Tuellinger Hoehe, Germany

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

Burg Rötteln, Germany

Throughout Europe, one can find scattered piles of stones. These are not like the stones that are seemingly thrown up by New England’s cursed soil; that some bent-back farmer may have fashioned into a crooked wall, a mill or a snake condo. These are the stones that went into the construction of elaborate castles by royally anointed land barons. They were generally built on high ground from where it was easier to protect the (often burdensome white elephant) property from the thieving intent of neighboring ingrates.

In Germany there are two words for ‘castle’: “Schloss” and “Burg”. A “Schloss” is usually something even bigger than a mansion, often including elaborate, formal gardens. It might be located inside or outside a city. In either case, it was never built with an eye toward having to protect itself. Hence, it was not necessarily built on high ground; it did not have a moat, drawbridges or high walls. It was usually the seat of a ruler who was quite secure in the knowledge that his army could protect him from harm long before the enemy has had a chance to advance to his door step.

A “Burg”, on the other hand, was always in danger. It was built in parts of the country where the king and his army had only nominal control. It was built like a fortress with lookout towers, housing knights who were well trained and suited for fighting. Once the drawbridges were raised and the spiked gates slammed shut, there was virtually no way to penetrate the insular sanctum which was often self-sufficient and had access to its own source of food and water.

The remnants of “Burgs” that have been left for the land to reclaim are infinitely more numerous than “Schloesser” (pl.) many of which have often been assiduously maintained and today function primarily as museums to showcase the region or period.

For me, the “Burgs” have all the charm. As a small boy growing up in Arlesheim in Switzerland, we kids used to go up into the wooded hills surrounding the town; and, sure enough, there too were the remains of a castle that promised to provide us with endless hours of fun. Not much remained of this particular one except a few walls forming a rock strewn passageway that led into a grotto. In those days, places in danger of falling down and hurting someone were seldom officially condemned. In fact, we kids were quite unaware of the danger. We played with raw abandon among the ruins. At one point I remember falling off a wall and onto the ground below. It seemed like quite distance and I was already thinking how I would explain my broken leg to the folks back home as I fell. Nothing happened. Instinctively I had rolled myself up into a ball, protecting my vital parts from the shock. I simply got up and continued my play.

We moved quite a bit in those days. Every place we came to, there was a “Burg” – some better than others. Just outside the German border town of Loerrach, there was one dating from back in the 13th Century that was still in pretty good shape. In fact, some enterprising people had successfully halted its decay, built an open-air stage there, along with a beer garden. The whole thing was then thrown open to an enthusiastic public.

It’s called either “Burg” or “Schloss” Roetteln. It’s actually more of a “Burg” but even in Germany the terms have become blurred. It’s located on high ground, overlooking the Wiesental (the valley of the Wiese River) that skirts the south-western edges of the Black Forest. On a clear day, one can see all the way to Basel, Switzerland, the transportation hub of the region.

I visited Roetteln on a clear and beautiful fall day. There weren’t many visitors. The feel of history was palpable. The gentle breeze on my face as I absorbed the landscape from the tower seemed to beckon something eternal. There are many such castles all throughout Europe. Europeans tend to take them for granted. If you happen to be over there, do ask someone locally if there aren’t any old ruins nearby. Chances are very good that there are. Ask him or her to point you in the right direction. You won’t be sorry to have made the effort.