirch, which has a strip of hotels, restaurants and weinstubes - as this is a key region of the Mittelrhein wine growing area known locally as Boppard Hamm. Glenn and Mark went further along the quayside while I read a little more of Labels and drank in the ambience from a deep wine glass for an hour. Joining them in Rheinplatz for a spätburgunder prior to heading onwards to Bingen where we had a little falling out.

Initially I hoped to find us an Airbnb close to the ferry so we could go over to Rüdesheim, as Mark is very fond of this town on the north bank over into Hesse, but being what it was the lady already had friends staying in this apartment up, at Rochusberg on the south bank, so I had to get us into the Jugenherbergen. For me this is just one of the pitfalls of not planning ahead as you never know exactly where your accommodation will be and what it will look like. The Hosteling International set up in Germany is very fine indeed and the UK has reinvented the YHA along a similar plan. It is almost a b&b establishment now and doesn't expect guests to clean dorms, help catering etc, but their locations aren't always perfect. This one was in the far west of Bingen, well up the bankside and so far from the ferry to Rüdesheim to be essentially in another town. Clearly this was not agreeable to Mark, and I can understand why, especially when he had trouble finding his way back up to the hostel later in the evening and his poor health - he's suffering badly with Asthma and has polyps on his lungs. But it was in budget at €25 b&b and was a pleasant walk up from the Nahe river, which joins the Rhine below Bingen, if you like those kinds of evening strolls.

Glenn and I found a riverside bar where we got into a conversation with a couple of German walkers and an individual, wearing a Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt, with Brexit being discussed.

The proprietor of Hotel Krone was a grumpy soul (aka Basil Fawlty) who actually charged me €20 for breaking a rusty old chair! It snapped where the welding had corroded! He put on our bar bill without any discussion, until I noticed it after I had paid! He wasn't very happy at all...

***

For me, an independent traveller, having to predict another person's response to the conditions of being on the road and backpacking isn't normally any concern. For instance I am sure Mark wouldn't have wanted to walk from Alicante to Salamanca during winter (or any other time) without any idea where I was going to sleep each night (or how cold the accommodation might be), but to me it is what makes for the best memories. Planning every detail makes the trip, journey or Camino meaninglessly banal and I abhor hotels for pure utility of their employees and immense feelings of depersonalisation when sat in their common areas. 

By the night of this conflict, when Mark went alone to Rüdesheim and Glenn and I meandered about Bingen, I was quite ready to be alone to head into the great unknown; especially as the cost was beginning to bite into any long term potential of the trip to go into three weeks.

As Glenn and I enjoyed a huge cheap Doner Teller, in a bus shelter next to the bridge, I told him I'd be heading to Strasbourg after the next night down in Heidelberg and, crossing the Nahe, back to the hostel that Saturday night, where there was a veritable frog chorus being played out between the banks (marching me onward and upward), I knew this was the only way.

Back in the hostel I passed out, quite oblivious to Mark coming back later, and in the morning I left for breakfast, at an assigned table, with them both wrapped up in their bedding. I forgot to bring my bed linen down to reception, to be put in the trolley to be sent for laundry, and was unwilling to return to disturb them (or move from the view I had, across to Rhine to the vineyards) so I sat enjoying a flask of strong German coffee, and excellently tart natural yoghurt, and texted Glenn when breakfast had only an hour to run, so they didn't miss out on the value for money breakfast.

***

Thankfully the long and tiring weekend with Glenn and Mark traveling down from Köln, through Koblenz, Boppard, Sant Goar and Bingen (pretending were in our youth and immortal) will end tomorrow as I depart for Strasbourg on a Flixbus at 2pm and they depart Tuesday from Heidelberg onto Bodensee.

From Tuesday I hope to head through Alsace and into Franche-Comté for a week then head towards Aix-en-Provence, hitchhiking, to meet up with Glenn again, briefly, to return from Béziers, after another week walking westwards on the Chemin Saint Jacques de Compostelle, on Sunday 19th July.

But at this point I really don't know if the Way of Saint James is "open" all the way down to Thann in Alsace, or further to Belmont in Franche-Comté, because the usual accommodation I will need to find will be in the many religious establishments France has in abundance - that's another day to worry about another way and Heidelberg is before us on the platform in Bingen.

***

Mark's obsession with Germany's trains was beginning to get to me. Each of the ICE fast speed trains passing through Heidelberg, as we waited for the short S Bahn to the Heidelberg Aldtstadt, had a comment. Trains are very useful, and Germany has a fantastic system, where the UK is struggling with its Victorian infrastructure, but they really don't fascinate me in the slightest. Oh well, I let him waffle on as it helps him through his day and I'm with myself from Monday.

***

What a picture postcard town! The narrow strip of land between the berg with it's Schloss and the Necker, which joins the Rhine at Mannheim, was not bombed into tiny barbarous fragments in the war as the US needed one town as a base of operations after VE-Day.

Dropping off our baggage in Lotte's Backpackers, which is right next to the funicular up the mountainside, we passed through more cobbled streets to the main Marktplatz and the Church of the Holy Spirit where Mark took us to a street, which leads down to the towers on the bridge over the Neckar, where we hastily found a Brauhaus and I consumed a healthy plate of würst, sauerkraut and kartoffel (Vetter Alt Heidelberg Brauhaus, Steingasse) and drank heartily a fine unfiltered Helles. Mark had settled down a little, and I too had put the past behind me (indeed I apologized for my choice of establishment in Bingen am Rhein). A second bier (2cl Vetter's 33 Doppelbock - liquoricy and luxurious) in this fine brewpub and we went down to the Neckar and back along to see the riverside.

***

Another argument! The last. To be sure I'd conflict so much if I was even to consider carrying on to Bodensee with those two. After two more excellent biers in the Kulturbrauerei Heidelberg, Leyergasse, Mark wanted to return to some bars he'd been to previously where as I wanted just to drift about. Two strong personalities do not mix when so much time is spent together and the myopia of alcohol picks up the groove of stubbornness. Glenn kind of knows how I operate so he is happy with random, but Mark needs order.

This attention to detail when discussing trains, cameras or mechanics suggest he would've been a fantastic engineer, but I'm always looking for the other, the ironic, the strange and am looking for something esoteric in being - disunity, decay and dystopia; difference.

