The Certosa di Pavia rewards efforts to get off the beaten track in crowded Italy

The Certosa di Pavia is a perfect reminder that it’s still possible to see marvels in Italy without having to elbow your way through a crowd. You just need a bit of fortitude—and a willingness to stray from the usual tourist path. 

In central Milan, tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper sell out within 24 hours of coming online. The Duomo’s rooftop is impossible to access without booking well in advance, and the Castello Sforzesco is a magnet for dense, slow-moving tourist clusters. But just 25 miles south of the city centre lies the astonishing Certosa di Pavia. It’s every bit the masterpiece as those headliners in town, yet you’ll stroll right in—and likely have the place almost to yourself. It’s even free. Though good form suggests buying something from the monks’ shop, and a guided tour warrants a donation at the end.

“Certosa” is Italian for “Charterhouse,” the name used for Carthusian monasteries. This one was funded by the ruling Visconti family, dukes of Milan. When the last Visconti married into the Sforza line, the new dynasty took over the dukedom—and continued the sponsorship. The same people commissioning the blockbuster masterpieces of Renaissance Milan sent artists down here to decorate their private entry ticket to heaven. They spared no expense.

(Carthusians, by the way, have a long history of hosting lavish aristocratic patronage. Miraflores in northern Spain—with its royal tombs and perfume-making monks—is one of my favourite sites in that country.)

The complex, strategically located between Milan and Pavia—the first and second cities of the old Visconti-Sforza dukedom—is anchored by a glorious church. Its facade is encrusted with inlaid marble, detailed carvings, and Gothic pinnacles to rival any cathedral in Italy. Its architecture sits right at the junction of Gothic and Renaissance, managing to capture the best of both. A sequence of courtyards and cloisters surrounds the church. Some are open to the public; others can only be accessed on a monk-led tour. 

You know you’re in for something special from the moment you enter the gatehouse. Look up: frescoed Renaissance grotesques twirl overhead. Then emerge into a long rectangular courtyard, neoclassical façades embracing you, with the glittering jewel box of the church gleaming at the far end.

The church interior—and in fact the whole complex—has been much restored. It was shut down by Napoleon in 1796 and left mostly empty until the Italian government designated it a national monument 70 years later. You’d never know it had fallen into disrepair. Cross from the sunlit courtyard into the dusky interior and the first thing to catch your eye is the ceiling: alternating vaults painted in cerulean blue with golden stars and bold geometric patterns. The large, rectangular nave is spare, but the chapels along either side are brimming with masterpieces.

The floor plan is cruciform, but you’ll only get as far as the base of the cross before a towering wrought-iron screen blocks your way. The Carthusians were a cloistered order; they didn’t speak or interact with the public. Everything beyond the screen was for the monks—or their noble patrons. Today’s resident Cistercians are more outgoing. Several times a day, one of them will unlock the gate for a guided tour. The tour is in Italian, but you don’t need to understand it to join. (If your Italian is minimal, reading up in advance will help you appreciate what you’re seeing.)

What lies beyond the screen is even more extraordinary than what you have seen so far. 

In the arms of the cross-shaped plan you’ll find magnificent funerary monuments. One side holds the marble, recumbent figures of Ludovico “Il Moro” Sforza and his wife Beatrice d’Este. (Top photo.) History tells us he was never the same after her death—a grief that may have contributed to his disastrous invitation to French troops to help him defend his lands. That call for help kicked off a cycle of foreign invasions that kept Italy under outsider control for centuries. But Ludovico also bankrolled Da Vinci and sparked Milan’s greatest artistic flowering. Flawed though he was, his tomb is surrounded by artistic paradise: inlaid marble, frescoed walls, and stained glass of breathtaking quality. In the opposite chapel rests Gian Galeazzo Visconti, founder of the dynasty, in a far more flamboyant canopy tomb. Between the two, portals adorned with reliefs of noble faces lead to ornate sacristies bursting with gilded altars and woodwork marquetry. 

The choir and altar area at the head of the cross were redone in the late 16th century in full Baroque style: neoclassical temple elements, bronze statues in dynamic motion, and yet more exquisite marquetry. (Not quite as spectacular as the treasures at Santa Maria in Organo in Verona—but close.)

From the church, your guide leads you through the monks’ doorway into the first of two cloisters. This one offers a glorious view of the church’s rear façade. While the front blends Renaissance and late Gothic styles, the back leans hard into the Romanesque and Gothic. Stacked colonnades, soaring pinnacles reminiscent of Milan’s Duomo, and exuberant terracotta detailing are everywhere. You’ll also find a striking terracotta lavatorium, where the monks would wash before meals, and a frieze in the same style circling the cloister. If you’ve ever wondered where London’s Victorian architects got their ideas for all those fanciful red-brick embellishments—like those at the V&A—look no further. There are similar examples elsewhere in Italy, but none better than here.

The adjacent refectory may be more modest, but for those who couldn’t get tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper, Ottavio Semini’s version here offers a worthy consolation prize. While no match for Da Vinci’s genius, its setting—with original benches and tables still in place, and a pulpit projecting ten feet above the dining room floor—offers a more authentic sense of how these rooms were used. The refectory was a place of silent reflection, where monks ate without speaking while scripture was read aloud. Unlike Leonardo’s mural, now encased in a functional museum setting, this room retains its sense of sacred function. 

From this cloister you move into a second, even larger one. At first glance it seems plain—until you realise what you’re looking at. The lawn at its centre is bigger than a football pitch. Terracotta decoration continues around the arcade. And instead of monastic cells, this cloister is lined with individual houses. Yes, houses. If you ever found yourself consigned to a cloistered life, this would be the place to do it. 

Each monk’s home had its own entrance foyer, sitting room with generous fireplace, a clever drop-leaf desk built into a bookcase, a bedroom filled with light from leaded windows, and a private L-shaped garden with a shaded loggia. It’s hardly full compensation for a life of isolation, but certainly a generous interpretation of the vow of poverty.

One corner of this cloister offers a view out to the monks’ vineyards—just one example of the work they performed when not in prayer.

The tour ends with a walk down a long hallway leading back to the main courtyard. Along the way: a small museum and the monks’ shop. The Cistercians continue monastic traditions of agriculture and healing, offering honey, beer, wine, and herbal remedies prepared in a beautifully preserved Renaissance pharmacy. Photography is strictly forbidden inside. Fortunately (for my wallet), I had no checked baggage allowance on my flight and couldn’t bring any liquids home.

