2025: Spreewald and Leipzig Germany

The Trip

Long train rides to Saxony in Germany. A delightful meander through the Spreewald wetlands, first on foot, then even by canoe. A brief visit to delightful Torgau to walk around a Big Pond and sample echoes of life in GDR. Then on to Leipzig and the Passion Thursday performance of Bach Matteuspassion at the Thomaskirche, where it was premiered in 1727. It's all Bucket List stuff.

Click on a picture to see it in more detail than really necessary!

Sunday

Pete's train ride to Köpenhamn is disrupted by the evil wiles of Västergötlands kommunal transport service, who lay many traps for him to fall into. In the end he just drives to Halmstad on the sunday evening and stays in a hotel there, ready for the big journey tomorrow. What could be more delightful?

Settled at the hotel bar, he watches Gloucester Rugby lose so heavily that he leaves his earphones at the table and takes a sorrowful lift, which creaks ominously every time someone steps into it, up to his solitary room. The unexpected rain has already set a sombre tone. Yes, the Strides have begun.

Monday

Things cheer up when Pete mounts an actual train, and the journey begins properly. He visits Köpenhamn, Hamburg and Berlin on his merry jaunt. One of these places features a toy shop of toy shops, always worth a sly photo.

Adrian, meanwhile, enjoys a leisurely, smooth and punctual intercity express train from Frankfurt am Main to Berlin. What a change from the day long marathons of yore. Bit boring, all this efficiency.

We arrive almost simultaneously, depending on your observation point, at Berlin's snazzy four-level main station. After a little searching, we eventually come up with a fish and chip shop, with Berliner Pils on tap. Wunderbar.

We sit down alongside some authentic Berliners having their after-shift pint, but feel uncommonly conspicuous, because each of them is resplendant in their hi-viz vest and we ureny. Then suddenly we are alone. How could the workmen have upped and left so rapidly and absolutely? Or did they just remove their vests and merge in with the scenery? Weird.

The southbound train is sated with the flotsam and jetsam of evening rush hour. Pete realises that his railway app is not working and Germany has still not followed Sweden's initiative to abolish cash payment. Thank goodness for local hero, Adrian, and his fat wallet.

We race through and beyond Berlin's suburbs and the train gradually empties. Is it worth making an unscheduled stop at the weirdly named Brand Tropical Islands? No! The beach bar is closed, along with everywhere else. Obviously this is a brand that blew everything on marketing and forgot about the actual product.

Lübbenau seems more like a proper town to us, with roads and cycle paths and brick houses. We approach the hotel from the rear and at first wonder if we are maybe trespassing. No reception open, but Pete cracks the code and we're in the hotel in a jiffy.

We don't waste time before heading off to the nearest restaurant, just a basic Gasthaus type of place, quiet looking, but definitely with lights on and a menu outside and everything. No fellow diners to be seen, however, and the host observes us quizzically, as if wondering what these strangers could possibly be looking for in his establishment. We sheepishly ask, could he feed us, if it isn't too much trouble, kind sir. Awkward silence. It's 7.30 pm and the host is clearly shutting up for an early night. We sense it has been a quiet day. And year, most probably. Herr Ober takes a bit of convincing, but he ends up serving us great schnitzel and sauerkraut with black Kostritzer beer, and indeed another two customers join us, probably doubling the chap's turnover for the current financial quarter.

Back at the hotel, we watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire on the German RTL channel, which one of us understands. It's a neat room with abysmal pillows. Early to bed with a good book where we read about youngsters who go to town and spend the night on the tiles. That was us once.

Tuesday

Fantastic staff give us an awesome breakfast and make us feel home from home. Are they Polish? Whatever, they assure us that they provide coffee to allcomers who prefer an early start, and Pete is happy about prospects for tomorrow morning. Inner man well satisfied.

We set off on a long, meandering, wet and beautiful walk through Spreewald. 22 km of trees and water. Also deer, storks, herons, beavers to be seen, and even some humans, for the most disappointing photographs. Spring has sprung. It is so peaceful here and we feel at one with nature. It seems a crime to devote so few words in this blog to such natural beauty, but skogen should be experienced, not written about. It's all wonderful.

We stop for an early coffee and beer at bonny Leipe, which is still waking up and tells us it won't be serving actual food until 12. We decide to postpone lunch and just have a quick one. But the minutes rush by and lo and behold, there we are at 12, still glued to the comfy benches like two limpets who have let themselves go and become a little too sedentary for their own good. Who could possibly have seen that coming? A decision has to be made, however, so we set off again.

