Onwards, past a graffitied ‘RAF’ [Red Army Faction] logo. Extraordinary to think there is still an active, underground, armed, political group in W. Germany … The clouds began to move off fast as we walked into Habichtswald. Did a shop for the weekend here, and were surprised at the friendliness of the people in the supermarket – the manager giving us both little metallic badges and the cashiers smiling with curiosity at these strange Englanders, ‘Fahren nach London?! Nein?!’ V. sticky now, pack heavier than ever as we climbed southwards back into the forest and onto the Line. The first time when I stopped taking contemplative small steps – the sweat drenching my back utterly. Hit the main Kassel–Istha road that we’d driven down the other night and had lunch just beyond.
Crossed the Kassel–Dortmund autobahn – bit hairy! Climbed up to the top of the village of Burghasungen, old ochre-bricked, timber-framed barn in striking contrast to brutal redbrick of its new, neighbouring house. Three women walk though a rigorously neat cemetery. I remembered those lines from an old poem about ‘here tulips bloom as they are told … [something?] an English unofficial rose’.7 Another stop for water … Then helping each other on with the rucksacks and following a stream through beech woods – sun burst through in the late afternoon as we skirted Isthaberg. Through a sea of wheat pockmarked with cornflowers and wild grasses, two, three buzzards wheeling overhead. This was the country of Martin von Mackenson, the farmer from FIU. Through Philippenberg, a one-lane village and every home a smallholding with a barn built into it. A father and baby setting off in a tractor; a woman cleaning a farrow; a man feeding grain through a machine. And as we walked through, several people stopped what they were doing and leant on their gates, stood in their doorways. A strong sense that we were the first outsiders to come through this village for days, weeks, possibly months. And again, good-humoured curiosity, questions thrown at us – ah walkers! Going to Wolfhagen, yes. Eventually London! … And smiling, on we walked, a breathtaking evening now, the rounded bergs in front of us looking very fine. Kept thinking about the village we’d just been through, so near to the city, yet what seems like a small farming/peasant community is still clearly surviving.
Down onto the Wolfhagen plain again, the familiar rivers of pylons beginning to dance towards the distant town. A farmer manoeuvres his tractor, farrowing the ploughed clods to break them down. He gets out of his cab. A shortish man, felt cap, rough-hewn face. ‘Eng-land? Aaah! Wanderen. Heute von Kassel? Gut. Gut! Nach London?! Phew!’ And then, fascinatingly, he asked us if we’d come to Kassel by Eisenzug (‘iron train’). Words which make you aware of the distance, the experiential distance between people of the soil and people of the city. Through two more woods, perched on the summit of the rounded bergs; in the second one we decided to stay for the night, found a dry patch of pine needles, hung out our wet clothes, hid our packs and headed down to Wolfhagen for a beer and our reading. I knew what Wolfhagen would be like before seeing it. A new town, modern estates and factories. And not far wrong – a kind of East Anglian feel – the oh-so-quiet, small town in the countryside.
Beer and some Gulaschsuppe. Then outside, nearly dusk, a look at the fine old church, and then began to read aloud – Chatwin, The Songlines. The collision of aboriginal landscapes with middle Europe somehow wonderful. And the simple sound of our own voices after fourteen hours of silence, familiar and strange simultaneously. Soon too dark to go on, so we found a hotel and settled in a corner with two kanchens of coffee and the last of our Camels to smoke. Decided it was OK to talk now, after our reading, and climbed back up to the top of our berg, and, after a scare of not being able to find our place, eventually located our bags. Then a more extensive supper and soon snuggling into the warmth of our sleeping bags. J. saying that I’d talked in my sleep last night. What had I said? ‘Something about “We’ve got six minutes to go! Just six minutes.”’ And then apparently I’d spoken in fluent Italian for a minute! Totally bizarre. But though funny it’s also discomforting, any such subconscious revelation. Half hoped this would lead onto some talk about us. Suddenly felt very tender towards J. It would have been good to properly clear the air, get the tensions behind us. But the darkness of the night soon put us to sleep.
30 viii: 87:
Chill morning. Soon packed and off down the hill to Wolfhagen again, along that zigzagging way. Sunday morning and as we left the main road and Wolfhagen behind us, the regularity of the bells (one ring at quarter past, two at half past, etc.) began to fade. As if in response we started to sing our entire repertoire of English and Welsh hymns – ‘Christ our Lord is Risen Today’, ‘Bread of Heaven’, ‘Jerusalem’ – getting louder and louder the further we got into the country.
Soon we came upon the ‘restricted zone’ we’d seen on the map. ‘Gasterfelder Holz’, and intrigued by the ‘VORSICHT!’ signs, ‘ZONE MILITAIRE’, ‘Reichminister’ this, ‘Verboten’ that. We skirted the wood and the barbed wire. The site went on and on … a fast forty minutes’ walking and we were still adjacent to it. I was walking at a real pace now, exhilarated by the quality of the track, and the anticipation of the wild country in front of us today. We followed the wood and the restricted zone round to the right, and then we saw, through the trees, a whole series of what looked exactly like missile silos – five, six, maybe eight in all. Sinister, partially covered, concrete silos. But all weirdly deserted, not a single soldier or uniform in sight.
Hotter now, short rest by side of the road. Water and cigarettes.
Walking into Landau just before 1 p.m. – such an archetypically German village – on a hill, the church nestling at the top, surrounded by a cluster of solid, square-timbered houses. Thought of Proust’s description of the spires of, was it Martinville?, and the optical illusion they gave. Intriguing with Landau, approaching the village by a gentle hill – the spire slowly giving way to a view of the entire village. Made me think of a camera’s eye – the quick, jerky movement of the walking body – how many thousands of individuals over the centuries had experienced the view we were seeing. It made me think of ‘Heimat’ – the concept of one locality through different generations, political climates, seasons. And imagining mercenaries approaching, peasants armed with pitchforks, knives in the Thirty Years War – the terror inspired by even a small group of strangers coming over the brow of that hill.
Lunch in the shadow of the church. Then with the intensely sticky midday heat I sleep for half an hour. Very hard to get walking again, aware of a blistering heel on my right foot. Followed a Welsh-looking river out of the village. Poplars. Thought of an opening line to a story – ‘He heard the poplars before he could see them.’ Bluebells and harebells in the hedges here, surprised to see them so late in the summer. We moved up into the forest again – merciful shade. With our untutored eyes it’s hard to be sure, but many of these pines and conifers looked more than half-dead, three-quarters of them bare in August. Many had dabs of white paint on them. Can it really be true that two-thirds of Germany’s forests are dying due to acid rain? It would certainly help to explain the rise of Die Grünen here …