Rambles in the Black Forest

Contents

I. A Preliminary Ramble

II. Which ventures to be mildly Instruc TIVE .....

III. The First Black Forest Ramblers IV^. The South-Eastern Gate : Singen and the

Chapter I

I HAVE chosen the title to this little book only after much doubt and many twinges of conscience, fearing to mislead my readers by the term ' rambles,' which in a usual way infers something altogether pedestrian. But, indeed, where in the English language is a word to be found which comprehends every mode of locomotion except flying ? How compose a title which will immediately call up before the mind's eye a vivid picture of the author on foot, of the author on a bicycle, of the author in a puffing and snorting little motor-car belonging to a past generation of motor-cars, of the author in a comfortable if

A I hired victoria — we must not boast — of the author, last, but not least, wearied and brokenspirited, in a common ox-wagon, having been picked up ten miles from anywhere by a pitying village yokel ? The obvious answer is the word ' tour,' but to my mind the title Tours Through the Black Forest would be even more misleading — in fact, positively deceitful. It might persuade some prospective holiday-maker to buy the book under the impression that it is a kind of guide and friend through all the intricacies of the German time-table, a saving help in those times of doubt and uncertainty when twenty hopeful porters, representing as many ' first-class hotels,' await his final choice. He might imagine carefully mapped excursions — one day here, two days there, half an hour for this waterfall, and so on, with all the overblown signposts righted and pointing in the truthful direction for his benefit. All this he might imagine, and be greatly deceived, for I have no wish to enter into any competition with great firms of ' Globe- Trotting Mentors.' If I had the wish I should have no claim to be heard, and those who trusted me would soon find themselves bitterly disappointed. I merely wish to describe the Black Forest as I know and love it, and I have chosen the word ' rambles ' because, for me, it expresses something unrestrained, haphazard, something altogether unbound by laws and miles. It suggests an easy jog-trot which will give you time, if it so pleases you, to lie full length in the grass and dream yourself away amongst the pine-tops, or to stop and study the flowers which grow in such rich profusion along the roadside, or to watch the wild deer grazing in the cool shadows, or to listen to the roar of the torrent as it thunders on its way valley -wards.

Whatever else happens, you will at least not be hurried, and if you are tired after a long walk, and a peasant's cart comes your way and you are offered a lift, there will be no tiresome pedant to chide you that it would be incorrect to accept, since you are a professed pedestrian ; on the contrary, you will be told that it is the only sensible thing to do, and that nobody but the confirmed mile -eater, as the Germans picturesquely call him, cares for plodding on when he is already hot and weary. In a word, this book is for the rambler, as I understand him, not for the tourist, who is a very different person. The genuine tourist never rambles, he tours, and therein lies the fundamental and all-important difference. The world is full of tourists ; some of them are rich and laden with much belabelled boxes, some of them are poor — you meet them on the dusty high-roads, burdened with heavy knapsacks, hatless, coatless, with red, hot faces, which they Hft a moment in order to contemplate you lying in the shade of the trees. As a rule they see nothing of the country through which they are trudging. Their eyes are fixed on the dust, and the only point of interest for them is the encouraging mile-stone which is bringing them nearer to their destination.

Rich and poor, all these people are ' touring,' and the tourist has only one object in life — to ' do ' something, to ' get ' somewhere, and to have the right to say he has ' done it,' or ' got there' all on foot, or all in a motor-car, or all in a first-class sleeping compartment, just as his particular ambition tends. And, rich and poor, all these people are more or less mad — at any rate, pitiful self- deceivers. They call * pleasure ' what is in reality a strenuous hustle and bustle which no one really enjoys ; they call ' sight-seeing ' a blind race to some given point which has no further interest for them from the moment tliat they have reached it.

Such people only learn to know the country they travel through from the exterior, and they never learn to love it. They may be able to catalogue every picture in the galleries and every ' notable ' sight, but they will never learn to know the ' genius ' of the places they see. They are rather like those other people who pride themselves on having what they call ' an eye for faces/ but who have never learnt to study an expression, much less to penetrate below the surface to the character or emotion in which that expression has its source. Such folk judge entirely by outward appearances, and consequently they rarely love and they rarely praise with genuine feeling. They are impressed by a beautiful face or by a gorgeous apparel, but, after all, neither the one nor the other can form objects of lasting affection.

