I wake at 4:30 German time. That's 3:30 BST. Sunlight and the birds screaming the dawn chorus jerks me into wakefulness and as I don't feel tired I decide to get up, drink tea and have a slow, relaxed morning. It's only a short ride to Passau. I bumble around in the low morning light, drying clothes and checking the bike over. I go through my list; 'BOLT': Brakes, Oil, Lights, Tyres and then check bolts, cables and so on.
I head to the restaurant to get a hot coffee but it isn't open until the afternoon. Ah well.
Walking back to my tent I see that the two young men in thr tents near me had left a load of litter and tins strewn over the floor by the picnic bench. It incenses me. Why? Later, when I'm on my morning phone call to Sian, I see them emerge from their tents so in a slightly louder, slower voice I tell Sian about the filthy pair near me and their littering. I guess they had enough English to understand as they broke off from their breakfast to pick it all up and take it over to the bin. Looks were exchanged.
I ride out of town following the routepoints I'd put into Satty. I'm determined that she's not going to lead me astray today. I want to follow the Danube as best as I can. I lean round a long, sweeping bend and then, right across my side of the road is a large, red barrier. There's no detour sign. 'Passau this way' would be nice. Nothing. I start to check the map then a bike passes me, nips around the barrier and carries on. I guess he's local. He seems to know what he's doing so I follow a hundred metres or so behind him. Five minutes later - another red barrier. Another five minutes - yet another. We rise into denser woodland. I see trees felled and stacked at the side of the road. Ahead, I see large logging lorries and diggers blocking the road. The bike ahead slows and comes to a stop. I keep my distance and slow to a halt. I wait and watch. The workmen stand in front of him, blocking his way with folded arms. You can see him pointing onward past the instruction. They point back the way we came. Back clearly wins as the biker turns around in a slow eight point turn, wheeling his bike back a little then edging forward until he finally can ride back the way we came. I turn in the road and ride ahead of him back through the barriers.
When I get to the first barrier, I turn right. There's no other way to go apart from back to Linz.
The other bike follows.
We wind along a small river valley. It's beautiful. Low trees form a canopy over the gently meandering road. The river bubbles and gushes over rocks, glistening with colour in the dappled sunlight. There are waterfalls gushing into deep pools. I lean left then lean right then left again. The easy curves are a joy. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, some arse passes within an inch. At speed. I'm blown to the right by the slipstream. It's another bike. I curse into my helmet.
It takes a while for me to settle back into my ride and be able to appreciate the scenery again. The road rises through the woods. I stop by an old Bavarian woodcutter's lodge, like something out of a fairytale. Finally, there's a detour sign. 'Passau' and an arrow. I follow the detour and within a few minutes I join the Danube road. The river is stunning. Wide and slow; gentle wooded hills falling down to the water's edge; picturesque old German towns with spired, painted churches standing high above the red roofs. I stop for a small lunch. Salty feta cheese, paté and bread with cold water to wash it down. It's hot. When I return to the bike standing in the sun the thermometer is showing over 40c.
There's a lot of tourist activity along the Danube. People are drawn to it's photogenic views. Cafes, boat trips, fishing, photography, cycling - everyone is busy enjoying being by the river.
I ride into the campsite in Passau and mine is the only tent. The rest are all German motorhomes with huge awnings with tables, chairs, lights, flowers on the table, bicycles on the back and invariably, a dog on a long leash.
I'm in a huge, dark, damp field away from all of them. There are a couple of young cows and an odd, home-made church grotto. It's full of cheap plaster icons, badly drawn Madonnas and on the wall, fading paper posters showing the faces of the local dead: date of birth, date of death, a few words in German. I can't help thinking that the grumpy old man at the reception, once a farmer, I imagine, will not be long for his place on the wall.
I stay clear of the restaurant and its neat German camper-vanners, and head back to my little tent, a small gas stove and a warm tin of goulash with pasta and a bottle of beer. Bliss.
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