Monday, 13 May 2024 Bad Schandau, the Bastei, and a concert at the Zwinger in Dresden

Written 20 June 2024

Before you leave home, and after you board the ship, Viking does a very good job of keeping you informed and allowing you to look up your schedule if you don't remember what you've signed up for. Until the day you leave home (which they know because they have your airline schedule) the Viking website is a mine of information; the day you leave, all that disappears.

Once you board a Viking ship, you switch over to the Viking Voyager phone app, which provides all the same info, plus menus.

The problem arises in between; if your cruise starts with a night or two in a hotel or you're on a Viking "pre-extension," or both (as was the case for us this year), all such sources of information vanish, and your only option is to bug the folks at the Viking desk if you need to know something. If you flew in early and are touring on your own for a few days before boarding, you don't even have that option. This information gap is a real pain and something Viking really ought to fix.

So after four days in information limbo, it was good finally to have access to the app as well as the good old Viking Daily, the little daily newsletter that appears in your cabin each evening, together with tomorrow's excursion tickes, and outlines the following day's activities.

Here's a view of the left bank from my cabin—a tanker train is headed downstream, in the direction we will next sail.

The view off the other side of the ship is down the gangway to the town of Bad Schandau. We didn't get a chance to explore it, but the town wasn't the attraction that brought us to this area anyway.

The Viking breakfast was very much as expected from previous cruises, but in addition, it included this particularly beautiful bowl of small pears. I don't know what variety they were. The scrambled eggs were a tad overcooked (though that was corrected on subsequent days). The grilled mushrooms excellent were, and as usual the smoked salmon was wonderful. The breakfast sausages—different at every destination— were also particularly good.

Our morning excursion didn't leave until 9:30 am, but before we could go, we first had to do the mandatory life-jacket drill. Here's my usual life-jacket selfie in the full-length mirror on the back of the cabin door.

Here we are at our assigned assembly point on the forward section of the sun deck—point 3, as indicated by the prominent number on our jackets. David's orange alert whistle has come unclipped from his belt and is dangling by its lanyard, but his beacon light is still firmly attached.

At the right is a view down the axis of the sun deck. Thinking back, I realize that this was my only visit to the sun deck the whole time we were aboard.

The crew had told us that our ship had to be specially built because the Elbe is so shallow. They assured us that, if the "abandon ship" sounded, we should just go down to the lowest deck, hop overboard, and walk to shore, begin careful not to spill our drinks. If the ship sinks, they said, just sit tight and await rescue—it will only settle by about a foot. I assume that once the crew got back from their action stations, bar service would resume.

As soon as we shed our flotation gear and equipped ourselves for the morning's excursion, we boarded two buses (ours manned by driver Robert and guide Cosima) for a scenic half-hour drive to the Bastei, a precipitous rock formation that used to have a bastion on top (hence the name). It now has a hotel, restaurant, gift shop, amazing terraces and viewing platforms, and lovely wooded landscape.

At the left here is a huge mesa, or "table rock" as it is called in this region (others are called "rock formations"). We were shown two of them. I think this is the Lilienstein (lily stone); the other is the Königstein (king stone), which has has a fortress on top. They're on opposite sides of the river, so later, we sailed between them.

On the right is the sign at the entrance to the Bastei national park.

On the way, Cosima told us about the area and the town. This region is called Saxony, and the border between Bohemia and Saxony that we sailed over yesterday evening is one of the oldest and most stable in Europe. It was established in the 15th century, when the two regions agreed to divide the moutainous area that both wanted; it has been peaceful and stationary ever since.

Bad Schandau is the largest town in this mountainous area. During the flood of 2002, the entire ground floors of many of its buildings were submerged.

It used to be just Schandau. In the 13th century, the town was awarded toll rights. They could force all passing boats to offload all their wares and offer them for sale before passing on. Eventually that source of income dried up, and the town needed a new one. They found some springs and declared themselves a health resort; their PR was so good that in the 19th century, even emperors came to take the waters. It spawned a marketing battle between horse carriages and those newfangled trains as ways to get to the mountain areas in the 19th century. ("Sure the train is faster, but you arrive covered in soot!")

