Rhine Gorge and Cologne

Due to my story-telling last week featuring Rudesheim and Koblenz, I ran out of time to feature one of the natural beauties along the river. I suppose it seems to you like I messed up, we didn’t actually set foot in Koblenz as stated, whereas we did pass through the Gorge. It is the part of the journey, officially known as the Upper-Middle Rhine, that starts just on from Rudesheim in the south before coming to an end a few miles before Koblenz to the north.

If I was into camping, which I’m not by the way, I don’t think you can go far wrong if you book yourself into a campsite almost anywhere along the River Rhine, but the Rhine Gorge in particular is absolutely stunning. We were not blessed with the best of weather for this cruise, but the day we passed through the Gorge was probably in the top half. The sunshine really did bring the best out of this part of the river. As well as camps accommodating tents, camper vans, caravans and the occasional static home, there were, of course, plentiful vineyards and impressively positioned castles, commanding bends in the river. They were positioned so well it would have been almost impossible for any craft to have snuck past, thus avoiding paying tax on their loads.

Let’s start with some numbers shall we. This section of the river, the Gorge, is 65km long, whilst its average width is, rather incredibly in my opinion, 400 metres, which strikes me as wide enough to be a sea in some parts of the world. The deepest point of this section is at the Lorelei Narrows, read on for a bit more info, where it is 20 metres, although this section is referred to as one of the Narrows it is still 130 metres across near the infamous rock, and I am not sure that there are many rivers in Britain, if any, that can boast such a width. It was in 2022, during that incredibly hot and dry summer, that the river nearly dried up in places, thus making it impossible for fully laden ships to make any progress along its length. I think that goes to show the vast volume of water lost to evaporation whilst, correspondingly, there was not enough rainfall to keep this important waterway topped up. Even with my limited vision I could see that the hills to either side were staggeringly high, but until I checked out the heights later I had no idea that for much of the journey we were peering at ridges that were over 260 metres above the river level. Stupendous is not a strong enough word.

Now onto Lorelei Rock, place of legend, or should that be myth? See what you think. I must admit, I think we had our back to this when we passed and it was only when speaking to other passengers they mentioned the, what we perceived to be, legend. I have to say, though, it becomes more far-fetched every time I learn a little more about it. It seems to centre around a most attractive heroine, I presume her name was Lorelei, whose betrothed had been playing away from home. There’s always a dodgy bloke behind these things, isn’t there. She was reputed to be the most beautiful woman who had ever lived; tell you what, I wouldn’t mind a pound for every story that has that as a plotline, and then, to cap it all and give me double-bubble, you can bet the mortgage on her being betrayed by an unfaithful man. Following her discovery that her partner had been sleeping around she took herself off to this 132m high rock on the right bank of the Rhine for a bit of quiet time. It’s at this point there is a twist to the tale, she peers down into the river and what should she see? Well, it’s hard to credit, but she spots an image of her lover in the swirling currents of the Rhine. A couple of things here; 1. How do we know this, because she threw herself into the river to join him and promptly perished for her actions; or 2. As someone has been able to tell this tale, was she pushed? 3. How this makes her a heroine, I’m blowed if I can explain it? Then the plot deepens, from that moment on she becomes an ever present at the rock, allowed to stay there by whoever decides these things, to torment passing sailors for the rest of time. She was often seen sitting atop her perch continually doing her hair, utilising a golden comb on her golden tresses, luring the unfortunate boat crews by showing her wares. Along with this, she is said to have sung the most enchanting of tunes which is why she became known as The Siren of the Rhine. And if you believe the legend, sorry not having that it’s a myth in my mind, these stupid idiots fell for her charms and ended up crashing their ships, cargoes and all, into the rock. I wonder what the insurance claims’ clerks used to think when these preposterous accounts used to repeat themselves time and time again. Didn’t anybody ever think to check through the crews’ trunks for the occasional hidden bottle of something?

Another thing, why are these muses called sirens. My view of a siren is that it is a horrendous wailing noise accompanying emergency vehicles as they pass through our village to who knows where. Hats off to all of these emergency crews, but their noise wants me to get well out of the way, not be lured into their path. I really don’t get it. If you are struggling to work out a link between a beautiful woman sitting on a rocky shore and the high pitched screaming of a police car as it rushes to an incident somewhere, it is actually quite easy and, to be honest, blinking obvious. Etymology is something that has attracted my interest ever since school, and I really am fascinated by it. This comes from the Greek word Σιρ ν. There you are, I told you it was obvious! Don’t worry, I’m not just going to leave you there with that, it is pronounced seirn, the right letters in the wrong order, but you can see what I mean, in Greece it meant entangler or binder, in other words, these mythical creatures, half bird and half woman, would inhabit islands, usually in hazardous waterways, and their beautiful singing attracted the sailors, who in their haste to meet these divine goddesses would crash their craft into the shore and perish. Of course, it should have served as a warning, but the undiluted lust in their hearts led to a serious misunderstanding of what laid ahead. Now we move forward to the early nineteenth century when inventors of mechanical warning machines were searching for a name for their new-fangled alarms. Of course, there it was, right back in the time of Aristotle and who knew who else, the old siren. Thanks to the word passing from Ancient Greek, through Latin and Old French, it has ended up in our lexicography as siren. I also wonder if it is why men of a certain age, much further advanced than me may I add, use the word bird to describe an attractive woman. I would never ever do that, much preferring the more respectful bit of stuff! I do love word history.

