A Bodacious Bayreuth Babe

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair!” complained Princess Friederike Sophie Wilhelmine of Prussia to her parents. “I want to be Queen of England. It’s not fair! I won’t go to Bayreuth!” “Well, your mother’s to blame for that one” replied Willie’s father Frederick William 1 of Prussia. “It’s Bayreuth for you after all her tricks with the royal family, so forget England and the House of Hanover!”

For a larger than life comeback, a phoenix rising, dreams – dashed and history made saga, the bodacious babe who hit Bayreuth by storm, turned her misery into might, her fetish into fame and her hobbies into history. As a true leader of #Me Too, this ‘Power Frau’ erected and performed on her own podiums, spruiked her own talents and testimony, created a predominantly Baroque Bayreuth, shaping its current day style and rocketing her into the hitlist of top chicks of the 18^thcentury.

With hopes of the crown dashed, hitched for political persuasion in 1731 to Frederick, (I protect the boarders), Margrave of Brandenburg-Bayreuth to ‘stop the Austrian drift’, young Willie sucked up her sorrow, dried her eyes and resigned to her fate in the backwaters of Bayreuth.  Perhaps as reward for her ‘exile’, an attempt to make good, guilt-ridden generosity, or just down right brotherly love and favouritism, Willie’s brother Frederick the Great softened the blow by throwing open the coffers, sending stacks of coin to placate sister and fund princess lifestyle, enabling Willie to embark on an audacious offensive to transform the Bayreuth hood.

As big sister suffering ‘ditched queen complex’, Willie lived large by the motto, “If you can’t go to Hollywood, build Hollywood and let them come.” A self- made and endorsed composer, musician, theatre star, singer, project manager and interior designer, Willie was locked and loaded. With the additional bolstering of husband Freddie’s new- found inheritance, and love for their sweetness Elisabeth Friederike Sophie, she set to work creating the stage for the shin dig of the century – Liz’s wedding. The now internationally and UNESCO listed, epic Bayreuth Margravial Opera House, bubbling with Baroque was sculpted by the finest Italian architects and set designers of the day. A clear shout out to the international courts that Bayreuth counts!

With a heightened taste for centre stage and confidence in the limelight, this mover and shaker in the Age of Enlightenment, continued her eye opening, cultural construction crusade. Not to be outdone in the arena of gift giving, hubby Freddie bestowed upon his Bayreuth babe palaces, theatres, gardens, music rooms and more. In the breadth of her emphatic inspiration and imagination, Willie garnished these spaces with outdoor ruin theatres, grottos, and new palaces for good measure. Perhaps out of idolatry, thankfulness or sheer matrimonial competition, one of Willie’s masterstrokes, created specifically for Freddie, included the opulent Bayreuth Hermitage Temple of the Sun. Set in palatial gardens, appealing to the highest of the Greek gods Apollo, and depicting her husband’s epic granduer, Apollo sweeps the sky on his daily sojourn in a chariot across the world, filling it with light. So too Willie continued her creative spree, waving her magic over Bayreuth whilst driving a dangerously diminishing bank balance.

Blazing a spectacular path across the town and along its boarders, Willie left no stone unturned and no opportunity untouched. In harmony with her repertoire of creations, ensemble of ingenious pieces, architectural arias and the renaming of rock gardens beneath the Zwernitz castle to the French ‘Sanspareil’, there would be absolutely no mistake that this splash of fame, this Bayreuth blitz, this bodacious babe from Bayreuth ‘C’est sans pareil!’

IN A COFFEE CUP

Moving up to the Drive Thru window, I order my regular soy cappuccino.
“Would you like a Wallfahrt with that? Some Bohemia? A Warsaw Pact? Honey? Bread? Or perhaps Red or White Main Water?”
With no knowledge of the ingredients, I consider the options.

