WW2, please? Visitors drag my brain into the 20th century

From the day I moved to the UK, my cousin warned me that whenever he finally got over to visit, all the sightseeing would be about World War II. It's our grandfather's fault.

Our patriarch was scholarly but also loved swashbuckling drama, and we both remember delightful weekend afternoons as small children watching TV movies with him. (Inevitably to my grandmother reprimanding him. "Johnnie, they're too young for that!") Curiously, however, Gaga ... as we called him ... seems to have fed us different diets. Had he figured out our personalities even then? Did we indicate preferences? Or were we shaped by vagaries of late '60s and early '70s TV programming? All I know is that my cousin, Ron, consumed World War films while I drank in pirate flicks and medieval epics. Those weekend afternoons with Gaga are sacred in our memories and shaped our adult passions. I think I got the better end of the deal, naturally, since my movies led to castles, Caribbean beaches, sailboats, rum drinks and walled European cities. They certainly wired me to lose interest in any story set much after the Napoleonic wars.

But Ron was finally visiting. So I had to change my usual itinerary for visitors. We were going to the 20th century.

His No. 1 request? The Churchill War Rooms. These are a fabulously atmospheric look at how the government ran in London during the Blitz, seen today almost exactly as things were during the war. The prime minister and his cabinet retreated down here to run the war in ... as best they could ensure it ... relative safety. Having seen Hitler's bond-villain style network of massive tunnels carved into the mountain in Berchtesgaden before I got to the London site, I was surprised by the small scale and domestic humility of Churchill's space. It's not even that far under ground. At one point the curators strip back the ceiling panels to show you the iron bars and reinforced concrete, but it didn't seem like much compared to half a mountain. Then again, both spaces reinforce the tale we know. One side grandiose, dark and deluded, the other scrappy, practical and of the people.

The fact that these rooms are dressed pretty much as they were during the war, occupied by mannequins representing historic figures and described on an audio guide that features many authentic quotes adds to the charm. The map room in particular makes you feel like you've been dropped into the middle of a WWII film. The authenticity also fuels a sense of claustrophobia. These are small spaces. It's easy to imagine the fear and frustration as bombs pounded overhead and walls shook.

Though the core suite of rooms has been open to the public since the mid-'80s, additional renovations and restorations since the turn of the century have created what you see today. In addition to the main command and control rooms, you can see bedrooms for Churchill, his wife and staff, support offices, a warren of hallways and an atmospheric physical plant room that's available for event hire. (How did I miss this when I was still in charge of a large corporate budget and events in the IT sector?) There is also an impressive Churchill museum that tells the whole story of his life with artefacts, video and interactive displays. One word of warning: it's easy to lose yourself in here and run out of steam, not realising that the heart of the Cabinet rooms are still ahead of you.

A second word of warning: This is one of the few London attractions for which buying tickets in advance is absolutely essential. Those small spaces limit numbers. Advance ticket holders wait. People who just turn up wait longer, and may not get in. Only members of the Imperial War Museum skip the queue. (An adult ticket to the War Rooms is £22, annual IWM membership is £35. So if you're planning to add either Duxford or the HMS Belfast to your sightseeing within the year, buy membership instead.)

Though it has five branches, the main Imperial War Museum is across the river from the War Rooms and was also on my cousin's must see list. Though keeping it in the 20th century, I insisted that we start here with WWI. This museum shut down for a major renovation early in the decade, re-opening just before the centenary of the sadly mis-named "war to end all wars". The WWI exhibition created for that anniversary got rave reviews. So great, in fact, that we couldn't get in the first time we made the attempt back in 2014.  Now that it's been around for four years access is much easier, but it still deserves the praise.

This is modern museum presentation at its best, mixing artefacts with video, sound effects and interactive exhibits. You can play games to help you understand difficult concepts like how to provision an army, measure yourself against the height and weight of typical recruits, try on uniforms or walk through a loud, ominous trench. All of the displays are built around storytelling, whether it's peering into a case containing the personal effects of Edith Cavell, a British nurse who saved lives on both sides but was executed as a spy by the Germans, or sitting around a virtual campfire letting ghostly voices tell you about their experiences.

Given that the Imperial War Museum was a direct result of World War I ... established to teach lessons so that people would not repeat history ... it's no surprise that this is one of the most comprehensive WWI museums in the world. If you tried to take everything in, from causes and early enthusiasm through stalemate, horror, peace and the reparations that set us up for WWII, you'd have to spend a whole day here. Luckily, this is one of London's free museums so you can pop in to graze on what interests you most. Upper floors cover the second World War (with a great side-exhibit on intelligence and spies), the Cold War and modern conflicts, but none do as comprehensive a job at immersive, chronological storytelling as the museum's starting point.

