We say farewell to our haven at Pension Schneider to go Autobahnstorming for the first time. Traffic is very heavy but fast, taking us through Heilbron and Stuttgart to the east before turning to the south for Oberndorf. We reach the famous home of Mauser, H&K and Feinwerkbau in time for lunch. Apparently the whole town is at lunch; it is some time before the post office reopens for afternoon trading.
We visit the Feinwerkbau factory only to find I have messed up my dates and we are not expected until tomorrow. Despite this unfortunate faux pas we are received graciously, given a very useful road map of Germany and told where to go (to sightsee for a few days). We are keen to see some of Bavaria, in particular a real live castle. Preferably on a hill with majestic views from its battlements. We are assured that Hohenzollern fits the bill pretty well, and is a mere hour or so to the east.
By the time we get to Hohenzollern it is 5 o'clock. All tours have finished for the day and we are unable to drive past the car park 2 kilometres from the top of the hill. Undeterred we march up the road. A mist starts to fall, and it soon takes on all the eerie atmosphere of a B-grade vampire movie. Only much, much colder. We expect at any time to hear a wolven howl. Eventually the castle looms out of the mist directly above us, it certainly must have been a forboding sight to visitors in the past, whether they be invited or not. We reach the top to find nobody in attendence, poke about a bit and wander part way onto the battlements, but decide not to hang around in case they mistakenly lock us in for the night.
We drive back into a conglomeration of townships that seem to quietly merge into each other before finally finding a pension for the night. For some perverse reason we eat an Italian meal at a local pub.
My breakfast highlight is sampling the ultimate industrial-strength coffee. The landlady of this pension obviously takes her coffee very seriously; this brew could turn a sloth hyperactive for a month (before his kidneys give out). Not wishing to incur her wrath I sacrifice my ability to taste anything for the next 24 hours and cheerfully finish the cup.
Outside in the streets is a hive of activity. The weekly markets have arrived. With the proliferation of supermarket mentality in urban areas local farmers have tried to update the town markets to protect their livelihood. A convoy of bakers, delis, fishmongers, greengrocers and butchers set up mobile shops in five or six local towns once a week, giving each town its own market day.
We head off overland (using secondary roads rather then Autobahn) for Ulm, home of Walther and Anschutz. The landscape is markedly different to us. Every two or three kilometres is a town, so tightly packed in that the road is literally bordered by walls and buildings. The open fields have no fences, even on the roadside, and shooting hides are everywhere.
Stopping at Erbach we wander the streets and shop for a while. We discover that the Rathaus, which we have seen in most every town so far, is the aptly-named Town Hall. Now that's taking truth in advertising to the extreme. Speaking of advertising, there is a rather striking billboard poster (for cigarettes, naturally) that would raise more than a few eyebrows out here. Showing two very attractive young ladies relaxing with a ciggy in a spa, just a little too close to be just friends. I regret not taking that photo, it's an interesting study in subtly mixing taboos with eroticism.
We hit the town of Ulm, home to the highest cathedral spire in Europe. But more importantly home to the Walther factory. We gatecrash their office and demand spare parts. Well, to be honest, we follow an employee through the security door, wait for a lady to come down and see us, then beg to be allowed to buy some parts. We must have appealed to her maternal instinct as she agrees.
As valued customers we are given a cup of coffee and installed in an upstairs room obviously decked out for visitors. Toys adorn the walls; most current models of Walther pistols mounted and chained in such a way that we can play with them but not take them with us.
After leaving Walther we get lost somewhere in Neu Ulm. I park illegally and study the map. We are looking for a small optics distributor somewhere in the town. We have been given directions, but I suspect we are approaching from the wrong direction for them to be of any use. A parking inspector approaches. A sad looking woman, unfortunate in her choice of occupation, as I'm sure her unpopularity weighs heavily on her. I bound out of the car, ostensibly to ask for directions but really to stop her from booking us.
Not a word of English, but we manage by sign-language and diagrams to work out where to go. We lay on the lost Aussie tourist routine like a couple of performing seals. Les gives her a tiny stuffed Koala. She looks so happy I think she's going to cry. Must be a bastard of a job.
With all our business here finished we head out in search of some traditional Bavarian towns. Complete with tourist traps. Heading north via Autobahn we eventually reach Dinkelsbuhl. These cobbled streets must be hard on tyres. Everything has been kept as original and authentic as possible. We settle for the night in an old and original hotel where we are supplied with an authentic Bavarian dinner. Just to complete the evening some there is a traditional Bavarian hodown on television.
This is our first real day of contrasts in Germany. For the first time we see blue sky. The grey mirk that has followed us has disappeared and the dawn is perfect and cloudless. We hop a few kilometres up the highway to Rothenberg, famous for holding its traditional Christmas atmosphere all year round. It must work as we all partake in retail therapy to some extent. I buy some beer steins for the family and a few other trinkets.
For lunch we wander into a deserted hotel on a side street. With nobody in sight Les sees a bell hanging on a post and gives it a good clanging. It had the desired effect; we're not alone for long. One mightily annoyed frauline appears and lets fly. The bell is apparently an ornament and has a sign attached to say so. Only dumb foreigners ring it and today she's had enough of them. She certainly puts us in our place, then cheerfully leads us to a table. Then it's off up the Autobahn yet again heading for the former East Germany.
We are by now acquainted with the rules of engagement on the Autobahn. After each new on ramp, if there is no signposted speed limit, there is no speed limit. We cruise along in the middle of three lanes at around 140 kph, passing most heavy traffic and being overtaken by a steady stream of BMWs, Mercedes, Opels and VWs (fast ones, not like the ones we see at home). Their average speed seems to be in excess of 170 kph, and it's imperative to keep scanning the rear vision mirror every few seconds.
We head north for quite some time past Gottingen and Hildesheim, turning to the east at Hannover. The transition into East Germany is dramatic. Our beautifully upkept highway turns into a constant two lanes of road works. Progress slows to 80 kph and the traffic becomes more industrial. Quite thankfully we turn south to cut towards our destination of Schonebeck by secondary roads. Light starts to give out with 20 km to go, so we decide to find lodgings for the night.
Passing through a small town called Wanzleben we stop at a sign advertising a pension outside a two storied house. I knock on the door. A lady in her late fifties emerges after a few minutes and we enquire (by way of pointing at the sign) if there are any vacancies. She nods yes, but then launches into a tirade that none of us have a hope of understanding. Eventually she realises we are too stupid to understand German, and knocks on the neighbours' door. The whole family come out to see the side show. Luckily both children are learning English at school and we learn that the actual pension is a few kilometres back up the road on a side street. It belongs to the lady's daughter and son-in-law, and it is her job to service the units every day.
As we prepare to find it she points back up the road and makes a furious eggbeating motion with her hands and points to herself. We just smile and wave. The family have disappeared and we've had too much sign language for one sitting. Hopefully her daughter speaks some English.
We find the pension with no problem. It's a new house of normal size. We ring the buzzer on the front door and wait. And wait. Twenty minutes later we are contemplating going on to find somewhere else. Heather wonders out aloud what the woman was signaling with the hand movements. "I'll bet she's riding a bike!", she says. Sure enough, a couple of minutes later she turns up panting heavily to let us in.
The area is far from prosperous. We drive into town and have a meal at the local pub. While the natives aren't exactly hostile there is an uneasy feeling about the place. We don't venture far before returning to the pension.