Danube Cycle: the final spin

Budapest is the perfect place to end your Danube ride — scenic, grand, and with the Buda Castle practically built for selfies. But cycling into the city in the middle of a weekday feels more like a survival challenge: dodging potholes, trucks, and a variety of other motorised machines.

Buda Castle: Fisherman’s Bastian selfie-setting

Let’s backtrack to Bratislava, where the last blog left off.

Gabcikovo Dam: Cruising times on Slovak cycle paths

The collective wisdom of the cycling community says that as you head east of Bratislava on the EuroVelo 6, both the path and the traffic get worse. While broadly true, the experience is less a steady slide into chaos and more of an erratic patchwork — mostly you’re cruising, interspersed with (thankfully, brief) periods of handle-bar clenching anxiety.

Choosing your route is part strategy, part luck as any guidebook or route map becomes outdated quickly, as upgrades and diversions happen on both sides of the Danube — in Slovakia and Hungary.

Ipoly bridge with a perfect cycle path was only opened in 2024

Our first foray into Hungary — across the bridge from Komárno (Slovakia) to Komárom (Hungary) — was brief and traumatic. That bridge was not built with cyclists in mind, unless the goal was to weed out the faint-hearted. We promptly retreated and stayed on the Slovak side for as long as we could.

Komarno: On the Slovak side of the Bridge

The route we followed — over 300 kilometres through Slovakia — was mostly on flood levees: easy riding, low traffic. Signage is minimal, but there’s little risk of getting lost. There isn’t much spectacular scenery to distract you, and any deviation from the levee quickly lands you on potholed back roads or highways crammed with impatient motor vehicles. Self-preservation has a way of focusing the mind.

Smooth and pleasant, but hardly spectacular

Štúrovo, our final stop in Slovakia, is unlikely to feature in many tourist brochures. Just across the Danube, its glamorous Hungarian twin, Esztergom, boasts domes, spires, and postcard charm. The vast grey-green dome of the basilica (colour-matched to the Danube?) pulls in tourists on riverboats named after English poets!

Štúrovo’s only drawcards are its budget hotels and the wonderful view of Esztergom castle as you cycle in — though the town could be vastly improved if it simply learnt to put its skeletons in cupboards, instead of leaving them strewn along the main street.

Shortly after Štúrovo, the EV6 veers onto main roads for several tense kilometres. And then — miraculously — a perfectly sealed cycleway reappears just before the new Ipolydamásd Bridge, marking the border into Hungary. We missed the cycleway on the bridge, as did the bemused Frenchman on his way to the Black Sea, whom I ran into while backtracking to photograph the “Hungary” sign.

Perfect! Could it possibly go all the way, nearly 70 kms, to Budapest?

While we were fumbling with phone maps, the Swedish Cyclist swung in, oozing local knowledge. Yes, he assured us, we were on the right path, and yes, it would take us straight into Budapest.

We didn’t quite follow his advice. Instead, we crossed the river again to visit the historic town of Visegrád – our first overnight stop in Hungary. It has the works: river, hilltop castle, stunning views from our boat-hotel.

Ferry crossing from Visegrad to Nagymaros

Next day, we missed a turn and got lost on Szentendre Island. Luckily, it turned out to be the perfect place to get lost: we met an English-speaking chef who not only guided us to the ferry but also gave us a list of must-try Hungarian foods, which we dutifully did as soon as we got into town!

Eventually, trusting in the Swedish cyclist’s ‘local knowledge’ of Hungary, we rejoined the smooth, well-marked path toward Budapest. It was perfect — until it wasn’t. About 10 kilometres before the city, the route dissolved into an industrial hinterland where potholes ruled both road and pavement, and trucks roared by uncomfortably close. The “cycle path” seemed to be whatever flat surface you could ride on. We saw just two other cyclists in this stretch, both carrying what appeared to be the detritus of their lives: bikes festooned with ripped plastic bags, bulging with cans, bottles and rags. It was a throwback to my childhood in Delhi, where adults cycled only if they had no other choice.

Margaret Island: perfectly manicured bushland

The cycle route into Budapest is not well marked. Wth various electronic maps CS (Sidekick) — somewhat miraculously — got us into the peace and shade of Margaret Island, which fully earns its title as the Lungs of Budapest. Our sigh of relief was short-lived. A final dash through traffic on busy main roads, where some drivers seemed unaware that cycle lanes are meant only for cycles, brought us to Budapest city centre— and the end of our journey.

Budapest traffic: shot from the security of our hotel window

1,300 kilometres from the source of the Danube, in 38 cycling days — more if you count sightseeing on rest days, and more still if you count the times we got lost and had to retrace our steps. But who’s counting?

Budapest parliament building: largest in Europe

It feels good to have completed our first-ever long-distance ride at 70. Proves you can indeed teach old dogs new tricks.

And now, the Awards:

BEST WILDLIFE: Germany

BEST FOR 70+ TRAVELLERS: Slovakia (free museum entry)

BEST FOOD FOR HOT CYCLISTS: Hungary (Fruit soup)

And we have just started planning our next cycle trip… all suggestions welcome!

Out of Austria, Into Slovakia: More Sweat Than Tears

Having waxed lyrical (perhaps a touch prematurely) about the sublime cycling infrastructure in Austria, I feel obliged to offer a gentle coda from the country’s eastern frontier. Austria still ranks as a cycling paradise—but as we pedalled east out of Vienna toward Slovakia, a few cracks appeared. Some metaphorical. Some distinctly under our wheels.

