So, off we go then!

Contrary to what Instagram may suggest, not every “overland” journey begins in brilliant sunshine with some breathtaking vista in the background. Sometimes it’s just a field. Frankly the weather was awful. It would have been pretty bad in November, but the fact that it was August seemed uncalled for. All that green has to come from somewhere I suppose. We splashed through a landscape that seemed almost devoid of people. There seemed to be a hunkering down under way.

Rural Bavaria is about as kempt a place as I’ve ever been in. Nothing is out of place. If there are lawns, they are weed-free and mown flat. Farms are spick and span, the solid farmhouses painted with delicate, curly details around the windows and on the roof beams. I’m struck by how many villages have one big farm right in the middle: an L or U-shaped building divided into barns and living quarters, around a concrete yard. There are none of the traditional collections of dead equipment lurking around the back either.

Forests here are managed, rivers straightened, roads smooth and floating ribbon-like across fields so intensely green they could give you a headache. There are no hedges. This is land focused on one thing and one thing only: agricultural production. It is so fertile it seems you could stand in a field thinking about sweetcorn and it would be ready to harvest a week later. The ribbon-roads buzz with shiny, big-wheeled tractors, the barns are immense, anticipating an abundant harvest. This then, is a land of plenty.

There are unmistakeable similarities with the farm belt of the American Midwest – many of whose farmers had their roots here.

The people look similar too – big-boned, well-fed with an appreciation of conformity and tradition. It’s a country of hard work and hunters; God and grit. Most farms have their own Catholic shrine – some are small churches – and Sundays are taken seriously. Shops are closed, churches are open.

The farms are great places to park up – many have a space or two set aside. Some have tiny “honesty” farm-shops which we raid for cheese, eggs (and quince schnaps), putting the money in the box.

Walking back to one parking place in the late afternoon we are surrounded by darting swifts, low to the ground and it almost seems, flying for fun. They are a reminder of the wilder world beyond.

Driving back and forth to the UK we’ve done a lot of motorway miles in Arnie but now we are getting used to roads and tracks which are only just about wide enough. When one of those big tractors comes barrelling down towards you, you’d better be sure you are on your own side of the white line while also not clipping the road markers at the edge. It is a matter of centimeters and from high up in Arnie’s cab, it’s not an easy judgement. I’m learning to let instinct take over. And in truth, the whole thing is one big learning curve. How long will the cabin batteries last? How quickly will the solar panels replenish them? What if there’s no sun? What do we do about filling up with water and emptying the grey water tank? How long can we use the compost toilet without emptying it??? O the glamour.

We shook loose an issue with an electrical component and had to turn back briefly to get it replaced. It’s been fine since but we are both slightly on edge, waiting for something to go wrong in this big complicated beast of ours. As the days pass, that feeling recedes, but it doesn’t vanish.