Where would you find the world's best-preserved Roman city gatehouse? Rome? Bath? Colchester? Try Trier in Germany.
That was the start of our recent 9-day jaunt on foot (with some help from the odd train) along the Moselsteig trail, down the Mosel valley from Trier, near the Luxembourg border, to Koblenz on the confluence of the Mosel with the Rhein (it was the German section of this bilingual river, hence the German spelling). It's an area full of surprises, little discovered by British visitors, as is generally the case for Germany. Not only are there extensive Roman remains in Trier, the oldest city in Germany and capital of the Roman Rhinelands, but there are other reminders of the Romans dotted along the trail, as well as - of course - an enormous number of vineyards to explore. These are not the tame, flat, neatly snipped and easily tended type familiar from other parts of Europe; these grow on apparently impossible, stomach-wrenching, practically vertical slopes which make your head spin to look at, let alone prune or harvest.
Marching under a huge Roman gatehouse is a pretty good way to start a walk. This one is called the Porta Nigra and dates from the second century AD. The previous day, we had discovered other unexpected treasures: a Roman amphitheatre, the Basilica of Constantine the First (which contains the largest remaining complete room in a Roman building in the world) and more medieval, decoratively tiled and painted buildings than you would think could possibly survive in an area which has seen such a history of conflict. Trier is worth a visit even if you don't intend to walk the Mosel.
We crossed the river for the first time via the Kaiser Wilhelm bridge, once we actually found it (we discovered on a number of occasions that routes in and out of towns and villages are not so well waymarked as the mountain parts of the trail). Trail-finding problems continued until we were well out of the city via a hot, steep road and on to the first proper path, with the first proper signpost. It led along the edge of a limestone cliff, overlooking one of the Mosel's famous exaggerated bends.
After a relaxing, well signposted stroll through a forest of enormously tall pines, we found ourselves walking downhill and into a village called Erhang. "Found ourselves" because we had not intended to go there; the trail leads around it on a hillside path and down to the next village of Quint, but whether it was another missing sign or a formal change of trail route we never found out. We tried to pick the trail up again just outside the village, but found a building site where the path should have started, so again we were back on the road. By this time, we were wondering whether we'd ever find our way all along the river to Koblenz in just 9 days, but once we had examined Quint for signposts several times over, from different angles and in ever-decreasing circles, we spotted a signpost entirely by accident and were back on route.
After more relaxing forest walking, with a bit of a diversion along a high ridge overlooking the river, we reached our walking destination for the day at Schweich railway station. A train was waiting at the platform, about to leave for our overnight stop at Bullay. We approached the ticket machine with the panic that these things inspire when the language it speaks is not your own and the train is already there, making little "about to leave" noises. We had three minutes. They were just about enough to extract two flimsy tickets bearing the word "Bullay". We ran through the underpass, sweating under our backpacks, steamed down the platform, jumped into the carriage...and the driver announced that the train was going nowhere. Everyone out - change platforms and wait for the next one. My German is not very good, but I had no problem understanding the general gist of the words coming out of some of our fellow passengers' mouths at this point. It's not just British trains, then.
At Bullay, we found ourselves with another steep hill to climb up to our overnight stop, which turned out to be a miniature house in the garden of a suburban-looking semi. We at last shrugged off our backpacks and headed into town in search of some very cold beers, which we enjoyed on the sun-drenched bank of the river, next to the town's signature bridge. This has two levels: trains on top, cars and pedestrians underneath. Having worked out that we would be among the pedestrians crossing it the next morning as we set out on our planned route, we took a particular interest in the solidity of the supporting pillars every time a train went over (a surprisingly frequent event, given our first encounter with the Mosel rail network earlier that day).
Further entertainment was provided by a high-speed aerial combat over the river between a red kite and a pair of nesting crows. The crows won, egged on by a sympathetic pair of geese, honking encouragement from the safety of a reed patch underneath the bridge.
