Danube cycle from Ulm to Bratislava - Days 3 and 4

I don't want to keep raving about the German breakfast, but I�m easily swayed by copious amounts of good food arrayed in front of me. This morning I�m even given five bottles of different juices to choose from. 

�I�ll take the 100% apple, danke.� 

The host has also sliced fresh kiwi-fruit, strawberries, apples and pears into a delicious salad. And if that�s not enough natural sweetness, she�s added a berry compote and natural yoghurt. 

After we�ve scoffed this delight, she brings a cute wicker basket of eggs to our table and says something in German. Cathie wisely nods yes. 

I shake my head. I�ve never been a fan of hard-boiled eggs. The woman walks off with the basket and returns a few minutes later with a plate of scrambled eggs, cooked to perfection. As she offers Cathie the plate, I make a sound similar to the whining of a hungry dog. Three minutes later, I am also indulging in scrambled eggs.

Cathie says, simply, �Never refuse food.� 

Substantially heavier than last night, we cross the Danube and follow the sign, which unfortunately points up a rather steep hill, to Ingolstadt. No matter. I have eaten scrambled eggs.

When I reach the top, I have a lovely view back toward Neuburg with the castle imposing and fortress-like above the river. We settle down to gentle kilometres of riding between fields of wheat, rape and multi-coloured lettuce. A kilometre off to our right, the row of trees indicate the river course, but it seems as if the Eurovelo 6 authorities have decided that we should climb these hills instead. Atop the next hill, I see that on the far side of the river are chimneys of industry spewing smoke into the cloudy sky. Nice Eurovelo 6 folk, keeping we cyclists away from the dubious activities of humankind.

In the small village of Bergheim, we cycle past an old lady with a glorious knot of grey hair pushing what looks like a home-made mechanical footpath sweeper. But what could she be sweeping? There are no leaves about. 

Dirt? From the footpath? 

A few hundred metres along the same strasse, a teenage girl with long hair and braces smiles as we pass. She is also sweeping the footpath, with a broom. I try to recall if I�ve ever seen a teenager sweeping anything, much less a footpath? 

No. Never. 

Who are these mysterious street sweepers of Bergheim? And why is dirt their apparent enemy?

Onward to Ingolstadt, birthplace of the Bavarian Illuminati, a secret society founded in 1776, whose goals included attempting to eliminate superstition, prejudice and the domination of the Catholic Church in influencing government policy. They also supported the education of women and believed they should be treated as intellectual equals. Now, that�s one secret society I�d like to join! 

Ingolstadt is also the setting in Mary Shelley�s famous novel Frankenstein where Victor creates his monster.

That�s the thing about university towns - there�s always someone with a bright idea. My brilliant idea for the morning is to accompany Cathie to a backerei for an excellent strawberry danish and coffee. I�m quite fond of the German tart, they are substantial, sweet and the berries are appealingly fresh. I consider having another, but Cathie, my intellectual equal, counsels against it.

We cycle around the old town and marvel at the Herzogskasten (the old castle), the Church of Our Lady, the ironically named 15th Century New Castle and the artistically-splendid Rathaus, but find nothing quite as beautiful as intellectual equality and free thinking. I dip my helmet to the Illuminati and cycle out of town, full of stomach and of spirit. 

We cycle the afternoon along the levee, entertained as always by the swallows and by our flawed attempts at dodging all the puddles. We arrive at Neustadt an der Donau and eat at a Greek restaurant for dinner. We sleep soundly. 

The next day we ride alongside the Danube for ten kilometres before arriving at the famous Weltenburg Abbey, just in time for Sunday service. It�s a full congregation this morning, but I imagine it�s like that every Sunday in these surroundings. Who wouldn�t want to spend time in this glorious Abbey. 

Cathie and I stand quietly at the rear while the Priest intones in Latin to his devout flock. Behind him is a glorious statue of Saint George on a horse, in one hand wielding a sword at the dragon, in the other a lance with a flag fluttering at the tip. A fair maiden flinches, no doubt about to be devoured by the dragon until the intervention of the saintly horseman with the gold headwear. 

I'm intrigued by the sculptures of misshapen cherubs on the ceiling. They have grotesquely distended thighs and arms and are holding up a railing framing a spectacular mural on the ceiling. I�m so focused on the cherubs that I hardly notice the Priest stop preaching and the congregation raise their tuneful voices in Sunday song. Cathie pokes me in the ribs and whispers that I should stop gazing skywards, lest somebody think I�m in prayer. I am. I�m praying for the cherubs and their distended limbs. 

It�s too early to drink the famed Dunkel beer of the Weltenburg Abbey monestary brewery, regarded as the oldest , having been in existence since 1050. Their Dunkel has won the World Beer Cup on numerous occasions. We have many kilometres to cycle before our thoughts can turn to the sainted brew. 

But first a ferry cruise, through the Weltenburg Narrows. This early in the morning, there are only ten passengers on board. All of them are cyclists. All of them have waterproof panniers and long rain jackets. 

Cathie and I feel woefully underdressed and unprepared for the weather. Everyone stays inside the ferry cabin drinking coffee and eating pretzels, except us. We clamber onto the top deck and watch the scenery unfold through the drizzle. 

The commentary, in German and English, is first-class. Did you know that the Danube is the only major European river that flows from west to east? Or that those boulders over there, to our right, were three brothers who had a falling out and separated, never to be reconciled. Or that awkward stone column is known as Napoleon�s suitcase, because he was in such a hurry fleeing this region that he left his suitcase behind. And that beautiful circular monument on the hill, above Kelheim is a war memorial to all the soldiers killed in the Napoleonic Wars. 

All this on a splendid twenty minute ferry cruise. 

And so onto an afternoon cycle, in the rain, to Regensburg, where some idiot has booked a hotel three kilometres away from the old town and nowhere near a restaurant. 

Cathie forgives me as we buy chocolate and beer from the hotel vending machine.