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?

Adventures in lesser-known Germany: holiday stars are Dresden, Leipzig, Saxon country

Regular readers know the Bencard travel rule: milestone birthdays mean that the celebrant has total control of the year’s holiday schedule. Last year I drove our Italy-heavy itinerary. This year, my slightly younger husband turned us back to Germany. 

On his last milestone birthday he brought us to Bavaria to follow his family’s historical trail, focusing on the Renaissance and Reformation. This trip, we went further back in time, and further east. We based ourselves in Saxony and spent much of our time chasing the stories of the 10th and 11th centuries, particularly the lives of Ottonian rulers a remarkable man named Wiprecht von Groitzsch. A coming story will explain why.

Classical concerts and opera featured heavily, too, in this heartland of great composers. We mixed charming, atmospheric AirB&B’s with visits to 25Hours destination hotels. We gorged on white asparagus, the famous “spargel” over which the Germans obsess just coming into season. Between historic pilgrimages, musical indulgences, and sybaritic self-care, we stitched together a rich, resonant two-week journey. 

Thanks to extended holiday weekends at the start and finish of the break we travelled over 17 days, stopping at five places:

• 2 nights in Aachen (Mercure, city centre) 
• 6 nights in Dresden (“Weinblick” AirB&B, in the grounds of Schloss Albrechtsberg) 
• 4 nights in Berlin (25Hours Hotel Bikini Berlin) 
• 3 nights in Leipzig (“Palace by the Zoo” AirB&B in a grand 19th-century apartment on the edge of the historic centre) 
• 2 nights in Cologne (25Hours Hotel The Circle) 

We drove the entire route, crossing the Channel via Le Shuttle. This the raised eyebrows of many, but when we crunched the numbers it came out cheaper than flying and hiring a car. And it broadened our itinerary: the Cologne and Aachen stops wouldn’t have happened had we flown. Of course, we didn’t really need a car in city centres, but it was essential for wandering in the Saxon countryside.

Dresden: The Expected Star
As a fan of the German Baroque I had high expectations. Dresden is world-famous for the reconstruction of its 18th century town centre, flattened in World War II. It is one of the world’s greatest examples of heritage restoration. But I didn’t realise how rich the offerings would be beyond architecture. The city’s museums are stuffed with dazzling treasures and its opera house is gorgeous. 

The 19th century treated Dresden even better than the 18th, seeing whole neighbourhoods of gracious apartment blocks and mini-mansions pop up for the wealthy bourgeoise. Factories were disguised as fantasies from the Arabian nights and opulent shops were kitted out to serve the rich. Pfund’s dairy, entirely covered in Villeroy and Boch tiles, is the German equivalent of Harrod’s Food Halls or the tiled cafe at the Victoria and Albert museum. 

Dresden is the best place I’ve seen in Germany to get a picture of the rich, gracious, sophisticated world destroyed by the stupidity of 20th century wars. What’s been restored helps you imagine it, while what’s still derelict, missing or has been replaced with modern architecture reminds you of the pain just below the surface.

The super-rich of the 19th century built castles on the top of the bluffs looking over the river Elbe towards town, culminating in the ridiculously cute suburb of Loschwitz. Day trippers coming here could take a funicular up to a glamorous viewpoint to drink and dine.  A few schlosses down the ridge towards town was our Albrechtsberg, where we were lucky enough to be staying on the estate.. Once home to Prince Albert of Prussia and his morganatic wife Rosalie, who moved here to escape disapproval of their relationship, the estate still exudes faded grandeur and is a popular walking spot for locals. Our accommodation was in a large farmhouse amongst the estate’s side buildings. We had two bedrooms, a generous sitting room, a kitchen and a garden terrace with views through the trees to the Elbe. It was splendidly isolated, so on most days we adopted a rhythm of big lunches out and light suppers in. 

Our Dresden days included:

• Easter services in the historic Frauenkirche
• A hop-on-hop-off bus tour 
• A lavish afternoon in the Residenz palace museum 
• Tosca at the Semperoper 
• A leisurely wander through the military history museum
• Day trips to castles tied to Wiprecht and to Meissen 
• Several historic restaurants

Even with six nights, Dresden is the place I felt I needed more time. It’s certainly where I’d return first. There’s more to explore in the city’s museums and architecture, river cruises to be taken, and an entire wine region to be explored. In hindsight, we could have done Leipzig as a day trip and used this as the base for most of our holiday.

