Every inhabited region bears a landmark that defines it. It may be a mountain, a hill, a river or lake. It is the physical manifestation of energy that eddies and pools unceasingly around the globe, invariably giving rise to secondary monuments such as the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Taj Mahal, and cities and towns in general. An obvious example is the Matterhorn (14,692 ft. in the Pennine Alps on the border between Switzerland and Italy), so unique in appearance and always majestic – even when shrouded in cloud cover – that gave relevance to the Swiss town of Zermatt as a significant way station for people who are inexorably drawn here from around the globe.
Most landmarks are not so dramatic. Yet, I myself have shed tears after having caught that first glimpse of Chamundi Hill when approaching Mysore (India) by train after so many years. Its residents may not even give it a second look, content with the certitude by which that ever-present weight - their love of the land, securely encased within their innermost being – asserts itself. It almost takes a stranger’s eyes to fully appreciate any given (more outwardly modest) landmark once again – or a long absence.
As a child, I would visit my grandparents in Loerrach, Germany. The town lies at the end of a valley carved by a river (Wiese) that originates deep in the hills of the Black Forest. At Basel, it empties into the legendary Rhine. On a political map, this marks the spot where three countries (Germany, Switzerland and France) come together at a single point. A ridge, running due south within the German third of the pie, ends abruptly in a gently rounded hill, the Tuellinger Hoehe, that dominates this landscape. It is covered with vineyards. Along the gently rising ridge, the medieval town of Tuellingen crests along a single narrow road that reaches at it’s apex an unassuming chapel before plunging down into the Rhine valley and on into Switzerland.
I used to push my baby brother in his stroller up the zigzag pathways, through the apple orchards, past the grapevines, up to the crest where farm houses and barns, wizened with age, comprised the old town of Obertuellingen. From there we pushed on to the Ottilien Chapel. From its terrace we’d enjoy the gentle breeze on our faces as we surveyed our greater surroundings from the Black Forest, across to the Jura, to the Burgunder Pforte, and on to the southern Vosges. On clear days, centuries-old Basel, with its own indelible (historic) landmarks was quite visible to the naked eye: the gothic Muenster, a dark smudge; and the tall, gleaming smokestacks of its pharmaceutical research facilities. It is there where my own heart longed to be. As long as I can remember, I have always carried the torch for the city where I had once had the opportunity to attended first grade at the Spalen Schule [named after yet another prominent (world heritage class) landmark: the Spalen Tor].
Thirty some odd years later, I would find myself there again. My brother had grown and no longer needed to be pushed in a stroller. In fact, he was too busy with his professional work to even come along. To my immense relief, I found that nothing had changed - only that the entire border region had become decidedly more prosperous. I was told that the wine had improved considerably. It was sold in the open street markets of Loerrach under the emboldened new label that announced, “Neuer Wein”.
Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com
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