A pinch of Bohemia requires a crash course in Kingdoms, Reichs and Republics, of noblemen and Nazis. Are the Germans, Hungarians and Austrians in or out? Can the Sudeten and Egerland Germans stay or must they go? We’d have to draw some lines around Bavaria, Saxony, Silesia, Austria and Moravia, moving them multiple times over. Ultimately after an age, with a final declaration of surrender to the Czechs and Slovaks everyone gets to go home.

The option of a Wallfahrt comes with a list of considerations and a demand for commitment to a pilgrimage not always comfortable. Purpose, places and paths form the framework for determination. Bombastic baroque delights, jewelled skeletons and effervescent angels await via Volkenroda to Waldsassen. The twelve stations of the cross, quiet Capellas with warm glowing candles along the St James Way, offer up space for contemplation and reflection. Protestant, Catholic, Ecumenical or Unitarian, a shedding of self, a discovery of God, grace and greatness. An ultimate surrender to the Sovereign and realignment with reality.

For a piece of Warsaw Pact, we bite down into Cold War ideology rather than arm up with infantry and ammunition. A ‘red collective counter weight’ for NATO is formed, to determine who’s in the Eastern ‘socialist sandwich’. From the Fichtelgebirge mountains of Schneeberg and Grosser Kornburg, German surveillance bust open secrets, uncover cohorts and collusion, stabilising security in the Western Alliance. Battle lines are drawn as in a game of Risk, with readjustments and the 1989 reunification the final roll of the dice.

To choose ‘Bread’ in this context of offerings requires explanation and is unquestionably unappetizing. Through the Fichtelgebirge, Steinwald and Fränkische Schweiz, along the Fränkische Gebirgsweg, the dark towering, fairy-tale provoking Spruce is the most stumbled over, slipped on and stood under tree. Earning the moniker from its economic metrics; the fast growing, quick harvesting, profit yielding, ‘bread tree’ generated funds for the payment of repartitions, delivered sustainably to the rebuilding efforts of WWII and continues to dominate forestry practice. With the realisation that “Man cannot live by bread alone”, a transition away from monoculture to a ‘multi-culture’ is outlined in the German Forest Act and commemorated on a 50-cent piece. Ultimately confirming that amongst the diversified ecosystem objectives and benefits, forestry is still all about ‘coin’.

A spoonful of honey requires a significant quantity of bees. Amongst the bounteous corn and sugar beet plots, (successfully used for biogas/ biomethane production), and beneath colossal wind turbines, the “Insect Protection Action Programme” is hiding. Along the edges of ploughed fields, in small patches of otherwise farmed and fertilised soil, a government subsidised glad array of corn flowers, yarrow, poppies, sunflowers, daisies, clover, dandelion, and other bright coloured flowers stand boldly beguiling bees. There’s a magic in embracing the classic and ancient, an exit from agricultural hubris to botanical mélange. The benefits of biodiversity if we just, ‘let it bee’.

To wash this all down, there’s the option of Red or White Main. Running over granite in the Fichtelgebirge, straight from the spring at the foot of the all- seeing Ochsenkopf mountain, the White Main water washes clear towards Red. The Red Main, rising in the hills of the Franconian Switzerland Jura mountain range, runs red over clay soil. In a quest for something stronger the two headstreams trickle, meander, then surge downstream, uniting to form the mighty Main, taking all they have seen and heard deep into the Rhein.

Upon careful consideration, contemplation and rumination, I reach out, grab the coffee and realise, “I got all of that in a take away cup”.

 

SIMPLY SLOWLY

Summarizing slow living: ‘You see stuff, hear stuff, learn stuff, connect stuff, appreciate stuff.’ For want of an ideologically saturated, nausea inducing attempt at describing a commonly cliched state of gratitude, mindfulness, contemplation and solace; simple is best. Simple is transparent and simple resonates. It sits well with the territory; the tractors, the old towns, the church turrets, the corn fields, village fountains and the ever – present tabby. Simple is what we have strapped to our backs, stuffed in our mouths and sets the unassuming perimeter for expectation and enjoyment.

