Continuing my Germany adventure, it was time to say goodbye for now from the Braunschweig friends, both old and new. I’m very conscious that visitors can be like fresh fish; wonderful at the beginning, but after three days…
Taking the train from Braunschweig to Wizburg should have been easy, despite my lack of German language, but finding the right one proved tricky; was it truly running late, or had I missed it? Of course, being diverted by the sight of a double-decker train didn’t help.
But that’s nothing as to what can happen. Once on a train, changing at a termination station makes everything straightforward; stay put until the end of the line and all will be well. But mid-line transfers are another matter entirely, especially if the on-carriage information boards aren’t functioning. Listening for key words in announcements should work, but oh, they speak so fast! Sometimes, watching ‘my location’ on cellphone maps is as good as it gets, but even that can be fraught as coverage drops in tunnels, of which Germany has plenty.
Another travel hazard involves the small matter of toilets. At one station, with twenty-four minutes until my next train, I had plenty of time, until I couldn’t work the toilet door. Explanation signs were about as useful as sunscreen in a thunderstorm; I don’t read German. Fortunately a young man realised my plight, though I got the unnerving feeling he thought he was assisting the elderly!
With three minutes to spare I got back to the platform, but there was no train, and, more importantly, no-one waiting. An information board displayed words I couldn’t even begin to decipher, but at the end of the words was the number ten. Taking a hunch, I high-tailed it to platform ten, and jumped on that train. The doors shut, and we were off! But to where?
The first person I came across spoke English! Glory be, this was indeed my train.
At the first stop a tall thin man with friendly eyes came to sit opposite me. He greeted me in German, so I used google translate to tell him I was from New Zealand. He had questions about New Zealand, (yes, it’s true we don’t have snakes), and he was keen to tell me about his home town of Wurzburg. We chatted using a mix of mime, broken English, and translation services. Points of interest were explained; we had much in common, possibly due to being a similar age. The gardening magazine he was carrying provided another link, both of us being keen vegetable growers, and he seemed delighted to view my home garden photos. I’m always a bit wary of sharing photos; there’s an expectation of approval and interest that may not be real.
The railway line to Wurzburg seemed to involve a lot of tunnels, between glimpses of pretty villages nestled in even prettier valleys. Tantalizing snippets of German countryside teased my eyes.
Minutes after arriving in Wurzburg, friends swept me off to visit the historic city of Rothenburg. Everyone should know about this special place. We walked along the rough flagstone path of the city walls, looking down into an array of resident’s back gardens, and trying to avoid being tipped off by joyously active children who seemed to have no care of the eight-meter drop.
Towers show how impenetrable the city would have seemed to the outsider, centuries ago. Arrows and cannons could fire down upon the prospective intruder, his every move seen and dealt with.
The wall had served as the city’s protector and fighting platform for centuries, but sadly proved no match for the bombs of WW2. Yet out of blackness came light. Here is the site of enormous post-war international goodwill. Benefactors from all over the world, including USA and Japan, paid for reinstatement of sections of the wall. The city engraved the donors names, meterage paid for (unless requested otherwise), and date, into the relevant section. It makes for sobering yet inspiring reading.
This was not the wall’s first rebuild. Originally built between 1370 and 1380, parts required considerable rebuilding after fire destroyed the wooden sections in 1631. Today it makes a terrific viewing platform.
Check out the impossibly-designed house pictured below. Note how the house broadens in width, and the roof slope changes to match. I wonder what the Brothers Grimm would have made of such a house? Surely it would inspire a story.
Exploring the city walls means a walk through areas where weaponry was kept centuries ago, and seeing the tricks used to enhance defences. Entrance tunnels were curved, so no shots fired from outside could directly hit the inner city. Holes in those tunnel ceilings provided areas for pouring boiling water, or oil, over invaders. Effective, though cruel, deterrents.
This tree gave the oddest impression of having a door; another secret entrance maybe?
Taking a detour into the cities external gardens for views across the valleys revealed how strategically the city was placed, with views for miles.
But there are other surprises; is this rock real? What is it’s story? There was no clue.
Spot the house built on top of a disused concrete tower in the middle of the river:
Returning through (over?) An ancient covered footbridge….
….. we discover a house door which makes no sense:
Picturesque streets of movie fame:
The council chambers, with Christmas market stalls being set up:
….and a series of disc’s high above roof tops, placed so that the storks have nesting sites. My German hosts were most surprised to hear that It’s not only storks who bring human babies, (according to my childhood culture) but that babies can also be found in cabbage patches under the leaves.
In an alley we discovered a wee grotto where children sat in warm glows listening to storytelling and Christmas music. So cosy, and exactly right.
And in Rothenburg, last, but certainly not least, there’s the teddybear shop! From the magic of the front window, to the bears of every type imaginable, this is a shop for young and old. There’s the rude bears, naughty ones, pink lady bears, occupational bears, snuggly bears, bears with messages, and of course the traditional teddy. What a store!
Rothenburg is so special, it was only the late hour which finally forced us to depart.
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