Cracks on road after river crossing: story below

The exit from Vienna, heading east, along the north bank of the Danube, is mostly pretty, but less poetic than the approach to the city from the west. At one point the paths through leafy parklands and mellow suburbs fall away and the official cycle route marches you out through a couple of kilometres of industrial estate.

Museum Quarter, Vienna, could have spent many more days there

After Vienna, the path was quiet. The tour groups on bicycles completely vanished. In some ten kilometres through the Donau-Auen’s picture-postcard scenery we counted just three cyclists.

Donau-Auen National Park: not one tour group in sight

Our plan was to cross to the southern bank by ferry at Orth and overnight in Petronell. Why Petronell? Because the stretch from there to Hainburg is lined with Roman ruins—and Cycling Sidekick (CS) has a thing for antiquity.

Reconstructed Roman village in Petronell: photo by CS

This stretch is home to Carnuntum, once the capital of the Roman province of Pannonia Superior. A few kilometres further, there’s a museum at Bad Deutsch-Altenburg and, just beyond that, a medieval castle perched on a hill above Hainburg.

It was a good plan. But then came the ferry crossing, which dropped us off on a pile of pebbles, which was followed by mud, then broken cobblestones bedded into yet more mud (see photo of muddy track above). No signposts. No tarmac. No clue about how to reach the nearby village of Haslau, where we hoped to reunite with EV6 signage and a decent road surface.

We did find Haslau soon enough. But only after dodging highway traffic, leaping over railway tracks, and a good dose of guesswork did we finally rejoin the EuroVelo 6, just when it appeared to be doubling as a tractor road.

Eventually, after a few more missed steps through grassy tracks, the familiar signage reappeared, assuring us that yes, this really was still the EV6—and yes, we were still in Austria. But this part of the track was not the silky-smooth ribbons of asphalt we’d come to expect all the way from Passau to Vienna.

Patchy surfaces continued until just past Hainburg, where the cycle path was restored to its high Austrian standard, eventually delivering us smoothly across the almost invisible border into Slovakia.

Bratislava shimmered in the distance, and with it the promise of an air-conditioned hotel room—before the mercury hit the forecast 37°C.

Austria may still wear the crown for top-tier cycling infrastructure, but summer riding here isn’t for those of us who get easily overheated. Much as I love being out on my bike, I also like to end the day in a room where the air moves—preferably on demand. That’s not something to take for granted in rural Austria, where charming small inns in historic buildings lack air conditioning and no one has heard of an electric fan. Even in our Vienna hotel, the cooling system seemed less than a match for the afternoon heat.

But kaiserschmarrn at Cafe Mozart, Vienna, is pretty good in any temperature

Historically, Austria probably hasn’t needed much indoor cooling. But temperatures here have risen by as much as three degrees since 1900—and they are rising faster than in much of the rest of Europe. Understandably, most hotels weren’t built for this new heat.

More signs of climate change: flood levels chart, near Hainburg an der Donau

However, an Irish friend who’s lived in Vienna for over a decade offered a more culturally nuanced explanation for the lack of even a table fan in most places. “You can’t have fans,” he said, “because they create Luftzug—a draft that invades your body, causing aches, pains, colds….”

Growing up in urban India, where ceiling fans are ubiquitous, I first encountered draft-anxiety 45 years ago, in tropical Indonesia, of all places! All over sweltering Java turning on an electric fan or opening the window of a packed bus, brought howls of protest—“kena masuk angin, loh!” “The wind will get into you.” (Though these days, urban Indonesia has fully embraced air-conditioning.)

As a young researcher, I learnt to respect cultural codes. But as a mature-aged sweaty cyclist I prefer room-ventilation to be unconstrained by cultural considerations.

So, Slovakia came as a relief, just as summer heat reached into the high-30s. Four hotels booked ahead, including two in tiny hamlets—and every single one has promised either air conditioning or a functional fan!

Bratislava by night: from hotel room in air-conditioned comfort

In the end, my affection for Austria remains. But let’s just say we’ve entered into a more realistic understanding. I’ve seen the mud and felt the sweat, and decided that we can only be fair-weather friends.

Some very cool poster art at Museum of History, Bratislava

So far, Slovakia is looking cool and refreshing, with a few additional bonuses like much cheaper food and accommodation. Best of all, entry to the charming Museum of History in Bratislava is FREE for those who remember times when travel meant paper tickets and post-cards not google maps and selfies!

And now, we pedal east, out of the capital Bratislava, into the countryside, wondering how smooth the ride will be…

Austria, We Bike You A Lot! Upper Austria to Vienna

There can’t be many cycle routes in the world that blend pastoral charm, imperial grandeur, and perfectly smooth tarmac quite like Austria’s 380-kilometre stretch of the Danube Cycleway. The Austrian section of the EuroVelo 6 is Mary Poppins-like—practically perfect: signage impeccable, surfaces silky, and views almost unfailingly charming.

Most of the time you see the river and the hills far away

And then there are the OAMTC Fahrrad stations—at least six of them dotted along this stretch of the Danube. A kind of roadside toolkit for the travelling cyclist, each station offers the basic implements of self-rescue: air pump, Allen keys, and more, all mounted on a frame. A little touch of infrastructure, that makes a cyclist feel truly loved.

