Regular readers of my blog will know that The Black Forest has been a dream of mine to visit. I longed to visit the home of the famous wood carvers, gaze upon the fabulous cuckoo clocks, eat Black Forest gateau and walk among the trees in a semi-dark world where anything might happen. I had high expectations and a vividly imagined sense of what the Black Forest might be. The downside of a vivid imagination is that you are so often disappointed. Well, this was one of those very rare times when reality lived up to my imaginings.
The Black Forest was immense. Trees stretched to every horizon with few man-made structures in sight. Beneath the thick canopy, darkness fell quickly and never really lifted, mist lingered amongst the trunks and you felt like you walked in a place where there was only a wafer thin membrane between this reality and another; one where giants and dragons battled. It is a place that bridges the extremes of creepy and magical and speaks in the language of dreams.
I slept well whilst we were there, and dreamt large and felt like I was not really part of the world. I can see why the Brothers Grimm were so inspired to write their fairytales there and why they are so darkly sinister.
Sitting in a car park, watching the light in the forest fade, I wrote my own fairytale which you can read here.
My favourite place in the Black Forest was a tiny town called Mummelsee. There is not much there other than a lake, very modern looking church, hotel with the best buffet breakfast in Germany and a handful of shops. When we visited,they were currently hard at work digging up the road making it even more of an isolated spot than it otherwise might have been.
And there was of course, a fantastic legend to go with this town. The lake in Mummelsee is 17 metres deep and at the bottom lies a spectacular crystal palace that is home to mermaids and a brilliant tragic tale.
Once upon a time, deep within the dark, mysterious waters of Mummelsee, a bunch of mermaids lounged around like they were on an eternal spa day. These mermaids are not to be confused with the purple shell-bra, fork brushing hair types who like to hang out with fish, no they were more like sassy, Black Forest divas who enjoyed gossiping about human tourists and snacking on whoever fell off passing pedloes overhead.
The mermaids had a father who ruled with an iron fin. I’m not sure if he was supposed to be King Triton but he bears a very passing resemblance to the watery God with his trident and scowling expression. He allowed his daughters out but they had to be home by 10pm. That rule was not up for discussion and woe betide any mermaid who missed her curfew.
Now, these mermaids were known to be smitten with handsome young men and would head down to the local pub every Friday night to dance with them. There is no mention of trading Ursula the Sea Witch for shapely legs so perhaps these mermaids flapped about all fish-like with their trouty tails… This legend is missing so many details – perhaps that’s why Disney haven’t ruined it with a saccharine movie.
The youngest mermaid (it’s always the youngest), fell in love with a handsome local lad and happily this love was required. She was so busy dancing one Friday night that she forgot to return by 10pm. Her sisters headed back to the watery crystal palace without her and she was still in the pub when 10pm struck. I’d like to pause here to allow you to reflect on the atrocious sisterly bonds that allowed the older sisters to leave their youngest sibling to her fate. On a scale of sticking your finger in your siblings sandwich to wilful sororicide, this must rank pretty highly.
“Oh no!” Cried the youngest mermaid, (okay, I wasn’t there but I imagine this is what she might have said) as she ran (flopped?) out of the pub and fled (floundered?) back towards the lake. The handsome young man ran after her and caught up with her by the lake.
“No, don’t watch this! If my father doesn’t forgive me, you will shortly see blood on the surface of the lake!” She tells him and with a last parting look at her love, she dove into the lake.
Well, foolish man that he was, he stood and watched and nothing happened. Then it did.
A deep plume of red rose in the centre of the lake where it unfurled like a banner and was gone.
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After Mummelsee, we wound our way south, driving down steep, narrow roads (my hands clamped firmly over my eyes) where meeting another motorhome would have meant some complicated manoeuvres. We never saw another soul, making me believe that perhaps we did travel for a time in another world.
Our final stop in the Black Forest was Triberg where we stopped at the House of a 1,000 Clocks to buy a cuckoo clock for the motorhome. The shop was a delight for the eyes and ears – full of the calling of cuckoos, old music-box tunes, and the rhythmic ticking of clocks. The clocks are all set to random times meaning that everywhere you look, a cuckoo is popping out of a tiny little door or little marionette figures are spinning, dancing, chopping wood as the clever mechanisms get to work.
The sales assistant had a slightly mechanical air about her – as if she too had been carved by a master woodcarver and installed in her Swiss Cottage-esque outfit to assist buyers.
“I bet all this cuckooing drives you crazy!” I said, probably like every other visitor to the shop before me.
“No, i barely noticed it,” she replied but I noticed her flinch when another clock ticked to 12 and a muscle in her eye twitched as the cuckoo’s door flew open and out popped the little bird. They also sell Swiss Army knives there. I fear this may prove to be a terrible error.
Eventually, after about an hour of dithering, we selected a clock then made it perfect by buying a little carved bear and German Shepherd figurine and proudly escorted this to the motorhome where Tom installed it on the wall. Now the changing hour is accompanied by cuckooing and a different tune each time bringing back memories of our favourite place on the trip so far.
We could have stayed in the Black Forest forever but the cold brought reality back to us. It had previously been 30 degrees in Germany and a sudden cold snap had sent temperatures plummeting to lows of 4 degrees overnight and highs of 9 during the day. The motorhome has heating and kept us toasty warm but it was freezing whenever we left it and we just hadn’t brought clothes to deal with such temperatures. The only coats we had were thin rain jackets and we each had one pair of jeans and one jumper with us. So reluctantly, we decided it was time to leave Germany. Our previous plan had involved driving over the Alps and into Switzerland but snow was forecast there. We were definitely not prepared for snow.
So, France it was. We wanted to head back to a lovely warm 20 degrees, which meant heading South. A long way South…