Mark left us to wander to his "usual" haunts and Glenn and I wandered where ever our feet went. After a while we returned to the Backpackers where we consumed the bottle of Grauburgunder wine I'd been carrying and turned in. In the morning I apologized for my attitude, again, as did Mark - really I must be a horror to travel with and especially after a few beers.

***

At last the morning has arrived when we separate and I'll save my liver, wallet and put some mileage under my feet! Back to Evelyn Waugh Labels and schwartz kaffee and croissant, in the Marktplatz, from Café Max - a Francophile establishment. Heidelberg as it begins to swell with Monday morning folk to fill in the blanks of their time apart over the warm weekend.

Glenn and I just drink too much when we're together! Our enjoyment of each other's company is the main reason we've yet to fall out, since I moved into his apartment on Leeds waterfront back in 2005, but I've woken up feeling dreadful many many times and wish it could stop!

Having returned to Hostel to address these armpit blues it's time for me to get it together for the next stage. Lotte's Backpackers @ €25 per night is like someone's home and has good showers and is spotless. With clean hose on it's time to leave those two and hang out in the centre of Heidelberg before getting the Flixbus(€14.99) at 2pm.

Better food for breakfast too in a vegetarian delicatessen, which provides an expensive looking eau de Cologne to sanitise hands, after filling in my upteenth record of being here in Germany, incase there is a local outbreak in Heidelberg and I have to go into isolation, I tuck into a large plate of Butter beans, piled high, and a bitter sweet capsicum dish drowned in a medium sparkling spa water (they really do go for it in Germany, and it normally comes in a classy looking, refundable glass bottle) - Günays Garden on Märzgasse. And I feel healthier already!

Germany would be the perfect place to visit, and walk, if the UK still had a viable exchange rate, and didn't seem it is in terminal economic decline, with a Hard Brexit just around the bend at the end of 2020 (which will surely make matters far worse)? It's just slightly too expensive, even Backpacking around, and keeps telling me not to spend too long here! Perhaps not relying on public transport too much is the one way out of the money pit? Sure I will be back again, as I've never been to the northern port cities, but a few years on I guess?

France.

Ouch! The Foyer de l'Étudiant Catholique F.E.C. (€20) suggested on the Alsatian Amis Saint Jacques website is closed until the 8th and the Auberge de Jeunesse is not answering the phone, and is likely closed due to the virus, so I've had to locate a hotel, but it's eaten my accommodation and food budget for today. It is simple, close to the Douane and is great for a couple to share at €50 - Hôtel Patricia - but bloody expensive for me!

Unusual system I paid, got a code, found my room, but saw no one. Will it be as desolate in the morning? It says breakfast from 7:30am, but is that accurate during this pandemic? Decided to accept this is an expensive day and head out to see a little of Strasbourg. With the help of a happy hour happening around the Douane I can have a beer and very good veggie Lebanese some street before bed.

Tomorrow will be a long initial "etape' at thirty kilometres. It could be a more weary prospect if the canines I met weren't friendly! My love of Lola, who I miss more than anything else on my travels, has to be provided to a surrogate: any similar bred (pointer type).

Saying guten morgen to an energetic and friendly male Vizsla, back in Heidelberg  brought me sheer delight (Lola is a Vizsla too) and in Strasbourg I said bonsoir to an enthusiastic Pincher who added to the ambience around the cathedral during happy hour on Place des Tripiers.

***

The consequence of the last 100 days is a decrease in activty. For 7 weeks, while I was alone in Lovell Park, I walked as far as I could around within the "boundary" of Leeds (as one form of exercise a day), and discovered some interesting areas when the weather was good enough in March April and May, but could go no further in this extended bubble.

During the remaining period, prior to this thankful escape, I was with my mother in Wetherby. There I found it much more difficult to walk as far as I am capable. The weather broke during June and nowhere was open to stop, feed and break up the intended distance: sandwiches don't replenish.

The single time I walked quite far, Wetherby to Knaresborough, via Goldsborough, and onto Harrogate they were ghost towns and I was the only person on the number 7 bus back to Wetherby.

My usual pattern of life was broken so far the month prior to this trip, and I was fortunate to be able to go out with Lola, but the routes with her were along the usual paths (which can become dull despite her company). The influence upon my mental health of this entrapment and the inclement weather in England effect the feedback loop of descending mental health.

Now I feel overweight, unloved and my mind has been absolutely distracted. Indeed, by being bottled up, my thoughts have dried up, meditation is difficult and insomnia is regular. With my front teeth missing too, from the physical attack I suffered at the end of January, I have low self esteem: feeling 48, old and pointless.

***

To walk is to be! Such relief to just walk, leaving all the remaining unanswered questions along the path and look forward to life while departing Strasbourg along the riverside of the Ille and canal towpath, before heading up towards the Vosges to the the vines and forests, with such a wide open vistas to find tranquility I know exists on the Way of Saint James!

It definitely takes dedication to walk day after day, regardless of the weather or terrain, and I have been sorely lacking the hunger. How often do I feel caught in a trap before I start walking, and prior to this obsession? All anxiety and depression hangs around me and continues to dog me, as it has for a very long time, and I could not cope if walking wasn't an option.

But as the path opens up around me, and I leave the traffic noises behind, I spot the way out of this state and then I feel revulsion for my failings in the past three months.

***

This first day helped me recall why I need to walk! With the miriad flowers blooming by the tracks, the buzz of all the insects alongside and crops, with heavy heads (waiting solemnly to be taken away to be ground into the Blé which brings success to a Boulanger or l'orge providing the best malt for the Brasserie), swaying in the subtle breeze. There is no problem really! But why can't this be the feeling always?

***

Cities are honey pots, with narrow necks, and attract stinging grocers where my palm is forced open.

***

The only advice I got from the tourist office was to stay at a B&B because the Abbey on the list I'd downloaded from the le Amis Saint Jacques de Alsace wasn't accepting pilgrims during the pandemic. Already I've doubts about my hopes and needs being fulfilled. Twice the usual cost, at €45, but it is comfortable, quiet and clean in the attic.

Coming into Molsheim, a town famous for being the home of Bugatti, I expected to find a place to stay in the next town Rosheim, at the Benedictine monastery, and stop here for lunch, eating the formula of the day in a traditional bistro, (to rest my feet and body on this, suddenly, very warm day), but it was no go.

Hanging about, nervously, in the main square (facing potential financial difficulties) I waited for the time when I could go up to my bed for the night and forget about fear until the following day.