Our real time GPS ‘dot’ moves slowly across the map in this crawl from town to town, forest to forest and field to field. As our kilometres are clocked, each path connects places to people, sites to stories, heroes to history and asking to answers. In a challenge not to count down, but to chalk up, we soak in the sun, seek out the locals, smash the unfriendly and sustain from taking shortcuts!

We move through the forests of Frankenwald to the Fichtelgebirge. Though the regions of Thüringen, Oberfranken and Oberpfalz. We cross boarders East and West, skirting Kingdoms, countries and current city lines. The rivers Selbitz, Saale and Eger narrate a past shaped of mills, wealth and toil; of mining, farming, smithing and guild crafts. We pass through the medieval towns of Münchberg, Laubersreuth, Kirchenlamitz and Heidelheim. We conquer the heights of the Waldstein and Kornberg, inhaling views from the top of Großbüchelberg. We light a candle of the faithful at the wood side Fatima chapel, so quietly she listens to prayers unspoken. We pass the Herr Gott Stone, of legendary magic and the granting of wishes. We sit at the Teufel’s Tisch in an invitation to play cards with the devil. We’re introduced to Bockpfeifers (Bagpipers), Napoleon, and the pioneering naturalist Humboldt. We follow ancient way markers through thickets, dark woodlands and medieval fortresses with an era of von Sparneck knights. We hide behind rocks of refuge sheltering gypsies, victims of Wars and the region’s most Wanted. We intersect with the ViaPorta von Volkenroda and the St James Pilgrim Ways, with the long – distance routes of E5 and E6 and develop appetite and appreciation alongside the educational Potato and Carp trails. We walk tracks studded with granite, shale, gneiss, basalt and all manner of geological treasure and meet the ‘porcelain princes’, Hutschenreuther and Rosenthal on roads paved ‘White Gold’.

We walk all of this with boots strapped tight, Band Aids protecting blisters, Autan applied in defence of dreaded ticks and compass bearings confirmed. This slow daily foot march of discovery rapidly assumes a pace of its own. It’s a fast way to form local connections. It’s an expedited journey through time. It’s an accelerated examination of society. It’s a high – speed way to slow down.

OF HISTORY AND HOPE

“Yes, across Europe, this wall will fall. For it cannot withstand faith; it cannot withstand truth. The wall cannot withstand freedom.” Ronald Reagan, West Berlin, 1987.

“The wall will be standing in 50 and even 100 years.” GDR Head of State Erich Honecker East Berlin, January 1989.

“It comes into effect according to my information, immediately.” Günter Schabowski, East Berlin, November 9^th, 1989.

“Now what belongs together will grow together.” Willi Brandt (Berlin’s Mayor), November 10^th, 1989.

“The wall was not brought down by Washington, Bonn or Moscow. It was razed to the ground by courageous and intrepid people, from both the East and the West.” Gerhard Schroeder, Former German Chancellor, Berlin, 1999.

“For anyone to understand a regime like the GDR, the stories of ordinary people must be told. Not just the activists or the famous writers. You have to look at how normal people manage with such things in their past.” Anna Funder, Stasiland.

“The woman who used to own this guesthouse was originally from the East. She fled to the West. A baker moved into the house and ran his business. After the wall came down, the woman returned to reclaim her house. The baker had to leave. She was not popular with the town’s people. When she sold me the guesthouse, she told me I won’t be popular with the villagers and to watch what I say. I’m from West Berlin and enjoy living here. I haven’t had any problems.” Guesthouse owner Blankenstiein 16^thSeptember 2019.

