On the smallest paths through Germany, part II

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On the smallest paths through Germany, part II

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On the smallest paths through Germany, part II

On the smallest paths through Germany, part II
Is it going to the Baltic Sea somewhere??

Adventure Germany: the turning point. With 8.6 PS from the Watzmann to the connecting rod bearing damage in the Bavarian Forest. And now by enduro through the former GDR. Over slopes, slab paths and cobblestones. Course north ?? towards the open sea.

Monika Schulz, Annette Johann


Posseck, Gassenreuth ?? here he must be. Walking pace, palpitations ?? somewhere between the hedges. Or rather between Sachsgrun and Loddenreuth? No Here. Heat shimmers over the fields, we roll up and down the road, peering. There! A black-red-gold border post: “To commemorate the opening of the border on December 21, 1989.” And indeed, just behind it, it is barely recognizable into the bushes, swings over the next hill, disappears into nothing. The Kolonnenweg! Alongside Stalinallee and Avus, one of the most historic routes in Germany. Spooky. Dreaded. Hated As a patrol route for the National People’s Army, it flanked the dehumanized zone border from Hinterprex to Lubeck Bay. 1,393 kilometers, concrete slab to concrete slab, relentless. A huge monument of 40 years of division, growing together unnoticed with the ground. Adventure Germany. In the middle. What began so contemplatively with two NSU Lux at Watzmann, but was abruptly stopped in the Bavarian Forest by the death of a connecting rod bearing (MOTORRAD 9/2002), is continued not far from Hof: »on the smallest paths through the republic«. Only now with five times as much horsepower. What changes everything. If the oldies still counted on the fact of making progress at all, what counted were devotion, tolerance and perseverance, while driving the two emergency-chartered DR 650s practically ran on its own. So we created a new challenge: even smaller ways! At best, those that are no longer even on the map. Without direction, free navigation, course ?? clear: the Baltic Sea. The first object was the slab path. We follow it over the hills of the Vogtland towards Modlareuth. The Americans called it “Little Berlin” because the village with 50 inhabitants was divided by a wall. Thuringia on the one hand, Bavaria on the other. Watchtowers, tanks, vehicle ditches, searchlights ?? everything is still there. Memorials in recent German history: “Freedom means remembering.” Less than ten kilometers away, down in the valley, the A9 swings grandly towards “Big Berlin”. Shimmering silvery, asphalted as picobello. No more parallels to the brittle concrete slab route on which the current of cars once tormented its way through the customs barracks at the Rudolphstein / Hirschberg transition. The check-in halls have become modern rest areas, instead of blue stamps there are sausages with mustard. We stay off, cross the hall and continue to beat our way through the bushes. On a tempting meadow path that is opened by a rotten 30 km / h sign. On the right a half-ruined watchtower, on the left a miniature cross-track, in front a flock of sheep, behind it a little wood and then probably the end of the world. The central sward becomes wider and wider. First doubts about the legality of this route. Suddenly a green Simson moped. Au cheek, the shepherd! And we with the fat enduro bikes in Wallachia. Something like that always causes trouble. Not here: “Now, where did you want to go?” It sounds in a friendly saxon from under the stone-old helmet. “Still Saalburch? Well, there is a little change. ”We thank you kindly for the tip, bump on and somehow get to the targeted campsite at the Saale reservoir. Washrooms with green and white stragula, oil paint flair from the 60s, a wooden toilet cart and a nice owner create an optimal ambience. There is still space between a faded kennel tent, a light green folding bike and a couple of hilarious Berliners. The nearby gas station sells Solyanka canned soups and a lonely bottle of French red wine between 17 Hungarian and Yugoslav varieties. The evening is saved. Behind Saalburg we dive into the old heart of the GDR. Isabelle green, goat back ?? Names as beautiful as the hamlets themselves with their village ponds, mighty churches and cobblestone streets. In the forest between Grochwitz and Dorflas, the bumpy asphalt gives way to a deadlocked track. Tiny directional arrows between hiking markings show the connections to Crispendorf and Liebengrun. “Village festival in Obersyderstadt!” A painted sheet on a barn in Untersyderstadt invites you to the next weekend. The harvest is almost in, combine harvesters work their way through the night with spotlights, Germany groans under a summer of the century. Everyone is looking forward to a respite to extinguish dust. Complete road closure at Ziegenruck. At least the eleventh today. Almost all communities are hard to build. Only with the signposting of diversions, they are not so. Often only instinctive navigation helps, but we have had practice in this by now. The Thuringian Slate Mountains rise up around us, the dark stone of which characterizes the lovingly restored houses in the area. Schmorda, Orlamunde, Magdala, Trobsdorf. Like an oasis, the “Zum green Thale” inn attracts visitors with its bright red chairs and oilcloth blankets under green and white Apolda beer umbrellas and stone-old chestnuts. The coffee costs 75 cents, there is no cake, but cheeky guesswork at the next table: »S ?? is des Suhl … or Solingen …? ”When we let out a“ Stuttgart ”, the three old warriors are almost moved. “Stuttgart! Well, we’ve never been here before. We toast each other with a grin. Swabia is as new to them as Thuringia is to us. International understanding in Germany: the vineyards of Saale-Unstrut begin. Querfurt remains on the left, between the vines it goes to Schwittersdorf. Road construction site, of course. Among the men of the local winegrowing community, a palaver emerges like at a Central American bus stop. Which is the direct way to Wettin? Everyone knows a better route. “There over the field lane!” “Oh what, via Beesenstedt to Kloschwitz …” “No! Never sweat! ”Thank goodness Brother Flatfoot didn’t strike until a few hundred meters later, the repair would probably have called the entire workforce on the