Aachen: Breaking for Charlemagne and Bustling History

We could have driven to Dresden in a single day. A champion road tripper in a hurry would have. But twelve hours in a car isn’t our style. We needed to break the journey. And if you’re going to pause, why not make it meaningful?

Two nights. One full day to stretch our legs and explore somewhere new. Aachen became the first stop on our big German road trip.

More than a convenient layover, Aachen has been hovering on my must-see list since my AP Art History days. Despite the lure of its Charlemagne legacy, however, it’s never really made a splash on the modern tourism circuit. Which is precisely what made it appealing.

It also fit beautifully with our trip’s broader theme. Much of our itinerary was inspired by Piers’ ancestral research, which traced one family branch deep into medieval Saxony—and before that to Charlemagne himself. (Of course, statistically, anyone of European descent is likely descended from the great king. That’s just how exponential growth works.) Still, it’s thrilling when the tangled lines of genealogy align so neatly with your travel plans.

Step into Charlemagne’s cathedral in Aachen and the idea of a culturally stunted Europe cowering in the Dark Ages crumbles immediately. Built around 800 AD, this octagonal jewel box radiates opulence and ambition. Mosaic ceilings glitter with gold and blue ground from Afghan lapis lazuli, alabaster lamps glow softly, and Roman marble paves the floor.

If you’ve been to Ravenna, this will feel familiar. The church takes heavy inspiration from San Vitale, with its central dome and Byzantine elegance, and the blue starry ceilings of the side halls echo Galla Placidia’s mausoleum. From the centre of the cathedral, a massive brass chandelier dominates the space, while a second-story gallery—accessible only by guided tour—holds Charlemagne’s throne and the spot where centuries of Holy Roman Emperors were crowned. Sadly, tours weren’t running on Good Friday, but even from ground level, the mosaics and sense of grandeur astound.

In the 14th century, the Holy Roman Emperors added a gothic nave to their coronation church. It’s a glittering glass box reminiscent of Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. It houses Charlemagne’s golden sarcophagus, though access was limited during our visit. Still, the experience from the original octagon alone was so rich, I didn’t feel shortchanged.

The cathedral alone makes Aachen a worthwhile stop. But the town holds more delights. While much of its outer ring is post WW2 and there’s some brutal modernism even in the town centre, the town has done a good job keeping its core appealing.

The cathedral’s Treasury Museum is just a few steps away in some old cloisters, and ranks among the best of its kind. The modern presentation makes its medieval treasures shine. Of course there’s gold and gems galore, but the relics of Charlemagne steal the show. A jewel-encrusted bust contains part of his skull; a gilded arm reliquary holds a bone from his arm. The Cross of Lothair, set with an eclectic jumble of Roman cameos, is more ostentatious than beautiful—but its plain reverse, etched with a simple Christ figure, is quietly powerful.

My favourite object, however, was the crown of Margaret of York—sister to English Kings Edward IV and Richard III. It’s a typical high medieval circlet, all enamel, gold, and trefoils. But unique because, since Cromwell melted down all the Crown Jewels left in the UK, this is the only English-made medieval crown still in existence.

The town hall, just up the hill on a square surrounded by fine buildings, is a fantasy of medieval architecture, spiked with statues and twinkling with leaded glass. A neighbouring Renaissance gallery with twisted wooden columns now houses a tempting restaurant—though we opted for a lazier dinner closer to the hotel.

The Couven Museum, in a well-preserved bourgeois townhouse, offers a more relatable view of history. It’s filled with the trappings of an 18th- and 19th-century merchant family: tiled summer rooms, a complete pharmacy, and elegant Biedermeier salons. A quirky collection of miniature perfume bottles adds charm.

A neoclassical pavilion (which we'd call Regency in England, Biedermeier here) nods to Aachen’s 19th-century reinvention as a fashionable spa town—with, amusingly, a reputation for upscale prostitution. Sacred and profane, side by side.

