Some winds brandish their wind-chill with bitter glee, anticipating the gasps and shivers as they hit yet more warm-blooded creatures. So it is today as I set out on the trails. As soon as I come out from behind the shelter of the wall, the wind hits. Turning to face it, with eyes watering and nostril hairs frozen, I realise I am looking directly towards Siberia. Later I am to discover that this was the coldest spring morning Germany has ever had.
The forest beckons, promising to block the bone-chiller. And so it does. The conifers may whistle higher up, snow may come tumbling down from a waving tree branch, but down below, among the roots and trunks, I am comparatively warm. Underfoot, the snow is compacted to some extent along the trail, so the going is easier than I experienced earlier.
It takes little time for me to feel as though I have been on the road for ages. The kilometres may roll past more slowly underfoot, but pass they do. Well-tried walking boots, comfortable clothes, muscles working smoothly and generating their own warmth, a small pack – nothing more is needed.
Now it is the mountain, the Hengstberg (Horses Hill), where fresh teams of horses used to haul heavy carts up the slope. The trench where the old road ran is still to be found here. I clamber up the slope, beginning to sweat, removing caps and gloves for a brief period. And then it is a slide down the other side, on my bum due to the steepness, and I find once again the childhood glee of pleasure in the snow.
Soon I eschew the protective forest and set out over open fields. Here the snow drifts in the Siberian wind, and ice forms on roads and paths, eager to send an unwary foot skidding. Extremities begin to freeze as my body seeks to protect its core. In the village of Batromjecy-Berthelsdorf I pause out of the wind and still I shiver – I find out later that it is minus 20 degrees with the wind chill. I seek out the church. The spirit may have moved here in 1723, sending a handful of Moravian Brethren out to Africa, Greenland, North America, and Asia, but the spirit is not going to warm me today. I seek the spirit in a coffee at the local Gastäte, but it is closed, despite the exuberant sign proclaiming that it is open. Now my body core itself begins to cool, so I turn and march to my lodgings – up the long hill and exposed to the wind. Climbs like this are supposed to get circulation going, but only the coffees and strudel in the cosiness of the Hutbergkellar can achieve that.