***

Fantastic night's sleep, in a very quiet suburb just down from the main medieval tower, and a brilliant large French breakfast, with typical home made confiture, quality bread, cheese, fruit, yogurt and strong coffee, was probably value for money at €45 (if my daily budget wasn't more like €30 to get me to Aix-en-Provence) on Rue des Lilas. The hostess gave me a picnic to take with me this Wednesday and a traditional gateaux Kugelhopf to keep my alcohol free body strong going up to Mont Sainte-Odile monastery at 764 metres ahead.

***

Woe is me! To go up a mountain with such enthusiasm and in spirit, pumping out all the badness, dripping in sweat, but no less eager, to be forced back the way I'd come less broke but no less broken! What disappointment...

In the canteen within the monastery, which was now a museum, I was struggling. There was a group sitting separately to the general public, which had one person dressed in a creamy monks garb, so I forced myself to approach them to see if they could help me out of the pickle I was currently in!

But they explained that none of the monasteries are currently open and accepting pilgrims, and in the next town, Châtenois, I'd called then to discover the CCA Centre de la Randonnée is closed too because of Covid!

I had walked two days in Alsace, discovered Elsáss (the German Alsace) and felt freedom, then hit these barriers and discovered that although the church own the Hospital for Pilgrims on Monte Sainte-Odile, it is now as a 3 star hotel (€70 basic without breakfast @ Hostellerie du Mont Sainte-Odile (or €50 for a pilgrim)) which simply isn't cricket!

Fortunately, one of the people I spoke to in the canteen, who seemed someone in authority, called back to the petit ville Ottrott and fixed me bed and breakfast at the Foyer de Charitie(€30). He was interested I would be trying the Camino during the pandemic and I felt flattened by the fact I was running into a very tall barrier even I couldn't climb over! Prematurely into the flow of the Chemin Saint Jacques, thinking the previous two night's blues were behind me, I headed back down the long way I'd come to shower, rest and find sustenance.

Now I am very nervous and indecisive. If I continue on I've nowhere to sleep, other that a hotel I can't afford, and my hope of spending at least a week on the Chemin is fast becoming impossible.

In Ottrott I stared and stared, forlornly, at the bus timetable, wondering if this was my only way onward? Climbing into bed, my frazzled body, which was a little heat struck, couldn't turn off as fear gripped my thoughts and I simply couldn't make a decision.

***

Crawling back into bed after breakfast I had another hour before setting off another way, not exactly on the Camino, but touching it in stages, and walking. There is no way I could get a bus and allow the two previous days to be all I showed for this expedition! So I set off via Barr and Mittelbergheim, and an amazing formule de jour (lupin) with a fantastic bottle of Lisbeth Pètillance water. And the view from Mittelbergheim, down the vale with vines facing south towards Eichhoffen, as I carried on through Dambach-la-Ville towards Sélestat.

Near to the crossing of the railway lines in Kientzville I spotted a mirage of an umbrella coming northwards towards me, on the rough tractor track, evolving into the concrete form of Johannes from Basel. As the sun baked down on me we passed a few socially distanced moments, him sheltered under a multicoloured parasol and me under the narrow visor of the cap I had on, before he carried on in the direction of Strasbourg and I trudged into the sun. Then, as he disappeared up the dusty road, suddenly I thought perhaps I should have enquired where he had been staying on his travels...

Reaching my destination, around four, I looked around the centre of Sélestat, with it's Romanesque church dedicated to Sainte Foy, I stopped for a green tea under the awning of a café facing the Eglise Sainte-Foy and read some further chapters of Labels before heading off to "cheat" and catch the train to Colmar.

***

After three emotionally dispiriting and physically demanding days there seems little cause for continuing south? Contending such deep troughs of worry that I'll be penniless and in a cul-de-sac, wedged between the Vosges and the left bank of the Rhine, and in a position there would be little means out of.

From Friday, frustratingly, I'll have to head east, back to Germany, as I will find more accommodation there! Gosh if only I had brought a tent and not "fashion" clothes! What was I thinking? Should I blame Covid for my inability to plan better or just myself for thinking nothing had really changed (when quite clearly it has)?

This morning, as the sun kept beating down, the Vosges disappeared behind me and plains alongside the Rhine took up my pathway. Any fears, that those religious establishments which usually accept pilgrims would not (when I appeared wearily on their threshold), lessened and the panic subsided. The certainty I'd sleep in a Jugenherbergen in Breisach am Rhein, if the two pilgerherbergen there were unavailable, pushed me to lunch content.

***

Last night Colmar struck me as an oddly juxtaposed town, with a nice centre arranged around La Lauch river running through it, but with a very noisy, youthful, sort, circling just beyond its pedestrian perimeter, on mopeds, scooters, etc, in a shabby dusty remnant beyond the railway bridge.

The breakfast in the Auberge de Jeunesse, located opposite the Lycée Blaise Pascal in the north west of Colmar, was merde! Instant coffee, French crisp bread, flavourless confiture, sickly sweet sucré filled yogurt and mass producted brioche, but I needed any sustenance they gave me to get me going on last night's heirloom tomato and wild lettuce leaf pizza - 30 degrees centigrade and 30 kilometres today.

At 7:30 I was stiding purposely back along Muhlbach in Colmar old town. Finding a café alongside the Collégiale Saint-Marton in Place de la Cathédrale - @ L'Armandine I ate crossiants and drank genuine French coffee. Then just after eight I connected through La Petite Venise with the Chemin Saint Jacques heading the way back to the Jakobsweg.

***

My fourth, and final, repase in France came after the pleasant meandering through the forested section of Colmar and the Kastenwald, with its multitude of bright flowers and following butterflies, but it wasn't exactly French but a Viet-Thai-French fusion thing- the ham in the stirfried rice was lardon. For a welcome change my tastebuds were entertained by a formule du Jour which was a vegetable piled mild curry(La Fusion) on the shaded south east side of Neuf-Brisach's Place d'Armes Général de Gauile.

Neuf-Brisach, which on my map I initially took to be a completely modern construct with its hexagonal grid layout, resolved into the swansong endeavour by Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban (the noted and celebrated defensive madman who dominated Louis the Sun King's deteriorating coffers during the War of the Grand Alliance)!

Definitely worth passing through, on route to the Rhine and Grand Canal d'Alsace, and a pleasant distraction from the typical autoroute leading to the bridge into Germany or the electrical power cables and pylons striding west, from the Hydroelectric power plant on the banks of the canal, into France.