Every Mosel town has its Strausswirtschaft, or more usually, a collection of them. These are restaurants run by the local vineyards, where you can sample dishes from the area as well as the wines produced in the surrounding vineyards. At the Strausswirtschaft Sturm Pagen, we introduced ourselves to flammkuchen (a kind of thin pizza with various toppings, cooked over a naked flame) accompanied by the fragrant, slightly off-dry white wine from the hills around us. A speciality of the house was a selection of 5 "plugs" of wine, taken directly from the barrels, which arrived neatly arranged in tasting order, with a score card so that you could record which ones you had liked best.
In need of a walk after all that, we went for a late evening stroll, looking for the centre of town. It doesn't seem to have one, or at least, we couldn't find it. What we found instead was a young German-Polish couple and their older relative sitting in their garden at a table spread with assorted bottles. They called us over to join them and we ended the day sipping schnapps and trying to converse with our new friends via several different languages. It just about worked. The schnapps helped. Well, we thought so at the time.
Finally, it was time to go back to our little house, up that hill again. Someone had made it even steeper while we were away. I don't know how they did it, but I suspect it involved flammkuchen and schnapps.
Bullay to Traben-Trarbach
Bullay is not the most picturesque of the Mosel towns, but it is situated on a stretch of the river where it makes one of its most spectacular loops, turning almost 180 degrees round a bulbous peninsula covered in steep vineyards and topped by the Marienkirche. The two-tier bridge led us across the Mosel to the start of our day's trail to Traben-Trarbach. As we were staying a second night in Bullay, we were liberated from our backpacks for the day, a relief in the ever-increasing heat.
We had planned to follow the Jakobsweg to Traben-Trarbach. This is the German form of the St James Way, one of the ancient pilgrim routes which eventually join up with the Camino de Santiago, so that it's possible to walk all the way from the Mosel to Santiago de Compostela on waymarked routes. Our hosts in Bullay had completed the whole journey in the past, an achievement they had commemorated by building a shrine to St James on the top level of their terraced back garden. After several kilometres, however, we realised that on day 2 of our waymark-spotting experience, we had continued the habit of following the three red stripes of the Moselsteig signs instead of the scallop shell of the Jakobsweg, so that we ended up walking the long way round the Marienkirche peninsula. It was a long haul along a stony track above the steep lines of vines, but the views were worth it, as the whole bend of the river gradually appeared, with the eccentrically-shaped black domes of Puenderich and Briedel, far below on the opposite bank, standing out from a jumble of red roofs.
Eventually, we crossed the river again by the bridge at Zell, where a street-food festival was in full swing. A Johnny Cash singalike was booming out "Ring of Fire", appropriate enough for the weather by this point. We decided to press on with the Jakobsweg, but soon discovered that the local tourist board had conspired to keep visitors in Zell, rather than make it too easy for them to find their way back out on to the trail. Several wrong turns up and down the High Street later, we found the extremely steep path climbing up through woodland towards the wonderfully named Bummkopf. Luckily, the waymarks had reappeared and we had little difficulty finding our way along a rocky path on a ridge which eventually took us to the ruins of Starkenburg-Gravenburg, which mark the skyline above Traben-Trarbach.
It was a long descent into the town on a narrow, hairpin-bending path. Traben-Trarbach is famous for being the central shipment point for Mosel wine in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It's said that there were so many underground warehouses that some have been entirely forgotten and are still out there to be found by adventurous wine-lovers with a head for underground exploration.
Our exploration was limited to finding the station and a train back to Bullay. That changed when we spotted a bus going there and managed to flag it down, despite having no idea where the bus stop might be. Our 25km day's journey played back in extra-fast rewind as the bus followed the river under the high, forested slopes we had slogged up hours before and finally back past the double-decker bridge at Bullay.
And the fare? We had no season ticket and the card machine was broken, so the driver let us ride for free. Perhaps he just felt sorry for a pair of overheated and exhausted-looking walkers, draining the last dregs from their water bottles, and read our thoughts about those cold cans of beer in the fridge back in our Bullay doll's house.