Bike repair station: we even met the maintenance crew

For much of the ride to Vienna, cyclists are spoiled for choice: left bank or right? Both sides offer their own temptations—orchards, taverns, castles, villages—and whichever you choose, the other side continues to look greener. So, FOMO (fear of missing out) may be your biggest challenge. One day we followed the northern track and missed the pear cider said to be “unique” to Ardagger Markt. Now I’ll never know just how unique. But just ten kilometres downstream, Grein appeared with a theatrical flourish: a bend in the river, a palace poised above the town, and hints of the Alps rising behind. A missed sip, perhaps—but in return, a stage set.

You’ll need to dip south again for Ybbs an der Donau, which probably doesn’t top anyone’s bucket list. But for cyclists, its bicycle museum is an endearing trove of eccentric stories, oddball engineering, and persuasive reminders—if you needed any—of just how marvellous and revolutionary a bicycle really is.

Ybbs: Cycle Sidekick trying out yet another bike

For the Venus of Willendorf, you’ll want to be back on the north side. She’s 30,000 years old, discovered above the sleepy town of Willendorf and now on display in Vienna’s Natural History Museum. A gigantic replica of the 11 cm original figurine watches over the Wachau Valley—a UNESCO-listed ‘cultural landscape’ of myth and memory.

For cyclists, Wachau is the deliciously undulating stretch between Melk and Krems on the north bank, winding through vineyards, orchards, and villages steeped in centuries of slow, productive living. Apricots are in season. Wine tastings can be frequent and sometimes free. In hindsight, that may explain why the road felt so… floaty.

If you’d rather not end your day in Krems—a large industrial town—consider tiny Dürnstein (population 800-ish). England’s King Richard the Lionheart was once imprisoned in the castle above the village. The past isn’t just preserved here—it’s baked in, fermented, and ferried.

We stayed in a bed&breakfast in a 600-year-old building that doubles as the Rathaus (town hall), lunched at a bakery founded in 1780, and bit into a Wachauer Laberl—crusty roll invented here in 1905 and now boasting its own Wikipedia page.

Historic Bakery: here in this building since 1780

Later, you can cross the river on a ferry run by a company that’s been at it since 1358. Though the boats are solar-powered these days, they’ve kept some old communication technology—you summon the ferryman from the opposite bank by banging a metal drum.

We didn’t take that ferry. Instead, we crossed later via the Traismauer Bridge, where the S33 highway and a bike path converge. You and your bike corkscrew up from the river on a ramp shaped like a half-helix to a cycle path, suspended from the motor vehicle bridge, eight metres above water. Fly across the river, and swish down the other side—equal parts cycleway and theme park ride, with industrial chimneys and tranquil waters taking turns to catch your eye.

Photo take from halfway down the ramp, Traismauer Bridge

Then comes a jolt: Zwentendorf, where Austria’s only nuclear power plant squats like a Cold War ghost behind a popular café. The plant was completed but never used, rejected in a 1978 referendum by a margin of less than one percent. Today, it’s rented out for dystopian film shoots. One wonders: what would this gentle stretch of the Danube be like if Austria had voted differently.

The Austrian section of EuroVelo 6 is packed with sights, stories, and what-ifs. The real trick is giving yourself time. Go slowly. Stop often. Don’t choose between the castle, the café, and the scenary—choose all three. Meander left and right, take bridges cute and commanding, ride ferries medieval and modern.

And then—before you quite realise it—you’re in Vienna.

There’s something deeply satisfying about arriving in a great capital under your own steam. No timetables, no turnstiles, no confused rush through the Hauptbahnhof or being disgorged from a tour bus into a cruise ship. Just you and your bike, rolling gently through the outskirts, the Danube now, broad and hard-working, the city gradually revealing itself—new sky-scrapers and old steeples rising through the treetops.

First glimpses of the city still more than 10 km ahead

From the Steinitzsteg Bridge, where EuroVelo 6 swings north towards the Donau-Auen National Park, we peeled off and followed the river toward the Innere Stadt, our base for the next few days. It was one of the easiest, most elegant entries into a major city we’ve ever made—by any mode of transport.

The final riverside stretch is so effortlessly beautiful, you barely notice the shift from countryside to capital—except, perhaps, for the uber-urban graffiti art under the bridges. And then you’re undeniably in the metropolis: bands on boat cafés, trams clanging past palaces, and a cacophony of traffic noises and languages, swirling around you.

Like any other great city, Vienna has its underbelly, of course. But Austria via EuroVelo 6 has no downside for the slow traveller.

Water and Other Food for Thought for the Aspiring Cycle Tourer

In last week’s blog, I mused aloud on the curious reluctance of German cafés and restaurants to serve something the country has in enviable abundance: high-quality tap water. A number of experienced long-distance cyclists responded, and I’ve tried to incorporate their collective wisdom here.

There’s already a torrent (sorry—couldn’t resist the watery metaphor) of online discussion about Germany’s complicated relationship with tap water—cultural, environmental, and economic. I won’t dive into all that, except to say that British journalist Nick Thorpe writes movingly about the ecological consequences of mineral water extraction further downstream along the Danube. If you’re cycling the river, his book is well worth the space in your pannier or on your kindle—more thoughtful and compelling than most in the travel genre.

Back to practicalities. It turns out that a few bold or charming individuals simply ask for tap water—and even receive it. Others report success when requesting a refill after ordering food or drink, particularly in bakeries and smaller cafés. But as a rule, there’s institutional resistance to handing out water for free.

Germany’s hospitality lobby, DEHOGA, has actively opposed any move to make tap water mandatory in eateries. When the EU’s 2021 Drinking Water Directive encouraged countries to improve public access to water, DEHOGA argued that obliging businesses would unfairly burden small operators. So the choice is left to individual owners—and most appear to stick with established practice.