***

Crossing the frontier on foot is the best way of departing one nation for another. Flags hanging limp in the mid-afternoon heat and trucks thundering into and out of Germany. The footpath was far enough from the road to not be overwhelmed by the noise and the wide downstream of the majestic, blueish, Rhine carried my feet with it (Grand Canal d'Alsace came first to my left before the Rhine proper, with its Kulturwehr to the right on Rheinbrücke).

Before crossing over Mohlin tributary I was taken under the road and presented to the opposite of the bank I required - where I assume the German border force would've stood prior to Schengen. Looking both ways I crossed the road and went up a stairway onto the Eckartsbergweg, next to the vineyards on the berg, which eventually led me into the Marktplatz, tourists and a "not so local" Fürstenberg pilsner to quench my thirst (the Café Bechtle) prior to finding my accommodation for the night. 

***

The difference in quality of German and French youth hostels is striking. For the same price (€25ish) for a bed you don't get bedding in France, or a long enough bed, or a private bathroom, or an adequate breakfast. The one saving grace is you don't have to be a member in an Auberge de Jeunesse, however even without this bonus (I'm a member) the location of the hostel in Colmar (noisy neighborhood) and the Jugenherbergen in Breisach (next to the Rhine and out of reach of noisy youths) is 5:1!

The town of Breisach is worthy of this decision to head back east, even if I was unfortunate to find that the pilgrim host already had another person staying at this moment. After checking in, showering and relaxing a while I walked back along the Rhine into the centre and up to the Münster to get the view. Returning back to the lower town I decided to eat in the Hofgarten behind the Kaisertüler Hof. Ordering the Wurstsalat Badisch I hardly expected such a massive portion for €9. Absolutely ideal after the final exhausting kilometres, through the non-place between Neuf-Brisach and Breisach. Once I had finished supper, and paid, I located a bar nearer to the quayside - Hotel Rheinblick - and finally found a more local beer - Ganter brewed in Freiburg - to watch the sunset before following the Rhine-side path back to the hostel.

***

Today is my fifth day out, prior to a break tomorrow, and I'm heading up the Kaiserstühl (an extinct volcano) after this very welcome and really massive breakfast. Fantastic tart yogurt, crusty breads, various cheeses, a wide selection of charcuterie, cereal, jam, hasselnuss paste, strong coffee, fruit and a fantastic vegan spread. 

The hostel was so quiet last night, even with a large group of teenagers staying, and I'm alone in the dining hall at 7:30 in the area next to the Rhine, hidden below the Rheindamm and enveloped by the Mohlin. It is quite cut off here from town and the Rheinbrücke - tranquility encapsulated - as I sit looking out window which faces west towards the river. This morning I feel happy to have left France which is a very odd emotion.

Gratefully, once I had left the perfection of see Rhein (and one final Ganter) last night, my rest was complete and uninterrupted. I've not woken up too groggy and am quite ready for the ascent up Totenkopf and back down towards Freiburg im Breisgau.

***

Initially I headed in a more easterly direction, to link up with the Jakobsweg and some other marked paths, then crept alongside a number of copses and through wildflower strewn ridges until I'd reached the outskirts of Ihringen, at the foot of the Kaiserstühl, and was heading more north east.

Before getting to the high street I needed to find a place to cross the railway line. In the past, here in Germany, I had seen clear evidence of where people had crossed the tracks where it shortened the distance between two sections of a town. Looking along Glänzerweg, near where locals had their allotments, I saw an obvious indication, with a trampled grassy desire line up to the single line and down the other side, which I used to cut off the unnecessary corner while feeling someone was watching me in a control booth somewhere!

In Ihringen I took a swig of water and waited for a space in the traffic so I could join the weg going straight up to the vineyards on these south facing slopes. At the top, looking back towards the Rhine, I was given a grand view the distance I had already travelled which suggested I probably should've come straight through Breisach to get here?

But it's not such a terrible thing early in the morning ... unless by lunchtime you start missing turnings on this twisting signpost frenzied, convoluted maze of paths going everywhere and anywhere, to all points of a compass!

Twice I'd walked quite some distance the wrong way. Blind for some reason to the ever present signposts while enjoying the landscape. When I thought I had gone wrong the "app" I using was constantly lagging behind, or completely losing my location, as I got tucked into ridges and hairpin turns.

On the final occasion I added a few kilometres to my intended walk, and I still had a tough climb to the top of Totenkopf before I could contemplate reaching out for Freiburg!

The summer season boots I've brought with me aren't exactly ideal for going the wrong direction, and definitely need an investment of a better insole once I am not terminally short of cash, although they have excellent ankle support, and are an ideal weight in the European summer sun, my metatarsal get quite tired and sore around 20 kilometres and are plainly asking for some respite in the form of lunch and an hour or two downtime!

With me going probably 3 kilometres in the wrong direction I really began to see the long afternoon ahead as perhaps too much to manage in what had become another scorcher. So I headed down to Schnitzel and zwei bier and contemplated the train as another means of reaching Freiburg. One hundred miles in 5 days, during a heatwave, has left me burnt faced, sore and pretty exhausted carrying this weight on my back!

***

Ah Freiburg!

Tomorrow I'm doing nothing because this afternoon I am going to feel the ambience, watch the locals and quaff some liquid refreshment: beer. Finally the cost of accommodation is nearly what I feel is justified at €19. Positioned not too far from the Schwarbentor, and the Aldtstadt, the Black Forest Backpackers is quite distant from the Haupfbahnhof, but I won't be worrying about it once I manage to get changed out of these walking boots and into something much lighter.

At around 3 I've checked in to room 14 and at this moment it's capacity has been halved, with social distancing in place, so there is plenty of surrounding space between people in this dormitory for 20.

My main two modes of existence seem to be walking and quaffing, with reading taking up some part of the quaffing (if it is a fastly paced read). When I have to walk twenty plus kilometres a couple of beers, with supper, is plenty enough to put me to sleep: restoratives, vitamins, analgesics, painkillers, refreshments, etc. Days off, or days with Glenn, open the door on quaff and a dedication to putting updates on Untappd until the conversation flows and I forget to record the passing pint.

After making the bed, organising my stuff and quickly sprucing up my visage and attire, I returned to the Aldtstadt, around Oberlinden, where I had passed Craftbeer Lodge, to partake of something German and not entirely traditional.