Despite being within Italy’s largest metro area (Rome is technically the largest city, but Milan takes this broader category), the Certosa is surrounded by fields growing rice for the famous  risotto Milanese. There is a profound, rural quiet. To process everything you’ve seen, stop at the Gra-Car café just outside the gatehouse. Nestled in a garden of herbs and roses, it served up a giant Aperol Spritz—with included side-platter of olives, crisps, and nuts—for just €8. I could have lingered for hours, but didn’t want to gamble with my return logistics.

And therein lies one of the reasons this place is off the beaten track. While it’s not necissarily hard to get to, it does require some effort. 

There’s a station at Certosa di Pavia, but it’s a 20-minute walk from the monastery. Trains are infrequent, and reaching Milan’s Centrale station requires a transfer. I opted instead for a frequent, inexpensive (around €4 each way) direct train to Pavia.

Even as a seasoned European train traveller with passable Italian, I found the system challenging. Multiple train operators run from Centrale, it’s not obvious which one you want without asking, and queues at the ticket desks were long. Ticket machines refused to print, and the mobile app wouldn’t let me register. Eventually I managed to buy as a guest via the website, but downloading the QR code was far from intuitive. Once I had it, I still had to decipher which platform to use—since Pavia is a stop en route, not an end point. The trick: the departure main hall just outside the platform gates has a big, electronic board that shows destinations will all the stops along the way.

All this faffing meant I was an hour behind schedule. (Allow time to admire Milano Centrale while you’re there—it might be Europe’s most majestic train station.) Once in Pavia, I had lunch in the lovely Piazza della Vittoria, then hunted for the bus stop to the Certosa. Apple Maps was off be almost two blocks, and there was no signage to help me correct my error. Fearing I’d run out of time, I hailed a taxi. And, tired and uncertain of return logistics, I called the same driver to bring me back. My cheap train, bargain cocktail, and free admission were ultimately offset by €70 in cab fares. Oh—and the return train was half an hour late.

One more tip: the monks close for lunch. Check the website for exact opening times.

So, fair warning: getting off the beaten track demands patience, effort, and cash if you want to speed things up or cut down on the walking. But the reward is immense. You’ll have the time and space to reflect—without interruption—on spectacular treasures. In Lombardy, the Certosa di Pavia is the finest example. 

Spargel season adds variety to a comforting parade of German culinary classics

German food is comfort food. If you’re a fan of hearty meat dishes and stodgy carbohydrates cooked in tasty animal fats, this is heaven. Vegetable-haters are on safe ground: the occasional side salad or dollop of cabbage (pickled or fried) is usually the only thing standing between you and your meat and potatoes.

Late spring and early summer, however, bring a change of pace. It’s Spargelzeit—white asparagus season.

Germans are fanatically devoted to this vegetable. Unlike the English preference for thin, green spears, here the stalks are creamy in colour and the fatter the better. We noticed a clear difference in restaurant quality: the more upscale the establishment, the thicker and tastier (presumably fresher) the asparagus. Germans insist that the white variety has a milder, more delicate flavour. I’m sceptical, but then English asparagus is reckoned to be among the best in the world, so I’m already spoiled. I will admit that keeping it white by mounding earth around the stalks does maintain tenderness at a thickness where green asparagus would have gone woody.

Thus, Germans can plate up pale giants with a satisfying density that can easily stand in for meat. Spargel with boiled potatoes and hollandaise in season—or Käsespätzle, the Teutonic macaroni and cheese, year-round—are the only vegetarian dishes you can reliably expect to find on traditional menus.

Most decent restaurants will have a dedicated spargel menu during Spargelzeit, which runs from mid-April to the end of June. If they don’t, walk away. That’s a clear sign they aren’t sourcing locally or changing their menu with the seasons. (We cruised down the Rhine in the same season in 2022 and never saw a stalk on board—a telling sign of how industrialised and inauthentic cruise food can be.)

Unlike Italy, where food can change radically over the next mountain range, traditional German menus don’t vary much from place to place. Aside from a passion for currywurst (hot dog-like sausages dredged in curry-flavoured ketchup) in Berlin, a preference for heavily spiced Sauerbraten (roast beef in a vinegar-based sauce), the more frequent appearance of goulash, and a few distinctive local beers, we found little on this trip to differentiate Saxon cuisine from what we’ve eaten in Bavaria. If a distinctive Saxon cuisine exists, we needed more help to find it. That certainly didn’t diminish our enjoyment.

The king of these stereotypical dishes is schnitzel. Veal—a by-product of Germany’s thriving dairy industry—is pounded thin, breaded, and pan-fried. There’s a wide variety. At cheaper places you might suspect the kitchen started with frozen, pre-breaded cutlets. But at the high end, you’ll find magically light offerings where the breading bubbles away from the meat, which is perfectly cooked to preserve its flavour without overdoing it. I suspect obscene amounts of butter are involved.

Pork in all its forms is celebrated across Germany. A roast knuckle with perfect crackling or slices served with sauce are the most typical. Dumplings are as common as potatoes. On this trip, I encountered pretzel dumplings for the first time—an exciting discovery. Their flavour profile is subtly different; if you like big, soft pretzels, this is a taste sensation. Flammkuchen—Germany’s answer to pizza—is done on a wafer-thin crispy crust with crème fraîche and is an excellent lunch option. And of course, sausages are ubiquitous.

In Saxony, wine is surprisingly prominent. There’s a thriving local trade along the Elbe around Dresden. Whites are crisp, bright, and easy to drink. While Müller-Thurgau and Riesling dominate, some of our favourite bottles were Bacchus—a grape widely grown in England. When drinking red, we enjoyed several Spätburgunder (Germany’s name for Pinot Noir): very light, low in tannins, with gentle berry notes. We sampled a range from a €3.50 grocery store Spätburgunder to a €46 celebratory Bacchus at Lutter & Wegner. Honestly, there wasn’t much differentiation by price. My only shopping regret is not bringing home a few cases of that Lidl red from Dresden.

On the beer front, two local varieties are worth trying. Leipzig does a distinctive brew called Gose, made with salt and coriander. We were glad to try it once, but returned to our favourites. More my style is Kölsch, the super-light lager brewed around Cologne. It’s served in small glasses, swapped out every time you finish, ensuring it’s always cold.
Restaurants Worth Seeking Out

Listed in order of preference, with the most memorable meal on top.

Nussbaumerin, Munich
Johanna Nussbaumer’s restaurant is a much-lauded local favourite in one of Munich’s poshest neighbourhoods. There are just 13 tables across two elegant rooms that feel more like an upscale home than a restaurant. Fitting, since this is the Austrian chef’s personal domain. She started cooking here in 2008 and a few years ago assembled a kitchen crew trusted enough to allow her to move front of house. Now she greets every guest and will stop by for a chat if you’re up for it. This was my perfect holiday meal. A salad of lightly poached asparagus and cured salmon is about to be revived at our place for a dinner party. Then came the perfect schnitzel—so delicate and flavourful I have no hope of recreating it. The apricot dumpling dessert, which I’d first encountered at Göttweig Abbey, finally lived up to its potential: gooey, substantial-yet-light, tart and sweet. I’d make the journey just for that. Johanna, sitting with us at the end of the evening, explained that the secret is home-made jam at the centre rather than a whole apricot and had the staff crack a jar for us to try it in its raw state. What an evening. 

