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.