Sep 18, 2018
A Bavarian Dream
I wrote this piece over a year ago and sent it to an online magazine. The editor saw fit not to respond. I thought I could use it now to mark an inconsequential (to the world) anniversary: almost two years since G. and I went on our fairytale visit to Europe. Around this time of the year, since then, I have been consumed by the desire to read obsessively about the Lost Generation, pore over memoirs from concentration camps, and marvel over the life and death of Ludwig II. The first two are done with relative ease, while the last is made difficult because I am yet to find an English book about him. Until then, I have my own memories to draw on, as well as G.’s pictures.
And while this piece did not win literary acclaim and nobody makes dedications on blogs, I would still like to dedicate this piece to Kristina, my German friend of more than a decade, who accompanied us on this very touristy trip without the slightest demur. Happy birthday, Kris!
The bus from Münster deposited us in cold, rainy Munich one October morning, close to the end of the Oktoberfest. Fresh from the quaint streets and the Gothic spires of the quiet town, which had once seen violent upheavals and also heralded peace with the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia, we were now looking forward to a more touristy experience.
Prepare to see men in lederhosen, Kristina, my German penpal of ten years, texted me. And we did see several as we stopped for breakfast before heading off to our host’s; even at that early hour, dirndls and lederhosen were in full view, making us wonder if all the happy people we saw were revelers from the previous night or simply early starters making the most of the penultimate day of the festival. We peeped into one of the festival tents that evening, a kindly security official allowing us in to take pictures and get a glimpse of the revelry.
When we are traveling, my husband, G., and I usually enjoy quiet places — the peace of a reservoir tucked into a copse in the hills, for instance, or a ramble down an unremarkable cobbled street. However, having come a long way and planned a vacation that you’ve dreamt of for several years, you don’t mind turning up with a train- or bus-load of tourists at a destination that finds itself in every guidebook or calendar. You get off your high horse and acknowledge that you’re part of the crowd. And so it was that we ended up on a packed train, embarking on the first leg of our journey to Neuschwanstein Castle, on the Day of German Unity. We invited Kristina to come along.
As we settled ourselves on the train, I handed Kristina a copy of English historian Michael Wood’s book, A South Indian Journey. I must digress briefly here to explain its significance. After five years of writing to each other, Kristina and I first met when she spent a few months in Madurai, a South Indian temple town. It was only fitting then to keep the memories of her visit alive with a book devoted to textures and colors she had fallen inordinately in love with. Opening the book at random, she was taken aback to see that the chapter her eyes first fell on was about the fish-eyed goddess of Madurai. Memories, dreams, and journeys intertwined as we spent the next hour-and-a-half talking about our distant worlds that had somehow come so close to each other. And now, all these years later, I was making my first visit to her home country.
All the while, we sped through the soothing landscape of Bavaria. G. and I had long wanted to take a train through Europe together and find a painting in every window. This journey fulfilled our wishes. The cloud-flecked blue sky stretched high and free over the farms, reminding me of all the green landscapes I had seen and fallen for headlong. I had spent a year in the South Downs of England, seen the terraced hillsides of Bali, and taken several trips into the river-watered fields of India, before visiting Europe. Here was Bavaria now, beguiling me with its long, wide ribbons of lake-studded green.
As we neared Füssen, a town near the border with Austria, a row of mountain-tops appeared on the horizon. Could I be dreaming, or was I really seeing the Bavarian Alps? Germany was fulfilling my adolescent fantasies, the Sehnsucht of my teenage years in small-town India. I spent a good portion of that time longing to visit Germany, thanks to my blind devotion towards Michael Schumacher — these were the years when the German Formula One driver was blazing his way to five championships in a row. Travel programs on TV showed me the pristine beauty of sparsely populated valleys and the child-like joy of people jamming the Marienplatz, waiting for the glockenspiel to produce its magic. I devoured Heidi, hoping to have a picnic of my own up in the Alps some day, floating in a sea of flowers. In the end, I didn’t quite morph into an Alpine maiden, but I did get a birthday treat in the form of this Bavarian journey.
We got off at Füssen and clambered aboard a bus that took us down some more dreamy roads to the foot of the hill on which Neuschwanstein Castle is perched. We purchased our tickets, bought some sandwiches and a pretzel for lunch, and began our hike up the winding path to the castle.
Conifers loomed over us, casting a blue semi-darkness that blended with the long shadows of clouds gathering rapidly overhead. The odd spring burst out of a nook in the hill. We were in an enchanted setting, the romance of the forest added to by the horses that lumbered up with their human cargo, notwithstanding the traces of their passage.
As we rounded the last curve before we reached the castle, we stopped to look at the stunning countryside that spread out as far as eye could see. The fields were dotted with white buildings and silver lakes. Time and reality — even the confusion of languages behind us — were suspended. This could have been a setting straight out of Rob Roy, for all I knew. It was no surprise that Ludwig II had chosen this spot for his castle.
The shining, gray-topped turrets of Neuschwanstein rose majestically above the swirling crowds. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Disney had seared some images into our heads, but the allure of the real was unmatched. Entering the courtyard, we could quite imagine the clash of swords, the chink of armor and loud battle cries — all this, though the castle was built only in the nineteenth century and had not seen any of the aforementioned action. Such is the romantic grandeur of Neuschwanstein.
We joined the group tour and were led up a narrow staircase into the lavish rooms of the castle. Neuschwanstein literally translates to “New Swan Stone”, and the influence of swans was evident in the decor. The richly appointed rooms, all opulence and splendor, some inspired by Wagner’s operas, opened out to magnificent views of the Bavarian countryside. Moving from one chamber to another, we were awed by how modernity and convenience — the castle was built with telephone lines! — mixed with medieval charm.
It is indeed a pity that Ludwig II died without having experienced the luxuries of the castle. We wondered what it would be like to live in the castle, cut off from the rest of the world, the forests bearing in on the odd dark and stormy night: a bit nerve-wracking, perhaps, for those of us used to the sound of cities.
As the clouds drifted away, we made our way to Marienbrucke (or Mary’s Bridge), stretched out over the Pöllat Gorge. We saw the cream-colored castle of Hohenschwangau, Ludwig’s childhood home, in the distance. It stood on a thickly forested ridge, a less celebrated cousin of Neuschwanstein, splendid nonetheless.
Marienbrucke proved as popular as the castle itself, and that wasn’t surprising, considering the spectacular views it offered. I suspect it finds its way on quite a number of Christmas cards every year. A roaring waterfall gushed into the river under the bridge, but its charms were only second to those of the castle, which now gleamed as the sun burst out. The bridge swayed under the pressure of people in search of the perfect picture, stepping on toes and ruffling tempers slightly.
All too soon, it was time to turn back. Hurrying to the station to beat the crowd, we stopped for a last glimpse of the rugged hills of Füssen, set off by pastel-colored buildings. As dusk started falling on our journey back, the glittering landmarks of day were engulfed in blue. We were loath to return to the present, but we could rely on our well-nurtured imagination to save us from falling victim to the ordinary. A steady rain pattered against the windows, the exhaustion of a day well spent set in, and we slipped in and out of reality.
In a while, what was left of the velvety fields was an all-encompassing darkness.