Bullay to Cochem
The packs were back on the next day as we set off for our next stop at Cochem. The trail started with a very long climb up a track to a point called Uncle Tom's Cabin. The path led through the forested slope up a hill which seemed to go on forever (actually only a couple of kilometres, but the heat made it feel like much more). We were back on the Moselsteig now, which seems to equate the most scenic route with the most challenging and steep route. Much of today's walk was through forest, which luckily was still well waymarked, as the river was out of sight much of the time. You would not want to lose your way here: these are proper European forests, often very extensive, mainly conifer, half as tall again as anything similar in England, but interspersed in places with oak, beech and some kind of wild laburnum with long festoons of white flowers, just opening now, attracting thousands of wild bees. There was always the chance of coming across wild boar to add to the frisson (although here, unlike other forested areas of Europe, no real chance of bear or wolf). It was always reassuring to find a Moselsteig waymark on a tree trunk, indicating that we were still on the correct route and that at some point some other humans would come past.
Today's train station was at Neef. We could see its roofs and the solid, dark form of its Rathaus far below us, as we approached along the Moselsteig. It seemed close, then miles away, then close again. Then the waymarks evaporated completely.
We compared our map with the contours we could see, looking for a path along the steep slope of a side valley. We identified what we thought must be the route down, but found no sign of the red-striped Moselsteig symbol. This couldn't be it. We turned back and tried a foresters' road, winding up through the dense woodland until it ended abruptly in an unexpected hay meadow on a mini summit.
We turned back down again. By now, heat and tiredness were turning the daydreams of a cold drink in Neef into hallucinations. All we needed was to get down into the town. We could see it: how hard could it be? It had to be the first path we tried after all. We tried it again. After about a kilometre, there it was at last: the Moselsteig sign on a conifer trunk by the side of our path.
It didn't last long. We found ourselves back on a narrow road, snaking along the slope above the river. The Moselsteig was here somewhere, but we gave up and stayed on the road, following it up to a chapel dedicated to St Peter and a high viewpoint overlooking the Mosel.
.
There was Neef again - 325m below us down a vertical slope. Not so vertical, however, that it had not been planted with vines. Farmers were working the rows in mini tractors with caterpillar treads, attached by a taut and perilously thin wire to a full-sized tractor parked on the nearest available flat land. It doesn't look safe and probably isn't. I will appreciate the taste of Mosel wine even more now that I know the lengths the vintners go to to grow the grapes.
People meant paths, however, and we found one leading down two long sets of steps. Suddenly there it was again - the Moselsteig trail sign. Finally, we were down at station level, but we now appeared to be the only human beings around. Small Mosel towns seem to empty of their population during the afternoon. There was no one out walking a dog, talking to a neighbour or hanging out washing. No children coming home from school or kicking a ball around. Not even the ubiquitous (in England) whine of a garden strimmer or sit-on mower.
Not a soul appeared at the station. There was no ticket office, no station guard. There was a ticket machine, which we mastered effortlessly this time, only to be baffled by a notice about a change of platform for trains travelling in the direction of Koblenz (there were only two platforms, as there were only two lines, so you had to hope that someone knew what they were doing). We sat on a bench, clutching our tickets to Cochem and wondering whether the general depopulation extended to Deutsche Bahn, so that we would still be sitting there the following morning. But no, there was the train, exactly where it said it would be and exactly on time. It deposited us on the stroke of the scheduled minute at the unexpectedly Art Deco station in Cochem, with its grand staircase leading down from the platforms.
Cochem is dominated by its enormous castle. The town has a lot of history, from at least the Romans onwards and, as one of the larger towns on the Mosel, was flooded with tourists, all being parted from their money by canny tradespeople. By "money" read "cash". Cards mean accounts and accounts mean taxes and much of the Mosel Valley seems to be preoccupied with avoiding both inconveniences. Cash only, practically everywhere. As Britons, we had largely forgotten how to use cash, so we had to adapt, with the help of a well-concealed ATM machine hidden behind an anonymous door into what was, apparently, still a high street bank (something else now largely forgotten in England). Hard luck for anyone who can't read German, as there was no sign in any other language indicating where the indispensable cash dispenser might be found.
