WARNEMUNDE

When I was young I could not imagine that a country named Pomerania could exist. Surely that was in the same category as Narnia and other such delightful spots that occupied my youthful mind? Dalmatia was another. These were the names of dogs – not countries – and to add to the confusion, the itinerary of the tour we chose referred, I thought , to visit to Bad Doberman. Turned out to be Bad Doberan.

But there we were yesterday driving through what the guide books call “The Switzerland of the North.”- Mecklenburg-West Pomerania. Now I don’t know what that phrase conjures up in your minds? High peaks, tipped with snow, local yokels yodelling to each other while their placid cows dong past, bells clanging gently. Well, let me tell you that Mecklenburg-West Pomerania is flat, flat as a tack. As I recall it was considered ideal countryside to practice tank manoeuvres precisely because of the lack of hills, let alone mountains. Perhaps it was the peaceful, pastoral feel of this huge food basin that led the copywriters to the comparison.

Our guide Ellen was a delightful young girl from Rostock with an excellent command of English and the history of her country. She had a delightful speech impediment which added to her attractiveness – as these things often do. Think of my endearing, but slight, lisp. She was a personal illustration of some of the minor problems that continue to plague citizens of the now united Germany. Growing up in the country after the Wall has dismantled, she attended local schools and university only to find that her degree was devalued by that fact. This has made it very difficult to find employment in an area where the unemployment rate is twice that of the rest of Germany. Rab tried to sell her the concept of applying for a temporary working visa in Australia, but I guess that’s a long way away from Pomerania – and maybe just as mythical – full of kangaroos bounding across the brown seared plains? She sounded quite sad when we said good-bye. We are the last tourist ship this season and she will have no work until April next year.

There was a good deal of traffic around – all headed for the seaside as Warnemunde is a noted beach resort. The fact that it is a long weekend, with a holiday on Monday also no doubt added to the jam. Most of the shops were closed, since it was Sunday, although within the multiplicity of laws that govern the upright German citizens, some classes of shops in some areas were allowed to open. Specifically all the souvenir shops in Bad Doberan – and also the shop at the Minster where Rab bought her first souvenir – a lovely oiled silk umbrella – or will that be a sunshade? – featuring the stained glass windows and the ceiling of the church. Perhaps it is more attractive than it sounds? She likes it and I think it looks very good indeed.

We’re not great explorers of churches, belonging instead to the group described by the tour guide on our river cruise in December as those Aussies who reach the ABC stage of their travels about half way up the Rhine. ABC in this instance standing for “Another Bloody Cathedral, Church or Castle.” So, with this in mind, the announcement by pretty Ellen that we were to spend an hour and forty minutes exploring the beauties of church were met with some dismay by both Rab and Carol – coincidentally Carol and Reg were both on the same tour again. But at the end of the time, all of us had found her presentation and the church of great interest. I still find it hard sometimes to get my head around the fact that the man buried in one of the ornate tombs died in 1329 aged 27. Rab is less impressed with such matters, hence the dearth of “Museums Visited” in the list of things we’ve done.

On we went to the next leg of our tour – a journey on an old steam train – the tiny 'Molli' which has been in operation since 1866 along a narrow gauge-railway. We boarded the train in the town of Bad Doberan and rocketed off, feeling that we weren’t too far behind Stephenson in his endeavours. The train stopped briefly in Heiligendamm, Germany's oldest bathing resort once visited by the Kaiser, the Russian Tsar, and European royalty. It is now better known in some circles as a gathering of the modern “Royalty” – the leaders of the G8 countries. Wonder if those old kings and tsars needed as much as security as our democratically elected ‘people’s choice’ leaders. I don’t think that is likely -isn’t it ironic that these chosen and anointed leaders of ours have to be so well shielded from their electors?

After that brief stop the train tore on through the countryside, very green from recent rains – at least in the parts that had not flooded and some beautiful woods. The one named Linden Alley was sad to have century old linden trees. We reached our designation of Kühlungsborn where our coach was to meet us – but not a coach in sight! The muttering began and was somewhat quelled by the news that there had been a bad accident which had blocked the roads and thus delayed the coaches which had to detour. But it did show how quickly the dissatisfied of this world can flare up and lodge their complaints. Instead of enjoying the warm sunshine, the chat and the floral decorations they were pacing about like caged tigers.

The coaches eventually turned up and we were soon on our way to a hotel in this seaside resort. The buildings of the small hotels along the promenade were all in a similar style – late nineteenth century - and had been done up since the fall of the Wall, looking very grand and imperious. The coffee we had been promised was served in fine china in an elegant setting with a delicious slice of homemade cake. We had forty five minutes or so to stroll through town and have a look at the beach which was dotted with what are known locally as ‘strandkorbs’ – essentially a roofed wicker beach chair. We assumed you’d book your strandkorb early in the morning with a towel. It seemed such a pleasant spot that we thought it might even be nice to come back on some future trip and spend a little time there.

While we were strolling along the main street I heard the putter of a two stroke engine and looked around to see an old Trabant coming along streaming a blue exhaust smoke and smelling as they all do. Ellen told the story of how her grandmother had ordered a Trabi for her mother for delivery on her eighteenth birthday. This was achieved by the order being placed when her mother was ten years old. She had a number of anecdotes which were equally enlightening about the time of the German Democratic Republic. As our KGB man said in this afternoon lecture, quoting Putin of all people. “ Anyone who does not regret the passing of the Soviet Union does not have a heart. Anyone who wishes it would return does not have a brain.” Seems a lot of the old “Easties” may fall into the latter category.

Back on our Marco Polo we sat on the deck in the failing light, sipping our beers and having our evening meal while swapping yarns with Carol and Reg, who have many an amusing tale to tell.

That’s what it’s all about.