scene. A Trabbi driver passing by offers help, but the tire pilot is already ready to go. The Corpus Delicti looks heavily like a barrel nail, as a friendly souvenir of the Schwittersdorfer Weinzahne. It was nice anyway. Unfortunately, the mishap just messes up the tour for us. Instead of Wettin, you need to find a gas station to catch your breath. The safest place should be Halle. Hall! Less than ten kilometers from here. Actually, we wanted to avoid it. Phew, it’s like surfacing in a submarine. Suddenly it is completely clear again where we are. The whole hinterland idyll is flaking off like paint. The four-lane road bores its way through the suburbs, past dilapidated, half-empty prefabricated apartment blocks. In between, Wilhelminian style houses that are ready to be demolished. Thrown windows, walls sprayed with slogans. Once the center of the GDR industry, Halle is now an emigration area. The unemployment rate ?? astronomic. However, the petrol station industry appears to be flourishing. Brightly colored flat roof temples in a gray city. Cool characters on the self-service teats and petrol pumps, wrecked cars, splintered vodka bottles – it’s already dark when we make the bend. Too late for any route engineering experiments. The next campsite is behind Bitterfeld. Bitterfeld, that too. In socialist days, with its notorious chemical factories, it was one of the largest polluters in the country. But the recreation area at the Muldestausee presents itself as an Eldorado for nature lovers. With field mouse reserve, owl colony and plant nature trail. Not bad at all. The next morning, the tenant from the “Grune Heide Camping” tells about the conflict between the Bitterfeld administration, which is still believing in progress, and the rebellious environmentalists and tourists. “They keep cutting down the avenues, hoping that their industry will get their butts up again. The train left long ago. Wide streets don’t help either. ”The neighboring district is doing better, she says and recommends a visit to Ferropolis. They have indeed broken new ground there, converting a disused lignite mining area into a huge open-air theater. Five gigantic, discarded conveyor excavators form the backdrop around an arena that can hold 25,000 people. If such a monster overturned in the past, the Russian army had to advance with tanks. Not ten kilometers further ?? complete change of scenery. The idyll of the Worlitz Park. World Heritage. Moated castle, fountain, horse-drawn carriages and bus tour groups. Nice but full. We bump on an almost prehistoric cobblestone avenue towards Coswig. 800 meters before the city, however, is the end, only a small landing stage protrudes into nowhere. We have reached the Elbe. The ferry is roping over from the other bank on a jet hawser. One euro per person and machine. “And hold on to the mopeds, it rocks!” Unnoticed, the Saxon dialect has given way to the Berliners of the Brandenburgers. “It’s called Heilbronn. They are Swabians! «Re-classifying our origins. This time two cyclists at an endlessly closed level crossing. The express train to Dessau is probably delayed. We stay on the B 107 for a while. But after 28 kilometers it’s shift. We can’t do it anymore. Are unsuitable for wide streets and heavy traffic, for traffic lights and annoying small town episodes. Off to Schmerwitz. A seemingly forgotten place, in which only the tractor driver of the local VEG seems to live. And now this unbelievably beautiful avenue is available all to himself, which seems to stretch its canopy of leaves behind the crumbling brick walls of the village to the Baltic Sea. Schmerwitz, Werbig, Verlorenwasser. We are approaching the “center of the GDR”. In the middle of the forest the notice board, next to it a pavilion and inviting picnic benches. A place made for school trips. Thank goodness there are holidays. Silence, only the wind in the trees and not a single car during an hour and a half rest. Lehnin, Grob Kreutz, the landscape has now become flat. Sandy soils and pine forests expand, Theodor Fontane’s famous Brandenburg sand can has welcomed us. At Ketzin it goes over the Havel. We have arrived at the latitude of Berlin, curve westwards around the city until the first foothills of the vast north-east German lake landscape appear near Neuruppin. Sounds promising, despite the adjacent military area. There is also a campsite. Located under old trees on the bank, we can hardly believe it. Perfect actually. If it weren’t for Mr. Thiel. Mr. Thiel is a permanent camper from line seven and when the reception is closed he is the deputy block … uh ?? Groundsman, i.e. the master of all the keys for the barriers, sanitary rooms and lounges. And nothing works without them. Everything is meticulously locked. Maybe military area after all, we think after the third whistle “because of unauthorized driving on the footpath”. It’s a shame that the rest of the permanently installed campers also find »Wessis« obviously superfluous and »would like to dispose of all the new political asses in Berlin in the Landwehr Canal«. We hold out for another day. Cruising through a wonderful network of sand, forest and meadow paths, see kingfishers and herons. In the evening, two canoeists dock at the campsite. Grandpa and grandson Oli, who spent a week on the lakes, report on otters and ospreys on the Muritz. Friendly people, both of them. But when they later unpack the out-of-tune guitar and start singing lads’ songs, we start packing. We set off at dawn and start the last stage. Via Flecken Zechlin, Zempow and Krummel to Robel. Important location of the newly discovered and nobly pepped up holiday paradise of Muritz. However, the Mercedes riot of tourists did not last long. With Malchin, sky-blue Trabbis dominate the scene again, quietly rotting in the gardens of the simple brick houses. Old farm equipment is rusting next to decaying barns. Since there were no longer any LPGs, the vast surrounding fields are mostly cultivated by clever farmers from the west. In a fully technical one-man operation. Mecklenburg Western Pomerania ?? one of the poorest federal states in Germany. Towards evening we climb over the dunes near Graal-Muritz, board the locked beach chairs of the upper class. Only the sea ahead of us. Two weeks and almost 1400 kilometers behind us? in an unknown country in the middle of Europe.

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