The last ten plus years has seen the rise of the craftbeer scene, with it's accompanying Hipster crowd(meh!), and around ten years ago I was spending far too much on overwhelmingly average and insidiously hoppy beer. Currently I can't stand the thought of being flogged the next en vogue IPA, DDH or DIPA, while sharing oxygen space next to said Hipster, and have returned to solid Belgian and German styles which have been around for centuries (and not days).

Truly I am bored and dispassionate towards the growing manifestation which seems to be taking over in every village, town and city. Even now, as I linger here, I'm feeling a revulsion at the absolute nonsense which has been engendered and is flogging itself into a bland stereotype.

Ten years ago I possibly wouldn't have seen myself wasting time on those that must follow every fad. Now, however, after spending several hours clambering up to Kaiserstühl, I really don't wish to be in the company of these faux individuals. Back on my feet, I've gone looking for honest food and better conversation, knowing I'll find both in a student Kneipe (pub) - Café Atlantik on Granatgässle.

***

And I don't remember anything else of the evening, except I was stung by a wasp on the right forearm. Obviously I need something to complain about in a backpackers and I've plenty of excuses!

It was a Saturday night, and typically people were coming and going stamping through the room, on the creeking wooden floor boards all bleeding night hours! Thankfully half the room is vacant as part the safety during Covid otherwise the guy's phone, beeping every few minutes was going out the window ...

It's so hard to relax in a room when people forget they must respect others and seem not to care what noise they're making? And he had no backpack or bedding so was clearly straight from a bar, or a nightclub, probably having missed the last bus?

At 7:30 I felt a little fragile, and have returned to the Aldtstadt, for a morning Joe - allowing my double frustrations  - unfortunately the backpacker's kitchen is closed during the pandemic for the safety reasons the dormitory is also half empty  - to dissipate.

Oh it's a Sunday! Again I've lost track of the days which is always a consequence of long distance walking. Now I've had to wait a few unnecessarily anxious moments for a bäckeri near Martinstor to open.

Initially, with bells across the city calling in for the morning services, I headed to the cathedral. At around ten to 8, with a steady stream of folk heading into the place of worship, I looked around the Münster Marktplatz hoping to see if one of the cafés was ready for the unfaithful. They weren't, but will be ready once the faithful degorge around nine.

 

Stadtcafe bäckeri opened as I hung about outside. Inside I ate a very sugary poppyseed croissant, drank a short strong espresso before ordering a normal schwarzer Kaffee, with a bottle of sparkling water, which started to give me some relief.

After holding out for nearly an hour, the constant comings and goings of locals makes it hardly possible to relax here. In addition the girl serving from the counter has such a monotonous voice with which she repeats, every few seconds, robotlike, a couple of mechanical phrases.

By the time I got up to leave, it became really uncomfortable and I felt slightly worse than when I arrived. In such a narrow vestibule, with an alarm buzzing, hot steam pouring through, wave upon wave, and operatives going to and fro, carrying baked goods to the countertop I felt very queasy. Oh for calm place to put aside the hangover and feel more normal!

Feeling none the better for the experience I sought refuge in the student quarter, on  Universitätsstraße, at another café which opened outwards onto the street. In Café Journal I started the day again with a schwarzer Kaffee and felt sudden relief, filling in my details on the Track and Trace form, as I devoured a pleasant croissant.

***

Often I look back at my educational life and wonder at the damage to any true potential I think I once had. Being tempted to the early 90s second summer of love during A Levels, and it's consequent dance music craze (with all the assorted paraphernalia), did my pedagogy no good!

Actually, thinking about it, really it goes back further. Discovering the Indie scene in my 14th year, during 1986, turned off any "dedication to education" gene. Perhaps a little teenage rebellion is a good thing, but never really getting passed that stage when it truly mattered left many regrets.

Of course if I can stand back from these feelings of worthlessness, with its depressing effect, my way through life isn't that bad? Who exists that doesn't have some regrets? There is no blueprint for existence.

***

On the Sunday, after returning to the Black Forest Backpackers to move to a quieter part of the dormitory, I found a comfortable seat in the Uni Café on the corner of Niemenstraße and Universitätstraße, ate a basil, mozarella and tomato Flammkuchen then dug out Waugh's Labels, which I had been neglecting during the walk through Alsace and Breisgau. As he rejoined the Stella Polaris I could see the end of the journal approaching and became aware of bookshops and booksellers for the next "chapter". Travelling has had a "soundtrack" in my earlier years, but now, because I rarely listen to music much these days, it has some literature as an accompaniment.

***

It is more often the case that I take Sunday's off (from alcohol and walking) and, in most cases, succeed in being much more peaceful mentally and physically - retuning and resetting my off-centre alignment.

Obviously the hangover depresses and revolts me to such a degree that another form of myopia takes the place of the one Saturday became. A wish to be completely honest, true, real or innocent! By mid-afternoon a less tortured spirit springs forth from the one seemingly condemned in the climax of that mental blindness.

As I continue reading Evelyn Waugh, I suddenly yearn to have had a proper education or to have been born of a different family with more options; a fleetingly brief jealous emotion sprouts from hungover roots. But there is no real encouragement for this loathing to grow since mindfulness, meditation, walking and wellness have become important features in the landscape. Now that I am less entirely insane, these feeling do not completely envelope me - where before I was entirely furious, malevolent and abhorrent another way has opened up which negates and gives me hope.

It is disappointing for me to feel momentarily jealous of anyone. What was the conditioning of anyone's life? I have simply no idea what pathways, pitfalls and brick walls their lives have taken. My jealousy might be an effect of Britishness (a chaon which I find hard to unshackle)? None have lived in the UK who were not products, born innocent, who, through maturation, have become byproducts of a malevolence in the system dependant on "haves and havenots". It's very hard to ignore.

Every time I focus on others I feel unconsciously forced into comparisons of my, perceived, position on the ladder. It so effects my enjoyment of so many experiences, and situations, as I carry the weight of inferiority along. Although I am now more aware of this personality defect, it still feels to be accreting within, what I interpret, as the Ego. So often I want to scream at "something" in frustration. Better to look again at Labels, without viewing it through the vile mote disfiguring it.

***

On this Sunday of inaction it seems proper to open up Labels and cultivate a wider knowledge through the humour, finesse, and good grace that he put a pen to paper at all. Waugh, for all the echoes I hear of the Establishment, is such an admirable writer and I must let my feelings of inferiority go.