Lutter & Wegner, Leipzig
I’d hoped to introduce Piers to this cornerstone of Berlin’s traditional food scene, but we were too busy there. Imagine my delight to discover a branch in Leipzig, in the shadow of St. Thomas Church, where Bach ran the music. It’s right next to the Bach museum—which we intended to visit, but a long lunch triumphed. An asparagus salad creatively mixed with strawberries, thyme and a well-balanced dressing overcame my aversion to fruit in savoury dishes. And here I discovered goulash served with dumplings—an innovation over rice or potatoes that deserves to spread.

Wirsthaus am Hühnerdieb, Aachen
This oddly named spot—"the tavern of the chicken thief"—benefits from being our first alfresco meal of the year, in a sunny square on just our second day. Even so, the spargel soup spiked with crisp bacon was one of the best asparagus dishes of the holiday, and Piers’ Flammkuchen was nearly perfect. Aachen is within Cologne’s Kölsch zone, and lunch here rivalled Charlemagne’s cathedral as the highlight of the day. The square, just down from the town’s picturesque Rathaus, is home to the Couven Museum. And the chicken thief? He’s an amusing statue caught red-handed: he meant to steal a hen but grabbed the cockerel, now crowing his impending doom.

Paulaner Restaurant, Dresden
The big Munich beer brands now run halls all over Germany. This Paulaner branch stood out for its location—right across from the Residenz Museum (collapse here when you can’t walk another step)—and its homey, historic interior. Classic beer halls are close cousins to Britain’s best pubs: dark woods, brass, smoked glass, historic bric-a-brac. This one served up perfect pork knuckle with crackling that shattered like glass. And, of course, my husband’s favourite beer.

Gasthaus & Gosebrauerei Bayerischer Bahnhof, Leipzig
In a valiant effort to be healthy after 14 days in Carb Central, I ordered a salad. This being Germany, it was Wurstsalat—a bit of lettuce buried under strips of what Americans would call Bologna. With a soft pretzel. Not healthy, but it tasted like a hundred childhood lunches, so full marks for nostalgia. The real draw here is the word Brauerei. This microbrewery has taken over Germany’s oldest train station. A great place to try Gose. It’s not unpleasant, but one was enough for us.

Pulverturm an der Frauenkirche, Dresden
It’s no surprise that the lowest-ranked restaurant is also the most touristy. A Bencard’s Bites guideline: the higher the tourist profile, the lower the authenticity. That said, it was fun and the food was good, even if it felt mass-produced. The setting—a sprawling cellar around the base of a medieval armoury tower—is dramatic. We came here after Easter mass and it felt celebratory. Piers loved the giant glasses of beer. I tried the Saxon-style Sauerbraten and found it unpleasantly spiced, full of Christmas notes like cinnamon and nutmeg. Very medieval. I didn’t try another to confirm the regional flavour. After that, I stuck with pork and veal.

The penalty for all this comfort food when I returned to my first post-holiday Weight Watcher’s meeting? Five pounds. Looking back over this copy, I’m probably lucky it wasn’t more. Germany is a treat, but two and a half weeks there makes me happy to return to a veg-heavy diet.

A classical pilgrimage through Eastern Germany delights, surprises and shocks

If you love classical music, I can’t think of a better holiday destination than the Berlin–Dresden–Leipzig triangle. These cities are steeped in musical history, were home to some of the greatest names in the canon, and still boast a rich performance scene playing to packed houses of people who know their stuff. We were both amazed and delighted to see the diversity of ages in the audience. Younger people are rare at operas and orchestral concerts in England, but not here.

If you can only visit one place, history probably demands that it’s Leipzig. Bach called it home for more than 25 years, and Schumann and Mendelssohn also lived here. Wagner was born here, and Handel entered the world just up the road. But if your goal is to pack in the most performances in the shortest time, Berlin is your best bet. For opera, however, I’d head to Dresden’s sumptuous venue—even if the acoustics are, sadly, a bit dodgy.

Since this trip revolved around celebrating my husband’s birthday, we built in a lot of music. He was a good sport about agreeing to Tosca as one of our operatic choices, despite his antipathy towards Italian opera. (Performance schedules suggested that modern Germans are far keener on Verdi and Puccini than my husband is.) Here’s a round-up of what we saw. And where we saw it, since for me the venue is as important as the music.

Bach’s Easter Oratorio in the Frauenkirche, Dresden
There’s nothing quite like hearing music in the setting for which it was composed, and I doubt it gets much better than experiencing Bach’s Easter Oratorio on Easter Sunday in a church he both knew and performed in. The Frauenkirche’s stunning architecture—essentially a circular tower with three tiers of seating looking down on the altar—is as much a performance space as a house of worship.

But it is very much a church. And a very special one. Completely levelled in the bombing of Dresden, its ruins stood as a silent protest against DDR modernism for 45 years. Locals refused to let them be swept away. After unification, the church rose again, meticulously reconstructed using salvaged pieces where possible, like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Sitting inside this symbol of resilience, listening to Bach’s soundtrack for a holiday centred on hope and rebirth, brought tears to my eyes.

Tosca at the Dresden Semperoper
This is one of the buildings in the world actually named for its architect, and Gottfried Semper earns the honour. While the Sächsische Staatsoper Dresden is one of the world’s leading companies, it’s the building that elevates the experience to something truly special.

Outside, it’s a palace: a bit like the Colosseum given a Baroque makeover. Inside, soaring neoclassical corridors are held aloft by marble columns and painted with frolicking gods and grotesqueries. It’s a common decorative scheme for an opera house, but Semper’s genius was restraint. High ceilings, giant windows and subtle colour make the space feel light and expansive.

All the famous opera houses have grand staircases, but here there are two, cleverly tucked to the side to make room for a magnificent reception hall curving around the front of the building. Its windows frame glorious views of Dresden’s historic centre. The auditorium features stalls and four horseshoe-shaped tiers. I liked the formality of ushers unlocking the door to your section when it was time to sit down.

The performance? A traditional, visually bold Tosca, with a standout soprano. But from our seats—second tier, right side, near the pit—the orchestra usually overwhelmed the singers. As glorious as the music was, it’s a pity not to hear Scarpia’s baritone in all its villainous grandeur.