After a brief look around the town, which consisted mainly of souvenir shops, ice-cream parlours and pasta-and-pizza outlets, we decided to return to our balcony with a view of the river and put our feet up. The temperature had dropped and just as we made it back along the cobbled street to our hotel, the first huge, sploshing raindrops announced that the intensely hot weather was about to break. We ran in through the back door, trying not to let Mozart out in the process (the hotel's lovable but lively yellow labrador), then huddled in the only dry corner of our balcony, admiring what was left visible of our river view, and sipping the produce of the slopes above the town, to which guests were invited to help themselves from an honesty-box fridge.
In desperate need of food, we braved the rain and searched the tourist-packed riverfront restaurants for a spare table and a menu which included something edible-sounding. The only option was a schnitzel house, suspiciously empty of customers. Schnitzel with mushrooms, schnitzel with "gypsy sauce" (tomato and paprika), schnitzel with Julie Andrews's noodles, even plain schnitzel. So schnitzel it was, and surprisingly tasty after our day on the trail.
Cochem to Klotten and Varwig
The next day was pack-free again, as we were spending a second night in Cochem, but we decided that we would leave the steep slopes alone today (particularly after the rain) and explore the flat, effortless river bank instead.
First, we went left, under the road bridge and downstream, past an endless parade of motorhomes on the opposite bank, mostly from the Netherlands. Someone was swimming in the river from a tiny beach, watched by a dozen fellow motorhomers, sipping coffee from the safety of deckchairs.
The rain had stopped and the day was hot again. The river was smooth, apart from the occasional huge ring of ripples which showed where one of the large fish, some kind of carp, had made its way to the surface briefly to touch the airy world and snatch itself a snack. Mysterious V-shaped ripples formed a bow wave suggesting a tiny motorboat, but turned out to be made by something with a snub-nosed head. A mammal, a bit like an otter, but with a wider skull, shorter tail and less graceful movement. We saw these creatures again from time to time until eventually we found out that they were coypu: South American river dwellers who had made themselves entirely at home in the Mosel.
After a kilometre or so, the motorhomes ended and the opposite bank became a densely wooded wilderness, loud with birdsong. At one point, a different sound rang out across the water. A human? Must be, it as it was shouting loudly for "Steven! Steven!", but an answering call and a watery splash nearby on our bank revealed a large frog of unknown species.
We soon arrived in the village of Klotten, about 3km from Cochem, where we found a restaurant inviting enough for a return visit that evening. It was attached to a guest house, where we were told that the guests (mainly walkers from other parts of Germany) liked to retire to their beds early, so our request for a table at 8.00 pm was declined. Meekly, we accepted a booking for 7.00 pm and continued downstream. (In case you're wondering, it turned out to be schnitzel again for me, this time with both mushrooms and gypsy sauce, which was very good, despite the feeling of déjà-vu. My husband's choice of five-day-marinated wild boar with baked red cabbage was delectable, but as we were to continue our hike through forest, I secretly hoped wild boar don't bear grudges.)
We carried on a few kilometres further downstream, where a swan posed perfectly for a photo opportunity on an unruffled stretch of flat water, only to turn its back or flap its wings every time we had the camera ready. Vine-covered hills of every shade of green stretched away in the background, meeting their own reflections in the mirror-like river.
Walking back the way we came opened up new views. The wild wooded bank gave way again to the motorhomes and we passed back under the road bridge. By now, Cochem was cooking in the growing heat. The castle probably should be visited, but it was up a very steep hill. We could see it in all its glory. It was a castle - what was there to see closer up, apart from sweaty tourists?
Instead, we walked on upstream on the opposite bank, which is not strictly part of Cochem, but consists of the twin villages of Cond and Sehl, past a number of hotels not yet open for the season. This was a common sight in early summer: we were told the tourist season here does not really get going until late July, and hits a peak in October for the many wine festivals held throughout the region.
