In Europe the Middle Ages were dominated by the Church and ravaged by aristocracy, war, famine, and plague. Much purgatory and penance and little paradise for serfs. And yet, every September Germany goes into a frenzy of festivals that not only celebrate the harvest but also the Middle Ages. Many castles rose to fame in those years, and now the inhabitants of surrounding cities, towns, and villages offer their crumbling ancient remains to strengthen their modern economies. Tourists beware – the knights are rising.
I lived in a small German town when I was a child. Our house, begun in 1588 on the foundation of a monastery, was under national monument code and could only be altered with permission from the authorities. The walls were three feet thick, the windows tiny, and none of the little rooms along the long stone hallway were draft-free. As the last nail smith in the state of Baden my great-grandfather had once been an important craftsman in his village, but after his death my mother and I played only bit parts in an impoverished post-war town of three thousand. In an effort to make a living locals began to entertain out-of-towners. Dressed in historical costumes they performed publicly, tapping and stomping for summer guests, singing and performing skits for fall travelers. Other tourist events centered around spinning and dying yarn, singing old songs, and of course cooking and eating and drinking. In September we harvested apples, pressed them, and allowed the juice to ferment in big barrels. New wine and onion cake was a local tradition.
Though I really prefer my California not so mobile mobile home to my grandmother’s half-timbered ancient house, I must have been bitten by a medieval bug in recent months. I suddenly craved small town life in Germany. But instead of the monastic history of Schoenau I wanted to experience the walled separation of a fortress. Dilsberg, only a few miles away, fit the description. I had visited it once, when I was twelve; I vaguely remember the town wall and the barns built against it. I must have climbed the castle tower too, with a gaggle of girls from my class. And I must have shouted cautious obscenities into the depth of the fountain. It was a long time ago.
On September fifth 2006, surrounded by my large suitcase, my bulging backpack, a friendly village dog and a curious neighborhood preschooler, I stood in front of my rented house, just about 25 yards inside the fortress wall. Only 250 people live in the old Dilsberg; the rest of the population is spread over many neighborhoods up and down the surrounding mountains and valleys.
I became resident number 251 for a month. After my landlady unlocked the front door and helped me inside, I immediately felt at home. Though the interior had been completely renovated, the obvious signs of 200-year old construction had not been eliminated. From the dark wood floor to the timbered walls to the crooked doorframes to the rusty hardware, rustic flavor prevailed. It prevailed in spite of modern appliances in the kitchen, comfortable bench and chairs around a dining table, a large bathroom with shower and double sink and separate toilet, and a cozy bedroom with satellite TV and double bed.
When I climbed the eleven steps to the bedroom for the first time, I felt my left calf cramping. This would happen every time I went upstairs – for three days – then my legs must have accepted the unusually high risers. The ascent was steep and narrow, the way it used to be to my bedroom in the attic at my great-grandfather’s house. And just like then I could now hear history creaking in certain spots.
I thought about the house, inside and out, as I had seen it on the Internet. I was not disappointed. If anything, the real ambiance outshone the virtual image. And outside, the main street, the access to the castle, added its particular sights and sounds to give me a true picture of the medieval German town as tourist attraction. Every half hour the clock in the bell tower chimed to make me aware of time. And when I pushed back my red and white striped curtains in the morning I was awarded with entertainment. Dilsberg has only three streets; Upper and Lower Street which meet at the Catholic Church at the end of town and Castle Street which branches off Upper Street. The front of my house faced Upper Street and the back looked down on Lower Street.
After a few days I knew the town rhythm. When I sat over my first cup of coffee, the woman across the street, the famous TV personality who owned the chocolate factory, watered her window boxes and swept debris from her cellar door. Food and beverage trucks crawled through the narrow opening in the gate tower and rattled up the street to service the two restaurants. Later my neighbor to the right arrived to open her gift shop. While she anchored ceramic ducks and clay frogs on an outside display table she greeted my neighbor to the left who stood on his balcony to check the weather.
The gate to the castle opened at ten. Predictably tourists began to pass by my window on their uphill strolls to the ruins. Some stood to catch their breath or to admire the sunflowers that divided my front yard from the street. Some came closer and talked about the roof over my door and wondered about the flowerpots that were built into the shingles. Some peeked into my window only to pull back apologetically when they realized that they were inspecting a private residence. I often giggled when I saw them trying to open the door to my landlord’s wine cellar or when I listened to their conversations on the bench outside my window.
Afternoons brought children to my doorstep. They bought ice cream next door and played with one of the dogs that always seemed to run away from somebody. Most of the children were staying at the youth hostel around the corner, and late into the evening they told ghost stories and shrieked with delight. Just before midnight they were treated to a flashlight tour by the famous night watchmen who entertained them with historical anecdotes and the deep sound of a horn.
On the weekends beer-filled revelers stumbled and mumbled their way home or to their cars that were parked outside the town wall. But only once, on the night of the harvest festival, did I fear for my safety when I heard the loud voices of young men engaged in a fistfight. The next morning volunteers gathered the remains of broken beer bottles along the street and when I later sipped my latte at the gift shop next door, I was introduced to the gory details of the brawl. It seems I was the only one who hadn’t witnessed the 4 am struggle. I forgot to ask who hauled the young men away; during my whole stay I never once saw a policeman in town.
I realized quickly that even if all my observations were confined to my view from the kitchen table I would be able to learn much about the town. But I had come to do more. I wanted to walk the castle, the gardens, the churches, the wall, the surrounding villages. I wanted to know why the fortress that had withstood more than five hundred years of alien invaders, was plundered into ruins by locals after 1826 and how, after 1950, the barns that had been built into the wall on Lower Street, had been replaced by beautiful homes with elaborate front gardens. But most of all I looked forward to the fall festival with strolling maidens and jousting knights and medieval market atmosphere.