Berlin: Modern Power and Dark History
From Dresden, we drove north to Berlin, abandoning the car in the hotel car park for three days. Our base was the 25Hours Hotel Bikini Berlin. We loved our stay at this chain’s offerings in Copenhagen and Paris, and wanted to try more. I love their quirky design … usually re-purposing old commercial buildings … their ethos that works to deliver a boutique experience at large scale and the fact that no two are ever the same. This one has a jungle theme, tied to its location overlooking the Berlin Zoo. The rooftop houses the Monkey Bar and Neni, an Eastern-Mediterranean restaurant present in all of their hotels. 

The highlight of Berlin for me was our hotel room; we got an upgrade due to Piers’ frequent stayer status at Accor hotels, with which this chain is associated. The room had a freestanding bath and a cosy, round, upholstered reading pit perfect for a picnic dinner. 

The city itself has changed dramatically since my last visits in the early 20th century. What seemed then to be one big construction site has settled down. The new buildings are starting to age into place, there are fewer reminders of the GDR years and the old East German side of town has become super trendy, with most of the hottest bars and clubs here and old communist apartment blocks rehabbed as luxury condos.  

If Dresden is a dowager lady in cashmere in pearls heading off to the opera, Berlin is an affluent, 30-something professional who works hard and plays hard, the latter possibly in fetish gear. The locals enjoy their reputation for a bit of avant garde.

Our Berlin itinerary included:

• A hop-on-hop-off bus tour (a useful intro but frustrating in the amount of time spent sitting in traffic and the sparse commentary)
• A morning in the Neues Museum (Ironically, called “new” but home of ancient civilisations)
• A sobering guided tour of Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp 
• The GDR Museum
• A stroll around Unter den Linden, the Reichstag and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe memorial 
• Two classical music evenings 
• A final flourish at Sanssouci, Frederick the Great’s Rococo masterpiece 

Leipzig: The other face of Saxony
Imagining Saxony’s second city as a character, I see a rebellious university student facing off to that Dresden grand dame across the fertile hills and valleys. He or she is likely to grow up to be a prosperous merchant driving hard deals, but university days bring a bit of rebellion and a taste for the new. This impression is doubtless shaped by the fact that we got caught up in a noisy but good-natured May Day march (Power to the People! Marx was Right! Anarchy!), but Leipzig immediately feels different from Dresden. Younger. Louder. More Diverse. A bit grubbier.

We stayed in a gracious 19th-century flat a short walk from the historic centre. Fittingly, given our Longborough Opera track record, we were just a block from Richard Wagner Platz. It had charm—lofty ceilings and abundant light—and was ideally located for exploring on foot. I wish we would have discovered Wagner’s restaurant and wine bar, just of the Platz, on our first night rather than our last. We would have been there more. The nearby zoo looked impressive, though it didn’t make our itinerary.

We really only had two sightseeing days here. The first was another day following Wiprecht’s trail and the second focused on Leipzig’s formidable musical heritage.

Cologne: Tomorrowland with Mezze 
We broke our return journey with a final two nights in Cologne, again at a 25Hours Hotel. This one occupies a circular mid-century modern office block, reimagined in a style that splits the difference between Disney’s Tomorrowland and an ‘80s arcade game. It was tremendous fun, and we appreciated the free parking.

To be honest, after two solid weeks of sightseeing our day exploring Cologne was a bit of a bust. We were too tired, too jaded, and had spectacularly bad luck. We walked half an hour to the edge of town to see the tomb of one of Piers’ many times great grandmothers, to find the church entirely closed for renovation. (Not something that came up on internet searches.) I returned to the main cathedral to see the bits that had been closed off on my earlier visit … at exactly the time they were closing it off again for confessions. We encountered the biggest crowds of the whole trip here and it made us grumpy. This is probably thanks to the combination of the booming river cruise industry and Cologne’s appeal to stag and hen weekends. The hotel’s Neni branch is so popular with locals we couldn’t get a reservation either night, and were too tired to go out in search of a traditional restaurant.  

So both the penultimate and final night of our holiday found us having some early cocktails in the rooftop Monkey Bar before ordering Neni mezze and picnicking on our bed while streaming the new Andor series. Given the hotel’s design, it was a perfect match.

What Comes Next
In the weeks ahead, I’ll share deeper dives into the themes that cut across this trip:

• How following in the footsteps of medieval ancestors like Wiprecht von Groitzsch took us down some non-traditional paths well off the beaten track
• An impressive range of classical music experiences that pushed the envelope, despite the historic composers
• Exploring difficult stories from Germany in the 20th century: hard, but important
• Food: the search for differentiation in the land of Schnitzel

For now, consider this your prologue. We went east in search of old stories. We found history, music, architectural splendour—and a few surprises that left me wanting more. Most of all, we found that Saxony deserves a spot on every serious traveller’s list.

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.