We stayed at the Mercure Aachen, right in the heart of town, leaving our car in the nearby convention centre garage (€24 for the full visit). One day of sightseeing was plenty. Aachen was a sensible, fascinating, and satisfying pause on our route east. A kingly stopover—fitting, for a road trip inspired by family trees and imperial ghosts.

 

Goodbye, Bruno: Farewell to the most irrepressible Cavalier

My last story was a testament to the longevity of this blog. I didn’t expect the next one to serve the same purpose. But the passage of time becomes especially real when you find yourself marking the third loss of a dog since you started writing.

Bruno was the third Cavalier King Charles spaniel to grace my life since moving to England, and without question the most precocious.

He was a ruby—a rich, rusty golden-red from nose to tail, with the exception of a small white spot on his forehead that would have disqualified him from the show ring. But I never wanted a show dog. I wanted a companion. And oh, what a character I got.

I’d previously had a black and tan and a tricolour; the rubies are the rarest of the four colours approved for this breed (Blenheim being the fourth), and there’s something undeniably beguiling about the redheads. Or at least, Bruno thought so. He carried himself with the self-confidence of an emperor and the entitlement of a celebrity. I had never met a dog so convinced that the world revolved around him.

Only after I owned a ruby did I discover, through chats with other Cavalier owners, that they all seem to share this streak. They insist on being top dog—even when they’re the youngest. They crave attention. They’re most generously described as “characters.”

Bruno took that description and ran with it. He was, without doubt, the worst-trained of all my Cavvies. We tried. He ignored. But in a poetic twist of fate, I think he was also the most beloved.

Everyone adored him. Family, friends, strangers, especially his dog walkers—many of whom have been in tears this week. “It’s precisely because he was such a character that I loved him so much,” said his Auntie Cora. I suspect she speaks for many.

He had far more energy than Mr. Darcy, my stately first of this breed. And he was far more emotionally needy than Datchet, his immediate predecessor. But in all the ways that mattered, Bruno was pure Cavalier. The soulful eyes. The obsessive need to cuddle. The inability to be in a room without a human. The reluctance to exercise, balanced by world-class talent in the art of napping. And of course, the Cavalier’s signature vice: gluttony.

Over the years, we spent a small fortune nursing him through various culinary indiscretions. Garden frogs. Chocolate. Raisins. A particularly memorable incident involved him managing to consume ten days’ worth of his heart medication in one go. Only quick discovery and the swift (and expensive) intervention of an emergency vet saved him. We were told that should have killed him. Instead, we got nine extra months.

We suspect it was gluttony that killed him in the end, though. He wasn’t himself one morning. The vet guessed he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, gave him something to settle his stomach, and sent him home. At the time, all signs pointed to recovery. Five hours later, he was gone.

He was originally acquired as a companion for Datchet, then seven years old and growing lonely after the death of Mr. Darcy. It seemed a sensible idea at the time. I think it’s fair to say Datchet wasn’t so sure. From the beginning, Bruno stole his toys, claimed the best spots in the bed, and behaved like the toddler who’s never told "no." No respect for age or hierarchy. Datchet tolerated him. Eventually, they learned to get along. Bruno may have been a pest, but he was a pest with the face of an angel. All humans forgave him everything.

It was the dynamic of that odd couple relationship that made us decide not to get another puppy when Datchet passed. We didn’t want to start over, or risk more rivalry. Besides, Bruno didn’t need to be a role model. We let him be one of a kind.

And so now, for the first time in 25 years, I find myself in a dog-free house.

The emptiness is overwhelming.

I lived alone for much of my adult life, never sharing a house with a partner until I moved in with the man who would become my husband in 2010. So, used to my independence, I'm never bothered when my husband is away on business. But a house with a dog is never truly quiet. There’s always the background hum of another life. The gentle snore. The sigh. The click of nails on a wooden floor.

Without it, the silence is deafening.

Farewell, Bruno. You were maddening. Hilarious. Infuriating. Adored. The house feels very wrong without you in it.