Sächsische Schweiz
Having departed the miraculously-reborn Dresden, I took a train just a few short miles further up the Elbe, into the waning dusk of night, to the village of Konigstein in the hill border region known as the Saxon Switzerland, Sächsische Schweiz (a term the Nazis apparently banned for nationalistic reasons of an especially stupid kind). I had booked a hostel, which I quickly found in the tiny town, but the door was locked, with no one in sight to greet me. For a few minutes, I was left to contemplate the yellow lights reflected on the cobbles of the empty streets. Fortunately I ran into some of the Ukrainian refugees who were living the hostel, and they quickly connected me with my host.
The following morning I began climbing out of the town and up the wooded slope behind it. As I proceeded, the greenwood, flecked with autumn’s gold, stirred sleepily and shuffled off the fog of morning. Around me were great mesas, the rocky outcroppings which gave this region its nickname. And below me, the valley of the Elbe unrolled itself, with Konigstein huddled hard by a sharp bend in the river – downriver to Dresden, upriver to the Czech Republic only a couple miles away.
After passing through yellowing woods on leaf-strewn paths, I suddenly found myself in a carpark, under an immense curtain wall of unparalleled height: it was the Fortress of Konigstein, never once conquered. A cargo elevator lifted me the 140 feet to the top of the wall, where I gazed out over the most gorgeous green country one could possibly imagine.
Below, the Elbe carved its gentle way through the hills, carrying all the water of Bohemia with it on its way to the North Sea. From this height, the town might as well have been a model built to accompany a train enthusiast’s set.
After touring the fortress, I struck out overland through forests and fields along a series of wandering trails and tiny rural roads. I passed a bunker left over from the war, a flock of geese, and a herd of black sheep, before descending to the river to cross on the ferry at Rathen. This flat boat is forever held in place by a cable fixed upriver, and only swings very slowly from one side to the other, like a pendulum on the end of its cord. From the tiny one-street spa town of Rathen, I climbed with scores of others to one of the region’s oldest and most popular tourist attractions: the Bastei. These rocks, spanned by an observation bridge since the 1850s, sprout heavenwards like myriad fingers.
After recrossing the river, I walked along its bank back to Konigstein, hurrying a little because I had no flashlight and the dusk was fast descending. There is something about river valleys in rural mountains that makes them the most peaceful places in the universe. I am reminded of the Yulong River in southern China, which felt much the same way, though the climate and scenery were markedly different. If you can get to either place, go.
