Sadly after such a short time, our time in lovely Denmark is soon to finish and we enjoy Lurpak at our last ever Scandinavian breakfast, ready to cycle to Gedser, and the ferry to Germany. We give the bikes a long overdue service, pumping up the tyres, cleaning and oiling the chains, and as a special treat, wiping down the rims and frame. Unfortunately we rather over polish our rims and the brakes no longer function, meaning the peloton must be more widely spaced than normal! We decided not to wait for the bike shop to open, despite needing more spare tubes, and head out confidently, over another grand bridge onto the next island in Denmark's glorious archipelago. After 15km Hazel of course sustains yet another puncture. Our gaffer tape job on her back tyre has given up the ghost. We sling in another tube and limp slowly to the next town of Nykobing where fortunately theres a most well stocked and helpful bike shop. We opt for new tyres for everyone, seeing as we are nearly at 2000 miles and the boys are looking a little worse for wear. The wheels are also buckled but nonetheless we clothe them in shiny new Schwalbe Marathons, in a firm nod to two years puncture free joy at Darwins Deli. The bike shop is equipped with an automated tyre pump, much like you'd find at a petrol station. Somewhat over zealously I force as much air as possible into my beleagured back wheel and despite snapping off the presta valve, it stays inflated and on we roll.
It's now time of course, for our daily downpour. Yesterday was as wet as I thought it was possible to get, but this one really takes the biscuit. Torrential and other such words do nothing by way of explanation. Shock and Awe is how I would describe it, a complete bombardment. All 'waterproof' items throw in the towel, no more fight left in them after yesterday, we are cycling swimming pools. After emptying our socks outside the ferry terminal, we board the good ship Prins Joachim, albeit through the wrong gate, and end up at the back of the car deck behind the ferries.
The ferry smells, nay reeks, of vomit and despite being run by the same company as the lovely Helsingborg ferry, is far far grottier. There's a smoking room, with a smoked glass door. I somewhat wish the journey was less than half an hour this time but its 2hours to Germany. We eat a german sausage accompanied by a Danish pastry in honour of the occasion and disembark whilst trying not to get crushed by lorries. There's confusion amongst the German port staff as to what to do with us, so we make our own way off the motorway and search for the 'berlin to copenhagen bike path'. After a bit of guess work and 20 rather than 10km later, we arrive in Rostock, and just outside the city centre my bike starts to feel a bit funny. I stop and inspect the back wheel, at just the moment the inner tube decides to blow up. There's a gunshot, and a large gust of wind in my face, but myself, and the Schwalbe marathon survive intact. We complete another roadside change much to the confusion/disapproval of passing locals. We search around town for a while, and like Mary and Joseph there's no room at the inn. We end up in the only available beds. In a four star hotel. Fortunately its not actually that expensive, and we retire to our chamber, with a dinner of bread rolls, and begin to reek out the entire hotel with the smell of our sopping wet shoes, gently rotting in the corner. Welcome to Germany.
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