In 1920, the town was awarded the designation spa and with it the right to add "Bad" ("bath") to its name. At the time, the Elbe teemed with salmon, so all the spa and hotel employees, who got meals as part of their pay, were fed a lot of fish and salmon. Eventually, they all banded together and refused to sign contracts that did not stipulate "no more than three salmon meals a week." Now, we were told, most of the pretty little houses along the rivers are hotels or tourist rentals.

Unfortunately, all the salmon, which migrated back and forth from the North Sea, died out over WWII. The river became polluted with factory water, which killed them off. The Elbe became the dirtiest river in Europe. It foamed and stank, and the joke was that, if you dipped your vacation film in the river, all the chemicals would develop it.

Fortunately, thanks to clean-up efforts, it is now one of Europe's cleanest rivers, and efforts are underway to restock it with salmon.

On the drive, we finally spotted some cattle, but according to Cosima, the soil left behind by glaciers that scoured the valleys is very fertile, so rather than raise cattle, the locals grow crops. I also saw some white-rumped swallows.

From the bus parking lot, we enjoyed a leisurely, paved half-mile walk through the woods to the hotel complex. As we walked, we passed the very steep gorge of the a small brook (the Polent?). Cosima pointed out meadows beside the brook and told us that in March they will be filled with flowers that are elsewhere quite rare. They're called "snowflakes,"and she described them as being similar to but a little larger than lilies of the valley, having yellow spots on them, and having only one flower per plant. According to the internet, there are two species Leucojum vernum, which blooms in February, and Leucojum aestivum, which blooms in April, so who knows which blooms here March. The flower looks a lot like a snowdrop and has a spot that I could call greenish at the tip of each petal.

At the left here is a model of the complex. At the right is a photo of a photo of the real attraction of the place, the Bastei Bridge, a spectacular medieval stone span that connects the Bastei to a neighboring crag. From 1450 onward, nobody lived on the Bastei, but then 19th-century rock climbers rediscovered it.

At the hotel we had a choice. We could hang around the hotel admiring the spectacular views, shopping in the gift shop, and reading menus (the restaurant, alas, was closed—since the pandemic, they can't find enough staff to keep it open at lunchtime), or we could continue on down a trail that was essentially a shallow staircase, 100 steps to the bridge itself and across it, then back up the 100 steps to the hotel. Some of our party did that, but we (and many others) decided to stay put up top.

The photo at the right also shows a fresh rock face where a slab had relatively recently lost its battle with gravity and broken away. Notice how light-colored the rock is. It's sandstone, like all the rock formations around here, and it's always that color on freshly broken faces, but the sandstone contains manganese and iron, so after a few years' exposure to air, the surface turns black. That's why all the sandstone buildings in this region are black—it has nothing to do with air pollution; the rock just turns that color naturally.

Looking down from the top, we could see metals stairs and bridges, like construction scaffolding, winding among the various crag. I didn't see the points of access to them—perhaps they were on the trail down to the bridge—and I wasn't much tempted to go looking for them.

Fortunately, the very last decision by the independent East German government before reunification was, after just two hours of discussion, to make this whole area a national park, protected from further development, so it remains mostly untouched but still provides everything the hordes of tourists need. It's criss-crossed by hiking and climbing trails and seems to see a lot of use. We heard a little Italian, but aside from our sizeable English-speaking party, it was mostly Germans.

And finally, here are two spectacular shots courtesy of our friend Chris, who did make the climb down to the bridge and back again.

At the left is a view from below of the cantilevered viewing platform. You can make out a couple of Tilley hats out at the end, but neither of them is mine.

At the right is a view of the amazing Bastei bridge. What a stunning feat of engineering for the 15th century! The Romans couldn't have done better.

When the intrepid group who visited the bridge returned, we all strolled back to the buses and the half-hour scenic drive back to the ship for lunch, during which Cosima played for us the Hunters' Chorus from Weber's Der Freischütz.