So, if like me, you don’t speak German and would rather avoid social awkwardness, here are some tips from seasoned cyclists for discreet—sometimes even inventive—ways to refill your bottle on a hot ride.

Churchyards and cemeteries (and you pass a LOT of these along your path) – are unexpectedly reliable. Most have taps for watering flowers, and almost all water in Germany is safe to drink. If it isn’t, it must, by law, be marked—look for signs like ‘Kein Trinkwasser’.

Petrol stations and campsites – often have accessible facilities (you don’t pass a lot of these on your way).

Public toilets (paid or unpaid) – anywhere you find a tap, really, seems fair game.

Some cemetery taps require a special key or handle to turn them on. Apparently, these are available in most German hardware stores, and some cyclists carry one in their toolkit. Whether forcing a cemetery tap is strictly legal is, I guess, debatable—but it is definitely more ethical than the bottled water option, since every step in the latter’s supply chain adds to our climate footprint.

If you prefer to keep things both legal and virtuous, check out Refill Deutschland. Their blue droplet stickers mark cafés and shops happy to refill your bottle. It’s a lovely idea, but we didn’t spot a single sticker along our 600 km route through Germany.

And if all else fails—and you really can’t bring yourself to buy bottled water—there’s always beer. Or Sekt, Germany’s answer to Prosecco, for those who prefer bubbles without hops. But be warned: if you confess to not liking beer, every publican has a local brew they’re sure will change your mind.

Austrian Waters (and Paths) of Change?

Even a cup of tea comes with a cool glass of water

Cross into Austria, and suddenly your coffee comes with a glass of water—unbidden. Ask for tap water with your meal and, often a cool carafe appears with no fuss—sometimes even at no charge. At other times, there’s a modest service fee: we’ve paid between €0.50 and €1.50 over the last couple of days.

Delightful, Restaurant Ayam Zaman in Linz, Upper Austria

A Syrian restaurateur in Linz explained patiently: “Tap water here is high in calcium, so we filter and chill it for our guests.” And so, they charge €1.50 per large glass—perfectly understandable, and refreshingly free of the environmental toll that comes with bottled water.

Now, having cycled about 120 kilometres since crossing the border into Austria—I also find myself starting to revise my previous effusive assessment of Germany’s cycle paths. They are, of course, superb. But Austria… might be even better?

So far, the Austrian path seems free of baffling excess of route options that can some times be too much of a good thing for the novice. We never quite got the hang of road signs in Germany, even after 600 kms. Case in point: leaving Passau (our final German town), we aimed for the popular ‘Austrian’ side of the Danube—only to find ourselves on what looked like a prehistoric staircase, not a cycle path.

Cycle Sidekick (CS), who is this team’s official map-whisperer, swears blind he didn’t make a wrong turn. You can make your own judgment from the visual evidence provided.

Happily, ten minutes later we were on the official route— less happily, we were almost immediately swamped by a blur of super fast road cyclists in full flight and determined packs of tourists on rented e-bikes, who seemed more aware of their rights then their responsibility (I will restrain myself from speculating on their nationality). If you can survive the next 20 minutes while everyone overtakes you, you are in Austria.

Day One in Austria: Impeccable bike path hugging the river

From the border to Linz, the EuroVelo 6 has been gloriously smooth, immaculately signposted (with R1 and arrows), and so far no diversions, and not a single patch of path dug up in the name of improvement. The Passau to Vienna section is said to be the most popular long-distance bike path in Europe, and I can absolutely see why.

So, as we ride toward Vienna, the “City of Dreams,” through the land of schnitzel, strudel, and Sachertorte, I wonder—could this be the best country to start baking your cycle-touring dreams into a sweet reality?

The German Leg of Euro Velo 6: The good, the flat and the hmmmm … questionable

Over the past few weeks, we’ve wobbled, explored towns and villages, videoed, and photographed our way along the Donauradweg, Danube Cycleway, and somehow made it to Passau, which is teeming with tourists who’ve arrived quite literally by the boatload. This is our final stop in Germany.

I’m no great cyclist. Not fast, not strong, and unless “middle-aged” has been recently redefined, I’m well past it. Thus, having pedalled some 600 kilometres across Germany, I feel compelled to offer some totally unsolicited advice to anyone dreaming of their first long-distance ride.

The “Practically Perfect”

First: the Danube Cycleway in Germany is flat, mostly. You’re following the river downstream, so gravity is on your side.

Our hotel in Passau: inside old cities, paths can be challenging

But more importantly — Germany does bike paths like no one else. The country’s National Cycling Plan 3.0 (yes, they really have one) runs until 2030 and backs every kind of riding — weekend leisure, daily commuting, and cycle tourism — with substantial funding. Bavaria, like other regions, benefits big time. Cities like Passau have also poured in their own funding. Add another billion or so from the “Stadt und Land” (Town and Country) program, and what you get is a web of beautifully maintained, mostly signposted paths linking towns, cities, and countryside.

Not all the signage is quite this good, but many are

Second: everyone rides. All ages, shapes, and speeds — towing children, with dogs in baskets, carrying a week’s shopping. Lycra is mostly reserved for weekend warriors flexing their calves. For the rest of Germany, cycling seems to be just… normal. You can stop every ten minutes to photograph a duck and no one bats an eyelid. The cars are unfailingly patient and give you space — which I appreciated during my wobblier road crossings.

Straubing. But could be any city centre.

Third: on this route you don’t have to do huge distances each day. There is a lot of accommodation close to the trail — guesthouses, small hotels, campsites, and quirky Airbnbs (with safe bike storage) pop up every 15–20km. You might need to veer off the main trail, but Google Maps will help you get there (and usually warn you about any pesky hills).

