Lindau, Germany

On paper, Liechtenstein is utterly beguiling. Apart from its aforementioned surprising world-leading denture industry, I’d also read the thirty-five thousand strong country (just a shade more than my own one-horse hometown) was ruled by a meddling Prince (no, not the singer formerly known as) who lived in a castle high on a hill above the capital. In my mind there was no doubt that he had a huge telescope installed in a tall tower to spy on them. Apparently in recent years the Prince had been attempting to increase his powers over the democratic state. Quite what powers he wishes to wield over such a minnow of a nation, I don’t know - perhaps the right to go straight to the front of the queue in the baker’s?

Reading such fanciful stories had me intrigued, and gave me high hopes for Liechtenstein. I had fully expected - and readied myself for - a vibrantly colourful, over-touristed theme park of a country, full of rosy-cheeked locals pottering about Hansel and Gretel houses all hamming up the country’s unique history for the tourist dollar, another vital pillar of its economy.

How utterly disappointing the reality was. Vaduz was actually a bland strip of Soviet-chic concrete buildings with a featureless pedestrian district as its “centre”. There was no colour, no decoration and absolutely no character to the place aside from its location in a green valley flanked by mountains, but I’d recently cycled through far more attractive examples in Switzerland that weren’t filled by factories churning out chewing tools for the fluoride impaired.

In its defence, it’s an impossible task to hide your industry in a country in which you can see from side to side. And I did visit in low season, which might mean the tourist bells and whistles I had expected were safely packed away in boxes. Yet I’d be reluctant to recommend a visit to Liechtenstein unless you happen to be in the area, or so I mused as I passed by the “castle” up on high - little more than a  big house (being renovated by a bigger crane). Carrying on northwards, I cycled up and out of the country’s border - not planning on returning any time soon - and into Austria.

The first town I reached inside Austria was everything I had expected Vaduz to be: cobbled streets weaving round a central clock tower with a colourful dial, wonky houses and a general hubbub of people - in short, character. Passing through, I continued to shadow the Swiss border just inside Austria, close to passing back into Switzerland at one point given the customs signs, cycling through mainly industrial areas and retail parks. The rain paid a visit but didn’t last for long. I finally hit my groove after struggling initially and was very glad to reach the top of a hill to see the Bodensee - aka Lake Constance - stretching out far below. There lay my destination, and the fourth country in which I would cycle in twenty-four hours: Germany.

I freewheeled all the way down the hill and straight into a Christmas market in full swing, thinking it rude not to stop for a quick mug of mulled wine and bratwurst sausage. I figured I was still in Austria, but it was a close call. Whilst the people no doubt knew, I doubt whether they felt particularly strongly about it. Land border areas are strange melting pots with a hodge-podge mix of nationalities and dialects; I saw cars with Swiss, Austrian and German licence plates pass by.

Just over the river,  this sign confirmed the Weihnachtsmarkt had indeed been on Austrian territory, but that from now on it was Germany all the way.

The last push saw me looping around the north shore of the Bodensee until I hit the island city of Lindau, my chosen place to overnight. Continuing the trend, its hostel was closed, but Tourist Information kindly linked me up with a cheapy room in a local guesthouse.

Biking round there, the beaming, chuckling old landlady, Frau Weber, welcomed me like an old friend. Despite the stereotype of Germans being somewhat more formal than other nations (which certainly rings true, just in certain situations), from my limited experience I hold them to be among the most hospitable people in Europe - especially those in southern Germany.

After a sneaky little kip I slipped out to explore Lindau at nightfall. Its attractive cobbled streets seemed reasonably dead until I stumbled upon what seemed to be the entire population letting their mullets down at their very own Christmas market down by the lake, with music playing and stalls selling all manner of food, drink and knick-knacks. There is something about Germany that makes the festive season feel extra-Chrismassy, a certain je ne sais quoi - or should that be ich weiss nicht? - that underlines it still as a genuine time for celebration rather than the relentless commercial onslaught it seems to have turned into back home.

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