It starts before I've even left Abu Dhabi, people assuming I'm German. A tall studenty-type starts talking to me in the language, just because I'm standing near the departure gate for Frankfurt. But then, as my first and second year history teacher Mr Kitchen delicately put it, I apparently, “definitely have a bit of the Third Reich” about me. As I'm travelling to the fatherland for five days, this Germanic assumption is something I'll just need to get used to.
The flight over lasts seven unremarkable hours, that I mostly use to write and worry and attempt to learn Spanish via the largely useless medium of MP3. From Frankfurt, I connect to Hamburg on an expensive Lufthansa flight that I'm glad the company is paying for.
With the exception of Chicago (where I spent a few hours in 2001), all of my trips so far have been to new countries. This time, though, I'm returning to northern Germany for the third time, to meet people I know well and to revisit the sight of the first holiday I can ever remember – Fohr. Twenty-two years after I first went, I will tomorrow return to one of Germany's islands.
And that's roughly the theme of the piece; try telling anyone you're going to German island, and almost unanimously, they will say they had no idea such a thing existed – some may even assume Germany is landlocked. But not so. Fohr is just one of three landmasses that make up the North Frisian Islands, all of which lie off the German/Danish border in the North Sea.
I am met from the plane by Peter, father of the Dreyer (pronounced “Drier” - that's right, he's Herr Drier) family, who have known me since I was born and my mother for over a decade longer than that. His English is decent enough and thanks to my newly rounded International Speaking Voice, we have no problem in filling the time it takes to get back to their family home in Pansdorf, near Lubeck.
The next morning, thanks to my dicking around and Peter getting lost, we arrive at the ferry terminal late. Getting out the car, the wind feels like a wet slap in the face, so aggressive that breathing actually becomes a little difficult.
We end up in a ridiculous run across a car park, making it onto the boat with around 15 seconds to spare. The route to Fohr should only take about 20 minutes as the crow flies, but lasts more like 45 because of the strange geography below the surface of the water. When the tide is out, enormous sections of the sea turn to sand and there is only a very small gully that is permanently deep enough for the boat to cross. But with the tide in, it all just looks like sea to me.
Ursula, Peter's wife, meets us off the boat and we head to the summer house in Borgsum. A low beautifully traditional building, complete with a thatched roof and ancient timbers, it's where Peter was born and raised until he left home at the age of 18. He didn't leave the island at all until he was six years old; when he did, he though the boat might sink.
Now the Dreyers rent their cottage throughout the summer months. After one set of guests has left, Ursula travels back up to Fohr to clean and service it ready for the next lot. Most summers they are booked out as Germans from the mainland head north for a break into tranquillity.
Not that there's nothing to do here – far from it. Fohr is windy for 95% of the year, so kite flying, racing and windsurfing are all very popular. The real charm, though, lies in the cycling routes which criss-cross the island. The first time I was here was 1987, when I was just four. The memories of that time are forged partly from photographs (including an unflattering one of me pissing in a bush) and little snapshots that have withstood the test of time. At this house, for example, I remember waking up to find a wicker basket of fresh rolls on the windowsill where the local baker had delivered them, sitting there like a scene from an old advert.
We dump the bags and head back to Wyk, which is doubtless the largest town on the island because it's where the dock was built. It's a seaside town, not unlike the type you find on the south coast of England, but with certain German extravagances. Many of the people carry the unapologetic self-confidence for which their country is famed; a similar number also have a fashion sense that is located in their ass. The beach is packed with nearly unpronounceable German words that means beach baskets. As the island is more or less permanently windy, they provide a solution that allows people to sun worship without being sandblasted. Where these end, multiple games of beach volleyball begin. We take it all in with salted herring sandwiches that aren't anywhere near as bad as they sound.From Wyk, we head in land, visiting some old churches and villages so quaint I worry that sneezing that might be a criminal offence and farting, capital. The most interesting thing is probably the font in which all generations of his family have been christened. By a small twist of fate, his wedding had to take place in one of the island's other churches, as this family one was being renovated. Oddly, my mother came to the wedding with a boyfriend (or possibly fiancée) who is not my father. Stranger still, they planted a tree together in the Dreyer's back garden, an oak which still stands today.
Funny, how things work out – imagine I was the seed of some dude named Ambrose. Hell's teeth, it'd have brought an entirely new level of abuse down the pub. But then something tells me it'd have been unlikely I'd be drinking in The Chase with old Ambo as my faither. Hell, I wouldn't be writing this either. Weird, innit? Sliding Doors and all that shite.
We get changed at home, have a beer and talk about my extended family, many of whom are dead or dying since the last time the Dreyers saw them. The plan is to go out for dinner, which I have volunteered to pay for as they're giving me room and board for two nights, as well as an airport transfer and, more generally, some Good Company. Alas – or Hooray, depending on how you look at it – we try five restaurants and all of them turn out to be full. Fohr may be the fat ugly sister of the North Frisian Islands, but there are still plenty of chubby-chasing tourists willing to give her a good seeing to.
Instead we retreat to the homestead and have a barbeque and, at some point, something bites me. But it's nothing to worry about; tis but a scratch.