The Rhine-ferry visit was a chance to check on the Zeppelin memorial at nearby Geinsheim, a 7-minute walk south along the east bank.
It may be hard to understand after the 1937 disaster at Lakehurst ended the trans-Atlantic airship era, but these crafts were huge during the last years of the German empire. In those days, even an emergency landing was reason enough for a memorial.
In 1900, Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin (1838-1917) had made a breakthrough with a “rigid” airship fixed by a metal framework, revolutionizing civil and military air transport. Zeppelins flew higher and farther than planes of the day and carried heavier loads.
Facts are scarce on the memorial. But the accident took place opposite Nierstein and Oppenheim on the count’s first long-distance flight.
So-called airships were not “lighter than air” for long, as I understand it. Couldn’t carry heavy loads. Like planes today, the frame airships actually got off the ground and moved with the help of horizontal “fins” and propellers.
On Aug. 4, 1908, the count’s airship had almost finished its first long-distance flight, Constance to Mainz, when it ran out of “lift” due to an engine problem. It set down next to the Rhine at about 5:30 p.m.
The memorial, two round columns with a bench in front, went up within a year.
Apparently, no one knows who put it up. The inscription just tells the where and when of the landing.
The airship dropped ballast and five passengers got off, and the zeppelin took to the skies again. Unfortunately, the ship had to make another emergency landing the next day. A storm drove it off its moorings into an orchard, where it burst into flames.
Fundraising saved the day, and the count went on building his airships. It’s still a fascinating chapter of aviation, and I’m heading to Lake Constance and Friedrichshafen, where modern-day, “new technology” zeppelins are built. I’ve reserved a seat. I plan to climb aboard and take a 30-minute cruise above the city. “Mal sehen” (We’ll see).
Sea of stones
The Felsenmeer, or “sea of stones,” appears to spill down a hillside in Lautertal, 30 miles south of Darmstadt. But it can fool you.
Geologists say the huge rounded stones didn’t “spill” down the gladed hillside in response to some evolutionary earth-heaving disturbance. They were shaped below ground by frost or chemical reaction and then exposed as the topsoil eroded over eons. During the ice ages, maybe 10,000 years ago, glacier movement ground away at the edges of the stones, giving them their rounded look.
You can be forgiven for thinking the stones might have been less a natural phenomenon and more man-made. Signs of stone masonry can be seen on the rocks. The Romans occupied this part of what’s now Germany during the Third and Fourth centuries and apparently used this as a quarry.
This isn’t the only Felsenmeer in Germany, but it’s regarded as one of the most stunning. It’s part of the Nature Park Bergstrasse in the Odenwald (forest of the Norse god Odin) and occurs in a shady glade on a hill called Feldberg (field mountain).
Frankenstein
The partial ruins of the small fortress “Frankenstein” stand high on a hill south of Darmstadt and about six miles north of the Felsenmeer, so it was an obvious stop on the way back.
The castle has an indoor restaurant and tables near low walls outside on the terrace. I used to enjoy a German dish in the castle restaurant, but in late September, the season was over and the civilized parts of the castle were locked up.
When I was here, an ex-GI from New York City, a butcher, operated the kitchen. He had married his German sweetheart, and her family held the license to operate the restaurant. During slow afternoons, he and I drank Pils out on the deck and talked about life — in Brooklynese.
Frankenstein may be the best known and most popular “castle” in the Darmstadt area because of its possibly apochryphal claim to be the source of the name of Mary Shelley’s classic novel. In the world-reknowned tale, the monster-creating scientist was Victor Frankenstein.
Despite its broken ramparts, Frankenstein may be one of the best-known castles in a country where a reported 27,000 of them dot the hillsides. Frankenstein stems from the 13th Century and has been in the families of the counts of Darmstadt-Hesse since the 17th.
Legend has it that it’s one of the most important meeting places in Germany for witches. Nearly 50 years ago, a TV crew went through and reported paranormal activity. Scientists say the castle’s reputation may have something to do with magnetic stone formations that play havoc with compasses.
Burg Frankenstein’s modern fame centers on Halloween. In 1978, American servicemen began creating celebrations at the castle, and it has become a tradition to pack the grounds with special effects and optical illusions at the end of October.
Monsters and other evil-doers leave children and other visitors shrieking with surprise, as blood-curdling characters suddenly emerge from the shadows. Year after year, fest organizers use new technology to spook customers young and old in unexpected ways.
The rest of the year, the castle is a beacon for hikers and bikers looking for a rest-stop along wooded routes through the hills.
Crowds and power
The castle loomed over the valley from a hilltop at the far end of a road that snaked its way to the top because it was too steep to go straight up. The slow drive back down gives you time to observe the thick green-and-brown foliage of Odin’s Wood on both sides. The forest reminded me of sociologist Elias Canetti, who wrote the seminal “Crowds and Power.” He said Germany’s row on row of dark firs reminded him of disciplined ranks of German troops.
This untrimmed, untamed tangle isn’t disciplined, the way many German woods are. But Germans I met often found something primeval in their deep, dark woods. In German-language class, teaching tools often were music, painting and literature from the Romantic era focused on imagination and emotion — the human spirit — and the fundamental role of powerful nature behind it all.
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