The Romantic Road - part VII

  Fussen, Germany
Sunday, October 28, 2007

Horse-drawn carriages were driven by chain smoking nervous Bavarians in single-feathered hats, while myriads of tourists were queuing up for their turn in a very un-orderly fashion.  The carriages pulled on by the tired horses were steered up the hill amid tall auburn trees, mountain waterfalls, and a forest ground cushioned by layers upon layers of red and yellow leaves.    For those who decided to spare the poor horses of such servitude and bondage, it was a 40 minute trek up to Neuschwanstein Castle. 


 
It didn't even seem that long as Ed and I took detours through the forest just to feel the damp squishes of the leaves.  Mushrooms grew on broken tree logs and Ed pointed the spot where a wood pecker had furiously tapped his way into the bark.  From not too far away we could hear the heavy hoofs of the horses carrying the overweight or otherwise lazy tourists, while their loud chatter and camera flashes disrupted our moment. 
 
Halfway to the castle was a resting place for the horses, an unbelievably over-priced souvenir shop and a coffee kiosk.  A young man in an apparent hurry sold us hot chocolates and two oversized brezels with salt rocks as big as uncut diamonds, all for an €11 rip-off.    A frail and unkempt greyed-hair woman with a restaurant uniform sat on one of the benches, her bony back curved downwards into her lap smoking a cigarette and looking from her apathetic, cadaverous eyes on to the castle entrance.


 
Looking up from behind the trees we could already spot the legendary round peaks of Neuschwanstein's towers, so tall we had to curve backwards to see if they ended or if they continued up to the clouds.  The mountain mist seemed to be slowly clearing away revealing the baby blue sky, a perfect backdrop for this white-stoned fantasy castle.  As Ed and I looked on to its dramatic presence, we wondered what dreamworks King Ludwig II of Bavaria had conjured up here amid the grumble of the white-capped peaks, high above and far away from the rest of the world.   What did he do to turn this place into the most visited castle in Germany, and probably the world? 
 
Neuschwanstein, or New Swan Stone Palace, seemed to be a part of the mountain, rising up from the rock taking shape from its Romanesque base up to its slender limestone towers and turrets.  From its many small arched windows one easily transcends reality and pictures fairytale maidens letting down their hair or calling for their lost prince with flustered hearts.  This was what Ludwig had imagined, a Romanticized medieval castle invocating the epic poems of Wolfram von Eschebrach and Richard Wagner's majestic operas. 


 
After a wait in the busy courtyard our number was called and we climbed a tower where the tour began.  Together with a group of American students and their unresponsive teachers, we were reminded that photography was not allowed inside the building, and warned that cameras were watching us big-brother style should we forget.  A lovely beginning.
 
It was hard to keep up with the guide who liked to start talking before the entire group had made it in the room, or with the loud and impressionable students who I enjoyed shushing every now and again.   Nonetheless, we managed to catch that the castle was never finished, even though construction continued a while after Ludwig's death.  His family, driven to debt because of Ludwig's extravagances, opened the castle as a museum soon after his mysterious demise.  Ludwig named his castle after Lohengrin, the Swan Knight of Richard Wagner's operas who he wanted to pay homage to. 



The Throne Room was the grandest of all, like a small Byzantine basilica whose tiny blue and golden stones decorated the walls and apse with an almost religious zeal.  Inspired by Hagia Sophia of Constantinople, the room had a tremendous gem-encrusted chandelier and pillars of stucco imitating porphyry and lapis lazuli.  The wall paintings show law makers from the heathen and Christian worlds, although the throne, a symbol for authoritative law-making, was never made.  Ludwig did not expect this room to be destined to diplomatic receptions, but rather as a fantasy realm where he imagined himself as Parzival, the Grail King.
 
His bedroom is carved entirely of oak in the elegant Gothic style that he so adored.  It took 14 skilled woodcarvers four years to complete the elaborate appearance of spires, quatrefoils, pointed arches, and tracery windows.   The bed itself resembles a small Gothic church and is draped in richly decorated thick fabrics.  On what little space is left on the walls is the tragic scene of Tristan and Isolde drinking the love potion that sealed their fate.  Little would Ludwig know that his fate was also to be sealed in this room where he was to be arrested in 1886.
 


Adjoining a study is the Grotto Room, probably the most bizarre room in the castle.  Reflecting Linderhof's Venus Grotto, this little room was made to look like a real dripstone cave with colored lighting and a conservatory with glass panels that gave an uninterrupted view of the mighty Alps just beyond.   
 
The tour finished much too quickly and it had been difficult to view the intrinsic details of the rooms with so many people crammed inside.  The tour guide had been indifferent and cold, and had not expressed Ludwig's vision as I had hoped.  Nonetheless, it was clear that Ludwig knew what he wanted and did not allow anyone to tell him otherwise. 
 
He materialized his fantasy of medieval knights and epic love stories, of grand kings and religious love, and although people called him and continue to call him crazy, no one seems to remember how Ludwig kept many long-dying crafts alive by the building of this castle.  He used the most modern technologies of the time including steam engines, electricity, heating pipes and modern ventilation.  Moreover, he brought electricity to the people of Bavaria.


 
He was declared insane and soon after found dead lying face-down in a shallow part of Lake Starnberg together with the doctor who certified him.  No one really knows what happened but talk of suicide and murder has not stopped echoing around these Bavarian foothills throughout the centuries. 
 
We exited the castle and climbed the gate that leads to the waterfall bridge from where we could see the castle for all it was.  The bridge united two mountains from whence underneath ran a cascade of spring water creating surreal emerald pools of water.  And from beyond rose Neuschwanstein like an ivory citadel on a lonely peak, a sight not for the faint hearted. 


 
Not content, we crossed to the other side where a trail leading up the highest peak curled up amid fields of snow and deer droppings, fresh pine trees, roots and mushrooms.   The sun finally won its battle and crept out fully, creating shadows of pine cones and tall trunks on the ground, as if flicking a switch in the mountain. 
 
A few hours later and we were still climbing, unable to stop.  The castle was well below us now, almost invisible behind the mist of the day but still wonderful in between the two lakes of the valley behind it. We had come unprepared so we sucked on balls of snow for refreshment, until our lips and tongues were red.  The rocky growths of the peak were becoming more apparent, more beautiful, and as we neared an opening, we felt the wind icier, fresher, pristine.  And suddenly across from the mist was the view we were expecting, the alpine peaks of snow which seemed to crumble down but were as firm and as old as the earth itself.  Up here in the clouds it's hard to remember your life below, in the airy landscape Ludwig knew well.  It's here, in this stillness, that lies his flight of fancy, reachable by anyone who really wants to see it.



This was how our Romantic Journey ended, on a mountainous landing looking down unto misty Bavaria.  Neuschwanstein castle blended in just as well as the white trails of snow left behind by last night's fall.  After what was probably the most beautiful trip Ed and I had embarked on, it was hard to pop back into the real world, out from the clouds and the mist, the operas and the poems, and return to our earthly realities.  Our make-believe fantasy was now safely tucked in between the mountains surrounding this Romantic Road.