We lunch an hour later at Steffi's place, which serves green beer. Pete needs no second invitation, but this is tame compared to his choice of food. He plumps for something on the menu that he doesn't understand, but which looks nice and local, and this causes consternation with Steffi. She is so astounded that other customers are dragged across from their tables to share in the astonishment that an impudent outsider from Northern Climes would ever come here and order such a dish. We still can't really get out of her what the meal actually is. Certainly not vegetarion, she confirms with a laugh, but then, she won't admit to it being meat, either. What can it be? Pete assures her that he eats everything, and defiantly holds out in his choice of refreshment, despite the chaos and astonishment with which he is being assailed.

When it finally turns up, Pete takes a few exploratory mouthfuls, under the rapt gaze of most of the pub. He assures the watching masses that it tastes better than blood pudding and Steffi whoops with delight. It's local and she agrees with our argument that anyone from the land of haggis and potted heid is not going to baulk at a godawful creation like this.

To the astonishment of the Swedish contingent, the place does not accept cards. How else does one pay for things in 2025? Adrian generously picks up the tab, as he does at every other place we visit in the Spreewald. Pete must make up for it when we return to the digital age in the Big Cities. Who knew that the delightful, old-fashioned standards of service in this rural idyll extended so far.

The landscape opens up a bit as we follow in the footsteps of Theodor Fontane, a German writer from the 1800s, who holidayed here once upon a time. Adrian downloads the Project Gutenberg manuscript of his travelogue to savour the details.

Before long, we come across the garden. We never know when it will occur, we never know where, but it is certain that at some point, during every walk we ever undertake, there will be, the garden.

A late afternoon refreshment follows at Die Wotschofska, which might look like what a dog says in Polish, but is, in fact, the Spreewald's most famous watering hole, which used to be reachable only by boat. Such is the size and intricacy of the waterway network, it is written that the houses there don't need perimeter fences, because they all have their own moats.

Notice how glum Adrian is when all alone, ...	... and how he cheers up immeasurably when reunited with auld friends. Happiness comes from the company you keep.

This one is a bit of a mystery!

Before too long, we're back in Lübbenau, staggering back up the Karl-Marx-Straße to our hotel, with rather less vigour than we'd shown charging down it in the early morning. Pete even gets a blister on day one, oh the shame of it.

We briefly consider returning to yesterday's reluctant hostelry for dinner, but decide instead to sup in the hotel restaurant, which is actually quite classy, delicious tagliatelle and salmon. We finish off the evening's entertainment in traditional Strides manner with a couple of rounds of billiards in the games room before bed. It's the first time Pete has used a cue for five years, and he quickly discovers that the game's much tougher with bifocals. Who knew?

Wednesday

Pete is gifted an early coffee in the billiard room because the staff are so friendly. We love the Spreezeit.

We return to haunts of yesterday, traipsing through town once more, to the boating place, where we hire a Canadian canoe. Pete takes the back end and becomes increasingly possessive of his spot. He once knew how to steer Canadian canoes, you know. Once again we traverse through the Spreewald, this time paddling softly. It's still very beautiful -- with trees, water and bridges all over again -- but this time the angle is new. The gentle birdsong, splish-splash of the paddles and occasional distant chainsaw are the only sounds to be heard. Very peaceful. After successfully negotiating two boat ramps and one lock, we reach the heart of darkness in the very centre of the Spreewald, an idyllic wee hamlet on the water called Lehde. We park the boat (is that the right expression?) laboriously in front of two cafe workers, clecking away over their fag break, who finally tell us, once shenanigans is finally over and we have creaked out of the boat, that the cafe is most definitely shut. Sigh.

We rest up anyway and take the opportunity to remove cameras and phones from their waterproofing. We take many photies and videos and watch some Kähne (passenger barges) being expertly manoeuvred through the narrowest waterways by the Spreewald's answer to Venice's gondoliers. The barges are absolutely heaving with tourists, and it all looks a bit grim to a couple of antisocial old Striders like us. We stick resolutely to the social distancing of our canoe.

Having not missed a Fliess signpost all morning, we kack up the return route quite spectacularly, and get very lost. At one point, we are on the high seas heading to Berlin on the Rhine. Tiredness takes over and our joint sense of humour begins to sink beneath the waves. A random mannie at the bank gives us directions home, not a second too soon for Pete's frazzled nerves. Six km have been extended to ten, and lunch has been well-earned.

We take this solid repast in the Biergarten in Lubbenau's small harbour. Adrian takes the Currywurst while Pete goes for some more Sauerkraut. Much refreshed, we hit the KMS for one final time on our way back to the station via the hotel.

One innovation of this year's Strides has been the leaving of the backpacks at hotels and it must be said that it has been quite a game changer. Yes, we still feel knackered and sore of an evening, but it has been very pleasant not to always be carrying the kitchen sink on our backs.

We take the afternoon train to Torgau in Saxony. This is a wonderful auld town with more than a hint of GDR ostalgia. Our pension is up a dark stairwell, but it's nice enough, despite more abysmal pillows.

