Freedom

A house made of glass. I don't feel exposed, as I did the last time I was here on my own. I feel liberated, safe, happy. I am surrounded by nature, fields on top of the hills, pines on the dark slopes of the river valleys. From my bed I see the star studded sky, clear and bright, not polluted by big city lights, the village opposite a string of Christmas lights. They seem within touching distance, but there is a rock faced canyon and a river between my bed and the village. I can bathe watching the sunset, candles on the bath end, enjoying the view through this glass wall. A stray dog walker, just below the house on the hill, can't see through these windows. Still, it seems scary. I feel like an exhibitionist. When I wake in the morning the village on the other side might be shrouded in mist, clouds still asleep in the river valley, oblivious of the rising sun which colours the underbelly of the higher clouds rosy. The mist creeps through clumps of trees, still bare, their branches a black and white pen drawing, bleeding like water colours into the foggy patches. It is a fascinating spectacle, different each morning, every minute. Slowly the clouds evaporate, columns of white steam rising and dissolving in the morning sun, revealing the dark cracks of the river canyons. 

In the evening head lights of cars line out their course, disappearing round sharp bends, then appearing again at a different level. It awakens the longing to go and explore, see what the winding stream looks really like. A glass house, the land open around it. In the evening I watch the sunsets over the hills opposite. The sky seems bright, but the light is deceptive. The fields below are still a vivid green but gradually receding into hues of dark blue, purple and lighter shades of violet and blue the further I look. What seems nearby in broad daylight and bright sunshine, now seems far away, the hills more layered than I thought. The narrow and steep river canyons darken quickly, become menacing, mysterious scars, colouring from purple to black.

And there are the birds, some awe inspiring birds of prey, hovering over the fields. It is still early in the year, food seems scarce. But soon abundance will follow. The small tits and other singing birds are preparing their nests. One tit trying to manoeuvre small pieces of straw through the tiny opening of a nesting box, undaunted. The cute bill and white and black head peeping out again quickly, ready to go in search of more soft nesting material. When I move around in my glass house, they don't seem to notice me at all and just go on with their business. It must be a trick of the window panes, which are triple layered.

This is not only a place for birds, but also for wild flowers, foxes and deer, boars, butterflies and berries. The slate roofs of the few houses merge into the surrounding hills, which are pock marked by former quarries. Slate is everywhere. A place for nature trails, long distance walks and innumerable castles, either ruined or restored, on every strategic hilltop. 

One of many castle ruins

 The trails leads through tunnels

Sheer slate cliffs

The steep climbs in these hills tax my calf muscles which are used to flat land. Being alone, at the very end of a tiny village without any neighbours, doesn't frighten me but feels exhilarating. And there is the silence. I have known this house full of the bustle of people, a warren of adults and children, many of them new family units, ever changing like musical chairs. An abundance of food, of laughter, BBQ's, mad plans, fast drives into the nearest town just for an ice-cream after a meal of steak and salad, fish, burgers and sausages. Mountain bike trips, children splashing in the temporary swimming pool or screaming down the water slide, as the house is built on a steep incline; the roaring of quads tearing the mysterious silence of the woods to shreds. Bird watching, long walks, muddy boots, pop music, that is how I know it. Now all is calm. It took some time to make that large space my own, replace the emptiness with serenity, accept the continuous creaking and the little explosions of this house made of timber as friendly: the expansion and shrinkage of the wood this house is built of, the sturdy beams; the heavy thuds of snow sliding off the tiled roof and falling on the veranda or the ground, like the menacing footsteps of a giant. I have filled the house with my own music, the iPod for once coming in handy, my CD collection transferred to this small machine contains music for weeks.

The "Hahnenbach" with its muddy trail

There is no threat in walking these hills, woods and valleys alone. Nobody else is there, castles and fortifications are closed, former mines not yet open for tourists, neither are the small cafes. Nature is itself, unencumbered by day trippers. If I slip and hurt myself, there will be no help at hand.

Being retired should mean being free, without an agenda, without obligations. But I have taken on so much – of my own free will – that sometimes things get on top of me and there is no time to relax, to unwind. Planning to fit everything in becomes very tiring. At first it feels odd having no access to internet, no email, no landline. But gradually it feels as if a heavy burden has been lifted. No one can contact me easily, nobody can put demands on me here. I can think undisturbed, walk the steep and slippery trails, careful not to slide down on loose slabs of slate. Walking along the small stream seems easier, but is dreadfully muddy as the river easily overflows in its narrow river bed.

 Views from the house

I was very reluctant to come here. Lethargy had taken over. But once on the road the exhilaration of freedom took hold of me. A car is a small world, a bubble into which no one can penetrate. It was a lovely day, the promise of an early spring, the sun bright, branches of trees thickening. Once in Germany past the industrial area which the “autobahn” (freeway) skirts, the land opened up and there were wide vistas. The blue sky putting on an ever changing show of white cloud formations, each one spectacular. The rolling hills, scattered villages, the river valleys which I crossed, the pine woods and the vineyards, still bare, they filled me with happiness, especially as there are no sound barriers along the road but a free view of the countryside. Even the modern windmills looked like an elegant corps de ballet, in synchronised movements turning round, the tips of their three arms painted a glorious red, showing off their pointed finger nails. In this wide open landscape the tall windmills didn't seem to scar the landscape but added a beauty of their own. Is it the expectancy of the place one is heading for which gives such joy, or is the trip an end in itself, even if there is this nagging feeling of guilt, somewhere deep down. Another heavy footprint. But who can live life free of guilt? And I do need a car where I am going. There is no public transport to speak of, no village shop, not even for the bare necessities of life.

 Kirn Castle, another ruin

The walks are lovely. Although the trees are still bare, the undergrowth is a riot of subtle colours. Blue violets, some purple plumes of flowers I don't recognise, wild anemones and yellow cowslips. After an evening with hail and sleet and night frost, they just hang their heads and close their petals, as if hugging themselves. But when the sun comes out, they shyly open up again while still surrounded by diamonds of melting hail stones.

 Cowslips and wild anemones

And there are some very old and picturesque towns

 Herrstein