Heading North East out of Nürnberg, the single carriage train pulls deeper into former East Bloc territory. Once controlled by the USSR, houses and train stations lay dormant, desolate and decrepit in this region of former East Germany. Coloured graffiti disguises flaking rendered walls, glass window shards, smashed shale roof tiles, pigeons pooping in doorways, once manicured lawns now running wild, tell a story of a past in which we understand only shadows, a period in history disconnected from, yet intrinsically interwoven into its present. Cosy cafes now replace ration coupons. Train rides go unnoticed. Anglers are free to fish on both sides of the bank. Rusty wire waylaid, no longer garnishes autocracy. Concrete pylons stand naked and exposed, their former fortifications so fantastic – disbanded. Sirens, strobe lights and shotguns lie buried with a broken ideology, and of the “Wall of Shame” only memories remain.

There’s an irony in starting a 450km walk where distance was once measured by proximity to the Wall. Where a compass could confidently point in every direction except West. Where now, not 50 meters from the ‘death zone’, the Blankenstein Wanderdrehkreuz, marks the intersection of five regionally famous hiking trails, and maps a horizon in every direction. Not surprisingly we head off ‘West’.

The Selbitz river shares a narrative of boarder troops and lives lost. It speaks of desperate freedom flights, of isolation and disconnection. It tells of boundary houses erased and generations displaced. It shares a story of restoration, of colour and of hope. It crescendos in a chorus where bridges now replace frontiers and of freedom’s kaleidoscope. With a heightened gratitude in our footsteps, and confidence in our direction, we step into the Frankenwald, the first forest to form a connection to our 450km destination.

Trekking a trail through tall ‘Tannenbaum’ and quaint farmhouse villages, the sliding door sensation of what we have seen and heard accompanies us through a region scored with tragedy and triumph. In a testament to human spirit and solid belief in something greater, we are reminded of the 40^thanniversary to the exact day, on which a homemade balloon flight made history. Where the dream of a better tomorrow, scaled the heights of fear and imminent death. Where in the stealth of darkness bravery trumped politics and boarder police.  Where the‘Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart’was successfully navigated, not 4km from the end our first ‘Etappe’. A night remembered for setting a borderless bearing for freedom without limits and a new horizon for hope.

Stats:
September 16th, 2019
Blankenstein to Selbitz
Kms: 18.5

ARE YOU KID-DING?

“Because the teachers hate me.” Is the sweaty response from the continuously complaining 14 year old as to why he was in the most difficult hiking group on the school camp. “That way they don’t have me hanging around base camp for three days.” His athletic, teen build and energetic aura hinted at the more likely reason he’d been selected to pound the three day trail from Tidal River, to Waterloo Bay and on to Sealers Cove.

Radiating heat from rugged granitic rock faces smothers conversation as the group of heavily laden Year 8 students trek the path towards Little Oberon Bay. Seeking solace under sheoaks, embracing hints of cool ocean breeze, adjusting and readjusting packs in search of the sweet spot; oversized shoes generate demand for Elastoplast repairs to blistering feet as a steady rhythm develops, fate is accepted, complaints lessen, and grabs into scroggin filled zip lock bags increase.

In a trend soon to be solidified teens become toddlers at the sight of sand, waves and steep boulders. Agility training apparently already required after 4 kilometres, packs are shed, shoes tossed aside, and boulders scaled. Warnings to keep feet dry go unheeded as sand settling in socks create hotspots heading for a fortunately dry Growlers Creek crossing into Oberon Bay.

Along the sun-drenched track to Telegraph Junction black dust clutches perspiring legs and coastal breezes fade. A discontented murmuring amongst students confirms the disconnect between the kilometres to be covered on day one in the camp brochure and distance already covered. The ‘Are we there yets?’ increase as the additional 5 kilometres are added to the day’s agenda. Questions and complaints are unlikely to have been less with Telegraph Saddle as the Trailhead. The hope of a ‘swim’ at Waterloo Bay, keeps eyes peeled on the horizon and determination in strides.

After 15.7 kilometres, tea tree and messmates give yield to the white siliceous sands and the incandescent blue of Waterloo Bay. The outgoing tide seemingly extracting self – doubt and uncertainty, the salt air filling with the prospect of success, capability and confidence. Receding waves lap up vestiges of the ‘impossible’, invigorating the group’s last 1.5 kilometres to the campground as hats, food and clothing are rescued from the inlet crossing scrambling up to Little Waterloo Bay Track.