***

Going from place to place, mixing food, sparkling water and beer, my eyes transfer all of the tales told on Mediterranean strands, alongside the comings and goings of locals (with a smattering of tourists), into this grey matter; offering a more civilised,  "pedestrian", point of view of Freiburg and not Saturday's blindly wanton, "craftbeer" consumption. In the Münsterplatz I breath easy, smile to myself and turn away from the myopically destructive vision of a personal hell.

Yet I will neglect the urge to sightsee, as I watch a multitude pass into and out of the Münster, (until my dying day) while instead I follow the ghost of a writer through the portals of these eyes into the corridors of my mind. Between bites and sips I dip through the dustcover to follow Evelyn Waugh to Cairo, and out from Port Said to make landfall in Iberia and the end of the tale.

In Labels I see another traveller who finds being fettered and shackled, trudging wearily about castle, cathedral, art gallery, museum, a bore. There was a time I too paid my fee to clamber through the dusty builders yard of the Sagrada Familia and up the spire, my eyes boring into the back of the person directly ahead, while being broiled in the summer heat, and decided never again.

***

Waugh feels like a kindred spirit who acknowledges a kind of world in which there is a certain difference between travellers and tourists? The huffing puffing American Midwest teachers, who see everything, incomprehending, (the modern term is bucket list?) have been replaced by mute Chinese clicking away at all objects.

***

Humans are always running about, coming and going, but what are we searching for and when will we ever arrive? Perhaps right in the moment of death itself?

At the crossroad by the bridge over the Dreisam, as it tumbles through stepping stones, there is a heavy grinding of gears as the cars and lorries head north and west out of the narrow confines into the plains. Stood waiting to cross at the traffic lights is an intensity rarely encountered by me in German cities. Slightly anxious until I have crossed and taken the stairwell down to the banks of the gently babbling river and left the fumes behind.

Heading back along the bankside until I reach another stairwell, which leaves me parallel to the backpackers and an early night, the palpations are gone; Sunday is done, and so is Labels, on Monday I walk.

***

Déjà vu this morning. A brew, followed by a single crossiant, before chasing a path leading nowhere special. Walking the Camino isn't really possible, although the Jakobsweg does radiate in a number of directions to Freiburg and then out again. There is nothing wrong in heading along the route as long as I'm not too far to make returning to Freiburg too expensive, or I feel bad going back when I've come so far, and it is the most convenient and cheapest option to use as a base.

The people who run the backpackers are allowing me to pay for each nights accommodation nightly so if I do find another cheap option it wouldnt be too complicated to up sticks and move there.

This morning was tougher than it should have been because I didn't have a substantial breakfast. Too light to maintain a productive rhythm for six or seven hours. Whenever there are thirty kilometres to walk planning a big breakfast is absolutely essential. But I can still manage fifteen when my preparations are questionable.

The nice Ganter hefe weizen dunkel, I keep finding myself reaching for, isn't helping me either - this is not the trip I hoped to find when I headed to Manchester on the 2nd, but, while there is still a saucssion noisette, unopened in the sack, I won't need to dip into the decreasing funds to find a place to eat before heading back.

Heading up behind Freiburg - passing the vineyards of Weinlage Freiburger Schlossberg, to where the Cross of Saint George flag flutters on Ludwigshöhe - I'm shortly high above the city and have passed into the Schwartzwald. At a crossroads, the numerous suggested routes suddenly confused me and making a decision became difficult. On the Kaiserstühl there had been a similar

and I didn't know where I was going to go.

It is simply better to walk before the mid-day sun gets too much to bare. At that point I can catch either a bus or train, but would prefer to catch the train because this face covering is on for a briefer time.

A man I met coming down from Sainte-Odile mentioned that he found it difficult to find any indication of which was the way to go when walking in the UK, but here in Germany, with its miriad signs, pointing in every direction, it's simply too efficient and unnecessary - and definitely "German" - why have one arrow or sign when you can have ten. Even on the Camino in France and Spain you're rarely following anything other than the odd yellow arrow, scallop shell or GR marking and there is no mention of the distances (I think).

The route I decided to take will eventually lead to Bodensee. Prior to the current pandemic I would definitely have had no fear of heading off that way. However by one I'd prefer to be finished and heading back to "base". Carrying 10kgs, whether I require it or not, keeps me prepared for the real event, which will come again soon.

After 4 hours I'm done! Without a proper breakfast it is impossible to concentrate, my feet complain and the sun is too intense as it reaches transit. Accidents occur when tired.

Coming down from the woodland path I hit the valley floor with it's meadows bursting wildflowers tucked next barley, ready for harvest, passing Baldenweger Hof (a large organic farm) there was the everpresent hum of insects, prior to reaching Zarten and Kirchzarten, where I stocked up with bergkäse cheese, bread, applejuice in barn selling local organic produce. Ahead was a suggestion of more woodland with mountains beyond, but I chose the train instead. Getting off the stop prior to Haupfbahnhof - Wiehre - I saw another side of Freiburg much more leafy and tranquil. At Café Atlantik I drew breath and plunged head first into Schnitzel and Weizen. It was an enjoyable morning, but I was famished.

It was a struggle each of the steps with the overwhelming heat and a belly full of last night's beer(oh so fine local beer). The weather is too intense for carrying this weight. But again I'm hitting the road. The afternoon Yesterday was cold turkey leaving Freiburg to smoulder as I mediated and fought to return to the Atlantik Café and drink more Ganter Dunkles Weizen. Along with the the rum tummy I was stuck by a wasp. Usually this is of no concern, but today (48 hours later) I've a balloon for a forearm and it is spreading to my hand and triceps. The views in the Wald were supreme across the Valley floor, where nature flourished naked and untrod.

***

A fairly good walk, through plenty of vineyards, a forestry bit, too much tarmac and the blazing sun! In the village I saw two Gasthaus for repase, but on arrival neither are open! One is closed because of Covid and the other is too good to open for the lunch time crowd! Since I left Ottrott I've been carrying a saucssion noisette so it became the best roadside snack. Another 3 kilometres to find a way back to Freiburg - a Bahnhof where the constant intersession of freight to my tired mind suggests Germany is screwed on where train transport is concerned, however the main autobahn road passes through Freiburg, which is pressed in on both sides by mountains, and brings a volume of freight too, do isn't Germany doing well? I'm walking through suburbia but as yet have seen no Council property - perhaps it is disguised to look normal or there is no such thing? Really there must be loads to cater for the huge foreign workforce, but those who plan the Jakobsweg make sure you don't pass by it! In England it ubiquitous in all large cities and in Antwerp I had my fill of suburban plebians on another Wege.