To round out the story of early 20th century warfare we headed out of London, to a far lesser known but equally interesting site. The Army Flying Museum on the edge of Salisbury Plain isn't as good as the Imperial War Museum at Duxford (one of the best aviation museums I've ever been to, written about here), but if you can't get to that part of the country this is an excellent substitute. And the army has one important thing Duxford doesn't: gliders.

They were a stealth tactic to get men behind enemy lines in WWII. Build an airplane-sized glider out of balsa wood and paper, fill it with troops, tow it up into the air, then release it and ...  in theory ... let the pilots glide it smoothly and silently to a safe landing, after which the passengers could slip away into the night to perform their missions. Of course, with no engines these things were difficult to control, and their flimsy construction offered little protection from weather, rough landings or bullets once the enemy spotted you. It took a special, almost un-imaginable, kind of bravery to climb into a glider. Or maybe they were all just crazy.

Given their lightweight, throw-away nature, this is pretty much the only place in the world you can see original gliders from WWII; there are pieces of three of them ... one almost the whole thing ... with displays that tell the story of glider use throughout the war, from spectacular success to horrific sacrifice.

While unique and exciting, this is just the tip of the iceberg here. There are two hangars of aircraft with two floors of museum displays along each. Unlike the Imperial War Museum this is fairly old-school: artefacts and information boards. But it's interesting stuff, starting from the early days of aviation and going up through the modern day. The Royal Air Force split out from the Army at the end of WWI, so you get a comprehensive view of the start of military flight here (including balloons). Though the Air Force got the sexy fighter planes after that, there's plenty of interesting kit here including prototype drones, transport planes and fighting helicopters. Small simulators are dotted around and reasonably priced at £1 a go. Allowing me to confirm my hunch that flying an Apache helicopter is actually quite difficult.

There's a cafe here with a large terrace overlooking a grassy airfield still in use by the base next door, and they do flying exhibitions here on certain days. Tickets are £14 (not related to the IWM network) but good for re-entry over the course of a year, so a great deal for locals. We'll be back.

That trio was all we could fit in during my cousin's relatively short visit. I'm already thinking about what I could show him next. In addition to Duxford (naturally), there's the military command centre and warren of defensive tunnels under Dover castle, the HMS Belfast now docked on the Thames, all the fabulous intelligence stuff at Bletchley Park and more secret squirrel stuff in Disraeli's home at Hughenden, And that's before we consider crossing the channel to check out Normandy. (Read about my visit to the last one here.)

See, I can do the 20th century. It's not nearly as much fun as pirates and knights in shining armour. But I think Gaga would be proud.

Zugspitze, Berchtesgaden provide Alpine thrills ... and darkness

Growing up in the American Midwest, you tended to be either a Mountain Family or a Beach Family.  Most parents had only 10 days of vacation time a year, so doing both was rare.  Some of my classmates went skiing.  We went to Florida.

I was 20 before I set foot on my first proper mountain. (I'm not counting the low, but technically mountainous, Ozarks or Appalachians. I'm talking about peaks that rise above a tree line.)  50 years later, I haven't moved my tally for the big stuff much over five.  To me, mountains are the most alien of all Earth's landscapes, and more than a bit frightening in their awe-inspiring size.  Thus our holiday's two mountain adventures probably ranked disproportionately high on my excitement scale.

Alpine veterans might say that the €52 cost of ascending the Zugspitze to walk around a 1960's-era
concrete block complex with limited services isn't worth the money.  I doubt I'd do it a second time, but with my limited experience there was a thrill for every euro.

The Zugspitze is Germany's highest peak. Right on the border with Austria, you can ascend from either country and there was once a little border control between the buildings at the top.  We went up the German side, starting from a complex you'll find after about 20 minutes of picturesque woodland driving beyond Garmish Partenkirchen. You have two choices for ascent: cable car all the way, or cog railway up to the edge of the local glacier, then a shorter hop in a different cable car.  We opted for the direct route. Having never been in a cable car I was balancing excitement with terror, the latter managed by my faith in German engineering.  Other than the stomach-churning swaying induced by the towers that hold up the cables at intervals, it's a remarkably smooth ride.  If I hadn't been holding my breath already as we rose, I would have forgotten to breathe as the scene spread out beneath us.  The car park, pine forests, lakes, foothills, Garmish-Partenkirchen all quickly growing smaller.  It was actually a lot like taking off in an airplane, but with bigger windows and almost no noise.  Stepping out at the top was nerve-inducing as the car swung in its dock, gap between car and platform showing a sheer drop.  But that was nothing to the first few minutes on the outdoor viewing platforms, nothing but a railing separating you from 9,717 feet of air between you and the valley floor.

