Riding The Rhine. With Children.
We pause to consult our faithful guidebook; we want to follow the lake’s north shore. Immediately, we are greeted by a fellow cyclist: “You follow the Rhine, yes?” he guesses correctly. “That direction,” he motions furiously. “Good luck!”
Several miles further - and thirstier - we realise that we’ve been ‘helpfully’ pointed along the south shore. We turn back and retrace our tyre tracks. We’re still an hour’s ride from our campsite and have already sweated through 70 kilometres in today’s parching sun.
But it’s worth it. We are several stages into a 1380 kilometre bike trip, following the River Rhine from its source in Switzerland, to where it courses into the North Sea. Six countries stand in our way. It might have been less tiring if we’d decided not to bring our children, aged four and two. The boys bicker behind me in an in-line trailer that continually turns heads as we progress onwards; my wife tows a less garrulous, but equally cumbersome load in our camping provisions. Our intention is to spend each night under canvas, unless we have a particularly challenging day.
Small Swiss villages amidst steep hillsides clad with grapevines, give way to fertile farmland. We play “I Spy...” for hay bales, horse chestnuts, a myriad of fruit and vegetables, and halt temporarily beneath a railway siding to gather copious blackberries. Occasionally we inhale the sweet aroma of freshly-harvested onions piled idly in fields and the game becomes “I Smell...” which rarely bodes well.
Another long, scorching day with several wrong turns sees us on the outskirts of Germersheim. The guidebook mentions no camp sites and we’re all exhausted. We meet a local elderly couple who know a place we can camp about five kilometres back in the rough direction we have ridden from. My wife casts me a knowing glance, but we have already committed ourselves to their good intentions.
Following them through dusky woodland, we eventually reach their intended destination (accommodating static caravans), parking our bikes next to the busy lake-side restaurant. The man goes inside before returning to exclaim: “It’s good. I speak to the bar manager. This place is not for tents but you can eat here and I think it’s alright if you use their toilets and build your tent. Not legal, but I think OK.” And then they disappear.
We are unsure what to do. We eat a hearty meal and decide that it might be best not to pitch our tent. We opt to ride back to Germersheim and succumb to our first hotel of the trip. Yet they all seem to be closed. The only one we find with an available room isn’t keen on the two children. It is now dark. One of my pannier bags breaks. Surprisingly, after such a long day, the kids are upbeat. We pedal back to the river, hastily erect the tent in a ditch, and clamber inside, hoping the next day isn’t so eventful.
We’ll stick with the guidebook tomorrow.
Several miles further - and thirstier - we realise that we’ve been ‘helpfully’ pointed along the south shore. We turn back and retrace our tyre tracks. We’re still an hour’s ride from our campsite and have already sweated through 70 kilometres in today’s parching sun.
But it’s worth it. We are several stages into a 1380 kilometre bike trip, following the River Rhine from its source in Switzerland, to where it courses into the North Sea. Six countries stand in our way. It might have been less tiring if we’d decided not to bring our children, aged four and two. The boys bicker behind me in an in-line trailer that continually turns heads as we progress onwards; my wife tows a less garrulous, but equally cumbersome load in our camping provisions. Our intention is to spend each night under canvas, unless we have a particularly challenging day.
Small Swiss villages amidst steep hillsides clad with grapevines, give way to fertile farmland. We play “I Spy...” for hay bales, horse chestnuts, a myriad of fruit and vegetables, and halt temporarily beneath a railway siding to gather copious blackberries. Occasionally we inhale the sweet aroma of freshly-harvested onions piled idly in fields and the game becomes “I Smell...” which rarely bodes well.
Another long, scorching day with several wrong turns sees us on the outskirts of Germersheim. The guidebook mentions no camp sites and we’re all exhausted. We meet a local elderly couple who know a place we can camp about five kilometres back in the rough direction we have ridden from. My wife casts me a knowing glance, but we have already committed ourselves to their good intentions.
Following them through dusky woodland, we eventually reach their intended destination (accommodating static caravans), parking our bikes next to the busy lake-side restaurant. The man goes inside before returning to exclaim: “It’s good. I speak to the bar manager. This place is not for tents but you can eat here and I think it’s alright if you use their toilets and build your tent. Not legal, but I think OK.” And then they disappear.
We are unsure what to do. We eat a hearty meal and decide that it might be best not to pitch our tent. We opt to ride back to Germersheim and succumb to our first hotel of the trip. Yet they all seem to be closed. The only one we find with an available room isn’t keen on the two children. It is now dark. One of my pannier bags breaks. Surprisingly, after such a long day, the kids are upbeat. We pedal back to the river, hastily erect the tent in a ditch, and clamber inside, hoping the next day isn’t so eventful.
We’ll stick with the guidebook tomorrow.
posted by Gareth at 8:25 PM
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