The riverbank path was shimmering in heat haze and a snowstorm of white fluff from the poplar trees fell endlessly around us. The town straggled along the opposite bank, built at various levels from riverside to top-of-the-cliff. The castle loomed over them all, with multiple towers and strange little doors through solid walls, apparently in the cliff face. The original castle was largely destroyed by French troops in 1689 and remained a ruin until the middle of the 19th century, when a new owner, a rich Berliner called Ravene, decided to restore it according to old plans dating from 1576. He clearly wanted a proper castle and did not stint on the embellishments. The houses closest to the castle looked as though they wanted some of the action: two eccentric mansions, one on the river front and one halfway up the cliff, suggested that a squabble between two rival families some time in the 19th century had ended in a turret-off.
We walked as far as the village of Varwig, accompanied by a number of sightseeing boats, filled with people admiring the scenery the easy way, crowded under every available awning in search of shade.
Treis-Karden to Brodenbach
After a train ride from Cochem to Treis-Karden, we set off with good intentions to follow the official Moselsteig route, the next 12 km of which was noted as "difficult" in the online trail guide. We soon found out why. The path out of the town not only led straight up, but was extremely narrow, slippery with loose stones and had a precipice on one side. And it was hot again. And we had our backpacks on. After losing my balance for the third time, I decided I'd had enough and talked my husband into walking back down to the riverbank and following that instead towards Mueden, the end of the first part of today's route.
At Mueden, we decided to try again on the proper trail. This involved a very long, hot climb up another hairpin-bending road to a "hikers' car park". From here, a path led through trees to another car park and a choice of paths towards Burg Eltz, the most famous landmark of this part of the Mosel Valley. Burg Eltz is the ultimate castle, everything you've ever dreamed of in a castle, so much so that it was chosen as the image on the old 500 Deutschmark note. One particularly stunning viewpoint from the trail is known as the "500 Mark view".
What's more, the walk to Burg Eltz was possibly the most beautiful one of our journey. It led through mixed forests of huge oaks and beeches, interspersed with clearings which just begged to be described as flowery glades, filled with wild aquilegia, red clover and oxeye daisies. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves and lit up our path, which was easy underfoot and well waymarked. A perfect forest stream tumbled over stones and under a romantic wooden footbridge. Part of the route led across the arable plateau which runs from the top of the Mosel escarpments, a flatish plain where enormous fields of wheat and barley spread out in all directions and the river is visible only as a dark green line of forest, snaking away towards a distant horizon. It was all worth the climb.
Finally reaching river level again at the village of Moselkern, we discovered that the train to Loef did not leave for some time. We contemplated walking on along the bank again instead of taking the train, but the 20km we had walked in the heat already that day persuaded us that waiting in the shade under a tree on the riverbank for 45 minutes was a better option. We were glad we did, as when we reached the station at Lof, we found that we still had about 5km to walk to the next bridge and back on the opposite bank to reach our overnight destination at Brodenbach. The thermometer in the garden square as we came into Brodenbach read 34 degrees.
In Brodenbach, as in Cochem, most of the hotels were still not open for the summer. Ours was a picturesque, centuries old staging inn, filled with antique furniture and some frankly weird artifacts (the breakfast buffet was presided over by a gilded saint and a particularly hideous statue of a tiger). The paintings on the walls -on every inch of every wall -- seemed to be the work of a previous owner and were dreadful enough to be almost charming. The large landscape above our bed featured a rock-strewn yellow desert, the solidity and ominous presence of the rocks quite well conveyed - or so I thought until I realised it was supposed to be a bucolic scene of haystacks in a summer field.
As much of the town had not yet swung into summer season, the choice of eating houses was limited. We ended up at the yacht club, overlooking the river. We were told the chef had trout from the Mosel and home-cured herrings. Both came accompanied by the signature sweet-and-sour white cabbage salad which is served with most dishes here (actually delicious with most things) and the essential bratkartofeln (fat chips, golden and crunchy). We ordered one of each and asked for a bottle of local wine, without asking the price (it is never as expensive as in England). We were slightly alarmed when a very ancient-looking bottle arrived, bearing a serious label and a light sprinkling of dust, and looking very much like the kind of thing you don't order unless you're prepared for a very big bill. We thought we'd better ask, after all. The waitress shrugged and told us that she had dug around in the cellar and found that one, which looked as though it needed using up. If it was horrible, she would change it - they were all the same price.