And if you do overestimate your fitness, the early sections of the trail, your first 150 kms or so — between Donaueschingen and Ehingen — run close to train lines which provide bail-out options for you and your bike if needed. Later along the way, ferries will help shorten some distances too.

The “Fair Enough”

With great infrastructure comes… roadworks. Lots of them. These can lead to detours, some of which are well signed. Others? Not so much.

Of course, it is your own fault if, like me, you don’t speak German and end up on muddy tracks or winding through industrial zones — not quite the charming riverbank vistas you had in mind.

A brief unofficial detour (i.e. bit lost) is great for building your riding skills

Also, shops are closed on Sundays, so if you need toothpaste or snacks, plan ahead. Luckily, bakeries seem to transcend these rules and are open even in the smallest towns, along with most cafés and restaurants. You’re unlikely to starve.

The “Hmmm…Really?”

Now, about the price of water.

Tap water in Germany is 100% safe to drink — but good luck getting it in a café. No one, literally no one, will give you free tap water with a meal. In most cafes and restaurants a 250 ml bottle costs €3 (about $5 AUD) or more. And don’t expect public water fountains or bottle refill stations along the path either. You’ll get blank stares if you ask to fill up at a café.

I don’t understand why no one drinks the tap water here. Is it just habit? Or a national conspiracy to keep cyclists thirsty for beer (which costs about the same as water)? Either way, best to bring your own bottle, and fill it at your accommodation before you roll out each day.

Bottom-line?

If you’re one of those people thinking, “Maybe … one day … I’ll try a cycle tour,” let me say this: the 600km I’ve just ridden is as good as “maybe-one-day” gets. It’s gentle, scenic, well-organised. Mostly, you can finish your day’s ride in cities or villages layered with stories, myths, histories and architecture from the past. And on good days, there is free music, in the churches and on the streets. You might be tired but you’ll never be bored.

Beuron Monastery: free music in churches

So get planning with two wheels and a bottle. Or if you are still wondering, follow us into our Austrian wobbles.

‘Minor Fall and Major Lift’: From Weltenburg (with a nod to Leonard Cohen)

Just after leaving the tiny settlement of Eining, on a perfectly sealed minor road, my front wheel clipped a kerb, and I fell—gracelessly—onto my hands and knees. But perhaps a tumble off a bike is good karma.

Because, the next thing I remember is Weltenburg Abbey rising where the river cleaves the hills—a benediction in stone. These days, the historic abbey doubles as a 57-room guesthouse. We get a room with a view.

Roughly 200 km earlier, we had departed Ulm—thankfully without any of the drama that had accompanied our arrival (see previous blog). A kind woman at the tourist office had redrawn our route out of the city, avoiding all roadblocks, and set us gently on our way east.

Past Ulm, both river and road settled into an easy rhythm. The Danube widens a little each day as it threads through a landscape that feels increasingly open and productive. Our road, whether hugging the river or veering slightly inland, is mostly flat and often sealed—running through parks, small settlements, floodplains, and along levees between the river and its many canals, branches, and tributaries.

On a rare bright day even the buildings look luminous

Evenings bring feasts of asparagus and strawberries. By day, we ride past freshly harvested fields—true farm-to-table territory. In early summer, poppies hedge the meadows, and water lilies bloom wherever the river pools.

And it’s the season for collecting elderberry flowers

The waterways teem with birdlife: swans showing off for the camera, ducks and geese in every variety and pose. Cycling here could be meditative—if only you weren’t constantly braking for the fleeting silhouettes of herons and storks, who’ve eluded your camera for days.

Swanning around!

The Danube and its surrounds are never quite still—but quietly picturesque. It’s easy to forget how many days or miles or towns you’ve traversed, all the cobbled streets and quaint church spires slipping by. You daydream yourself into some hazy, indefinite past—until a passing tractor jolts you out of it. Or more dramatically, when one of Germany’s abandoned nuclear power stations heaves into view, reminding you that some available paths are best not taken!

Decommissioned power plant at Gundremmingen

I believe I was trying to recall whether it was at Staubing—the next small town—or at Straubing, a larger one further east, that the unfortunate Agnes Bernauer was drowned (that story for another blog, perhaps). The road was a little slick from the constant drizzle… you know how easy it is to slip…

Bruised in limb and spirit, and soggy from the rain, my dearest wish was simply to reach the end of the day’s ride. Post-fall, the path seemed tedious—through farmland and away from the river. Had I been a believer, I would have prayed for a miracle.

And then—almost as if to remind us who’s in charge—the Danube came back into view. The road curved with the river’s serpentine turn, just as the waterway narrowed, deepened, and began slicing through the Fränkische Alb to carve a path through the mountains—for itself, and for us. This is the Donaudurchbruch, the Danube Gorge, where the river has spent millennia chiseling its way through Upper Jurassic limestone, creating a spectacle of sheer cliffs and a current rippling with quiet resolve.

Looking back a the monastery: the next day

The river exhales and spreads out as the cliffs recede just a little. Tucked into this peaceful bend is Weltenburg Abbey—both revelation and refuge.

Founded around 620 AD, it is said to be the oldest monastery in Bavaria. But it was in the 18th century that the abbey took its current form. The Asam brothers—Baroque artists with a flair for the divine—transformed the church into a theatre of ornamentation. Frescoes coil and burst across the vaulted ceiling; marble gleams; golden stucco catches every wandering ray of light. It’s all a bit loud for a limping atheist. I wonder whether even some believers might find this relatively small (in comparison to the great churches elsewhere on our road) overdressed space a touch too theatrical.