Bach Cello Suites, Berlin Kammermusiksaal
This, unexpectedly, was my favourite performance of the trip. I’ve always considered the cello a mournful instrument. Bach’s suites are known as academic exercises for virtuosos; they have a reputation as being more admirable than enjoyable. But three things conspired to create a magical evening.

First, the performer: Jan Vogler, one of the world’s finest cellists, playing an early 18th-century Stradivari. (Top photo) He was electric. Second, the venue: Berlin’s Kammermusiksaal, a purpose-built chamber music venue built in the 1980s specifically to show off this quite intimate style of music. It only seats 1,136 maximum and combines excellent acoustics with a striking, futuristic design. The seating bays jut into the space at angles, giving it a sci-fi aesthetic. The lobby continues the look, with walls of coloured glass circles casting cathedral-like light into broad white plazas.

Third, I had my AI concert buddy—ChatGPT—on hand. With no one nearby and lights dimmed but not dark, I could quietly use my screen to get context. It told me about the venue, Vogler, and the pieces. When I confessed I sometimes struggle with instrumental concerts because there’s nothing to look at, my digital companion suggested scenes I could imagine for each movement, aligned with Bach’s intentions. It transformed the evening.

Don Giovanni, Berlin Komische Oper at the Schillertheater
When I booked this, I was unaware of two key facts: First, the Komische Oper’s usual jewel-box theatre is closed for renovation. (I had been more interested in getting inside than in seeing yet another production of a very familiar opera, much as I like it.) Second, Berlin’s opera scene is infamous for avant-garde, often bizarre reimaginings of the classics.

I was sad to miss the regular venue, though the Schiller Theater’s late art deco vibe had its charms. And this was Don Giovanni, after all—surely one of the most reliably entertaining operas ever written. It couldn’t push the envelope more than the challenging production we’d pushed through at Longborough Festival Opera. Ha!

It wasn’t just Giovanni, but an edited and re-arranged Giovanni mashed up with the Requiem. Instead of the usual finale, where the ensemble reflects on the villain’s fate, we skipped directly from the Don’s descent into hell (on an acrobatic harness, with flames) into the Requiem. Musically magnificent, dramatically muddled. Giovanni started off on a hospital gurney and was resurrected … making me wonder if he’d already died and the whole thing … not just the famous dinner scene with the ghost … was his journey to hell. There was a lot of nudity, including blurry visuals of orgies. Donna Elvira was a man, thus turning the Don into a pan-sexual predator. Zerlina was heavily pregnant already when meeting the Don, who developed a disturbing fascination with her baby. There were dancing skeletons. Strange interpretive dance, some naked with luxuriant pubic hair. A narrarator wandering about injecting poetry from Far Eastern philosophy, and occasionally showing up in a box as some kind of Zen priest.

I could spot brilliance in the madness. I suspect fragments of this production will be recycled elsewhere. But as a whole, it left us dazed—and in need of a stiff drink. The DJ spinning retro ‘80s classics in the rooftop Monkey Bar gave me a much-needed safe space that night.

Brahms and Elgar at the Gewandhausorchester, Leipzig
These composers aren’t our favourites. We’d have preferred more local fare: Leipzig hero Bach or a night of Wagner overtures. But Piers was keen to hear the Gewandhausorchester— the oldest civic symphony orchestra in the world—and this was the most appealing concert on offer across our three nights.

Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 and Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B minor are lushly romantic, string-heavy works dripping with emotion. But to my ears, they’re classical music’s equivalent of binging on empty calories: rich while consuming, forgettable afterwards. Other than one theme in the Brahms, nothing lingered in your ears.

What did stick was the building. The Gewandhaus is, hands down, the ugliest concert hall I’ve ever seen. The performance space is fine. It’s the public areas that stun—for all the wrong reasons.

A brutalist relic of the East German era, it’s a steel-and-glass shell with no warmth. You enter to find yourself in a vast lobby, faced with an enormous three-storey curtain wall. Upon it, a German Expressionist mural depicting the power of music. But to me, it looked like a gallery of goblins: instruments menacing, faces twisted in anguish, colours evoking night, mud and blood. I know the cultural ideals of communism viewed art as duty, not joy. And I support preserving the past. But honestly, the best thing Leipzig could do to improve this venue would be to whitewash the dementors and paint something cheerful.

Over two weeks in Germany, the variety of music we experienced—and the places we experienced it—was magnificent. We could have done more, but we needed to leave some time for dinners and quiet evenings. Tickets were about 30% cheaper than similar events in England, which made indulging even easier.

If you’re a classical music fan, this part of Germany is well worth the trip. Go to Dresden for old-world opulence, Berlin for the avant-garde, and Leipzig for a bit of everything. Just… if you choose the last, walk briskly through the Gewandhaus lobby without looking up.

Resurrected splendour cuts through my top three cultural experiences in Eastern Germany

Given the horrors of the 20th century, it’s a wonder that any treasures of art and architecture remain to admire in the former East Germany. Yet many do—thanks to the thousands of people over the past 85 years who have preserved, restored, and reinterpreted the region’s cultural riches.

Efforts are still ongoing. Like Sleeping Beauty awakening, buildings and works of art long ignored are reopening to the public, often after years of renovations that blend historic restoration with bold contemporary design. Norman Foster’s glass dome on the Reichstag is the most famous example of this approach, but it’s a trend you’ll find across the country.

My three favourite cultural sites from this trip were all devastated during the Second World War and have since been brought back to glorious life. These museums won’t just delight your eyes—they’ll also restore your faith in modern approaches to cultural preservation.

The Residenzschloss, Dresden
I am a museum glutton. It’s rare that I’ll ever push back from a cultural banquet before closing time if there are still galleries to explore. But the Residenz was too much, even for me. The collections are so lavish, so overwhelming, that I found myself visually and mentally saturated. I had to stop. Rather than continue, I retreated to a long lunch to process what I’d seen.

The blockbuster core of the Residenz is the Green Vault, so famous it requires a timed-entry ticket separate from general admission. That’s not just because it’s Dresden’s top attraction; many of the rooms are small and the museum needs to control crowds. These were purpose-built treasuries for the rulers of Saxony, and in the early 1700s, the art-obsessed Augustus the Strong decided that the rooms should be just as ornate as their contents. He went gloriously over the top.

Each room follows a different colour scheme, with spiralling gilded wooden accents, mirrored walls, painted ceilings, and marble floors. High baroque, at full tilt. Objects are grouped thematically: a room of amber pieces; another with solid silver figurines; one wall lined with rock crystal drinking vessels, another with shell-shaped goblets encrusted with jewels. There’s jewellery, ceremonial weapons, classical bronzes, and more decorative frivolity than seems possible in one place. It’s even more dazzling than the Habsburgs’ collection in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum—a place I didn’t think could be bettered. The quality may be similar, but Vienna can’t match the splendour of these rooms themselves. Remarkably, they were restored from wartime devastation; if not for a single gallery showing before-and-after photos, you’d never guess.

