Enjoying the rest from the saddle, I stuck to the train, heading back in a vaguely Bristolwards direction to the city of Ulm, the hometown of a good friend of mine who I had met on my last trip and who I had travelled with in New Zealand and later rung in the New Year with at Times Square, New York. Unfortunately, my haphazard last-minute destination planning hadn’t factored in that, er, she might not actually be in town this particular week. Whoops. Luckily, the longer-term vague planning I had made meant I would be passing through southern Germany once more after Christmas, so I was determined to meet up with her then instead for a catch-up; it had been two years since we had last met.

It was late afternoon by the time I arrived on the horrendously slow local trains. Sadly they were my only option, as bikes weren’t allowed on the high-speed connections. I advanced towards Ulm’s most prized landmark, the spire of its skeletal-looking Münster spire, and toured the packed Christmas market complete with an attempt at a real-life nativity scene (no Son of God present, but plenty of urinating sheep), which I thoughtfully observed whilst I chomped on a divine Holy Trinity of sausage, mustard and bread.

As the sky started to darken, I set off for the youth hostel, biking along the south bank of the river for a  gorgeous view of the old town and Münster. The hostel was in a far-off land known as Suburbia, and I appeared to be the only guest.

For the unprepared, Sundays in Germany can be deadlier than a night on the Arctic tundra. Everything shuts. I can still clearly recall the first day I spent as a student in Germany, arriving with a friend on a cold Sunday in Autumn to find the local shops deserted. We eventually discovered that there are two places that will prevent you from starving to death: the train station - to which the whole town descends, as frankly what else is there to do except go to church or watch re-runs of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air - and the local petrol station.

Being out in the sticks, it was to the latter I cycled, thanks to my champion SatNav which told me where the nearest Aral Garage was. I stocked up on garage snacks, drinks, charcoal, roadmaps and de-icer in preparation for another night in front of German telly.

My time in southern Germany appeared to be starting to mirror that of Normandy. Out of season in such random locations there was nary another backpacker to be seen. Still, it wasn’t all that bad, I thought as I got stuck into the Pringles (einmal gepoppt… nie mehr gestoppt!) and Ritter Sport chocolate, and watched an evening of adverts between which they were showing short clips of the film Rambo.

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