It was delicious (as was the food) and cost little more than a bottle of plonk from an English supermarket. Walking in a wine-producing area has all kinds of advantages.
Brodenbach circuit via Ehrenburg castle
For once our route was well waymarked out of the town as we set off next morning to complete a 18.6km circular route around Brodenbach. Pack-free, we almost skipped up the narrow path through dense woodland to a viewpoint overlooking Brodenbach and the wide loop which the Mosel makes here. There was less skipping up the next part, which became narrower, stonier and steeper. Again, there was a long, almost vertical drop on one side, which concentrated the mind and made me long once again for my hiking poles (which I had left behind at home at the last minute, having discovered that you can't take them on board an aircraft as cabin baggage). Oh, how I missed them.
We found ourselves almost by accident at the castle of Ehrenburg. People in medieval clothes were serving beer and coffees in a courtyard under the enormous stone keep. Flags flew from every roof, in proper jousting-tournament style. Groups of tourists were being shown around and parted from their cash. We discovered that the castle is a hotel and made a note that it would be an interesting stopover if we come back to walk this part of the Mosel again.
The forest path became more and more enchanting, descending into a deep side valley where another perfectly clear, bubbling stream filled the air with all the right sounds. It managed to become even more beautiful as we carried on through the forest on the valley floor and we found ourselves at the Donnerloch, a place of ancient, pagan worship of the local thunder god (we heard more from him later). Here, the stream tumbled over a miniature waterfall, forming a crystal-clear pool about a metre deep. It was still very hot, even under the shade of the trees, so feet (and other parts) just had to be immersed in the cool water. It was cold - very cold - but wonderful and welcome.
The path eventually left the forest and climbed up to the high plateau, revealing views across the farmland for dozens of kilometres in every direction. Here, the crops were cereal and oilseed rape, not a vine in sight. We could almost have been back in Suffolk, were it not for the blue shapes of the Eiffel Mountains in the far distance, on the border with France.
We dragged our feet through thigh-deep grass and began what we thought was the descent back into Brodenbach. We were wrong. The path went back up again, then down through a series of very large, blisteringly hot wheatfields. The waymarks said that Brodenbach was only a couple of kilometres away, but it looked a very long way down. That could mean only one thing: a descent as steep as this morning's ascent had been. The path led us into another forest and then suddenly narrowed to a helter-skelter down the escarpment.
Finally back on flat ground by the riverbank in Brodenbach, we chose a bench with a view up and down the river to enjoy a cold beer. The temperature was still in the 30s. To the west, the sky over the valley gradually acquired a kind of stripe. The bottom half gradually filled in, as though someone was colouring it. A hint of wind started lifting awnings. The thunder god was here.
Calculating that we probably had about two minutes to get back to our hotel, we ran for it. The deluge arrived with a dramatic flash of lightning down the valley, just as we reached our room. We sat and watched the chaos from our open window, as the thunder god upended mountainfuls of rain on to the town, the river and the few unfortunate souls who had been caught out.
The storm did not last long, however, and soon the sun reappeared. Clouds of steam rose from the forested slopes. We could have been in the tropics. People began to reappear on the riverfront, sloshing through puddles.
We ventured back to our yacht club later that evening and claimed the only dry outside table, hoping that the rain really had stopped. I asked eagerly for more of last night's herrings, smiling broadly and using my very best attempt at German. With an expressionless face and no apparent regret, the waitress/owner replied in German that "A boatload of Dutch arrived and ate them all". So much for herrings, then. I had to settle for deep-fried goat's cheese and bratkartofeln, perhaps not so healthy, but just as tasty and, I felt, well deserved after our marathon circuit.
Brodenbach to Koben-Gondorf
The storms continued during the night and we concluded that the Moselsteig trail to our next stop at Koben-Gondorf, described in our guide notes as "extremely steep", was probably best avoided. Instead, we walked along the riverbank, through the villages of Oberfell and Alken, dominated by the brooding shape of the Castle-of-the-Day, which today was Burg Thurant. It loomed with a certain menace (greatly diminshed by the scaffolding around its central tower) on the summit of the high slope above Alken, surrounded by the now familar, almost vertical vineyards.