She also continued to supply information about the area:

• Attempts to introduce chamois (Rupicaptra rupicapra) to the crags were semisuccessful. That is, they brought in the chamois, which apparently looked at the crags and then at the lush grass in the valley below, made their choice, and settled in. Now they have a healthy enough population in the bottom of the valley to allow hunting, but no chamois up in the crags.
• This region used to be covered by the Cretaceous sea. About 17 million years ago, the water retreated to the north and it silted up, leaving a 500-foot-thick sandstone bar. The sandstone layer was compressed and cracked, then erosion took over; later the flat places were glaciated. So all the crags, cliffs, and mesas are remnants of the eroded sandstone layer—this area was never uplifted, as many mountains were.
• In some parts of Germany, whole forests are dying of drought. In one space, after a severe fire, the authorities decided to leave the place undisturbed rather than replanting; beetles came to eat the dead trees and (she said) brought seeds. Now instead of five species of trees, they have twelve. I'm not sure I believe beetles carry seeds around, but I'd readily believe the increase in diversity.
• The crops grown here are mostly wheat and rye, some barley, and lots of vegetables. Sometimes you see rapeseed, but it's not popular because it depletes the soil more than other crops.
• After reunification, the farmers of the former East Germany decided they wanted their land back, but they chose to stay in coops, so in the western parts, you see small fields from the; in the eastern parts, you see large ones, left over from the forced cooperativation under communism.
• East Germans were always hungry for fruit, because all the fruit they grew got exported. Then suddenly one year, there was a glut of strawberries, which the locals fell upon ravenously. Unfortunately, it turns out they were Chernoble strawberries, which the west wouldn't accept and the East Germans didn't know about. A lot of people got cancer in the 80's as a result.

We reboarded the ship to find lunch waiting. The fine-print appetizers were hearts of palm salad, potato salad with ham, and cold ratatouille with olives and Pecorino cheese. I had the potato salad, which was outstanding. Chef Galin Kirov was very good at that sort of thing.

The first course was red bell pepper soup with (vanishingly mild) jalapeño salsa. Like all Viking soups, excellent.

I had seen the Scandinavian open-faced baby shrimp sandwich with cucumber on rye bread on previous Viking menus, but this was the first time I ordered it. Turns out I wasn't missing much—I wouldn't order it again.

Shortly after we ate, the ship cast off from Bad Schandau for an afternoon's scenic sailing downstream to Dresden. I spent most of it sitting in the lounge labeling photos, transcribing notes, and enjoying the narration of the places we were passing by our tour director. Between narratable stretches she put orchestral German waltzes on the muzak.

As we approached our destination, I spotted a crew shell headed our way. When they pulled even with our windows, I was surprised to see that the rowers and the cox were boys maybe 10 or 12 years old! In the same area, I saw a few kayakers.

Along the way, I saw lots of rhodendron plantings in people's yards, all in riotous bloom. Eva mentioned that mistletoe is very common in this area, and I thought she said something about a virus. Is there a virus that makes trees vulnerable to mistletoe?

A great big golden-brown bird circled the ship, looking almost like it had a swallow tail at one point. I learned later that it was probably a kite, which are fairly common here. Flocks of domestic geese cruised by headed upstream as we approached Dresden, and we passed three castles in a row as we came to the outskirts.

Dinner was the "Taste of Germany" buffet menu that Viking always schedules for one evening every time a cruise passes through that country. I always have high hopes for the roasted pork knuckle that was so spectacularly good the first time we had it and has never measured up since.

At the right is the array of appetizers set up on the tables when we entered. Note the trays of cold cuts and pieces of several cheeses, the assortment of breads, the triangular dishes of spreads, the crock of silverware wrapped in napkins that match the tablecloth,, and the sausages and giant soft pretzels hanging from the wooden rack.

Here's a better view of the triangular dishes. One holds butter, one that ubiquitous orange paprika-laced cheese, and one pickled vegetables. The fourth is schmalz. In the past I have only known "schmaltz" (with a "t") as rendered chicken or goose fat, but on this trip we encountered it often, always spelled without the "t," and it was always pork—lard seasoned and laced (and, here, sprinkled) with bits of pork crackling. Tasty either way.

At the right is white asparagus soup, not usually part of Taste of Germany but included here in deference to Spargelzeit.

On the buffet was the larger assortment of breads (all actually edible, as opposed to the first Taste of Germany we had, where they were breautiful but seemed to be made of baker's clay).

