Circles of Tail Chasing -- Part Three

On foot in Franconia

With the misadventures of travel planning behind, and a good night's sleep past, Friday dawned cool and damp.  Breakfast was a feast worthy of Rabelais, something to suit Gargantua and Pantagruel.  The hotel buzzed with folks preparing for a day of moto adventures, but I, being on foot, must make other plans.  I sat on the terrace overlooking the narrow road past the hotel, drinking coffee and smoking a good morning cigar.  Members of our group appeared, clad in riding gear, as folks queued up for the Friday ride.  As I was sans moto, my time was to be spent on foot, wandering about the woods and fields.

Franconia is a region of knobby hills, woods, fields and valleys.  The locals fall prey to the same vanity as the Viennese, naming hills Alps.  While not possessing the craggy splendor of the genuine article, the Franconian hills are laced with hiking and biking trails that offer fine wandering.  There is no need of motorized transport to find a hiking route.  One simply leaves the hotel, climbs the steep lane above the hotel, and in five minutes is ascending the rocky outcropping to the upper reaches of the valley.

Quiet roads and solitude

The path climbed wet stairs through dense undergrowth, topping out on a fine vista from the rock outcropping above the hotel.  The valley stretched out below me, dappled in clouds that threatened rain.  The air was cool and damp.  A perfect day for exploring.  I walked past an aerial obstacle course strung through the forest canopy.  Kids in climbing harnesses were negotiating the zip-lines and wire walks, all under the watchful eye of adult guides.  I passed out of the forest and edged along open fields, entering a rolling countryside.  Up here, on the lonely trails above the valley, I would not see another hiker.

Grain and Clouds

Meandering along trails and gravel farm roads, I traipsed from field to wood.  Passing now and again through tiny farming hamlets, each neat as a pin, the day was spent as if in a picture postcard of tidiness.  There was no litter, no disorder, seemingly nothing out of place to mar the sense of rural peace.  Every now and again I was greeted by a friendly farmer out stacking wood or tending to the fields.  

If you seek the quaint and lovely, this is your spot

So it went for the course of two days.  Companionable mornings and evenings separated by daytime hours of solitary hiking.  I am obliged to describe the reasons for this small trip.  This gathering of moto-oriented folks was EuroPrez22.  As the name implies, it is the twenty-second gathering of this group, which comprises motorcycle aficionadi from across the continent of Europe and beyond.  There is an overlap between membership in the EuroPrez group and the Village Idiots.  As a long-standing Idiot (read into that what you will) I have come to know some of the EuroPrez folks.  Several of my friends in the USA are regular guests to the EuroPrez gatherings.  

It came to pass that my friend and erstwhile riding companion, Darryl, was leaving the confines of California to make his annual pilgrimage to Europe.  While casting about for a suitable rendezvous, we hit upon the EuroPrez gathering as an ideal solution.  Not only would I be able to spend some time with Darryl and Steve, but Carlo, my Belgian friend, would also be in attendance.  Lastly, I would be able to put faces to folks that I have only known in the virtual world.  There would be many mischievous birds, as it were, hit by the same stone.

The gathering was a fine thing, full of laughter, food, drink, and tall tales.  My tales, at least, were tall.  I cast no aspersions on the tales of others.  This would be the suitable place to offer my thanks to all of the EuroPrez members who welcomed me into their group.  I would particularly like to thank Dieter and Irene for their skillful organizing and hard work putting this event together, not to mention finding me a spare bed.  And, of course, to Alessandro for sharing it.  

Who could resist a photo of a vintage fire engine?

I slept soundly, ate massive breakfasts, and roamed the hills and valleys.  Mornings and evenings were spent laughing, swapping tales, and groaning from to much food consumed.  The lines of motos roared out of the tiny hamlet of Veilbronn, returning in the late afternoon.  While walking the lanes and trails, I would occasionally catch a glimpse of motos twisting up a small road.  I waved to all of them, not knowing if they were part of our group of some of the many other riders who come to this region for a weekend of exploration.  Thus passed the time, swiftly, as is its wont.  

There is no conflict to this story, no thread to bind it into a narrative.  This would be the appropriate point to introduce some plot twist, perhaps a chase scene or some complete breakdown of civility and violent riot on the terrace, but nothing of the sort transpired.  Sometimes life is like that, peaceful and without incident.  Better, I think, not to look for too much excitement when things are peaceful.  The Universe has a funny sense of humour and might grant my wishes in unexpected ways.

Thus and such:  Walking in a Postcard

So passed the time.  Sunday morning dawned, cool and bright.  I was up and about before the dining room opened, walking out to savor the quiet.  Today there would be one more hike, this time retracing my steps back down the valley to the little town of Ebermannstadt.  From there, I would take the tiny two-wagon train to Forcheim, then Nuremberg, and hence the ICE speeding back to Wien.  I had the luxury of time, time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, coffee on the terrace, a last cigar smoked amongst friends.  Then the motos would line up and depart, spreading out across Europe, heading back to homes scattered across the continent.  And I, I would shoulder my pack and walk down the green valley.

Morning on the last day

And so it came to pass.  The walk down the valley was lovely.  The Deutsche Bahn was on time and uneventful.  I stepped off the ICE and onto the platform at the Wien Hauptbahnhof.  There was My Heart, waiting for me.  Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.

There are the memories to be savored and a new gathering of friends to look forward to.  Next year it will be Italy!  What a fine excuse for a trip.  Perhaps by then I will have a new moto, some trusty steed to whisk me from Wien to Italia.  Again, a hearty thank you to each of the EuroPrez members that made me welcome, made me laugh, and shared their gathering with me.