I've hung on for quite a while in Freiburg and can't find anywhere online with similar/cheaper accommodation. If I could afford to move on for a day or two prior to the flight home I would. This has turned into a city break, broken up with half days, here and there walking, for no apparent reason.

In France I wasted limited funds, when unable to stay in gites d'etapes, so now I am very restricted to where I can go. My confidence has quickly vanished  along with the path, while I stay in Freiburg.

If I'd felt more confident speaking to a mairie, parish office or at monasteries perhaps things would've been fine? The combined conflict of the pandemic and a face covering presented me with a difficulty which, with my stuttering French, prevented me once approaching those persons in a position to help. Additionally I was self conscious of my glasses steaming up, whenever I had to enter a building, and didn't think to remove them.

***

Slightly controversially, for me, I've hoped on a train to "sightsee" Titisee. It's a delightful train journey after Himmelreich with a steeply cut route lined with firs, pines, ferns and a blooming frenzy along the embankment to the track, but this all feels banal and does not increase my peace of mind. It's too normal and I feel I am going against my nature.

And I'm here! All down the passage to the See it's fucking cuddly toys and cuckoo clocks. Why oh why are the women perusing? It's a force of un-nature! The lake is pretty, but I can't stand the faux version of the world where huge wooden hotels tell a fairytale of the Black Forest behind balconies and cups of tea. The view is crumpled around its promenade by the beast with the blackest heart as the empty headed pay to be extorted and read all about how rotten they are in the Badisch Zeitung. Being such a grumpy old man I find the only useful thing to do here is walk into the lavatory and gestate on this meaningless parade. Titisee has ever cliché in the book including over priced "local" produce and a tourist "train" bus for the adventurous of heartless. Back just in time for the 11:08 train and it was a €11.40¢ badly spent to see a (Titi)See and pass through a pass; now it rains on the windowpanes and I was here less than an hour!

***

Now it's pouring with rain and few of the seating areas are being used in the UNI area. Everyone has ditched the southern European for the northern European but bars and Covid don't mix. It's still warm so I am fine in Heinrich Rombach Platz where plains trees and palm trees discuss the advantages of a northern European lifestyle playing lipservice to exotic stands.

***

Sharing a table with an older couple from Basel who give me the best conversation this trip. Their knowledge of the rich poor, north south divide in England and how wrong the entire system is and how the "haves" know not what the "have nothings" have not. Bidding them goodbye, and setting the record straight on the pronunciation of Basel (it's a German speaking area so I'll no longer say Barle), I moved inside as the temperature plunged and I'm ill equipped for rain. While reading Labels I felt fortunate that times have changed and I can inhabit a kind of world only the richest of the rich had any access to for most of human history. However the section I inhabit, while drinking Dunkels and munch Flammkuchen, remind me that nothing has changed and I'm still a peasant. Perhaps it's this factor I like most about Europe: we paysants are able to drink and dine together while the rich are separated and not joyous.

***

Ersatz. That's the word for Hausbrauerei Feierling. A brewery in the centre of Freiburg which I was told to go to for the beer, but not the reality of the establishment.  The beer was a good Landbier. Now I'm back in Café Atlantik feeling it's just another faux. The staff have to have my face today because the rain brings in the chairs. A local keeps trying to kill flies with a rolled up Badische Zeitung, a server wouldn't tell me where she came from and the staff look unhappy. Kneipen isn't meant to be so expensive either. I'm foxed and will go back for the remainder of July 15th 2020.

***

A sleeping siesta brought me to 6pm and a fatal desire to venture forth. Just as the weather changes I've come back down to the UNI square and begun page one of Labels where I feel more inclined to believe he's another "sort" altogether whom Tony Harrison probably would hiss at without rancor and with justification. But I'm in it again. The writer's conceit justifies looking through his class and bigotry. It's impossible to look at English writing except through acceptance of our conceits. At university I had no choice but to indulge the Canon regardless of its virtues.

As the pain and the stress in my right forearm increased I began thinking about my death from septicemia. The fear that a swollen extremity brings on. Yesterday I frequently thought of going to the Krankenhaus without my passport (as it is security in the hostel for my key) and worried I would lose my arm and have to pay to have it amputated!

***

And I thought I was going to be well behaved, back in bed, to go walking along the way. There was a bleeding Wirstchaft in my path handing out Riegeler Landbier and a plate of lentils, sausage and spätzle for a small sum(€15.20 for beer and the large plateful @ Meyerhof). German bier, even when sold in a thoroughly bogus establishment like Hausbrauerei Feierling, is consistent and doesn't give me gastly hangovers like that IPA muck does.

Hastily packed my sack expecting rain outside, however it is cloudy but dry - much fresher and, therefore, better for walking. The rain yesterday got a little intense. Saw an interesting café Kolben Kaffee, next to the southern Martinstor, on my perambulation yesterday so now I am taking my morning intravenous Joe here. It is on the left side going out of the gate away from those two representatives of US faceless hegemony: McDonald's and Starbuck's (ubiquitous and slinking sloth-like). This is a regular café where people come to ingest the local news, gossip and study one another; it is calm too.

My feet led me back to Münstermarkt Platz(and Riegeler Landbier in Zum Bingen Onkel €5) and it's busy; must be getting close to the weekend? The walk took me past market gardens and plenty of greenhouses through a leafy suburb Herdern. Wanted to carry on in Denzlingen, on the Jakobsweg, for an additional hour, to Waldkirch but I couldn't find any information on the DB from the next town and 3 bus changes sounded too much: I so detest this mask any longer that absolutely necessary. Only ten kilometres, and a little more between Freiburg-Herdern Bahnhof is better for my body that zero.

One o'clock chimes and the pattern of my life repeats. Back to the book, the bier and watching folks heave through the market square. From around me I hear French and Dutch as the gannets come to feed.

***

I returned to an empty room so I was able to relax, arrange my sack and mediate effectively for around an hour until two fraulein came into the chamber. Quick plate of food from the Markthalle next to Martinstor - feijoada because it's the first sight of beans I've had for so long - and resisted the urge for Riesling. Simple pleasure is Riegeler Landbier so I've returned to sit and watch the people pass along Grünwälderstraße in Meyerhof. People who walk so slowly and keep trying to go down an alley closed off for improvements.