We take an evening walk around Torgau, which has a lovely, old world town square. Torgau toyshop is the oldest in the universe, dating back to the Romans. Every other building has been a lodging house at some point or another for Napoleon, Luther, Luther's wife or Russia's Tsar Nicholas. Torgau is also famous for being the place where American and Soviet troops first joined up in April 1945, effectively sealing Hitler's and Germany's fate. Russian graffiti is everywhere, eerily bringing the Cold War back to life.

Schloss Hartenfels Castle is utterly wonderful, with a bear pit that opens onto the main street. I bet your town doesn't have one of those. We eat outside the Ratsstube in the town square.

Back to the Pension, ready for late-night entertainment. Adrian's (wonderful, maestro-like) impromptu melodica concert in the bedroom is (rudely and inexplicably) interrupted by a fellow guest. They must be a (tone-deaf and uncultured heathen who is a) little tired. We (well, one of us) accept the disruption with aplomb (while the other continues to seethe with resentment for days).

Thursday Morning

Up with the lark. We breakfast in the Croissanterie, which sounds nice, but is in fact the supermarket bakery, with three plastic tables set down outside. After that we walk round ...

... the wonderful Großer Teich (big pond).	It is so peaceful, with trees and wildlife, ...
... and a good view of lake from either end.	Lots of photo ops.
Half way round we reach a sign which makes us snigger.

The morning ends with a bonny walk through the modest lakeside housing estate with its datschas and small market gardens. Torgau has shown its best side.

Return to the hotel to use the toilet and pick up our rucksacks. On the way to the station, we find an Indian restaurant open at 11am and order "something local", i e. a couple of Indian beers. We tan them like a couple of gadgies, or should that be Ganges.

Thursday Afternoon and Evening

Back to the train to reach Leipzig's enormous rail station. Outside, it's all open spaces and tram lines, we could be in Göteborg. Don't the outsides to all rail stations across Europe look the same? We stop to eat pasta in the first restaurant we come across, which is about ten metres into a satisfactorily windy street. Vague plans to follow the Notenspur dissolve, we barely real Nikolai Kirche, the focal point of the East German revolution of 1989.

Thence, we head directly to the Thomaskirche and bathe in the holy atmosphere. Bach statue and Bach shop and Bach museum. All wonderful. Pete buys many CDs.

This is no time for idle messing about.

Finally, we tear ourselves away and take a tram to McDreams, which is not in the best part of town and has a crummy lift, but offers a nice, plain, en-suite room. This is a luxury after the long walk which connected our room to the communal toilet and shower, back in East Germany.

We return to the town centre and happily guzzle down a tasty burger at the medieval market, watching starry-eyed youngsters and submissive grandparents squash onto an ancient, hand-powered carousel, before heading back to drink in the heady brew of the pre-konsert atmosphere of the Thomaskirche.

We attend the 399th Passion Thursday performance of the Matthias Passion at the Thomaskirche. We're slightly surprised to be sitting with our backs to the performers, even if this makes things somewhat pleasanter for them. However, if we are sitting in the front pews facing the altar and the performers are gathered around the organ in the organ loft, then that's the way is has to be. It makes sense when you think about it.

Three hours of sitting on hard pews listening to the very best Bach that Leipzig has to offer is honeyed nectar to the ears, but more like rusty, hard tacks to other parts of our anatomy. We luxuriate in the golden delights of a post-mass pint of Schwarzbier and Helles at the traditional Augustiner beerhall at the Marktplatz. Not to mention their cushioned seats.

Bucket list evening.

Friday

Pete, at least, is up with lark again. He gets to the tram stop half an hour before the tram, but the promised bakery is not open. Time passes slowly. His journey home involves a bus replacement from Hamburg to Odense and long delays in Malmö which leads to another night in Halmstad. But without family these are just piddling irritants and not major problems. Back at the Halmstad hotel he resumes his usual seat, this time to watch Edinburgh rugby, but they are no more successful than Glos. Sigh. Home again.

Adrian's experience is not unlike Pete's, albeit starting one hour later. A quiet breakfast at the station bakery cafe is interrupted by an American customer hiccuping spectacularly. Sounds a bit like a duck and a bit like a hyena. It doesn't stop her sitting down to enjoy her bun and entertaining all the other customers. Quite astonishing.

Before long all reservations are rendered null and void for an inconclusive reason Aren't train announcements helpful. He is very glad to have booked first class, which has seats and room, unlike second class. There is a comical moment when the train driver forgets to stop at Gotha station, overshoots and everyone has to wait half an hour to be shunted back. Actually not so funny, when you think about it. The driver must have missed important signals of some kind, but we live to fight another day. Home for tea.

Already, we are planning the next one. It's been another cracker.