We came to Heidenheim, tired and thirsty. It was the 19th of May, and we had marched eighteen kilometers through damp, cold weather without passing a single inn. The villages were silent. Doors were locked, windows boarded up, signs faded and worn. It was as if the wind had carried everything away, except for the road under our feet.
Then we saw The Rose. An inn with an old sign, sand-colored sgraffito, two Floors. The façade was well-kept but unassuming. We went inside.
Gertraud stood behind the bar. She was small and busy. She greeted us warmly, brought cold Franconian beer and plates of food: bratwurst, pork belly, smoked ham, bread. It wasn’t for vegans, but it was exactly what we needed.
The postman came. He was a short, stocky man with a booming voice and a broad grin. He hopped around and laughed, looking like a revenant from Achim Menzel. Gertraud smiled; she had seen it all before. The locals who always sat there. The pilgrims and hikers who came and went, while she stayed.
Gertraud stood behind the bar. She was small and busy. She greeted us warmly, brought cold Franconian beer and plates of food: bratwurst, pork belly, smoked ham, bread. It wasn’t for vegans, but it was exactly what we needed.
The postman came. He was a short, stocky man with a booming voice and a broad grin. He hopped around and laughed, looking like a revenant from Achim Menzel. Gertraud smiled; she had seen it all before. The locals who always sat there. The pilgrims and hikers who came and went, while she stayed.
“It’s hard work,” she said later, after the postman had left. “Every morning the cows, every day the guests.” She spoke calmly, without complaint. Life was what it was. You did what you had to do.
The next morning we moved on. The sun was shining and the road lay ahead of us. After a few kilometers, we saw a hand-painted sign on a tree. "Gasthaus zur Rose", it said. “Eat well, drink well, sleep well. Be in good hands with Gertraud.” We smiled. It had been a good place.
The next morning we moved on. The sun was shining and the road lay ahead of us. After a few kilometers, we saw a hand-painted sign on a tree. "Gasthaus zur Rose", it said. “Eat well, drink well, sleep well. Be in good hands with Gertraud.” We smiled. It had been a good place.