Excitement builds as tent poles poke and bend finding their correct order and angle, sleeping mats inflate for hopefully the required duration, and pack contents are strewn through sleeping quarters. “Remember no food in tents. Who needs wombats when you have each other!” The initial aversion to hiking and physical exertion dissipates in the steam of boiling noodle packets, apple crumble deserts and hot chocolates. Torchlight hides the reality of the drop toilet experience and lurking native animals hustle tired bodies into bed. As laughter roars and warnings for silence fly, who was it that didn’t want to hike?

Alarms ring early, in anticipation of severe afternoon storms. A speedy pace is set through an ever-inclining understory rich in lichen, moss and blue wrens, with a towering canopy of all things eucalyptus overhead. Shortly before Kersops Peak, pangs for morning tea are aroused by the all – pervading honey scent of the Kunzea Ambigua, strong enough to fool a bear. The view from Kersops Peak temporarily suspends all other form of teen conversation. Xbox has finally met its match in the spectacular vistas spanning the secluded Refuge Cove, misty mountain coverings and the huge expanse of the Tasman Sea.

Teenage egos jostling for position slowly meld into team as ‘can’t’ metamorphosizes into ‘can’. Passing through the once thriving whaling station of Refuge Cove and on to Sealers Cove, the site of a mid 1800’s timber mill sets the backdrop for the evening. Spared from the tent tearing storms and rain ravaging Tidal River, Trangia’s prepare dinners, burning pancakes and bracken simultaneously. Tents without flies bode disaster under the Cumulonimbus heavy skies, whilst guy ropes are set, and drainage dug for the pending downpour.

The final morning brings with it lessons in tent living, leaks and leeches. A crack of dawn departure avoids disaster at Sealers Creek where the tide already runs high. Hope beams wide as a rainbow points in the direction of the treasured trail end. Trudging through the temperate rainforest, ancient fern gullies, across boardwalks and over swamps, Windy Hill marks difficulty completed as the trail traverses towards its close.

Three days leave negativity, suspicion, self – doubt and uncertainty on the track. Telegraph Saddle is reached with ruck sacks lighter and spirits fuller with determination, resilience, courage and celebration of personal triumph over challenge with a request to “Do it again right now.” Personal fortification gradually collected in an environment where the crashing of waves and whistling of birds replace relentless pings of Insta posts and Facebook messages. Where chats lasted longer than a snap and the memories of fun, achievement, and triumph will last so much longer than a Fortnight.

LEAVE IT AND TAKE IT

 

There are stories here of ancient times, deep concealed caves, underground lakes, Jurassic Dolomite outcrops, bloody battles, wayfarers, pilgrims and faith transformed. Peoples have peregrinated through the valleys of the Franken Jura, this Fränkische Schweiz for centuries. We connect with their footsteps and weave our trail in its magnificent history.

Beneath rocky limestone outcrops we leave laughter. On fortress peaks we leave awe. Along rivers windy we leave stories. In deep caverns we leave intrigue. Across rich green fields we leave gratitude.  At town squares we leave time chiming. On train platforms and at house gates we leave friendship. Beneath deeply piled leaves we leave merriment. On a forest edge we leave our final trail.

The Autumn bathed hills, vibrant multi coloured leaf showers, cool morning fogs and long afternoon shadows whisper the befitting message of farewell. It’s time to take leave. Take with you your memories, take with you your inspiration, take with you your experience manifested, take with you your plans, take with you your discoveries, take with you your tomorrow.

“As you set out for Ithaka,
Hope your road is a long one,
Full of adventure, full of discovery…..
May there be many summer mornings when,
With what pleasure, what joy,
You enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time….
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
So you’re old by the time you reach the island,
Wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
Not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
You’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.” Ithaka – C.P. Cavafy