The abbey’s older exterior walls feel more attuned to its natural setting—reaching out from the treed hills behind, with just enough foothold on the riverbank to seem sturdy, dependable, and welcoming.

And this sanctuary is no stranger to earthly pleasures. Its brewery, in operation since at least 1050, claims to be the oldest monastic brewery in the world. The restaurant menu is classic Bavarian. If you plan well, you can include board with your lodging. We did not – plan well, I mean!

The next morning, though well-rested, we opted to take the boat through the Weltenburger Enge—one of the oldest nature reserves in Bavaria—up to Kelheim, rather than pedal up the 10% gradient out of the gorge. The views from the water were stunning.

Maybe, sometimes, you have to lose your balance to find the best way forward?

How to Lose and Find: on the Way to Ulm

For those of us with zero German, “Ulm” is a gift of a name. One crisp syllable. Easy to say, easy to remember. But—if you’re arriving by bicycle—may be not quite so easy to get in.

We found the gateway to Ulm! Eventually…

Our guidebook, published five years ago, helpfully warned of major construction works along the approach to Ulm. We assumed they’d be long finished.

We had not done our homework.

Impressive height: Minster and the scaffolding!

Ulm’s world-famous Minster, boasting the tallest church steeple in Christendom, took over 500 years to build. Construction began in 1381 and wrapped up in 1890, with a casual two-century pause somewhere in the middle while it transitioned from Catholic cathedral to Protestant minster. Renovations, which started in 2015, are scheduled to continue until 2030. Clearly, Ulm takes the long view.

So we shouldn’t have been surprised when, on the outskirts of town—with that soaring steeple within sight—the Danube Cycle Path ran into a literal wall of red road signs, metal fencing, and firm authority.

NO GO!! Road works ahead for the next several years???

We tried the usual tourist tactics—confused pointing, hopeful shrugging, miming alternative routes—but were met with a firm “NEIN” and some impressive hand gestures that strongly suggested, go away.

So we turned around. Slowly.

Looking for… anything, really. A path. A clue. Divine intervention.

Detour map by CS: stop sign to hole in the ground

About a kilometre back, we spotted what might once have been a railway underpass, now reclaimed by moss and mystery. It didn’t appear on any map. It could lead to the road which we could hear somewhere overhead, or to Narnia. CS (Cycle Sidekick, not Lewis) went to investigate on foot. I stayed back with the bikes and a brave face.

Moments later, three Germans on sturdy electric bikes rolled up. I launched into an impromptu game of charades:

Lost Tourist 😞 → Blocked Road ✋🤚 → Detour? 🧐

The man in the group nodded in quiet understanding and, without a word, disappeared into the same tunnel where CS had vanished minutes earlier. We three not-so-young women looked at one another. New to the etiquette of cycle touring, I wondered if this is how route-finding works here: when in doubt, follow the most recent person who disappeared.

Just then, a much younger man emerged from the same underground passage where two older ones had disappeared, and began speaking to one of the German women in gestures scattered with sort-of English words. She looked puzzled: why would this man think she was married to a lost Australian on the other side of the rail track?

Thankfully, pretty soon, both husbands (hers and mine) reappeared. Mistaken identities were sorted and better still, we now appeared to have a way forward.

With no more ceremony, the young man grabbed my bike, still laden with two panniers and hauled it up some 30 crumbling steps of the underpass and onto a back lane somewhere above ground.

The rattle and shake of our way forward

We barely had time to thank him before he zipped back down to help the two other women with their far heavier e-bikes. Three lifts, three zips, and he was gone—vanished back into the tunnel like a character from a cycling fairy tale.

Obviously he was a ‘track angel’: those miraculous creatures who appear whenever you are faced with insurmountable problems, on a long road (whether hiking or riding) and disappear before you can whip out your camera and take a photo. If you have not met one, that is only because you have not needed one yet.

But it wasn’t just him. All week, cycling through Bavaria and Baden-Württemberg, we’ve been met by unexpected kindness. The sort that steadily dismantles the cliché you’ve learnt about German formality.

Unexpected, perhaps because the stereotypes are so deeply embedded. Germans, you are told, are efficient, punctual, law-abiding…no one said they were funny, warm, generous.

Early in the week, a young German cyclist had said to me wistfully, “I really want to visit Australia. Everyone there is so friendly.”

“Germans are friendly too!” I protested.

He remained unconvinced: “Maybe to foreigners. But to each other? We are… quite strict.”

We all know, of course, that such generalisations can only be wrong. That the real story is told in individual moments of engagement, in snippets of conversation. Like when the owner of Fridingen’s Donauback Bakery, insists on giving us a bag of rolls—“German bread, to try!”—and refuses every attempt to pay. When the youngest monk in Beuron’s ancient monastery shares his passion for the art movement born within the walls of the cloister. Or the retired linguist who once cycled this same path we are on, gently unravels the highs and lows of our own upcoming route. And all the faster cyclists who stopped to explain a sign, translate a menu, or point us gently on our way.

And just when we thought the surprises were done for the day, the woman at Ulm’s tourist centre beamed and said, “Oh, but you must stay extra day! Deutsches Musikfest starts tomorrow.”

There was free music, everywhere—from the ethereal organ concert under the soaring ceiling of the Minster to brass bands bouncing off the cobbled streets round the old city square. You can’t say no to such gifts: from the river, its shores and its people!!