The village is the site of a thousand-year-old chapel, once frequented by pilgrims on the St James way. As well as its age, the chapel of St Michael is unforgettable for the memento mori which is hard to miss as you approach the main door. To one side is a kind of cage, behind which can be seen a macabre jumble of human bones and skulls.
We walked on down the river, past a small dam, producing hydroelectric power and a huge building which turned out to be some kind of religious sanatorium. We could see Gondorf across the river long before we were able to cross by the road bridge at Koben-Gondorf.
As we had chosen the flat route, we arrived earlier than usual at our hotel, which looked out on to the main square, where a dragon fountain reminded visitors of the local legend about a mythical creature called the Tatzelwurm, which even has a local walking trail named after it. The hotel building was a half-timbered riot of painted panels showing vine leaves, wine bottles and couples apparently leaning out of windows. It was weirdly charming and completely abandoned, the front door firmly locked. On closer inspection, we found a sign on the door informing us that reception would open at 4.00pm. It was barely lunchtime and we were reluctant to explore the town carrying our packs. We hung around in the hope that someone might appear and just as we were giving up, the owners arrived with a large bunch of keys. We still could not check in, but they let us leave our backpacks.
It was still relentlessly hot. We followed signs up to the impressive castle keep, perched on a rock above the town (every town seems to have one on this part of the Mosel). A steep path led past an old watermill, now an exclusive restaurant (no chance of a table for tonight, even though it's not yet high season) and on up to the ruins of the castle. The view both ways along the river from several hundred metres up was impressive, as was the large, dark grey cloud just nudging over the nearest hill.
The rain started, but luckily not the sudden deluge of yesterday. We had time to take a quick look at St Matthew's chapel, reached via a rocky path with pictures of the Stations of the Cross at each hairpin turn. This chapel, which can be seen from many miles away as a beautiful, white cube poised on its own summit, is also over a thousand years old.
The rain began in earnest and as the chapel was locked, we retreated to the dungeon of the ruined castle, where we sat it out on a window-ledge under the only remaining section of roof.
When the rain eased off a little, we took the opportunity to skid back down to the town (by now, the rocky path was slippery with loose stones). Lucky again with our timing, we made it back to our hotel and checked in just before the storm began in earnest. We were shown to a suite of three tiny rooms under the eaves, overlooking the main square, from where we watched, along with the painted couple on the wall outside our window, as mayhem erupted in the town. Lightning flashed in gothic-horror profusion behind the castle ruins, the square below filled with several centimetres of water in as many seconds, cyclists eating pizza outside the restaurant opposite squeezed further and further under the awning, their waiting bikes abandoned to the solid mass of falling rain, and the owner of our hotel locked valiantly into mortal combat with a table umbrella in the gale-force gusts.
This time the storm continued into the evening and on through the night, flashing spotlights into our windows. As we watched from our cosy garret, we thought how lucky we had been not to be out on the Moselsteig when this lot arrived.
Koben-Gondorf to Koblenz
We decided that whatever the weather the next day, we would try the official trail to Winnenburg on our final leg of the walk. It was still spitting and threatening rain, so we took our time over breakfast, waiting to see just how much wet-weather gear was going to be necessary.
German breakfast buffets are usually loaded with goodies - delicious bread rolls, quark, cheeses and pastries chief among them. It was tempting to linger. Eggs are usually cooked to order. How would we like our eggs? Scrambled? Fried? No, omelette is definitely not possible! I opted for fried, my husband for scrambled. The waitress returned shortly and placed an enormous bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of him. She came back five minutes later and handed me a small side plate. I found myself looking into the mournful yellow eye of a single fried egg, cooling rapidly. That will teach me to ask for omelettes.
It was a rather wet ascent to the castle and St Matthew's chapel, where the trail began for the day. The rain had been so intense overnight that it had stripped the top layer of stones from the path and made the rocky steps past the Stations of the Cross even more arduous. After that, however, the path evened out and led through forest. From time to time, we caught a glimpse of St Matthew's chapel and the ruined castle, on top of their respective summits, each time slightly further away and from a different angle.