Now, the truth of the matter. Of course it’s a myth. The sound was not that of an attractive woman singing on a rock for ever more, but that of the waves kissing the base of the slate rock, thus creating a murmur that sounds akin to an enticing singing voice. In actual fact, it wasn’t the murmur that caused the ships to crash and sink at this notorious place but more the contradictory currents in play, it was extremely dangerous. Remember 400 metres worth of water is being squeezed into a passage about 130 metres wide, increasing the pressure within the navigation lanes. You know what it can be like if you are driving along a four or five lane motorway and, all of a sudden, roadworks or something on the road means the closure of all but one lane; absolute chaos. Now ships have engines and are not so reliant on wind and current the accidents have reduced significantly, therefore reducing the work of the friendly insurance clerk, if such a thing exists. The last such incident was relatively recently, in January of 2011 a barge tanker. The Waldhof, carrying 2,400 litres of sulphuric acid, sounds nasty, capsized in the narrows near the Lorelei. It blocked this crucial route for over a week, and at one time there was a boat jam of around 250 craft. Not only did this devastate traffic on the Rhine but, given the load, it was somewhat of an environmental disaster too. Worst of all, though, two of the four man crew perished in the accident.

One more story relating to this rock of myth. In 1934, a rather obnoxious little chap, by the name of Adolf Hitler, commissioned an amphitheatre to be constructed at the rock. He clearly didn’t understand that the tale of Lorelei was nothing more than myth. Looking back from our standpoint, I don’t think it could have been more apt, it was to be the home of many Nazi productions which would be used to propagandise the Third Reich, how fitting he should have chosen a place of unbelievable stories to put at the centre of his propaganda promotional work, couldn’t be more fitting. The great outdoor centre once echoed to the sound of orchestras performing rousing renditions of classical pieces to hearten the soul of all good card carrying nazis. This theatre of nightmares has now been swallowed by the waters of the Rhine, just proving that whatever menace can be manufactured by, even the worst of mankind, nature will always take it back, it really is like Mother Nature is saying, “Don’t mess with me, there will only be one winner.” It is fascinating stuff for, during the occasional summer drought, the fancy mosaics depicting swastikas and other symbols of the regime, come into view like ghostly spectres from history warning us of the futility of idealism. These things very rarely end well for the idealists, no matter how passionate or successful. I have read that there was a theatre on top of the rock, but I cannot conceive that this was the same. Surely, if this auditorium atop the rock has been washed asunder the river waters it, like The Waldhof, must have capsized. Not sure that this would have been possible in such a short period, relatively anyway. Perhaps it simply slid over the edge? It certainly demonstrates the cleansing power of the waters of the Rhine that this tribute to a period of unparalleled suffering can be washed from the surface of the planet. I also wonder if the sulphuric acid spill of fourteen years ago has helped to erase this most painful of memories from the minds of so many still living today.

Now let us move onto Cologne, our last stop on what has been a terrific week. We actually berthed quite a way from the city centre and rather than avail ourselves of the shuttle bus that ran from ship to city we walked. It wasn’t too far but enough to take half an hour out of our day in each direction. We had stopped on board for a lunch, having not taken the opportunity of one during the course of the journey. Perhaps we were a little to leisurely about this as we didn’t really give ourselves much time to explore what appeared to be a most attractive city.

Look, I know I have mentioned being cathedraled out, but Cologne’s St Peter’s Cathedral does, in my humble opinion, deserve a special mention. Even to me it was breathtaking. Although I couldn’t identify the colourful tints from the stained glass windows falling across my face as I walked through the kaleidoscope of amazing hues. No, I cannot recognise the colours of the rainbow, I am afraid they are just slightly different shades of grey to me, but they could not prevent me from having an, almost, spiritual experience. You never know, there might be something deep down within my soul that can be touched. I’ll let those close to me be the judges of that, though. We did wander down to the crypt to get the all over experience but, alas, it was like looking straight at a black wall to my eyes. Never mind, more prayers to St Lucy. St Peter’s is incredibly prominent, overlooking the river as it does, that I am not sure there is a more magnificently positioned religious structure anywhere in the world, not that I have the widest of knowledge of these things. As we strolled back to the bridge to cross over for our journey back to Geoffrey Chaucer we noted a riverside walk below us. We took the steps down and spent a good hour or so promenading along this attractive riverside esplanade. It was a pleasure strolling among Colognians enjoying their lunchbreaks in the summer sunshine. Singles walking alone with their thought, groups talking animatedly of plans for the weekend ahead and young lovers, strolling hand-in-hand, it was beautiful. Well, if you can’t beat them, join them. Jane and I took ourselves back the best part of forty years and linked our fingers together, just to fit in you understand. I liked to think that we were imitating the young lovers but, really, I knew that she was only holding my hand to stop me wandering off the path and making a splash as I dropped into the river.

Speaking of young lovers, Cologne is one of those infernal places that encourages couples to declare their commitment to one another by padlocking their names to a steel mesh on the railway bridge. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of these peculiar symbols of commitment secured to the bridge. Not for me, I am afraid. I wonder if they keep the keys, for what would happen if their relationships should hit the rocks? Being the skinflint that I am, I would, most definitely, have retained the key, or at least made a copy before tossing it into the depths of the river, I mean, why buy a new lock when you can just change the lady’s name locked to the bridge for eternity. What a load of nonsense.

Find Out More
Rhine Gorge: just do a search for Rhine Gorge and tonnes of information will appear;
Cologne: www.cologne-tourism.com
St Peter’s Cathedral: www.koelner-dom.de

White Cane Ratings
Cologne: good- flat paths but some steps; * * * (3)
St Peter’s: good – level access but quite dark; * * * (3)