The Danube has carried us through more than towns and meadows—it has been a river of goodwill.

The Danube way: practically perfect despite a few challenges

So, with full panniers and bellies full of bread, we wobbled out of Ulm—serenaded by good memory, and carried by hearts full of kind vibes, a little pedal power and just a dash of curiousity about what we might loose and gain around the next bend of this river.

Beginning: A very good place to start…

‘Let’s start at the very beginning/ A very good place to start…’

But how do you tell where a river—or a journey—truly begins?

The Danube, Europe’s second-longest river, winds through ten countries over 2,850 kilometres, from the Black Forest to the Black Sea. It invites walkers, cyclists, and other travellers to trace its curves across the continent. But where, exactly, does it begin?

In the town of Donaueschingen, Germany, a small spring bubbles up beneath a castle courtyard. It is encased in stone and watched over by a 19th-century statue depicting the Baar, Germany’s great central plateau as Mother pointing to daughter Danube the course she should take.

This spot is the official (if not the most scientific) “source” of the Danube, the Donauquelle. As a friendly German tourist, pausing for a photo like the rest of us, explained: “It’s all politics—this place won because it was inside the castle.”

Other places make their own claims to the Danube’s origin. Some say it starts further uphill at the Bregquelle near the Martinskapelle chapel. Others argue it begins downstream, where the Breg and Brigach rivers meet. Official or not, all these stories are part of the river’s charm.

What won us over about Donauquelle was its easy access. You—and your bike—can hop on a train from any number of major cities (we came from Munich) and roll straight into Donaueschingen station. From there, it’s just a short ride to the spring, where you can snap your first triumphant selfie and mark the start of your journey. Best of all for the not-so-bold cyclist: it’s mostly downhill from here.

From Donaueschingen, the Danube Cycle Path unfurls gently. About two kilometres of gravel wind through shaded parkland before arriving at the confluence of the Breg and Brigach—two modest rivers whose meeting marks the Danube’s first true appearance. It’s here, without plaque or fanfare, that the great river gets its name: the Danube.

Backtrack a few meters and pick up the cycle route to glide toward Tuttlingen, where the EuroVelo 6 joins the Danube Cycle Path.

The Donaueschingen-to-Tuttlingen leg is especially kind to those who like their rides easy: sealed roads, flat terrain, and picture-postcard views of farmland and red-roofed villages. Not up for the full 35 km? “No worries,” as we Aussies say—the cycle path passes two train stations, and Deutsche Bahn trains here graciously allow bikes on board for free.

In front of the Michelin-starred Meet&Eat

Tuttlingen, an unassuming industrial town with surprising culinary flair, makes an ideal stopping point. For those who like to end a day’s ride with a gourmet flourish, Meet & Eat (open Thursday to Sunday) offers a Michelin-starred experience with a casual twist—a menu that accommodates chilli con carne alongside enoki mushrooms on something fancy. At the posher end of the spectrum, Vinzenz Weinkeller, housed in a moody cellar, flickers with candlelight and sparkles with fashionable diners.

At the end of our own soggy ride, however, the hotel staff directed us to La Vie, a family-run favourite serving Swabian comfort foods, like Maultaschen (a sort of large ravioli) and Spätzle (egg noodles) with lentils and sausage. And they didn’t mind sodden boots.

And so the journey begins—not with a torrent, but with a whisper: slow down, ride easy, and taste the journey one unhurried pedal stroke at a time. Who cares if the river starts in a prince’s fountain or at a monastery on the hill? What matters is that it flows, it’s alive, and it invites.

In Munich: Love at first Ride?

How do you find the perfect partner for life’s most important journeys?

You want a companion who is smooth yet dependable. One who won’t falter at the first sign of a bump in the road, who navigates curves with ease, shoulders your burdens with grace, and doesn’t mind getting down and dirty when you decide to go the distance on a forest track in the rain.

CS (Cycle Sidekick) searched high and low—through the sun-dappled streets of Bavaria, in whispered conversations with the weathered and wise, and around a block or two with sleek Italian frames that promised passion and performance. He had once considered a strictly holiday fling with Decathlon ‘buy back deal’ — but it felt like a costly option. After spending most of our first three days in Munich rehearsing ‘to buy or not to buy’, I put my foot down. “Time to commit,” I said.

And so, on Saturday, CS finally pledged himself to a sturdy German number: a Kalkhoff Endeavour 24. Kalkhoff is mostly known for its electric bikes, but no sparks here—this is an old-fashioned leggy sort. A pragmatic choice, really, and mostly to stop me whinging.

We come from the land down-under: 17th century globe, Haus der Kunst, Munich

I am not known for my patience. And we had arrived in Munich a little depleted. Having boarded in Perth, in the Land Down Under ‘where flights are long and men chunder’ (prophetic lines from the iconic Men at Work, slightly repurposed here) CS was struck down by his traditional long-haul migraine, topped off with a mild case of Bangkok belly, courtesy of some delectable bites in the Thai Airlines lounge during our two-hour layover.

At that same airport, my new pannier—supposedly designed to transform into a backpack with the flick of a strap—snapped a plastic bit and was now a sack with attachment issues. Then somewhere over the India-Pakistan border, I dropped my phone charging cable between two airline seats. The flight crew sprang into action and unearthed a mountain of torn plastic wrappers. My charger, however, was forever lost in the mysterious vortex of airline seat mechanics.