So also the tourist — only such countries impress him which have something stupendous to show ; if he is rich and luxurious he likes grand scenery and grand hotels, if he is of the mile-eating type he likes to climb famous mountains and famous passes, and in both cases a purely pastoral beauty, the charm of a peaceful landscape, has no hold upon him. In his eyes one valley, one low, fir-covered mountain looks like another, and he groans after the obvious magnificence of a Mont Blanc.

I make these observations, not out of illfeeling against a harmless enough section of my fellow-creatures, or because I have any selfish interest in the well-doing of Black Forest hotel-keepers, but simply in the endeavour to explain the marked neglect with which the Black Forest is treated by foreigners. In the summer you may meefc trains full of English, American, French, and Russian travellers, bound for the Alps, for that already overcrowded Switzerland ; but from the moment you leave the plains behind you, and wander up into the Forest, which lies at the east of the grand route, you find yourself almost entirely amongst the native Germans. For them the Black Forest is a legitimate playground, a spot of earth created to suit their temperament and their taste.

There are few grand hotels — the average German's pet abomination — and the scenery is essentially Teutonic — if I may coin the expression — that is to say, poetic and lovely, romantic and wild, but neither cold nor tremendous, and only rendered awe-inspiring by the spirit of past ages which broods over its solitudes.

Therefore, wherever you go you will meet Germans of every class and from every corner of the Empire, but perhaps one Englishman in a hundred. Him you may greet as a sort of Masonic brother, since only a genuine love and understanding has driven him aside out of the excited, heated stream of holiday-makers bound for Europe's so-called playground

I have been told, of course, that Switzerland offers far more attraction, that the hotels are better, that the scenery is grander ; that, on the other hand, the Black Forest is monotonous and consequently depressing. Bien entendu it was a tourist who offered me this explanation — a rambler would have known better.

He who has really travelled through the Black Forest with his eyes and heart open, will tell you that not only can it stand comparison with Switzerland, but that it is incomparable. It is true there are no white-capped mountains, no glaciers, no dangerous passes ; the stupendous, awe-inspiring properties of the Alps are, in a w^ord, wholly absent ; but, indeed, in these forms of beauty the Black Forest makes no attempt to enter into competition. One might almost say that she disdains the more boastful splendours of her neighbour, standing alone and unique in her own quieter grandeur, and calling with an irresistible eloquence to those w^ho understand her language. Not every one understands her language. I have no doubt that there are hundreds of travellers who stand awestruck before a Swiss mountain, and who will never recognise the impressiveness of a Black Forest gorge. The heights and depths are not great enough for them. They prefer something which crushes the senses beneath a weight of magnificence, something which requires no effort to understand and appreciate. The Black Forest lover — and she has only one kind of lover, the ardent admirer who admits no rival — must have the love of nature implanted in him, he must be himself something of a poet, and something of a musician, and something of an artist, even though he never composed a sonnet, or a song, or painted a landscape. He must be able to see in every valley, in every waterfall, in every mountain a subtle distinction, a delicate character which lends each a separate personality, a charm unlike all others. His observant eyes must be able to mark the changes which come with a marvellous swiftness over the landscape — the wonderful colours which reveal themselves amongst what seems to the careless tourist a monotonous olive. In the loneliness he must be able to see life — the hundred forms of beautiful and strange life which move noiselessly in the shadows — and in the silence hear the music of the fir trees and the drowsy hum of a countless hoard of unseen workers.

It seems a great deal to expect of a simple and unpretentious rambler, but, indeed, without these virtues of heart and mind the Black Forest must remain a closed book for him. She makes no vulgar appeal to the senses ;

like every one worth knowing she holds herself back in reserve until she feels the true understanding of a sympathetic personality.

For the Black Forest has her own personality — so much so that I must fain allow her a personal pronoun — and like that of her inhabitants it is so profound, so unique, that it has withstood the levelling atmosphere of the globe-trotter and remained itself, sphinx-like, for those who give themselves neither the time nor the trouble to learn to understand, a tireless teacher for those who come with heart and eyes open to receive her lessons.

Therefore I warn the great army of mere sight-seers, of bustling tourists, and societyloving folk to leave her untroubled. They will find nothing to attract them, and will only go away disgusted with the dreariness and monotony of a much over-rated district.

But the rambler will understand and love her. It may be that he will have to learn, for some ramblers are born and some ramblers are made ; some ramblers see from the beginning, and some have to be taught to see. The present writer humbly confesses to belonging to the latter group. There was indeed a time when I greatly preferred the more brilliant effects of the Alps, and found the Black Forest, as I then knew it, a rather monotonous health resort.

