Festung Hohensalzburg

Imagine that you stand where I stood, that you feel the breezes move strands of hair like tracing lines on a sheet of music. The light has just begun to fade and the heat has begun to lose its intensity- just a little. It's nearing suppertime, and somehow, empty bellies make for greater views. 

On July the 17th, we crammed ourselves into a funicular bound for the Hohensalzburg Fortress, situated on the crest of the Festungsberg. I remember that I pressed my cheek against the cool metal pole, and wrapped my burning arms about it. I need hardly to describe the animal heat to you. I welcomed it, although I greeted it with considerably less enthusiasm when the funicular began to move and other people's sweat dripped on me.

There was a vague discontented hum brought on by the stuffiness, and here and there were gasps of delight as people looked out through the glass. Louder still were some people's silent awe at the trees that stood stoutly below us, the rock of man meeting that of the mountain. 

           

We burst into the late afternoon gratefully, flinging ourselves away from our neighbors. It was rather like a tin of sardines, remember. We hiked our way to the entrance of the fortress, and were confronted by a formidable staircase. Pause. Regroup. Reconsider. Disperse in search of water. After finding some friendly bartenders who filled our bottles free of charge, we made the trek back to the place at the foot of the stairs.

What a view. Not even at the highest vantage point, either. Salzburg lay below us, spread like a tapestry. There was the old town, from whence we came; there was the new. And splitting them was the river, the mighty Salzach. The bridge above it, by the way, was heavy with locks and the waters swollen with keys. Just like in France, although not nearly as full. 

So we went up that staircase, and halted within the walls. After threading the wires of the audio guides about us, we followed the tour and scrutinized many, many men in red. This one ordered the fortress built, that one spiked the salt trade, that one was an idiot. Many expanded the walls, raised them ever higher. It's funny that they did that, because the Hohensalzburg was never breached. It was that intimidating, I guess. I did hear a funny story about how when besieged by a peasant mob, the prince-Archbishop paraded the same cow painted different colors to dishearten them. It was a ruse to convince the rabble that their stores were so great that cows just rambled about on the battlements. It worked, and the peasants went home discouraged.

How on earth does one go about painting a cow? 

The best part, I think, was climbing to the very top and looking out. Especially since the torture room was essentially a glorified storage room, and never used for torture at all. Alas, our fascination with the abomination remained unsatisfied

We passed through the cemetery on our way back.

Tomorrow I think I will tell you about the rain that night, and St Gilgen another time.