For reasons I blame entirely on media stereotypes, I always expect the smoothest airport arrivals in Germany. But when several plane-loads disgorged simultaneously in Munich, the arrival hall developed the kind of calm and order reminiscent of Madras Airport, circa 1984—only without the dozens of porters on hand to manhandle you into the right queue.

Having abandoned all hope of finding signage or sense, I was pondering the big question—“Is German orderliness a myth?”—when I spotted a woman waving a yellow flag, shepherding a flock of tourists clutching laminated itineraries. We followed her brisk movements through the chaos, into the promised land: i.e. the correct queue and soon emerged into the sunshine and the blessed efficiency of the German train system.

White sausage and Pretzel lunch at Fraulein Gruneis Kiosk, English Garden

On the S-Bahn (Munich’s suburban railway), a chatty UK expat—resident in Germany for “20 years”—reassured me that our airport experience had to be a “rare aberration.” The rest of our Munich experience bears this out: Germans do, indeed, lead the world in punctuality, efficiency, beer, and pretzels.

No! These are not my size!! Found along one of the many pavements we hit in Munich, in search of a bike for CS.

Things continued to improve. An email from Tobi, the bike guy, confirmed that my own noble steed—a Specialized Sirrus X3 (see previous post for details of the search)—was ready for pickup. So now we both have our mounts, and only time will tell how well-suited we are for the long road ahead.

This is my bike! Great on the road and pretty good on gravel.

Meanwhile, I’ve found new love: an extraordinary variety of delectable local breads. I’ve sampled at least 12 kinds (more, if you count dumplings). I’m not over-indulging; I am carbo-loading — which, I understand, is the best way to prepare for the endurance needed over a thousand kilometres on a bicycle😋 That test will start in two days!

Thursday Bread market, Marienplatz, Munich

No doubt some wise person has said this already: like the glorious leavening of dough into bread, best journeys are slow and transformative.

But wisdom is not allaying my doubts: can we go the distance???

Bike-sized puzzle for a river-side ride

We are off! Our first big cycle touring experience is about to begin: plan is to ride on the famous Danube Cycleway from the source of the river in Germany, through Austria and Slovakia all the way to Budapest in Hungary.

Google says this is cycleway signage in Europe: we’ll soon find out

First step? Get a bike. Big question? Do I haul one all the way from Australia (yes, Australia, not Austria) or buy one somewhere in Europe. Turns out that long-distance cyclists are passionately divided on this. Some swear by bringing their trusty two-wheeled steed from home. Others say, “Packing and unpacking bikes for airline travel is for mugs. Just buy one when you land.”

Tempting logic. But bikes are cheaper in Oz—easily 30% less for a new one—so I was firmly in Team BYO.

Then I imagined myself in Munich airport, jet-lagged after a 24-hour flight from Perth, surrounded by a deconstructed bike, trying to reassemble mysterious bits with all the mechanical skill of … I was going to say a donkey, but that seems unfair to the beast.

My life-partner and Cycle Sidekick (CS for the purposes of this series), is definitely much techier. But when I point to the bike I’m eyeing—with its futuristic hydraulic disc brakes—he gives it a look usually reserved for malfunctioning software on alien spacecraft in Bollywood movies.

Bollywood movie hero, not Cycle Sidekick

That settled it: transporting a DIY bike-size puzzle across continents is not the dream. We will buy our bikes in Munich, because nothing says “well-planned bike-touring” like landing on foreign soil with no wheels, no language skills and a mission to buy a bicycle before the jet lag hits!

In preparation, we dive into the on-line maze of new and second-hand bike sellers, plus rental sites, hoping for the miracle of a perfect bike. The options are endless if, like CS, you are 6-foot tall and built to default settings. But there is a small problem…me – a towering 156 cm, or 5 foot 1 and a bit.

On one promising rental site, I optimistically click through buttons labeled in what might be German (or may be hieroglyph) and land on an enquiry form. First question: height, with a menu of tick boxes that begin at 160 cm. Apparently, short people don’t ride bikes in Germany. (What are we riding instead? Rats? Like that fat Indian god called Ganesh?)

Eventually, after trawling through enough listings to qualify for a job in bike sales, I strike gold: a modern version of a bike I used to own early this century— Specialized brand, sleek and familiar. Better still, the company’s website says it comes in XS. Cue: cautious optimism.

I try the Munich shop officially listed as a Specialized agent. They have a recorded message in German. Then four words in English ‘press 2 for English’. I do; again; and again and again. And the message loops – over, and over and again. I give up after a week or so on hold, still unsure whether it was a customer service line or an immersive performance piece by the Hairy Godmothers (Declaration of interest: I am the biological mother of one of the creatives in the group. So ignore/forgive this PR exercise.)

Then – finally – a breakthrough! I find another shop—and miraculously, a human — Tobi. “I speak a little English,” he says modestly, then proceeds with perfect clarity.

He checks the stock. Yes, he has a small frame of the model I want. “It is very small,” he warns.

“Yes, but I think I need the XS,” I reply.

There’s a pause. “Really? No! That is … almost …like for children!”

Never mind the indignity. “Could you get me one by the 15th? Yes May, yes this year, in a week, in fact…”

Tobi hesitates, weighing up the logistical problems and then, with the air of a man resigned to doing something mildly ridiculous, he says “Okay. Let me see if we can make it happen.”

And just like that, the wheels of my adventure crank into gear – still slow (always slow as the reader of this blog knows), still tentative. But, there is movement in the air!

Stay tuned if you like your travels scenic and serene—with the occasional wobbles from Yours Truly, a latecomer (age politely withheld) to the fine art and eccentric science of bike-trekking.