Photography is not allowed inside the Green Vault … another decision to keep people flowing through this remarkable space … so I borrowed an image from the web.

Upstairs is the arms and armour collection—a shared passion of mine and my husband’s. We’ve seen world-class collections in Vienna and London’s Wallace Collection, but Dresden outshines them. There’s an enormous gallery of Islamic weapons and armour, many of them jewelled, and a series of Turkish campaign tents as intricate as any carpet, set up dramatically in a vast, dimly lit space. European armour is displayed in another enormous gallery where curators have arranged the figures as if in action: jousting knights, melee combatants, and noble warriors astride richly adorned horses. There’s even silver armour—utterly useless in battle, but stunning as a display of wealth.

We jumped forward a couple of centuries to the 19th-century State Apartments, recently reopened after restoration. Though there was more to see, I simply couldn’t absorb anything else. Each item we looked at was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, and I’d already seen hundreds. I almost cried with frustration as I passed by yet another treasury level, left unexplored. I will be back.

Sanssouci, Potsdam
A generation after Augustus created his ornate Saxon treasury, Frederick the Great was building his own fantasy palace across the border in Prussia. By then, baroque had given way to rococo—more gold, more marble, more swags, more frills. If you prefer minimalism and clean lines, Sanssouci may be your personal nightmare.

This was Frederick’s escape from the pressures of Berlin—today a half-hour drive, then a day on horseback. Sanssouci itself is surprisingly compact: a single-story enfilade of rooms, with Frederick’s private suite at one end, a few guest rooms at the other, and salons for dining and socialising in between. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in extravagance. Every inch the Enlightenment king, Frederick gathered his friends here to talk philosophy and play music.

The formal rooms are all white marble and gold gilt (top photo), adorned with frolicking classical deities. More intimate spaces are pastel-toned, with silk wall coverings, inlaid wooden floors, and ceilings dripping with ornamental plasterwork. Frederick, a keen naturalist, brought the outdoors in: one room’s plaster ceiling is a web of golden spiders and insects. My favourite, however, is the guest room decorated for Voltaire, where exquisitely detailed birds, animals, fruit, and flowers spill across creamy panelled walls.

When Frederick needed more space for guests, he transformed the nearby orangery into overflow guest space. There are both entertaining rooms and bedroom suites here. Though less grand, it would still shame many other royal residences of the time.

All of this sits within a park. Immediately around the palace are formal gardens with blue-and-gold trellises and terraced walks; beyond that, a vast landscape garden in the English style. I hadn’t realised that Sanssouci refers not just to the palace but to the entire park—nor that the park contains multiple palaces. Nor that Potsdam itself is a charming town full of impressive architecture. We had just three hours for the main palace and the orangery. This place probably deserves at least an overnight stay and a couple of days’ exploration.

The Neues Museum and Nefertiti, Berlin

Frederick the Great’s great-great nephew, Frederick William IV made his own cultural contribution: Berlin’s Museum Island. The Pergamon Museum, its star attraction, is currently closed for multi-year renovations. That gives you the chance to devote your full attention to the only slightly less famous—but just as rewarding—Neues Museum.

Like so many buildings here, the Neues was gutted by wartime bombing. Its treasures had been hidden, but the structure itself needed decades of work. When I last visited, it was still closed for renovation; it finally reopened in 2009. David Chipperfield and his team have achieved a masterful balance: parts of the building have been fully restored to their 19th-century glory, while others show bare brick and scarred walls, a silent testimony to war. Throughout, sleek modern displays make it a joy to explore.

Most people come for one thing: the bust of Nefertiti. She’s arguably the most recognisable object from ancient Egypt and one of the most famous sculptures in the world. Her serene beauty is undiminished by millennia. She stands alone, lit dramatically in her own room, at eye level so you can meet her gaze. She’s also at the centre of an ongoing international controversy, with Egypt demanding her return. I won’t wade into the debate here—but if you’re in the same city as Nefertiti, you owe it to yourself to go and see her.

Tour groups sweep in and out of her gallery, but the rest of the museum deserves as much attention. Nefertiti belongs to the Amarna period, a short, joyful chapter in Egyptian art named after the capital city she and her husband Akhenaten built. The Germans were lead excavators there, and outside of Cairo, I doubt you’ll find a better collection from this era.

Beyond Egypt, the museum houses impressive Greek and Roman collections (some of which are normally in the Pergamon), as well as artefacts from ancient Germany and nomadic peoples of the Eurasian steppes. One highlight is a tall, hammered golden ceremonial hat—utterly bizarre, completely unique, and just as memorable as Nefertiti herself. 

You can also take a look at the artefacts Heinrich Schliemann brought back from Troy. More disputed loot, but arguments going in multiple directions this time. The Soviets took the best stuff back to the Hermitage after WW2 and haven’t returned it despite German requests. And, of course, the Turks would like the treasures to return to their point of origin. What tangled webs we weave in our museums.

Closing Thoughts
These three museums represent very different times and tastes, from ancient elegance to baroque flamboyance to Enlightenment intellectualism. But they all have something in common: destruction, followed by rebirth. They are monuments not only to the past, but to the enduring human desire to preserve, rebuild, and celebrate beauty. That, in itself, is something worth seeing.

History's hard lessons: A sightseer’s journey through Germany’s twentieth century

History isn’t just entertainment. We study the past to learn, to do better, to be better, to not repeat the mistakes of our ancestors. Germany, sadly, offers abundant opportunities for that kind of reflection.

So while I’d prefer to spend two weeks here immersed in art and architecture while I am here, I feel it’s a basic human responsibility to spend some time contemplating the train wrecks of the 20th century. No modern German should feel guilt for the errors of that century, but they do bear a unique responsibility for sharing that past with the world. 

They do an amazing job.

Though we didn’t visit them in this order, let’s go chronologically and start in Leipzig at the Monument to the Battle of the Nations. The battle commemorated is from the Napoleonic wars; a bloody, multi-national nightmare with Germans fighting on both sides. But the monument wasn’t erected until the centenary in 1913. Like so many delayed war memorials, it’s making points that stretch far beyond the original event.

The architecture here is known as Wilhelmine, roughly contemporary to Edwardian in the UK. It’s eye-popping. Armoured stone giants stand sentinel over an enormous tower fronted by a long reflecting pool. The proportions are of giants, not men, and the warriors are a strange mix of medieval and modernism. Inside the dome is a symbolic crypt for those fallen in battle, with more giants on guard. Above, at the four points from which the dome springs, sit even bigger figures representing the virtues of the German people, while in the dome itself hundreds of mounted knights ride in solemn circles to heaven.

