July 28, 2022. I was sad to leave Ursula. Her kindness and comfortable abode had provided a valuable respite. I left reluctantly, heading to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, but traffic was terrible, so I made a quick pivot to Würzburg—the northernmost point of the Romantic Strasse.  The Romantic Strasse was devised as a theme route by promotion-minded travel agents in the 1950s. It spans 290 miles from Würzburg in the north to Füssen in the south and links picturesque towns and castles. In medieval times, it served as a trade route from the center of Germany to the south.

I saw a brown sign indicating Möckmühl. I like following these signs. Sort of like the bread crumbs in Hansel and Gretel, only these invariably led to somewhere special. As usual I stopped at the tourist office and picked up a map which showed all the historical sites in the small walled town. I love treasure hunts—tracking arrows, reading the signs, trying to decode a town’s past. It reminds me of a different kind of orienteering with map and compass. I’m not big on the straight and narrow.

I followed the map to an old mill and the tanning building, which sat just outside the walls—they were built outside the town walls because of their stench. A man told me in German how he remembered the mill stream running down the street when he was younger. Not sure how I understood, but I did. That epitomized the kind of interaction I live for—local memories layered onto a place. I walked up to the castle, past the oldest house in town, now smothered in rose bushes. The owner had taken down the historical sign and blocked access to the city wall lookout. Ironic, since her house is listed in the guidebook. Some people want the charm without the visitors, I guess.

I found the remains of a wine press and a sandstone healing stone people used to shave pieces from—for both human and animal health, apparently. You could still see where they’d scraped it down. Then I headed into Würzburg and parked by the university. While backing up, I heard a crunch and panicked, convinced I’d smashed my tail light. Turned out to be nothing—maybe a can?—but it left me rattled.

Würzburg is grand and stately. The Residence, rebuilt after 97% of the city was bombed in the war, is ridiculous in its opulence. I wandered the gardens and ended up chatting with a lovely gay couple from Florida—one recovering from scleroderma, the other his hand therapist. They told me stories about Ludwig of Neuschwanstein, how he wasn’t mad, just gay, and died in that lake with his doctor. It was sad, but they were so joyful and easy to talk to—reminded me of what Ursula said about post-Solidarity Poland, how people felt more alive, less dower than in Germany. It made sense in that moment.

I tried to reach the pond I kept seeing from the garden walls, but no matter how many paths I took—through the orangerie, around the hedges—I kept getting blocked. It wasn’t until the next day I realized it was in a public park outside the palace grounds. Typical.

Later I stumbled on a rally gathering outside the Residence—hundreds of women on bikes, many shirtless, police nearby. It felt like something was about to erupt, but it didn’t. I got some gelato at Cico (delicious and very deserved), then wandered the back streets and slipped into the cathedral minutes before closing. Eight minutes to be exact—they were very German about it. The bombing memorial shook me. The model of the town before and after the war—just devastating. They said only 7% of the city’s buildings survived. Seven. I could hardly find them.

A German man and his daughter were there. He started talking to me—about socialism, immigration, how the allies bombed Würzburg to break the German spirit. He was upset, clearly, proud of owning a place on Sylt, talking about how Germany has changed. I listened politely, but inside I thought—come live in a tent in America and see how it feels without a safety net.

I crossed the bridge into the oldest part of town, still intact, and climbed toward a church, but realized I had to find a place to camp. I drove out of town, nervous in the crowded area, then found a pull-off near a bike path, pitched my tent in the bushes to hide from the cars. Around 1am a car roared by on the path—teens or college students. It scared me. I froze and hoped the car parked nearby would act as a deterrent. Finally fell asleep. Woke around 6:30 to a couple talking about me—probably wondering what I was doing there. I packed up fast and left.

July 29. I drove back into Würzburg and parked in the ring garden. It was early—kids heading to school, people starting their day. I walked through the park, then returned to the Schloss gardens and eventually found a little coffee spot called Kaffee Manufaktur. They roast their own beans. I had a proper cappuccino and lemon cake and felt like I’d finally landed. They told me they’ve been there two years, mostly locals. It was such a peaceful start.

I tried to get into the old council chamber at the Rathaus but it was locked. I enjoyed the stairwells and poked around, then decided to cross the river and climb up to the Marienberg Fortress. On the way I saw a girl crying and her friends trying to comfort her. No idea what happened, but I’ve been there. The fortress was a maze of hidden corners, blocked paths, and private tours. I wasn’t allowed in the church or tower, but I did find a secret garden that made up for it. Classic me—no signs, no guide, just stumbling upon something beautiful.

I walked back across the bridge, back through the palace gardens, then grabbed one last gelato before heading out around 1pm. I drove south to Tauberbischofsheim, arriving around 4:30. Found a cloister, wandered to the old Schloss (now a museum), and made use of the Mediathek bathroom. The woman at the tourist office was helpful—told me about the churches and the Olympic fencing champ from town.

