ROMANCE ON THE RHINE

Otago Daily Times, Issue 25802, 24 March 1945, Page 8

ROMANCE ON THE RHINE

FROM KOBLENZ TO BINGEN PARADISE UNDER THE HILLS By S. K. Are you looking for romance? I do not mean the kind that is bought in a shop, applied to the feminine face and figure, and then purveyed to the masculine world. No, another kind of romance can be found on that stretch of the Rhine which General Patton’s army has reached on its lunge across the Moseille—it is the romance of castles on mountain-crags, of a majestic river, of green hills and ancient towns nestling in the valleys by the Rhine, and also of slender, beautiful long-necked bottles. The Rhine, legend-encrusted river of Europe, is not everywhere just what tourists from overseas are led to believe it is. Over most of its long course it is plain dull, the banks are flat, the towns large and sprawling: it is a commercial highway, carrying on its broad back quite unromantic coal barges and grain ships. But between Koblenz and Bingen the river races through the rocky highlands of Western Germany; along the 40 miles of its course through these steep hills the Rhine really is what you imagine it to be. Koblenz has been taken by the American Third Army, a city where the Moselle joins the Rhine. It is a modern town, the few old monuments are engulfed in the clean, new buildings of this once-thriving commercial city. Yet Koblenz has one of the loveliest promenades on the Continent. The old wall along the river was pulled down some time ago, and a boulevard took its place. There you can sit in a small cafe by the river bank, under the old trees, which embower it, and watch the Rhine flow past in the evening, silently, sparkling with odd lights, a snatch of music coming to ycu from some boat. Vou linger over a bottle of Rhine wine, the evening draws on, it is all peace and contentment, you remember all the tales you have heard of the Rhine, the castles, the river fairies, the tales of Roman conquest and civilisation; all that seems to be around you; it is present everywhere, quite real. Across the river you can still make out the shape of the great fortress Ehrenbreitstein which first arose in Roman times, high up on its cliffs, grim, forbidding, underlining the tales of rapacious princes and robber barons. Further up the river, past many ruined castles and small villages and green vineyards, you come to the famous Lorelei, the rock on which sat the fairy girl who combed her golden hair in the sun —its lustre attracting the eyes of all the riverfolk who passed by in their boats, forgot the swift currents, the jutting rocks, and were wrecked and drowned. You have heard the song, its treacly melody, its sentimental words. Well, here is its story: A German novelist saw the rock one day and thought that it ought to have a really good romantic legend attached to it, it is just the kind of rock you feel must have a story. So he simply made one up, all about this water-vixen who drew people to their perdition. A few years later, in the last century, the German poet, Heinrich Heine came across this little artificial legend. He thought that it was just the kind of tale one ought to write a poem about--which he promptly did. Somebody else supplied the music, the new song caught on like wildfire, it became the most popular ditty in Germany, a real unofficial national anthem from which you could never escape. In due course the Nazis came, and all music and poetry and art fashioned by German Jews was “ liquidated.” Now Heinrich Heine, author of the Lorelei, Germany’s most popular song, happened to have been Jewish. His Lorelei could not be banned, its sugary sentimentality, Its syrupy cadences, appealed too much. Well, the way out was simple; in all new school books the poem still had to appear, in all song-books it took pride of place—but the author was given as “Anonymous.” . Here, at the Lorelei Rock, the Rhine is narrowest, the current treacherous and swiftr It is not the place for ferrying an army across, though a few miles further up there stands in the middle of the river, strange and fantastic, an ancient castle, the Pfalz. It has stood now for some 600 years, it was built to stand for ever. The Pfalz is not the only river fortress; higher up still, just below Bingen, which has been taken by the Americans, stands the Mouse Tower. It also dates from old times, and its name recalls a legend from the era when men were men and mice were mice, and did not get mixed up. The cruel Archbishop of Mayence had during his reign in the Middle Ages so annoyed God by his impious doings that He decided to send a plague of mice to the archbishop’s territory to destroy with fine impartiality both the good and the bad. Of course, the archbishop thought that was a bit too much, and went off to his stronghold on the tiny island in the middle of the Rhine to wait till the mice had eaten everyone else and so appeased the wrath of the Almighty. But, as I said, in those days mice were mice, and they just swam across the river and, with great relish—for he must have been well nourished —devoured the hearties.-, archbishop. To this day, the old tower in the Rhine is still known as the Mauseturm as a warning to bad clerics. Bingen, where the Nahe joins the Rhine, on the western bank, has stood since Roman times. The Drusus bridge, which was built when the Romans crossed the Rhine to safeguard their eastern frontier, and, incidentally, spread their culture among the barbarian Teutonic tribes—this same bridge has been repaired and rebuilt for nearly two milleniums, so that portions of it are still incorporated m to-day’s Drusus Bruecke that spans the river. Now Bingen, site of a Roman fort, has been captured by Allied troops who are helping to safeguard western civilisation and who will tame once again the barbarians beyond the Rhine. Bingen is a small city, of about 10,000 people; it is picturesque, clean, and has some really fine hostelries. The wine, though, that comes from there is its outstanding glory and achievement. Across the river grows one of the princes of Rhine wines, the subtle Ruedesheimer There are the Scharlachberer and Schloszberger and the Eisler, all of them good wines and true! And if you ever want to know what paradise looks like and smells like, ask one of the great vintners of Bingen to show you his cellar. Hewn out of a hill, halls and galleries wind deep in the earth, well protected from changing temperatures There it is where you see sights that will haunt you with their loveliness for the rest of your life: barrels that hold over a hundred thousand bottles of the finest vintages, barrels in which they have matured for years before being drawn. You will see the divine shapes of Rhine wine bottles, in all their slim elegance, filled with nectar and ambrosia. And you will feel like the fabulous dwarf Perkeo who went into the cellar of the Heidelberg Castle when the giant Heidelberger Tonne, the Great Barrel, was filled up with enough wine to give 200,000 bottles of it. Perkeo, so the student song tells, entered the cellar in the prime of his youth, and he left it in extreme old age, giving thanks to his Maker for having chosen him as the frail vessel of his most glorious miracle: Perkeo the Dwarf had conquered the Giant Barrel of Heidelberg—when he entered the cellar the Barrel was brimming full, when he left no drop remained: Deo Gratias!