Seize the moment; how can you not, when exploring? Though, to be fair, perhaps one shouldn’t do it in a way that causes your friends great embarrassment.
Setting out from Nenterhausen, we drove through the loveliest villages nestled on hillsides. Each village has it’s own identity; the story goes that should two folk from neighboring villages fall in love, everyone waits with baited breath to see which village the couple eventually settle in, so as to know which lover is the traitor! Sensible couples move to another village entirely.
We stopped by a school building to take a short walk up to a lookout. At least, we think it was a school; so hard to tell when there’s no signage. What is it about tall high-windowed buildings, with a playground attached, that makes us assume a school?
The climb was peppered with little flares of interest; a flower I’d not seen before, tractors parked in barns built right by the urban house….
and a smithy for creating beautiful ironwork. A seat, adorned with the year of it’s creation, invited passers-by to sit awhile.
But most surprisingly, a white van on blocks in a carport. The special figurehead painted on the van yelled ‘Kiwi’ more than the sticker on the back window could have ever done. Of course, the All Black connection helped. But that figurehead told me, that the owner of this van was a fellow New Zealander. How I wanted to shake his, or her, hand! It’s a strange thing, but when travelling solo there’s an unmistakeable desire to say hello to compatriots. Yet at home we are not so forthright. My imagination ran wild; were they musicians on tour, or explorers like me? Why was the van on blocks? Had they settled here for a time? What was their story?
Dragging myself away, I continued up the hill. At the top, the view was everything it had promised. Three villages lay in full sight, with just a few paddocks separating them from each other.
Would they ever meet up? My hosts thought not, given the strength of village identity. Below us, a bent over woman in loose-fitting farm-style clothes fed her noisy Christmas dinner. With less than a month to go, that goose looked well ready. Overhead, a flock of wild geese passed by. Perhaps their ‘v’ formation stood for victory; they would not be in anyone’s pot.
A pagoda-style open-sided shelter looked out over the information board, park bench, and star sculpture.
On the way down the hill, I could not help but revisit the white van. To the dismay of my hosts, I knocked on the door of the adjacent house. Naturally my expectation was for a New Zealand accent to answer, but no. The little lady who opened the door was completely German, and she couldn’t understand a word I said. Despite my hosts translating, the mystery only deepened. The lady maintained she knew nothing of who the van belonged to, even though it had been parked in her carport for months. I got the distinct impression that she hoped we’d take it away!
To mollify her a little, we told her a little of what the signs etc on the van meant, but I’m not convinced she was appreciative. Hopefully it’s given her something extra to talk about with guests. Of course, my outrageous audacity has given everyone involved a story, which is exactly why one should seize the moment… though, sadly, the mystery of the van remains.
Could it belong to a traveling carver, who has been whisked off to Nebraska to teach her trade? Or maybe a writer on retreat somewhere nearby? Maybe It’s a crime scene, with the body well hidden behind darkened windows? Or the van of a secret lover the woman is keeping caged in her house? Perhaps it’s the travelling home of a Kiwi called back to nurse an elderly parent, or the bolt-hole of an All Black?
The imagination knows no bounds. Perhaps you know the answer? Do tell.
Stories for you - Enjoy! 