Next stop: Lauda-Königshofen. Smaller, with a couple towers and a sign warning not to leave valuables in your car. Made me uneasy—there were Roma families in town and the sign felt directed at them. There was a stone bridge over the Tauber and not much else. I pushed on to Bad Mergentheim, a spa town, more lively. Walked around the Teutonic Knights’ castle and then into the spa gardens, where a band was playing—part gypsy, part classical. The music carried across fountains and flower beds. The English garden on the other side was stunning. A group of guys passed me, one said “Aben” and I jumped—caught off guard—but said it back. I wanted to stay there longer, but time was short and I had to press on.

Creglingen was next. Unfortunately, a loud carnival had taken over the town. Teens speeding around on motorbikes, loud music, chaos. Not the vibe. I walked around anyway and found a library inside an old tower and another tower near the old synagogue. Both rentable as stays. Tempting. I drove toward Weikersheim and found a camping spot near a park, but the velcro plants were out in full force. They stuck to my tent, my clothes, my hair—I had to rip them out. It rained all night, which I loved, but every sound from the nearby village kept me on edge. Didn’t realize just how close it was.

July 30. I woke up to a very soggy tent—everything damp and smelling like wet earth. Packed up slowly and headed into Weikersheim, where I started the day with a stop at a brot place. I got a latte that was… well, let’s just say not my favorite. I sat outside, but I kept having to dodge cigarette smoke from all directions, and the people inside (only one table, mind you) were craning their necks to stare at me like I was some sort of curiosity. I finally just waved. It’s disconcerting to feel like you stand out so much doing something as simple as having coffee.

Still, I really enjoyed Weikersheim. It has that old-world charm but doesn’t feel overrun. I decided to spring for a ticket to the palace garden and spent a good chunk of time reading all the plaques about how the garden was laid out—how it reflected changing tastes in the 1600s and beyond. I love that kind of stuff: landscape as ideology. It reminded me of Schwetzingen, with its emphasis on symmetry, control, taming nature. Then came the English garden phase, where it was all about flow and the wildness of nature being beautiful in its own right. Water features were big here—stone channels and tree pipes used to carry it all. At the far end, by the orangeries, there was a wedding setting up. I lingered there for a while, taking photos in the orchard area before heading back toward the old town.

Found a charming little tower next to the moat and wandered through the city park, which was surprisingly lovely. Then I ducked into the Dorfmuseum, a village museum packed with artifacts. I ended up spending hours there—didn’t leave until 3:30. They had displays on everything: farming, religion, festivals, winemaking, how homes were arranged, and what people wore—mostly their Sunday best, since that’s what got preserved. It was one of those low-key places that pulls you in without you realizing how much time has passed.

There was a wedding in the town church so I couldn’t go in, but I peeked later when things were quieter and saw the tables set up for the reception. It felt oddly intimate to witness the before and after like that.

Drove on to Röttingen and was greeted by some lovely towers and a Paracelsus garden outside the city walls. There was a sweet little spot just to the right of the town hall across a mill race—a peaceful patch of garden and what turned out to be the oldest house in town, resting on a solid stone foundation. I’m always amazed by how these structures just quietly endure.

Then I circled back to Creglingen. Much better this time. The carnival was still going on, but now it was more subdued—adults chatting, food stalls open, kids wandering. I found the tower-library again, and this time I stumbled on the old Schloss, which I hadn’t even known was there. Followed the city wall out to the moat and discovered a gorgeous garden above the town. I climbed up to the farm path beyond it, took in the views, and learned more about the town’s Jewish history. There’s a synagogue here, and stories of families who were deported. It left me with a much more layered and respectful impression of the town.

Hunger hit hard on the road to Rothenburg, so I pulled over by the Tauber River to eat some bread and veggies. The setting was incredibly peaceful—more rural than other spots I’d visited. I did accidentally startle a man who was skinny-dipping. At first I thought he was hunting—he was hiding behind a tree with his dog—but nope. Just enjoying the river his way. Can’t blame him.

Arriving in Rothenburg ob der Tauber always feels a bit like stepping into a postcard. So much to see it’s hard to know where to start. I took photos of the gates, wandered through the garden outside the city wall, and eventually found the old cloister garden I’d been to before. I considered going back into the museum, but decided to just soak in the streets instead. Looked for gelato and followed a Rick Steves recommendation (not bad), then explored more of the part of town that had been bombed in the war—about 40% destroyed. There was a sign outside the city walls explaining the reconstruction. I walked around that section and found another beautiful gate.

Then my phone died.

Of course, I couldn’t find the car. I wandered along the outer wall and asked a couple about the church in the city wall—they confirmed it was by the next gate. So I walked, found it, and then realized something far worse: I’d lost my charging cable and charger. Panic. My directions to Anne’s were in my phone, and now I was just a little dot on a dead map.

I considered winging it to Kaufering and hoping for the best. Then, on a hunch, I checked the innermost corner of my bag—the one place I never put things—and there it was. Relief like you wouldn’t believe.

I started driving and didn’t stop until I got to Anne’s at 10:30pm.