The truth was that I had never done anything but tour through the country. I had stopped at the bicf hotels and been hustled and bustled

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about in the most busy season and in the midst of a thorough holiday crowd. I had done the correct excursions and seen the correct sights, but I had remained, nevertheless, blind and deaf to the real character, the real meaning of that which I saw and heard. Afterwards I learnt to know people who had made their home in one of the quiet valleys, who lived there through summer and winter, and they slowly opened my eyes and ears. They took me among the village folk and up into the mountains, where the tourist foot never wanders ; to peasants' huts hidden away up in the heights ; they told me of the folk-lore, the people's customs, the legends which haunt the mountains, and gradually the Black Forest became imbued with a spirit, a living personality whose language I had learnt a little to understand. Let me confess at once that my understanding is far from complete — I think it is a confession which even the greatest authorities must make. For Nature has given us in the Black Forest an inexhaustible expression of herself, and whereas elsewhere, as in Switzerland, she holds aloof, a stern, cold goddess who locks her secrets and her wisdom in an impenetrable bosom amongst the low, pine-covered mountains, she relaxes her stern features and becomes the living companion of those who have learnt to love her. And whether you are a born rambler or only in the making, it is worth while to learn to love this nature, this Spirit of the Black Forest, as we will call her. Then when you stand on what seems to you the highest summits and gaze over the sw^eep of mountains which stretch away like a purple haze into the sunset, you will not complain of a want of grandeur. You will realise that you are standing at the heart of Nature herself, that she has opened her gates wide to you, and that the world which lies before you has been her undivided kingdom from all eternity. You will not complain of an oppressive quiet, for you will have learnt to understand the voice of the Forest which will tell you legends and strange tales from a history which stretches right back to the beginning of man. And you will not complain of loneliness, for, as I have said, you will have learnt to see life in the seeming solitude, and your imagination will have learnt to conjure up the quaint earth men and all the fairy spirits which still live there for the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the virtuous. And as you stand there a change will come over you : no cold, glacial peak rises above you to

II remind you of your own insignificance ; the world lies beneath you, a wonderful forest-world whose beauty seems to elevate you above yourself, to fill you with an idealism which perforce forsakes you in the stifling lowlands, and in the crowd and strife of the cities. You feel no arrogance. The world beneath you is not less than you. Nor do you feel oppressed, crushed beneath the menace of a Nature who stands before you as an eternal enemy, asking life for every daring encroachment upon her territory. Here Nature claims you as' a very part of herself. All that is best, noblest, grandest in her finds an echo in all that is best, noblest, and grandest in your own heart. She calls awake slumbering melodies and half-forgotten dreams, and the breeze which she sends to you over the pines sweeps away the mists, the unhealthy vapours of modern life, and brings, for the moment at least, an absolute quiet and peace. Peace, health, mental and physical, such are the gifts which the Spirit of the Black Forest gives to the heart- and mind-wearied humanity who year after year come to her saving power for help.

It is not without reason that sanitoria for every form of suffering are to be found dotted amidst the solitude. In the solemn, elevating grandeur of her mountains, in the quiet gaiety of her valleys, in the healing peace of her forests, in the pure air, heavy with the perfumes of the pines, mind and body can rest, can draw health and gather strength to renew the battle which had overpowered them. But in case it be suspected that I have shares with Dame Nature in this favoured ' health resort ' which she has erected, I will say no more for the present. Suffice that it is to the true rambler, the nature lover, the man or woman seeking vigour and relaxation, that these rambles are dedicated.

There are hundreds of rambles which I have left undescribed, for they would fill almost as many volumes, but if I have encouraged the reader to seek them out I have attained my humble object. At any rate, this chapter has, I hope, justified my own claim to the title of a 'rambler.'

Chapter II Which Ventures To Be Mildly Instructive

The rambler need not be alarmed by the above title. I have no intention of belabouring him with scientific facts, or burdening him with a heavy supply of geographical, zoological, botanical, and geological wisdom. Science, and even an over-supply of wisdom, are not for the average rambler, who likes to go haphazard, and wants to enjoy nature without having to bother about the whys and wherefores of his enjoyment. I know, from my own experience, that there are some well-meaning but objectionable people who during a stroll will never leave you in peace, but are always engaged in cataloguing the different trees and plants, and worrying you about the possible and impossible geological make-up of that particular district. All this is very unnecessary and very disturbing. It does not much matter to the Black Forest rambler whether the ground he walks on is composed of granite or sandstone ; what does matter to him is that his path is shady and beautifully kept, and that the flowers growing on either side offer him a delight entirely independent of names and distinctions. And even if the rambler be a man of science whose chief enjoyment in life is the gleaning of fresh knowledge, he will at least be wise enough not to look for a detailed scientific exposition of the various points of interest in a book which professes to deal purely and simply with rambles. He will know that each branch of science would require a volume to itself, and if he wants that volume it is easy enough to obtain.