***

And I think this is it? The end of the road is reached. My head says head back and have a good night's sleep without the stirings of alcohol. In the Schwarzer Kater Kneipe, where I am told to pretend to be with another couple incase the police drop on us and we all get a fine, my final Riegeler Landbier because it's good. Beer from the Kaiserstuhl and the beginnings of this city break in Freiburg. Twice now I've not been asked to register my details on this third occasion they do; it must get quite tedious for them even though they like following instructions to the letter.

The arrival of the accordion at 6. The most irritating music I ever heard. The same man was in the Münstermarkt Platz at 1. Boy can he play the accordion, but play it elsewhere. The sky open too with a little thunder thrown in and he moves amongst the patrons expecting money? The cheek of the impoverished although his gut is baggy over his belt.

***

My intent is never the outcome. So I am nearly in my bed, at 7pm, but I called into the best Kneipe I know in Freiburg - Café Atlantik - even if it is frankly too exoensive. The bar flies are hanging around the bar as I hang around the bar. It's all very British in here. Irish, English I don't know the difference where a dirty pub is concerned? It's none of these modern establishments hijacking the craftbeer nonsense to sell to daft heads for whom craft is a novelty that they'll never see through for the capitalist trick it is. But excuse me they have eight or nine gins so this Kneipe isn't exactly true to form. Nothing is exactly true. Most rough around the edges gafes have to play up to a certain bullshit, just incase their share of the bundle of cash goes unclaimed.

***

When I read back on this trip, and my average recollections, I'm left feeling I've no skill or craft at all. But I am me, and my words only tumble upon my ears, and it doesn't hurt anything to rattle constantly.

***

The final morning is another damp one. Just time for my regular two coffees, a croissant then head for the border on the 9:18 train to Müllheim then from there to Mulhouse Ville prior to repase. The airport is on French soil so why did easyJet charge me in Swiss Francs? Maybe they're confused by the suggestion it is in Basel as this is the first town mentioned in the triumvirate?

None of my original plans worked out this time: primarily it began with the UKs decision to place Quarantine for 14 days all returning from travel - so my initial trip to Utrecht via Amsterdam was impossible. Once I read Germany was accepting UK residents I fell in with Glenn and Mark on a different kind of trip. Once we separated, and I'd moved over the border to Strasbourg, again I thought my original plans would be possible. Unexpectedly in France I found it impossible to make the money stretch as far as I needed to go. Initially to reach Franche-Comte via gîtes d'etapes, abbeye, monasteries, Mairie and passoise, but these particular places to sleep were locked to outsiders due to Covid19.

***

Back across the border into Alsace prior to the flight this evening. Mulhouse is a small town at the bottom of Alsace and it doesn't merit much reflection. More people are wearing face coverings in the outside spaces, but, unlike Germany, they don't register any details at the café which I chose to have breakfast and a cup of tea. The weather is decidedly chilly with a little light rain falling. Mulhouse houses France's largest automobile museum which I may visit to waste a little time? In this time of uncertainty the system is to register to go into museum and this puts me off. Any interest I have in automobiles is post war anyhow (I find "the people's" car more fascinating) so I'm not interested in a couple rich brothers obsession with Bugatti...

... Another fine afternoon ruined by a bloody accordion player! Are they manufactured somewhere in the Middle East especially to send off to these countries to infest the solace and drive me up the wall? And I was enjoying the Breton cidre. No bother I'm going to find a local weinstube - this being Elsáss.

... Oh the humanity! The same accordion player strikes up in the weinstube called Winstub next to the fountain and the Starbuck's so I pack away Labels and strike for a place he won't, can't or isn't - Brasserie le Savoy just down from La Gare for one Pinot Gris before the train to Saint Louis.

***

Something so terrible almost happened yesterday late afternoon! For the first time I very nearly, within 10 minutes of the gates closing, missed a flight. The fault was probably mine, but the map app I use made the issue much worse.

Getting off the train at Saint Louis I saw the bus which takes people to the airport, but, as I had 2 hours until the flight, I decided I'd walk and save euros. Firstly once I set off walking Google Maps told me I was about 60 minutes away from the departure area, which I always take with a pinch of salt as I walk pretty quickly when required, however to be on the safe side I asked Mytrails app to plot a course directly to the terminal and set off rapidly crossing a flyover and hitting a feeder road onto the airport through some vegetation, where I had seen a path, and carried on walking. After around 20 minutes I arrived at a dead end where France ended and a fence with barbed wire cut Switzerland's area of the airport off as an enclave. At this barrier I freaked as there was literally no physical way I could return the way I came and reach the airport before my flight was to leave. Talk about panic! Two people on the Swiss side told me there was literally nothing they could do to help me as it would be a serious breaking of the law. In frustration and fear I almost broke into tears. Then I recalled I had just come under a flyover so perhaps there might be some way I could hope over the barrier if it didn't extend the entire way across it. Luckily the embankment was too steep and I saw that the fence ended a little over the road below. Clambering up the side I came to the spot and saw if I was very careful I could just step along the outside of the bridge structure and then climb over. Risking being arrested and falling off to my death, with a heavy backpack on my shoulders, I crept along the barrier and flung myself over and back into France where I definitely could just, virtually running, make the terminal. No one was around and there was no CCTV visible so I probably escaped a quite serious arrest and the possibility of being stuck in a Swiss or French gaol for my pleasure. Dying or height weren't my concern at all as at this point they were kicked into the covers by the adrenaline.

Well I made it, sweating profusely, just in the nick of time, applied my lanyard and got my baggage checked in just prior to the gate being closed. Phew that was insane and quite fun, but I wouldn't want to do it again! Don't trust map apps faithfully they don't always see international borders as what they are!

Gosh! Just suppose the fence was electrified and I'd put my hands on it just to be fried!

When we arrived in Manchester I was so thankful and even got on the earlier Transpennine Express, as the customer service chap let me on no worries, and arrived in Leeds just as hordes of 20somethings were chanting Leeds United fans singing and also threating anyone minding there own business: like me. Leeds is a veritable minefield of aggressive drunken people around 9pm and it's such a crap advert for the UK when that's all we've become: angry young men. Three guys were definitely verbally abusing me on Commercial Street, but I ignored them, kept my distance and went for a "socially distanced" beer which is no fun whatsoever!