Marga’s parents lived in the simplest of circumstances. A small house, a toilet in the yard, a pig in the barn, a few chickens, and a well-tended garden next door.
Mom and Dad were kind-hearted people who treated me like their own son from the very first day. I got along well with Marga’s five siblings, all of whom were already out of the house. The many family celebrations, birthdays were plentiful, were always special highlights, because the whole clan met there, attendance was obligatory.
We loved going to Mama’s house, her warmth was contagious, and many things reminded me of my early youth. My parents were not only taken with Marga, but they were also downright enthusiastic about the girl. They would never have dared to dream that their motorsport-obsessed son would bring them such a perfect daughter-in-law.
Marga and I had never talked about wedding plans, but for my parents the future marriage was already a done deal. We both had other plans. Free of obligations, we wanted to get to know the world, as far as our modest circumstances allowed, the wedding certainly did not run away from it.
Fortunately, Marga was also an enthusiastic pillion rider and loved motorcycle tours in nature. The bike got a homemade luggage rack, a tank bag and side panniers. Somehow, we managed to get hold of a small two-man tent. I had purchased a traveling guitar and eagerly learned a few chords.
With a single-burner alcohol stove, a small hatchet, a handful of nails, a roll of string and the guitar on Marga’s back, we even drove as far as the Baltic Sea to camp. At that time, such a trip took ten to twelve hours and sometimes longer. The autobahn ended at the Berliner Ring.
From then on, we drove over cobblestones through countless villages. There were no asphalt roads or bypasses. Such a trip was only something for the daring. At that time, people still camped out. Four sharpened sticks were rammed into the ground, a fruit crate from the nearby supermarket was placed on the stakes with the bottom facing upwards, and the table was ready.
The two seats were made in the same way. The transport possibilities with a solo machine required great restrictions, one had to improvise. The campsites were sparsely equipped. A long stone trough with a few water taps for drinking water and a flush toilet were already quality class A. A central fireplace or a beer tent on the campground made the youthful hearts beat faster.
In clear weather, Caterina Valente’s ‘Tipitipitipso, at the Calypso’ was sung together to the guitar around the campfire, and in the beer tent when it rained. Beer bottles filled with pebbles served as rum balls. The atmosphere could not be topped. On other days, when some village barkeeper offered peas with bacon or lentils from the goulash can for lunch, the campers’ happiness was complete.
I remember one tent vacation particularly fondly. In glorious cloudless late summer weather, Marga and I had taken our tent to Thuringia to the beautiful lead hole dam, as we always do. The season was over, but the days were still sunny and warm.
As usual, we had two or three sleeping blankets with us in addition to the usual utensils. Unfortunately, I had underestimated that the campground in the Thuringian Forest is a few hundred meters higher. With such clear weather, the nights there in September are already quite cold. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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