Nevertheless, I feel impelled to touch lightly on certain features, because, in the first place, they may encourage the student to seek further ; in the second, because they are directly connected with that intangible but very real being whom I have ventured, for want of a better term, to christen the Spirit of the Black Forest. For example, the rambler who is ignorant of the country's wild, romantic history, will miss something of the magic which haunts the old ruins whose shattered walls frown over the valleys. He will feel himself less drawn towards the inhabitants, in whose veins flow the proud Roman and Celtic blood ; the grandeur of the mountains will impress him less, since their origin is unknown to him.

For there was a time when they were not mountains, when the peaceful valleys over which he gazes had no existence. How long ago the gigantic changes took place none can say, but it is certain that no human eye witnessed them.

A hundred thousand years back — a few thousand this way or that is of no importance — a broad tableland spread from the present-day Bohemia to the present-day France. In the first instance it was composed chiefly of granite, but, as the ages passed, the waters brought with them a mighty and increasing sediment of rock and stone which rose above the original bed to a height of about three thousand feet. By a natural process the gases and burning lava lying beneath in the heart of the tableland cooled, bringing with them a contraction, a shrinkas^e of the earth which left immense cavities beneath the surface. On this frail crust lay the whole burden, which eventually proved too heavy. The crust yielded, the terrific masses thundered down into the depths, leaving behind solitary standing points which we now call mountains, and forming beneath valleys of very varying lengths and characters. The Black Forest was one of the definite results.

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As we know it to-day, it extends from Karlsruhe south as far as Basel, a distance of about one hundred and seventy-five kilometres, and from east to west its breadth varies from thirty-five kilometres (in the north) to seventy-five kilometres (in the south). Full three-quarters of this valuable territory lie in the Grand Duchy of Baden, a quarter only in Wiirtemberg. The geographical divisions in the Black Forest are so sharply and clearly defined that the rambler who is fond of mapping out distinct districts which he intends to explore has a comparatively easy task before him. He need only take the valleys and follow them up to their head, and see all that the Black Forest has to show in pastoral and wild romantic beauty.

And here these valleys can be divided into two distinct groups. Far the greater number run from east to west, and are accompanied by a stream or river which pours down from the heights into the Ehine, and from which the valley takes its name. From west to east, that is to say, on the western slope of the high ridge of mountains running northwards, the valleys are fewer and usually of a wilder character. Their rivers flow into the Donau, which, as all the world knows, takes its source at Donaueschingen ; but I fancy it must sometimes puzzle an unde- B 17 cided rivulet as to whicli of the two great rivers it shall honour with its humble addition, since the frontier between the eastern and western slope is of the narrowest.

These two groups of valleys can be divided again into smaller groups, which repeat themselves with slight though distinctive variations throughout the Black Forest. Some, such as the Gutach, are purely pasture land. Fresh green meadows stretch on either side up to the low mountains which lie well back from the quietly flowing river. There is a broad outlook and from a slight eminence one can look away over the villages clustering on the banks of the great Ehine plain beyond.

These valleys lay no claim to romantic grandeur, but they have a charm which is all their own, and as characteristic of the Black Forest as any wild and rocky cleft. It is here that the rambler finds the picturesque villages, and the wealthy, conservative old peasants who cling to their customs and their dress with a pertinacity which, alas ! is yielding to the inroads of ' modern fashion.' But we will come back to these interesting folk later when our rambles lead us past their homesteads.

In contrast to these valleys there are the narrow gorges whose rocky walls, rising sheer up on either hand, allow scarce room for more than

i8 the bed of the torrent which rushes tumultuously towards the plain. There are others which broaden out gradually, others which retain a certain breadth throughout, and each, though it can always be reckoned as belonging to a certain class, has a certain characteristic either in respect of its scenery or its inhabitants, which the rambler grows gradually to recognise and to appreciate. These also we shall visit later on ; for the present we must leave them for the mountains themselves.

