Last week we decided to take the kids on a real Grimm’s Brother’s adventure; the fabled Rapunzel tower is a mere 30 minute drive from our home. Doesn’t that sound so romantic and European, like we live in some kind of magical fairy tale?
Let’s just say I would rather be locked in a tower for 13 years then try that field trip again.
There was very little information on the Internet about the Frauenberg ruins, their location, or what they were once used for. Frankly, this should have been the first red flag: If the Internet doesn’t know anything about something, there is probably a reason.
A friend of mine had driven past the old abandoned tower on a bus tour and was told that it was the inspiration behind the fable. She knew how to get to the vicinity, so I decided to play scout leader and sent out a buzzing text to all the new proby mom’s I’ve met who are trying to get their feet wet in this grand European adventure.
In case you were wondering, adventures don’t usually come with convenient public restrooms or air conditioning.
We started out meeting in a parking lot right off the Autobahn. There were five families and between the lot of us we counted 19 children under the age of 12.
(This isn’t including the sixth family who went to the wrong castle. Oops.)
We should have turned around when two of our vehicles misinterpreted the on-ramp and started out in the wrong direction on the freeway. After 15 minutes we had managed to locate four of our five cars and were zipping along at 130 kph, making up for lost time.
Thinking it would be a simple “pull into the parking lot” castle, the children and I were in flip flops and shorts. Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves parking along side a field and heading up a poorly marked path.
So much for wheelchair/stroller ramps and drinking fountains. We Americans are so spoiled.
It was just about that time I got a call from our fifth family.
“OK, where are you guys?” I casually told her to head over the bridge and swing a right, thinking she was just a few paces behind us. It soon became apparent that not all GPS’s use the same satellites. Hers had sent her through Africa.
Twenty minutes of hard navigating later, I finally left the trailhead and forded my way to meet the rest of our party at the ruins. And ruins they were.
By the time I hiked over the meadow and through the woods, finally rounding the last of the stinging nettles and blackberry bushes, I found the remaining rubble with the tower and courtyard. Sitting in the blistering sun waiting for us were 14 overheated, overbored children.
Have I mentioned the bees yet?
For those of you who are worried about the dwindling buzz in the honeybee world, worry no more. They’re all over here in Germany for the summer having a European vacation. They are especially fond of small sticky children and castle ruins.
Not only was this rock pile little more than leftover rubble, but all the interesting parts were blocked off. We were there at the same time as a group of scientists who are trying to decide if the castle is worth salvaging.
Personally, I say leave it to the bees.
The kids were irritable. The mothers were irritable. The bees were irritable. Between the lot of us we were only one bee sting away from tantrum city. Our kids were bored out of their skulls for some sort of manufactured entertainment; this outing was nothing like an amusement park. There weren’t swings or slides or pools, just a bunch of old rocks they couldn’t climb on and very little shade.
But as we headed back down the forest path with the kids at the helm, surrounded by history and nature and babbling brooks, things sort of shifted. Little by little we could feel the adventure mode kick in. A lizard here, a waterfall there, oh look! A dragon footprint! We followed the trail to an old culvert and some indistinguishable ruins and there were no park attendants around to tell the kids to stay off the rocks.
Was it the best field trip ever? No. Did we learn a ton about being prepared and finding our own kind of fun? Absolutely.
I’ll tell you what, the term “adventure” is taking on a whole new meaning over here.
Annie Valentine is a wife, mother and columnist. Readers can contact her at regardingannie@gmail.com or visit her blog at regardingannie.wordpress.com.
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