If you were dropped here without context you’d think you were on the set of the Lord of the Rings or a Wagnerian opera. It’s beautiful and impressive, but also dark and disturbing. When it comes to our lesson-learning, this is architecture capturing the myth-making and brutal nationalism that helped propel Germany into the First World War.

Which, of course, led directly to the Second. Berlin, thankfully, is much more than its dark WWII legacy, and there are many places in the modern city where it’s easy to forget it entirely. But it’s never far beneath the surface.

This is most obvious at the Memorial to Murdered Jews of Europe, a 4.7 acre site in the very heart of official Berlin, within clear sight of the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate. The last time I was here it was still under construction. I loved the idea of almost 3,000 dark, concrete stele evoking the memorials in a Jewish cemetery, placed on undulating ground. The idea was for you to get lost in the sadness and contemplation.

I confess to being a bit disappointed by the final result. The fact that it’s hemmed in on every side by major streets, and overlooked on two sides by upscale modern buildings (including the US embassy), takes away from the reflective nature. On a sunny Sunday the margins of the site were thronged with chattering tourists and though most walking between the stones were doing so quietly, there were enough children using the lanes as a playground to break the mood. I think the contemplative intent of the site would have been helped by a screen of trees between it and the buildings. But that would undermine the intent of a placement which is meant to force contemplation. It demands that we “never forget”, and I think it manages that. 

As an eternal optimist I prefer to consider the Memorial in partnership with the gloriously restored main synagogue. You can see its luscious pastel and gold dome from all over the city center. Driving past it on our bus tour showed a beautiful building I’d like to get inside on my next visit to Berlin. It’s a celebration of hope, resilience and the potential of the future rather than the sadness of the past. 

If you want real sadness and contemplation, however, you need to get on a train. We took a guided tour to Sachsenhausen. Any concentration camp is horrific, but this place has a unique status. As the internment facility closest to the capital it was both the model and the test bed for the whole Nazi philosophy of incarceration. 

Tragically, this was the place the Nazis took visiting officials to show they weren’t committing war crimes. They were, of course. This place saw the whole nightmare hit parade: working people to death, medical experiments, industrialised execution. But here the Nazis wrapped it in a tidy model facility, with pleasant woodland walks to help the guards relax and a reassuring message of rehabilitation. 

People were sent here to protect the state. Not just Jews. Communists were the first big intake. Homosexuals, the mentally infirm, Romany gypsies, captured opposition soldiers. Sachsenhausen had a viscous equal opportunity about it. Anyone whose ideas challenged the government could be considered a danger to society and sent here. No due process of law. No protections. Because fear of “the other” overpowered the safeguards of democracy. 

The 8th of May, 1945, brought the downfall of the Nazis, but not liberation for all. Eastern Europe traded German oppressors for Soviet ones and fell behind the iron curtain for another 45 years. The Soviets turned Sachsenhausen into their own camp and a memorial for the communists who died here, with a towering monument that bears all the marks of their propagandistic, power-shouting, personality-free art. They chose not to mention of any of the others who died here. It was only after the collapse of the Soviet Union that a re-united German government restored Sachsenhausen to reflect its broader picture. There are still not that many buildings to see here. Two barracks have been restored as museum areas, the medical facilities stand and the execution facilities have been reconstructed (in a respectful way), but it’s more than enough to get the lessons across. 

To search for lessons from the years of Soviet occupation it’s off to the DDR Museum. That stands for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, known in English as the GDR (German Democratic Republic); its own country … but under tight Soviet control … from 1949 to 1990.

This is an entirely modern, purpose-built tourist experience just across from Museum Island. There’s plenty of interactive stuff for the kids: opening doors, listening to audio, sitting in a Trabant car or at a Communist leader’s desk. They’ve re-created a whole 1970s family apartment, complete with clothes, toys, household products and a television directory. It does a great job explaining how this short-lived country came into being and what it was like to live there. 

I suspect this museum delivers two very different experiences, based on your perspective. 

As an American who grew up at the end of the Cold War I was raised to believe that EVERYTHING that happened behind the iron curtain was a disaster and all lives there (except perhaps those of the bosses) were a misery. This museum takes a more balanced view. There were upsides: roughly even pay scales showed that everyone was valuable, community activities were abundant, women had careers, there was free education and subsidised Baltic Sea holidays. Of course, in exchange you got the Stasi, limited choices for your life and your consumer goods, wildly restricted media, restrictions on freedoms and a whole world filtered through party propaganda. 

I was pre-disposed to see the museum as a validation of capitalism, which finally put the DDR in a well-deserved grave. But I couldn’t help noticing that there were as many Germans in the museum as visitors, and a great many of these seemed to be family groups in which older members were taking children on a nostalgic road trip. I couldn’t understand any of the German, but the body language wasn’t solemn or mournful. They spent more time in the Trabant simulator than in the Stasi listening post.

They reminded me of all the news stories I’ve read about East Germans missing aspects of the old regime because they feel ignored and sidelined since re-unification. Lesson: even seemingly objective museum displays may have different meanings depending on the outlook of the visitor. History is not black and white, but a million shades of grey.

While it doesn’t fit neatly into my 20th century theme I have to give a nod to the Bundeswehr Military History Museum in Dresden. The collections cover the entire history of the German military, going back to the Middle Ages. The 20th century galleries are extensive, however. They cover both World Wars and the aftermath with impressive collections of artefacts. Some are expected: uniforms, weapons, paintings of battles. Others are subtle and heart-wrenching. The display I remember most is a stark wall of shoes taken from a death camp.

This enormous museum has both historical tracks to follow, and thematic ones. I particularly liked the latter. Animals in war told surprising stories. Military language showed how war has influenced our speech, and vice versa. A section on military toys was particularly intriguing and didn’t shy away from considering the question of whether this ongoing part of childhood is good or bad. Like the country it represents, this museum refuses to look away from the hardest truths.

Modern Germany has done an admirable job balancing horror and history. In this Dresden museum they do it with a bold architectural statement: a Daniel Libeskind-designed addition. It is a glass arrowhead breaking the formal facade of the building, meant to demonstrate the transparency of democratic government. To me, the jagged edges also provide a physical demonstration of the disruption of war. It is the embodiment of a tragic “double-edged sword”: no sane person wants to go to war, but you have to prepare for war to keep peace. Our ongoing challenge is to find the right balance.

None of these German sites are easy, or enjoyable. They won’t leave you comfortable. But they will leave you thinking. And that, I believe, is how we build a better world.