It only took a few minutes to get my bearings, however, and then it was off to explore.  Both Germany and Austria have viewing platforms and buildings up here, linked by a bridge that once held passport control.  The German side is a bit bigger, but it's worth exploring it all because the views change from every angle.  Here, the Alpine valley stretches like a model train board dotted with sapphire lakes and doll-like villages.  There, the line of the Alps stretches in jagged teeth to the horizon.  From one angle, you're right up against other mountains, looking down into a desolate scree of granite and ice.  You can look down at a glacier, depressingly shrunk in these days of global warming.

In several spots you can watch the various cable cars come up and down.  The best entertainment, however, is watching people climb up to the actual summit on the German side.  It's supposed to be a fairly easy scramble for any experienced climber, and there are safety lines along the way as they climb down from the starting point, then up a ladder-like set of footholds before rounding the final outcrop and ending up below a giant golden cross.  I was perfectly content to live vicariously through those going the extra metres.

Germany's highest beer garden is here. We had a typical lunch of sausage, sauerkraut and beer while watching the clouds slip over the neighbouring peaks.  One minute we'd be basking in sun, the next freezing and enveloped in mist.  The indoor tables would probably have been wiser, but as a first time visitor I thought al fresco dining was part of the whole experience.

History, rather than height, brought us to Berchtesgaden. This isn't a single peak but a mountainous national park tucked in to the southeast corner of Germany, named after the resort town that serves as its gateway.  (Berchtesgaden town is only about half an hour from Salzburg, so many visitors stay in Austria rather than coming down from Munich.) We noticed quickly, and had it confirmed by a tour guide, that visitors tend to fall into one of two groups.  Americans and a handful of history buffs come for the WW2 tour.  Everyone else is here for the great outdoors.

And thus it was that we joined more Americans than we've seen in one place since our last Chicago holiday to clamber aboard a bus and dig into the holiday habits of the Third Reich.  We signed on for the four-hour Eagle's Nest Historical Tour.  Your €53 gets you bus transportation, all admission fees and ... most critically ... tremendously informed guides who are bona fide specialists on the time period.  (One of them, quite literally, "wrote the book" on the area.)

Outside the Eagle's Nest

The Eagle's Nest itself is a traditional chalet built at the top of one of the highest peaks in the park,
accessible from below by a luxurious lift.  It was Hitler's 50th birthday present from his party's inner circle and is one of the few buildings from the era to stand intact. Someone made the call that the taint of Nazi history would be washed away by the footfall of tourists coming here for tea, cake and views.  Most of the rest of the architecture around here didn't fare so well.  Much of this tour is imagining what once stood there.

That doesn't take away from the impact or the education.  The Eagle's Nest might be the headline attraction, but historically it was insignificant compared to the party roots and physical facilities that once dug through this mountain.

As a young man, Hitler had retreated to this area and holed up in a humble hut to finish Mein Kampf. The PR geniuses latched onto this, and extended their spin by exploiting scenes of Hitler in the local German perfection of charming chalets, attractive natives in traditional dress and majestic landscapes.  Clearly, the boss didn't mind as he spent up to a third of his time down here.  All of his other cronies followed, building their own country retreats nearby.  The mountainside became a second capital, where plenty of work was getting done along with the Bavarian leisure.

As time went on, the real story got darker ... and so did what happened on the mountain above Berchtesgaden.  First, they put up a security cordon and kept the real people out.  (Ironic, since one of the big buildings up here was a resort hotel originally built with the intent of giving every German a free Alpine holiday on the party.  That promise never delivered.) Administrators and soldiers moved in.  With them came barracks, offices and miles of underground bunkers.  If everything went wrong, this is where they were all supposed to hole up, Bond-villain like, to continue pushing their evil plan. It never came to that.  Most of the bad guys were caught in Berlin, leaving fairly junior types to defend (or run) as the allied troops came marching through.

Inside the tunnels

The tour includes the Documentation Centre, a museum that goes into what happened here and ... more importantly ... tries to come to grips with why.  We could have spent more time here, but even with four hours of detail there wasn't enough.  Below the centre you can explore part of the remaining network of tunnels.  Now bare and gutted of any fittings, they still impress with their size and durability.  I found myself wondering if we won the war just that little bit faster because so many resources were diverted to this mad lair. And, of course, there's the Eagle's Nest itself, from which you can contemplate the irony of one of the world's greatest evils taking root and flourishing in a landscape of gingerbread houses and Christmas card scenes.

Even without the history, the time was well-spent taking in the views.  This is a spectacularly beautiful part of the world, and a soul soothing one if you don't think about what's gone on here.  Ironically, the super-luxury Kempinski spa hotel now occupies the site of Goering's house.  Can hot rock massages and jacuzzis erase the pain of the past?  I understand why so many people skip the history in favour of Alpine hikes and boat trips on the lake below.  We're programmed to think that evil and violence come from ugly places. like bomb-fractured war zones or violent ghettos.  Not from Disney landscapes populated by extras from a fairy tale film.  It is profoundly disturbing to confront this truth.  But I'm glad we did it, and more people should.