I lived in a small German town when I was a child. Our house, begun in 1588 on the foundation of a monastery, was under national monument code and could only be altered with permission from the authorities. The walls were three feet thick, the windows tiny, and none of the little rooms along the long stone hallway were draft-free. As the last nail smith in the state of Baden my great-grandfather had once been an important craftsman in his village, but after his death my mother and I played only bit parts in an impoverished post-war town of three thousand. In an effort to make a living locals began to entertain out-of-towners. Dressed in historical costumes they performed publicly, tapping and stomping for summer guests, singing and performing skits for fall travelers. Other tourist events centered around spinning and dying yarn, singing old songs, and of course cooking and eating and drinking. In September we harvested apples, pressed them, and allowed the juice to ferment in big barrels. New wine and onion cake was a local tradition.
Though I really prefer my California not so mobile mobile home to my grandmother’s half-timbered ancient house, I must have been bitten by a medieval bug in recent months. I suddenly craved small town life in Germany. But instead of the monastic history of Schoenau I wanted to experience the walled separation of a fortress. Dilsberg, only a few miles away, fit the description. I had visited it once, when I was twelve; I vaguely remember the town wall and the barns built against it. I must have climbed the castle tower too, with a gaggle of girls from my class. And I must have shouted cautious obscenities into the depth of the fountain. It was a long time ago.
On September fifth 2006, surrounded by my large suitcase, my bulging backpack, a friendly village dog and a curious neighborhood preschooler, I stood in front of my rented house, just about 25 yards inside the fortress wall. Only 250 people live in the old Dilsberg; the rest of the population is spread over many neighborhoods up and down the surrounding mountains and valleys.
I became resident number 251 for a month. After my landlady unlocked the front door and helped me inside, I immediately felt at home. Though the interior had been completely renovated, the obvious signs of 200-year old construction had not been eliminated. From the dark wood floor to the timbered walls to the crooked doorframes to the rusty hardware, rustic flavor prevailed. It prevailed in spite of modern appliances in the kitchen, comfortable bench and chairs around a dining table, a large bathroom with shower and double sink and separate toilet, and a cozy bedroom with satellite TV and double bed.
When I climbed the eleven steps to the bedroom for the first time, I felt my left calf cramping. This would happen every time I went upstairs – for three days – then my legs must have accepted the unusually high risers. The ascent was steep and narrow, the way it used to be to my bedroom in the attic at my great-grandfather’s house. And just like then I could now hear history creaking in certain spots.
I thought about the house, inside and out, as I had seen it on the Internet. I was not disappointed. If anything, the real ambiance outshone the virtual image. And outside, the main street, the access to the castle, added its particular sights and sounds to give me a true picture of the medieval German town as tourist attraction. Every half hour the clock in the bell tower chimed to make me aware of time. And when I pushed back my red and white striped curtains in the morning I was awarded with entertainment. Dilsberg has only three streets; Upper and Lower Street which meet at the Catholic Church at the end of town and Castle Street which branches off Upper Street. The front of my house faced Upper Street and the back looked down on Lower Street.
After a few days I knew the town rhythm. When I sat over my first cup of coffee, the woman across the street, the famous TV personality who owned the chocolate factory, watered her window boxes and swept debris from her cellar door. Food and beverage trucks crawled through the narrow opening in the gate tower and rattled up the street to service the two restaurants. Later my neighbor to the right arrived to open her gift shop. While she anchored ceramic ducks and clay frogs on an outside display table she greeted my neighbor to the left who stood on his balcony to check the weather.
The gate to the castle opened at ten. Predictably tourists began to pass by my window on their uphill strolls to the ruins. Some stood to catch their breath or to admire the sunflowers that divided my front yard from the street. Some came closer and talked about the roof over my door and wondered about the flowerpots that were built into the shingles. Some peeked into my window only to pull back apologetically when they realized that they were inspecting a private residence. I often giggled when I saw them trying to open the door to my landlord’s wine cellar or when I listened to their conversations on the bench outside my window.
Afternoons brought children to my doorstep. They bought ice cream next door and played with one of the dogs that always seemed to run away from somebody. Most of the children were staying at the youth hostel around the corner, and late into the evening they told ghost stories and shrieked with delight. Just before midnight they were treated to a flashlight tour by the famous night watchmen who entertained them with historical anecdotes and the deep sound of a horn.
On the weekends beer-filled revelers stumbled and mumbled their way home or to their cars that were parked outside the town wall. But only once, on the night of the harvest festival, did I fear for my safety when I heard the loud voices of young men engaged in a fistfight. The next morning volunteers gathered the remains of broken beer bottles along the street and when I later sipped my latte at the gift shop next door, I was introduced to the gory details of the brawl. It seems I was the only one who hadn’t witnessed the 4 am struggle. I forgot to ask who hauled the young men away; during my whole stay I never once saw a policeman in town.
I realized quickly that even if all my observations were confined to my view from the kitchen table I would be able to learn much about the town. But I had come to do more. I wanted to walk the castle, the gardens, the churches, the wall, the surrounding villages. I wanted to know why the fortress that had withstood more than five hundred years of alien invaders, was plundered into ruins by locals after 1826 and how, after 1950, the barns that had been built into the wall on Lower Street, had been replaced by beautiful homes with elaborate front gardens. But most of all I looked forward to the fall festival with strolling maidens and jousting knights and medieval market atmosphere.
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