The Wiprecht Trail Pt 2: Exploring the “lost” family castles in Saxony

Once upon a time, Wiprecht of Groitzsch controlled a swathe of eastern Germany and built castles to match. A millenium later, our attempts to trace his legacy turned up something quite different from the wooden keeps and simple enclosures he would have known. A neo-gothic fever dream to rival Neuschwanstein, a WWII POW camp, a towering stone pile that could double for a medieval cathedral and the oldest surviving brick tower in Saxony. 

He wouldn’t recognise any of them … even the venerable tower came some years after his death … but what the quartet became testifies to the power base he built. Sadly, all soon came under the control of the rival Wettin family. They became the comedy villains of our trip, prompting a running joke about irritation over the stolen family castles*. One can’t get too angry at the Wettins, however, as it’s their ongoing good taste in art and architecture that makes all of these castles worth seeing.

MEISSEN
My favourite was Meissen. Wiprecht’s highest achievement in the medieval hierarchy was being named Margrave of the territory. But titles can be deceiving. In a time of internal strife, the king might have named him Margrave, but he had to take the territory back from rebels. He never did—so he never ruled or lived here. The tenuous link? Wiprecht’s daughter married into the family who did secure the title and eventually ruled all of Saxony: the Wettins.

None of that dynastic drama is required to enjoy this extraordinary castle. It’s had a remarkable history, going from aristocratic castle to factory to political statement. 

In the 18th century, Augustus the Strong—a Wettin—turned the castle into a porcelain factory, deciding that being the first Europeans to break the Chinese monopoly on the technology of tableware could put Saxony on the economic map. When the factory moved to purpose-built accommodations in the 19th century, the castle underwent a romanticised refit, emerging as a neo-medieval fantasy celebrating the Wettin legacy just as Germany was unifying and glorifying its past.

Today, visitors explore three expansive floors. Even those in a rush should allow at least 90 minutes. The ground floor features the grandest rooms, with enormous wall paintings of Saxon history, polychrome statues, intricately carved fireplaces, painted ceilings, and panoramic views through leaded-glass windows. These are amongst the most fantastic interiors we saw on the trip.

The upper floors cover the history of the Wettin dynasty and the castle’s construction. Medieval engineering buffs could easily spend hours on the top floor alone. And good news for those with creaky knees: there’s a lift.

There are a few porcelain-themed rooms here, but if you're serious about Meissen’s most famous product, head to the other side of town. The factory now houses demonstration studios, a sprawling museum with historic and contemporary pieces, and a shop where you can buy items like a €240 thermal to-go cup made from Meissen porcelain. The castle offers a combination ticket, but note the geography: it’s not just a mile’s walk, it’s a six-storey descent from the castle mound to town. Plan accordingly.

The walk is worth it if you have the time. The town centre between the castle and the factory is a delight, full of charming shops and restaurants. Don’t miss the storybook market square with a church featuring a carillon made entirely of Meissen porcelain bells. Castle, town, and factory together can easily fill an entire day.

COLDITZ
To many, Colditz is synonymous with World War II. It served as the notorious POW camp for troublesome Allied officers and inspired films like The Colditz Story and The Great Escape. But its history stretches far deeper.

Wiprecht built the first castle here, selecting a strategic defensive site that remained important throughout the Middle Ages. The fortress later evolved into a Renaissance palace, then a 17th-century hunting lodge with grand formal gardens. It got a neoclassical facelift in the 18th century, and in the 19th it became a posh sanatorium for wealthy patients with mental health conditions. Under the GDR, it returned to medical use as a psychiatric hospital.

The exteriors remain impressive: two towering Renaissance blocks bristling with varied rooflines, towers, and cupolas, clustered around twin courtyards atop a rocky outcrop. Off one courtyard you’ll find the museum, off the other a youth hostel. The interiors of the museum buildings are mostly bare. When the Saxon state took over in the early 2000s, the buildings were empty shells, layered with hospital fittings. Restoration work stripped those back, revealing traces of earlier eras, but what remains is largely structural.

That said, the curators have done wonders. Visitors are given Histopads, tablets that interact with each room. You can choose stories from the Renaissance, the POW era, or the hospital years. The WWII content includes an escape game where you search for tools to plan your breakout, and remarkable tales of escape attempts. The Renaissance stories let you explore lavish reconstructions of historic rooms in 360° views. Up in the attic, a film tells the story of a glider secretly built by British prisoners—never launched, but faithfully reconstructed here in scale model form. A flight simulator lets you try piloting their intended escape route. (I crashed every time.)

Other artefacts from the castle’s varied history include a complete hidden radio room discovered during renovation. Starting with little more than bare walls, the curators have created a surprisingly rich experience with something for almost everyone.

ROCHLITZ AND MILDENSTEIN

We spent so much time enjoying Colditz that we ran out of time to go inside Wiprecht’s other two castles nearby—but we did walk around the exteriors.

Rochlitz presents a dramatic contrast to Colditz’s somewhat playful exterior. Built from darker stone and plastered in somber render, it has a blockier silhouette, with corner towers capped in black conical roofs. In a Disney film, this would be the villain’s lair. From another angle, however, it evokes a cathedral, with twin towers and a long nave-like body stretching back from them. It overlooks the picturesque little town of Rochlitz (population: 5,688), nestled beside the broad Zwickauer Mulde river and surrounded by verdant farmland and woods. The few other tourists seemed to be locals, out enjoying the hiking trails.

Half an hour away, Mildenstein crowns the hill above the town of Leisnig (population: 8,249). It’s harder to appreciate from the ground—approaching from the front gate, it looks modest: whitewashed buildings with slate roofs strung along the ridge. But the vertical climb from the car park underscores just how commanding the site is. Terraced gardens now cover the steep slopes that were once crucial for defence. It’s only from aerial drone footage that the full layout becomes clear: a ring of later buildings surrounding the original round keep, whose Late 12th-century brickwork makes it the oldest standing castle tower in Saxony.

Leisnig itself looked well worth a stroll, but the day … and our energy … was fading. Trying to squeeze all three sites into one day was overly ambitious. Rochlitz and Mildenstein would make a fine day trip of their own, perhaps with a leisurely lunch in Leisnig between them.

Just as enjoyable as the castles themselves was the drive between them. They form a triangle through fertile countryside that reminded me of Salisbury Plain or my native Hampshire. Vast fields of yellow rapeseed stretched to the horizon. Orchards shimmered with white blossom. Lilacs thrust purple spikes skyward along roadsides and in cottage gardens. It’s a spectacularly beautiful area to explore—especially in late April.

*My husband, a pedant for accuracy, requires me to point out that he descended down a female line just a few generations after Wiprecht. So even if the von Groitzsch family had managed to stay in control, his ancestors never would have lived in the castles we see today. Still, it’s fun to dream, eh?

