The Harz
21 & 22 September
It is with some trepidation that we set out for the Harz. If there is anywhere I am likely to find myself in hot water because of my noisy Ducati Panigale V2, it is here. And I really do not want to cross swords with the Polizei, for whom policing by consent can sometimes seem rather quaint, British notion. Their approach is more straightforward: rules are enforced, and meaningful penalties are intended to deter transgression.
In the autumn of 2020, during the pandemic, Germany was one of the few European countries still open to visitors. It was just about possible to navigate the confusing and often contradictory travel restrictions and enter the country legally. The result was that areas such as the Harz and the Black Forest were inundated with visitors from across the continent.
The locals soon tired of the influx and lobbied for measures to curb numbers, with motorcyclists receiving particular attention. I already knew that puritanical, nanny-state speed restrictions had since been imposed on the B500 Schwarzwaldhochstraße, and suspected similar acts of cultural vandalism might also have been inflicted upon the Harz.
Coupled with what the retired police officer had told us a few days earlier about increasingly strict noise regulations in Germany’s more scenic regions, the omens were not especially encouraging.
I needn’t have worried. Harz by-laws seem to dictate that every German male over the age of forty must own a motorcycle. They must also ride it somewhere bucolic on a Saturday in search of Wurst und Bier before an invigorating ride home. And some of them are very, very loud indeed…
So by 10:30, the car park at the memorial to Wilhelm I—he of the faintly comic spiked helmet—at the summit of the Kyffhäuser is rammed with motorcycles. They are not, it must be said, an especially engaging bunch, preferring to converse only within their own little huddles despite my tentative “Guten Tag”. Still, that is perfectly fine by me; on balance, I rather like northern European reserve.
After taking in the expansive views across the Thuringian Forest to the west, the plains to the south, and the Harz to the north, there are the famous thirty-six consecutive bends over less than two miles to negotiate on the descent from the Kyffhäuser.
Unfortunately, the sheer number of bikes, the wide variation in riding ability, smug cyclists, and the occasional Japanese hot hatch piloted by a geriatric Jerry combine to reduce the whole exercise to a frustrating sub-30mph trundle downhill. This is not helped by the lumpy low-speed manners of the Ducati’s V-twin engine. If you visit, make sure it is a weekday. I did exactly that four years ago and had the road almost entirely to myself.
The remaining roads across the region are mesmerisingly good, though it is best to stick to the larger routes, which are fast and flowing, with long sweeping bends. That way, you avoid villages every few kilometres, most of which now have perfectly understandable 50km/h speed limits.
Later, the Hotel Englischer Hof in Herzberg am Harz provides something we have rather missed over the previous few days: dinner, bed, and breakfast for €160 per person. The food may not be wildly inventive—think French onion soup followed by chicken cordon bleu—but it is fresh, carefully cooked, and served by a cheerful young waitress who then proceeds, with remarkably little persuasion, to introduce me to the pleasures of German malt whisky. Altogether, it feels vastly more satisfying than the handful of deconstructed Spanish morsels we had been served the night before at three times the price.
The following morning, quiet roads illuminated by the slanting sun of early autumn lead us out of this curious and rather mysterious region. I genuinely cannot understand why more British motorcyclists do not come here. Perhaps it is the lingering stereotype of Germany itself. I know people who still imagine the country as little more than an industrial powerhouse: efficient, orderly, and faintly soulless.
And certainly, as you approach the vast urban sprawl dominated by Cologne, Dortmund, Düsseldorf, Essen, and Frankfurt—all linked by a cat’s cradle of Autobahns—it can appear exactly like that. But a few hours further east lies another Germany entirely, one that borders on the magical.
Our destination is Koblenz. In many respects, it conforms perfectly to the stereotype of the northern European industrial city. Straddling the junction of the Rhine and Moselle rivers, it is clearly prosperous and orderly.
But, my God, is it dull.
OK, to be fair, Koblenz does have one very good restaurant: Landgang in the parodically expensive Fährhaus Koblenz. Its terrace offers sweeping views east across the town, each vista somehow duller than the last.
It did, however, provide the title photograph for this piece. The image is of a wall covering above a urinal in a posh hotel that is not even in Koblenz. In fact, it is both the most interesting wall covering I have ever encountered and the most interesting thing in Koblenz.
Except, of course, it isn’t actually in Koblenz at all.
