Drachenfels ^25.05.30

In the fair land of Germany, where floweth the mighty Rhine, there riseth a noble hill called Drachenfels, or “The Dragon’s Rock.” Near to the town of Königswinter it doth lie, amidst the ancient Siebengebirge, a realm of wooded heights and legend steep’d.

Atop this storied mount, the ruins of a castle stand—built in days long past by lords ecclesiastical, to guard the river and its flowing gold. Though its walls be now broken and moss-clad, from its lofty perch one may behold the valley vast, and on clear days, even unto the towers of Cologne.

But lo! This mount is not famed for stone alone. A tale is told, as old as sword and song, of Siegfried the hero, who here did slay a fearsome dragon. In its blood he bathed, and thus by magic made his flesh impervious. From such a deed came the hill’s dread name, and still the folk do whisper of that fight ‘twixt man and beast.

To reach this height, one may ride the Drachenfelsbahn, a wondrous chariot of iron and steam, which hath clatter’d up the slopes since the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-three. Along the way doth lie a vision most fair: Schloss Drachenburg, a castle not born of war, but of dreams. Built in the age of industry, its spires and halls echo with the grandeur of a bygone age.

The hill and its forests be nestled in a park of nature’s hand, where gentle folk and pilgrims tread paths ‘midst vine and tree. The air is rich with song of bird, and the eye doth feast on green and gold.

And hark! Even the quill of Lord Byron did not pass it by. In his verses, he sang of Drachenfels, thus drawing travellers of the Romantic breed to stand where Siegfried stood.