So, the third day dawned. We rose earlier than the day before, knowing that we were due to leave Hirschhorn about 8am, arriving in Heidelberg, where we would disembark, at about 10am. The musicians were, for the most part, still tucked up in their beds while we sorted ourselves out with some breakfast and watched the landscape pass us by.
We arrived on the outskirts of Heidelberg and sat for quite some time in a lock. Various other crew members were up now and keeping us company. There was no sign of the captain though. Should we get off here? Nobody knew. We weren’t in the city centre and it was thought that there was another lock further down. We stayed on board and eventually the ship continued on its way. Through the city … and then suddenly we realised that we weren’t exactly surrounded by civilisation and the opportunity for public transport links any more. No, this was more what you’d call being in the middle of nowhere.
“Err, Hannes, we needed to get off in Heidelberg.”
“Heidelberg was back there.”
“We noticed.”
The captain appeared. While he had known of our plan to disembark, I think his fellow nautical personnel hadn’t got the message. The big map was studied and pointed at, train times were researched online and it was arranged that we would leave the ship at Mannheim. Meanwhile the band and crew were gradually emerging from their beds, greeting us with bleary-eyed surprise: “You’re still here?!”
Second claim to fame for this holiday: I (accidentally) headbutted Xavier Naidoo’s guitarist, Andi. At Feudenheim lock the captain reappeared and told us we’d be getting off here. Andi was leaving the boat here too and tour manager Schrödi lifted me up to him on the wall of the lock. As Andi helped me up I gently headbutted him by way of a thank you.
We stopped on the bridge above the lock to watch the boat come through. A number of other people were already there, waiting to drop flowers down onto the deck for the band. After taking a few photos we hotfooted it down the road. Andi had told us we’d find a tram that would take us straight to the Hauptbahnhof.
Walking and walking, Suzy took my rucksack from me, turning herself into my very own pack horse. Damn, she’s a fine friend. With no tram in sight she asked a couple of natives where in God’s name we should be going and they pointed us back in the direction we came. Ah, that’s always a good feeling. Eventually we found the overhead cables for the tram. But the rails weren’t really anywhere to be seen, as the street was being dug up. Being educated ladies, we deduced that this did not bode well for the arrival of a tram to take us to the station.
A friendly shopkeeper called a taxi for us and while we waited we were advised that it would be best to get to Stuttgart Airport straight from Mannheim Hauptbahnhof. The trouble was, we were hot and sweaty and already had our train plan cemented in our minds. We wanted to go from Heidelberg to Stuttgart so that Suzy could buy a return ticket in order to get back to where her friends lived.
So we took a train from Mannheim to Heidelberg, where we bought tickets to Stuttgart. Then Suzy disappeared to talk to someone behind a desk and I discovered that standing in the middle of a station looking wide-eyed and wearing a rucksack that weighs as much as Hubert’s ship causes people to come and ask me if I need help. To which I answer that, thank you, I’m fine. My friend is … (wild flailing of arms) … irgendwo.
Suzy reappeared and it turned out that the tickets we’d bought were of no use in getting me to the airport before my plane departed. We went back to the “help” desk and were faced with BahnBitch, possibly the huffiest, least helpful railway employee ever to work for the German railway. We bought more tickets for a faster train, swore about BahnBitch and missed the train back to Mannheim by just a few seconds.
Back in Mannheim and with a bit of a wait ahead of us for the InterCity Express train, we took comfort in overpriced British chocolate bars from the vending machine. Once on board the ICE train we checked our onward journey. It’d be just about doable. We’d get to Stuttgart, make a run for the “tief” part of the station, from where we could get the next train at 18.28 hrs, with any luck arriving at the airport just a minute or two before check-in shut. Cue an announcement on board the train that there were delays and we’d be arriving at Stuttgart station at 18.29 hrs. Handy, thanks.
I leant across the aisle and asked a man if he knew Stuttgart at all - thereby impressing Suzy with my German. Oh, I know how to throw in a good “überhaupt”, baby. Would it be quicker to get the train to the airport, or a taxi? My neighbour wasn’t too sure, but confirmed that, yeah, we were screwed as we were going to be arriving after our next train had left.
Stuttgart. Suzy took my rucksack again (mental note: keep her) and we legged it through the station and followed the signs to the taxi rank outside. We fell into the back seat of a taxi, our probably somewhat manic expressions and inability to breathe indicating that we needed to get to the airport fast. Check-in was going to shut at 7pm. I’d originally hoped to be at the airport at 5pm. Our driver really knew what he was doing, changing lanes knowing which would come to a standstill, zipping in and out and gently cursing other drivers when need be. Along the way I spotted a poster for Hubert’s Stuttgart concert a few days before. Nice touch, universe.
We arrived at the airport, ran in and found German Wings check-in. Across the hall I could see a few people standing at the counter. This looked promising. Then as I walked towards them I spotted the time up on the announcement board. It was 18.45. We’d made it with 15 minutes to spare. Suzy and I fell on each other in the middle of the check-in hall, hugging and laughing. In spite of everything that had happened that day, I’d made it in time for my flight. Which was then delayed.

Click on our feet for the set