Then more of all the cold cuts (and the cheeses, not pictured here) for those who just wanted appetizers for dinner.

Here's the salad assortment: mixed greens, of course, but also tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet-and-sour beets, potato salad, and marinated cabbage.

Then came this huge pot of spätzle (small noodle-like dumplings) bathed in a cheese sauce, accompanied by dishes of three kinds of mustard. I'm usually fond spätzle, but I can't say I cared for this treatment of them.

Here, at the left, are the Käsekrainer (cheese-stuffed sausage; studded with little cubes of cheese that melted when it was heated) and the promosed roasted pork knuckle(at the left in the photo). It was almost, but not quite, as good as that first one. Both the knuckle and the sausage were delicious!

The assortment in the right-hand photo I can only described as "specialties": small chicken schnitzels, sauerkraut with ham or bacon, another kind of sausage, miniature spherical bread dumplings, and (with the tongs in it) sauerbraten.

Then came the desserts: little squares of plum cake, apricot crumble, Sacher torte, Dobos torte, and Esterhazy cake. We were in no danger of running out, as more trays of teh same things continued around the corner of the counter.

You can just make them out behind this beautiful fruit tray set up to the right of the Esterhazy cake (the one that looks like Napoleons).

Here's my plate bearing little spindle-shaped dumplings with a lemon-poppyseed dress, which I tried again but didn't like any better than I did on the last cruise, and a sort of cheese blintz, which I liked alot. They also offered Kaiserschmarren—a sort of cross between chopped-up blueberry pancakes and bread pudding—apparently one of the emperors (i.e., Kaisers) liked his pancakes chopped up. That I wasn't even willing to try a second time.

At 8 pm, we and about 30 of our fellow passengers boarded a bus again for the short ride into Dresden for our evening concert at the Zwinger Palace. On the walk from the bus to the venue, we got our first preliminary tour of the historic center of the city, a large open square with an equestrian statue in the middle.

It's bounded on one side by the river, and we were told that the two buildings facing it on the other bank are the seat of government of Saxony, of which Dresden is the capital.

On the second side (to your right as you face the river) are the Frauenkirke (Church of Our Lady) and the town hall. in the left-hand photo here, the left-hand tower is that of the church, and the right-hand tower (with the clock) is part of the old royal palace, which is partially obscured by the church. It's ordinarily open to the public but will be closed tomorrow.

The third side (to your right as you face the church) is the Picture Gallery—Dresden's museum of art.

The fourth side is occupied by the Opera, which was originally both a theater and an opera house. The two statues flanking its entrance are of Goethe (L) and Schiller (R).

In the middle of the square is the equestrian statue of King Johann of Saxony (1801–1873), who was also a scholar and translator of Dante. He was Catholic because in addition to ruling Saxony he was king of Poland.

From the square, we walked around the right-hand end of the Picture Gallery toward the Zwinger Palace, where our concert would be. Here, at the left, is the monument of Carl Maria von Weber, leaning on his music stand.

Beyond it, we came to the extremely baroque set of fountains and waterfalls known as the nymphs' grotto. The photo at the right is the top end of it.

But if you continue to the right around it, you see the lower part, with cascades of water from the fountain at the top.

At the bottom is the pool shown at the right.

Unfortunately, when we were there, the vast courtyard of the four-sided palace was a muddy morass because all the landscaping was being torn out and replaced.

The "Zwinger" was the space between the inner and outer city walls. That's why the palace built on that space when the walls were taken down is called the Zwinger Palace. I didn't actually realize until I looked at aerial views in Google maps while I was compiling this diary that the Picture Gallery is actually one of the four sides of the Palace.

At one end of the long quadrangular courtyard is this beautiful two-storied pavilion, called the "Wall Pavilion" because its actually on the site of the outer wall. The gorgeous glass upper story is where our concert took place.

The ensemble we heard consisted of five members of the Dresden Residenz Orchestra (flute, violin, cello, double bass, and piano). The flautist was Japanese, the pianist Ukranian, and the other three Korean. With the possible exception of the amazing Hoorn Shanty Choir, it was the best concert or performance Viking has ever arranged for us. Wow, were they good! They played basically classical music's greatest hits, and we were mesmerized for the whole time.