On the Wiprecht trail: How one ancestor made the insignificant into magic

Statistically, every living person with European DNA claim descent any European alive in the 10th century who had children. Thus, you’re as likely to be descended from Charlemagne as you are from the peasant who baked his bread. It’s just maths.

Let me attempt to explain some numbers. Every generation you trace backwards gives you more great-grandparents. Your family tree spreads in what's known as a geometric progression. So by the time you get back 30 generations, to the early Middle Ages, you have upwards of 8 billion ancestors.

But are they 8 billion different people? No. There’s a concept called “pedigree collapse”: the further back you go, the more your ancestors start to repeat. Which is not just interesting, but absolutely essential, since there were only around 70 million Europeans knocking about back then.

Some families, however, are better at keeping records. If you can find an aristocrat up your family tree, names and personal histories sprout profusely. They liked to keep records. Which is how my husband found some branches with hard-hitting names like the Empress Theophanu and the impressive Wiprecht von Groitzsch. The discovery sparked a family interest in the early days of the Holy Roman Empire that shaped this trip.

The actual Roman Empire had faded away in the 5th century. Historians these days are fond of pointing out that the Dark Ages weren’t nearly as rough as we once thought. What statistics we have, however, still show a world mired in political and economic instability. Around 800, Charlemagne (another ancestor Piers can actually trace, while I just make the statistical claim) got things back to almost Roman levels of administration and prosperity. But his sons couldn’t keep it up, and everything fragmented again.

About 100 years later, a family in Saxony—descendants of Charlemagne through a female line—had another go, and they held it together longer. Today we know them as the Ottonians. Though Charlemagne was the first to proclaim himself “Holy Roman Emperor,” it was the Ottonians, followed by their cousins the Salians, who solidified the job and laid the groundwork for Germany to be a very big deal in the Middle Ages. Films always put castles, knights in shining armour, and the rich pageantry of medieval courts in France or England. But Germany—and particularly Saxony—was a big deal in this time period.

Wiprecht played a big role in the Saxon story in the late 1000s and early 1100s. His life is worthy of a streaming series, with highs and lows, elevation and imprisonment, an exile he turned to his advantage, marriage to a beautiful princess, scheming nobles, fickle kings, a foolish elder son who almost lost everythign, and lots of battles and travel across Europe. There’s even a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela to atone for a murder. We had a lot of fun piecing together tenuous bits from our research to reconstruct the story of his life, then set out in pursuit of him.

The most moving moment, unsurprisingly, was when we got to look him in the face. Not literally, of course, but a tomb effigy is as close as you’re going to get after 1,000 years. Wiprecht has his own chapel just to the right of the entrance into the church at Pegau, a small town about 40 minutes south of Leipzig.

This isn’t a place any tourist would have reason to visit. It’s home to about 6,500 people and isn’t in any guidebook. But it has two lovely squares surrounded by historic buildings, one dominated by the church of St. Laurentius and the other by a traditional Rathaus, or town hall. On a Wednesday morning in May, hardly a soul stirred, and the pharmacy was the only open business. The old East Germany has a well-publicised problem with young people moving west for better jobs; this had the look of a place that’s great to grow up in, but then you leave. The Benedictine abbey that might have drawn modern tourists was shut down in the Reformation.

Wiprecht founded that abbey, and he was originally buried there. But when Protestants closed the monastery, they realised he was too important to be left in the ruins, so they moved him to the newly Protestant main church. These days, even Protestantism is a minority faith in a primarily religion-free part of the country (remember, this was communist and therefore banned religion for 40+ years), so the church is now only open for services. We had to make an appointment with the pastor to get in. It was worth the effort.

I’ve looked at a lot of tomb effigies in my life, but never one quite like this. Wiprecht lies like many a medieval aristocrat, feet on a lion, one hand on his shield and sword while another holds his pennant. Unusually, he is encrusted with gemstones that form patterns on his cloak, tunic, shield, and the plinth he’s lying on. Paint still remains on the stonework. He’s lost the tip of his nose over the years, but there is enough of his handsome face, luxurious hair, and beard to complement the regal clothing and accessories. He is an obviously grand figure, and would have caught my eye even if I’d known nothing about him. Having the personal connection made our visit all the more special.

A stumbling German conversation with the pastor suggested that what we were seeing was not entirely authentic. It seems the effigy was carved about 100 years after Wiprecht died, in a time when people were trying to celebrate a heroic past and better define Saxony. Late 19th-century restorers had similar motives, though now they were celebrating Germany. Thus the side chapel in which Wiprecht lies has obviously neo-Gothic wall paintings, while the faded paint and gemstones are probably only 150 years old. The question is whether those highly unusual gemstones were original to the Middle Ages and replaced, or added in the 19th century. Piers and I went for original, given the way the stone settings for the jewels seem integral to the original. Whatever the truth, his tomb was magnificent and rewarded our efforts to see it.

Just down some very pretty country lanes from Pegau is the town of Groitzsch, from which Wiprecht took his name. It has about 1,000 more residents than Pegau, though it felt smaller because its church and town hall weren’t as impressive. There’s a community centre, a gymnasium named for Wiprecht, a few pretty Renaissance buildings, and a handsome inn on the market square called the White Horse—presumably after the white horse on Wiprecht’s crest. People were starting to set up the square for the coming May Day holiday but, like Pegau, the place was as sleepy as an enchanted village when we drove through.

Our destination was the Wiprechtsburg. It’s a wooded hillside above flowering water meadows beside a clear, meandering stream called the Schwennigke. There’s little beyond natural beauty here now, but once upon a time this was Wiprecht’s HQ. There would have been an impressive castle here. When he was in residence, messengers would have raced up and down the nearby roads and local merchants would have bustled to provide for the castle’s needs. Now, there’s little beyond the pub emblem, the place names, and the ruins of a chapel at the top of the hill. Locals have made the most of their resource by clearing what would once have been a castle bailey into an open space that now hosts summer theatre, ringed with benches for audiences. Paved paths offer easy, pleasant walks around the mound. In May, the woods were exploding with lilacs and wildflowers. The air was heavy with scent. It was probably never this calm when Wiprecht was around.

If, a year ago, you’d told me that a heavily restored medieval tomb effigy and a stroll around a wooded hill with one tiny ruin were going to be the highlights of two weeks in Germany, I wouldn’t have believed you. But they were. Because we dived beyond the traditional “must sees” into family histories and deeply human stories, we were looking at essential pieces of a drama we’d been watching in our minds for months.

It’s niche, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But if you’re of European descent, the mathematical probability is that you’re descended from Wiprecht, too. So why not?