As I have warned the reader at the beginning, there are no snow-peaked Alps here to catch the eye of the jaded, sight-seeing tourist. The highest mountain, the Feldberg, rises only to about 4500 feet, and though in past ages it was covered with snow throughout the year, all traces of winter now disappear at the beginning of June and even earlier. Nevertheless, on a suitable day — a very rare day, it might be remarked — the view from the summit is a magnificent one : the Rhine lies beneath, and over all the neighbouring mountains the Feldberg is undisputed monarch.

To the south-west lie its two most important rivals, the Blauen and the Belchen, both over 4000 feet ; northwards the Kandel rises well above its neighbours, but from thence the mountains gradually sink, and only here and there, as in the case of the Hornisgrinde and the Kniebis, can they boast of more than 3000 feet of grandeur. ' Grandeur ' in connection with such small elevations may seem absurd to the climber of Alpine peaks, but, indeed, actual measurements go for little in the Black Forest.

Wherever you are you always seem to have the world beneath you, and this is specially true of the northern parts which, according to feet and inches, should be considerably less imposing than the south, but which, on the contrary, have regions of unrivalled beauty. I have no doubt there are any number of travellers who would rise in protest against this statement, but it is, after all, only a matter of taste, and I confess to a weakness for the north, and to having found the south somewhat over-estimated by comparison.

One of the many reasons given for the so-called 'monotony' of the Black Forest is the ' absence of water.' I put the statement in inverted commas because it is not my statement, and I only repeat it because it has so often been repeated to me. Were the charge true, I admit that it would be a very grave one, but I venture to protest against it. It is true there are few lakes of any great importance ; the Titisee and the Schluchsee make the greatest claim to attention, though there are others, such as the Feldsee, whose inferiority in size is atoned for by wilder, more romantic, surroundings. But the rivers, the torrents, the rivulets which stream down every hill and mountain-side — and the waterfalls ! The rambler who fails to find the waterfall at every stopping-place must, indeed, be a unique individual. There are waterfalls everywhere of all sorts and sizes, from the grand Triberger, whose imposing beauty has been spoilt by too much artistic cultivation on the part of over-zealous hoteliers with an eye to the tourist taste, to that of Allerheiligen, to my mind more natural and therefore superior. It is always a mistake when mankind imagines he can improve nature by mowing the grass, planting regular flower-beds, and turning on an artificial moonlight of various colours in a thunderstorm. A rambler who knows the Black Forest will sympathise with this sentiment.

One word more before leaving the geographical province. Throughout the country which we are about to explore the roads and paths are magnificently kept : the paths are like those of a park ; the roads make the rambler who has neglected to bring his bicycle gnash his teeth with vexation. A great deal of this advantage is owing to the nature of the soil, and to the fact that many districts are closed to the motorists ; but a great deal more is owing to the praiseworthy efforts of the Black Forest Association (Schwarzwald Verein), who keep up the paths, erect signposts, and act as the rambler s guardian angel throughout.

In speaking of the various means of transit, mention must be made of the railway — naturally the work of the Government, and one of which it has every reason to be proud. ' The Schwarzwald Bahn ' is, in fact, one of the ' sights ' and rivals some of the greatest Swiss engineering feats. Though the greater number of health resorts lie some miles from the actual station, still there is no spot in the Black Forest which the railway does not make perfectly accessible, and for this blessing one must offer up humble thanks to the Government. No private company would ever have built it, for it neither pays nor is it of much strategical use, being incapable of transporting great loads. It is a great piece of enterprise, out of which the traveller certainly takes the profit.

Another ' last word ' must be devoted to the weather. The weather ! If one could only find a ' last word ' for it in these erratic days ! It is with fear and trembling that I make the following statements, for which I refuse to hold myself in any way responsible. Settled weather, either for good or bad, is rare in the Black

Forest. The morning can be cloudless, there may be a terrific thunderstorm in the afternoon, and a glorious sunset in the evening. One day may be tropical, another may find you huddled up against the welcome stove with blue fingers, and wondering why you did not bring your winter things with you. All this does not sound very hopeful, but I must add that the climate is nevertheless a healthy one in summer and in winter. There are at least no fogs ; whilst below in the valleys less fortunate mortals are making their way through mist and mud, the Black Foresters are enjoying a clear air and a dry soil ; for no matter how much it has rained, the roads and paths are always irreproachable. A south-west wind predominates, and thunderstorms which first break against the sides of the Blauen and then roll from mountain to mountain northwards are anything but rarities. They are a part of the Black Forest, an expression of her spirit, adding to her majesty, and the rambler who has not heard the artillery of a hundred armies roaring about his ears has missed the chance of listening to her in her grandest moods.