Eventually, the clouds dispersed, the sun came out and the path led gently (for once) downwards, first to the Guidoborn, a spring of naturally carbonated water, and then into a side valley, prettily embellished by a tumbling stream that had probably trebled in volume overnight. Two ruined houses occupied an idyllic position at the head of the valley, next to the stream. They looked entirely abandoned, but a wooden stall selling eggs showed that someone still lived there somewhere. There were no electricity lines into the valley, so whoever it was clearly lived a life from another century.
We followed the path up a very steep slope on the other side of the valley. It led to a high viewing point and was by far the hardest climb of our whole journey. At times, the "path" was an almost vertical, slight indent in the rock and ascending it involved grabbing on to any available tree branch (never mind the wood ants!) and hauling. I was tempted by the thought of the flat track along the river, but was persuaded that going back down the part we had just come up would be even worse and more likely to end in disaster than continuing up, so up we went, one metre at a time. The view at the top was impressive. The high motorway bridge spanning the river just before Winningen dominated the landscape. In the distance, Koblenz made its presence known in the shape of a super-tall television mast looking like something out of a 1960s science fiction series.
I was dreading the descent, not knowing what horrors it might hold, when we saw a couple coming towards us pushing bikes. The path the other side of the viewpoint was far less challenging. The trail dipped, ducked and bobbed along the escarpment, but always with a relatively easy gradient, revealin here and there, through the trees, glimpses of the Mosel, hundreds of metres below. Soon, many more walkers and cyclists appeared and we arrived at a viewpoint with a car park next to the motorway bridge. We crossed the bridge via some steps and a walkway and found ourselves once again walking across the plateau, through fields of cereal and past orchards of white peaches, which are often grown here as a companion crop to the vines. Eventually, the path followed the vineyards down into Winningen.
The train station was right in front of us, but we were reluctant to end our journey by train. Instead, we decided to follow the cycle/walking path for another 11km along the river into Koblenz. At first, the path followed the riverbank closely, but gradually diverged from it. By now it was hot again and we had a long, sweaty slog for several kilometres next to the busy road with little in the way of scenery.
On the outskirts of Koblenz, the path rejoined the river and led over a bridge to a leafy suburb. In for the long haul now, we decided not to branch off towards our hotel, but carried on along the trail towards its official end point at the Deutsches Eck. It was strange being in a city again, having to dodge in and out of people walking along the footpath, leading dogs, chasing children on bicycles or, at one point, offering passers-by the chance to get feely-touchy with the inhabitants of the river, fished out briefly for research purposes (most passing children were up for a quick caress of a carp, but there were few takers for the bucket of eels).
Eventually, we reached the old town, among ever growing crowds, and found ourselves at the Deutsches Eck, where the quiet Mosel flows into its much bigger relative, the Rhine. It is not a dramatic merger. There is no defined change of colour in the water or sudden increase in the speed of the current.
The rivers, cruise boats and ice-cream-eating crowds were watched over by Kaiser Wilhelm I, perched stolidly on an enormous, disgruntled-looking horse, incongruously teetering on top of the Acropolis. It has to be one of the world's ugliest monuments to a monarch, but it has an appropriate feeling of strength and persistence, having been restored in the 1990s after its destruction, along with much of the city, during the Second World War.
Our Moselsteig walk was at an end, but we enjoyed another afternoon and evening of exploring a fascinating ancient city with some quirky corners, such as a fountain square where stopping to admire the fountain can end in a soaking, as it suddenly spits water in a jet towards you. A crowd of old people with a dog turns out to be made of plaster, as does a very large woman in a swimming costume, about to dive from a rooftop into the river.
It's all a little off the tourist map for most UK visitors. Despite its 20th century history, the city has been beautifully restored and, having a double helping of riverfronts, it is filled with open space and sky.
Sizzling in the heat, every restaurant and bar had opened up its street terrace, where relaxed, scantily-dressed people sat enjoying cold beers. It could almost have been the Mediterranean. Perhaps next time, we'll turn south and just keep going.
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