adventure – Old Lady Writing

The first time I went to Germany was for my Bucket List item, Raphael’s Sistine Madonna at the Dresden Gallery. The second time was for Oktoberfest, which was on spouse’s Bucket List. The third trip was suggested by daughter—Berlin.

Are mice mascots for every theme park? Asking for a friend

I was advised that Berlin has no fewer than 100 museums. This is not the selling point that one might think, for a seasoned traveler like myself knows that if there are 100 museums, three will be great, five more might be mildly intriguing, and 92 will be one room only/by appointment only/open only on Wednesdays 11 a.m. to 1 p.m./dedicated to an obscure subject like footstools or rakes or plastic hangers/on the outskirts of town reachable via train, bus, taxi and a 40 minute walk/have no website or any other means to ascertain their existence. Still, the DDR Museum alone was enough for me to be intrigued by this scene, and I acquiesced. Now, to a person of my generation, upbringing, and ethnic makeup the concept of “reaching Berlin” means something entirely different than to a younger person half a world removed, and so I braced myself for the encounter with the Brandenburg Gate in real life.

And then the trip went off the rails. Virtually sidling up to me via text, daughter started a relentless campaign of visiting an amusement park in Germany. This person has a great track record of persuasive videos: sending me a video about dogs being able to sniff out cancer was what finally convinced spouse and me to adopt a dog. And so far so good, I am happy to report. Thus at some point, I found myself planning to visit not one but two theme parks, and as far away from Berlin as it is possible to get in this one united Germany. Not my typical vacation, and I will not lie—I was mildly worried about many things, not the least of which was enduring several days of standing in long lines, possibly hurting my back, and missing out on all those museums. And then I said to myself, there have been and will be many museums in my life. But how many rollercoasters do I have left? And that was motivation enough and plenty. It’s not that I did not think there were amusement parks in Europe. After all, I have been to Meli Park https://oldladywriting.com/2025/11/23/whats-in-belgium/. They just were not on my radar—and now I am truly questioning my life choices, because (spoiler alert) I am still a Ride Warrior!

The trip started in the most hectic manner upon arrival in the Frankfurt airport, complete with a wild-ish goose chase of a rental car (I always hate myself a little when I have to rely entirely on my English in a non-English speaking country) and a couple of hours drive on what is most assuredly NOT the autobahn, all on 2 hours of stiff-necked airplane sleep and a 6-hour time difference. But once we entered Europa Park, all of my cares melted away.

No, this is not what you think–inside the giant golf ball is Eurosat-CanCan

It is an enchanting place, and none of my words can do it justice. It has the magic of Disney, but the unfamiliarity of it made it extra special and added to the joy of discovery. It is also not as children-oriented. It is themed like Epcot, with twenty [plus] distinct areas, including 18 European countries/areas, but each region is ride- and food-focused with significantly less commerce. There is the beauty of the park itself, with winding pathways through the trees, charming squares, and gentle rides over air, land, and water. And it has some of the best roller coasters I have ever experienced, led by Voltron, which defies description. It basically combines the best and most thrilling elements of every coaster ever. We rode it three times! Special mentions go to Eurosat-CanCan, where you literally go through giant stylized legs kicking it up; Wodan, a majestic and exciting wooden coaster; and Arthur, a suspended ride with beautiful special effects.

The differences between what I expected based on lived experience and what I got were all good: (1) The lines were not comparable to anything in the U.S. (let alone Russia) and very manageable, with nothing over an hour. The park was packed at the end of May, but somehow, there were no bottlenecks—including as we were exiting at closing time. Everything just moved in an orderly fashion. (2) The food was amazing and affordable. Herring sandwich in the Scandinavia area? Ćevapčići in Croatia? Yes, please. And did I mention, no lines beyond maybe a couple of people? (3) Commercialism was down to a minimum. Of course there were stores, but mostly upon exiting the main rides, and then a couple when you first come in. It really felt like a park rather than a large commercial venture, like something from a kinder, gentler time—despite all the latest in roller coaster technology.

Worst part? A most ridiculous bobsled coaster called Schweizer Bobbahn. Who knew that bobsleds are so incredibly uncomfortable? Honorable worst part mention goes to Euro-Mir, a spinning coaster in the Russian part of the park, which never actually spun for us.

We spent two days at Europa Park, and it was absolutely wonderful. Somehow it just felt very relaxing, alternating intense roller coasters (14 in total) with charming dark rides, boat and train rides, and shows. It was magical—and not enough. And despite being constantly on the move, the less hectic vibe left us rejuvenated rather than exhausted.

And then we went to yet another park, Phantasialand. This one was more of what I am used to—longer lines, more crowded, strictly there for the rides. It is a hilly, mildly claustrophobic, chaotic place, with many of the rides not visible from the waiting areas (which is not a bad thing, because you don’t know how scared you should be). It had its own cool moments: Fly, an absolutely terrifying coaster where you are on your stomach and literally go underground; Talocan, which flips you over, and over, and over; and Mystery Castle, which is an enclosed drop tower. Seeing people scream on the opposite wall when lights flash in the darkness is an absolutely haunting experience. And as previously mentioned, there was the beautiful Wellenflug, flying over an early 20^th century Berlin.

Worst part? A water ride called Chiapas, which apparently has the steepest drop on a log flume in the world and is allegedly the world’s best water ride. It was a good ride, but despite planning and plotting and trying to find the best seats to stay dry, we learned there was NO staying dry. Honorable worst part mention goes to the Fanta bottle that opened unexpectedly while we were riding Colorado Adventure, a mine train, almost making it a water ride as well.

Shockingly, there were no souvenir shops in sight at this park. To be clear, we did not look for them, but they also did not present themselves to us. And the food was excellent as well.

After three action-packed days, Berlin was practically a different world. And that is another story for another time…

A few years ago, I updated my Vacation Bucket List. I am not nearly as adventurous a traveler as people think I am. I like castles, cathedrals, and art museums. After I saw Raphael’s Sistine Madonna at the Dresden Gallery, a moment for which I was waiting almost my entire life, I was temporarily adrift. It was the apex of my dreams. I even had to ask spouse for suggestions on where we should go next, which is how we ended up at Oktoberfest (worth every crowded, beer-soaked minute, and a story for another time). I needed to brainstorm. Many of my travel ideas have been known to come from books, and I have followed the footsteps of some favorite characters. In my adult life, none touched my heart more than Uhtred of Bebbanburg, the imperfectly perfect hero of Bernard Cornwell’s Saxon Chronicles.

All his life Uhtred was pining for his fortress by the sea. I have been pining alongside him, from the first book which I read in 2009. He regained Bebbanburg in the 10^th book, and after that, the last three books were superfluous and I do not remember them (although that might be partially because my shorter term memory is declining with age). But really, much like “The Odyssey”, the quest was the story. All the other plotlines were just there to support this lifelong journey of Uhtred back home. From the beginning, I could identify with his longing. I always felt that I was essentially a female, modern-day version of Uhtred. There are some subtle differences, mainly related to the sword-wielding, but basically, I am Uhtred. His feeling of yearning for his lost ancestral home defined him and gave his life purpose, and I identified with that completely. I spent so much time listening to Uhtred wax nostalgic about his ancestral fortress by the sea, I had to see it for myself. I had to see the sight of the happy ending.

Bebbanburg, under its modern name of Bamburgh, is in the very north of England, in Northumberland, and is much closer to Edinburgh than London. Once that simple geographical equation became clear to me, the rest was easy. I planned a trip to Glasgow, because I have already been to Edinburgh once before, and Glasgow, from where all the rugged and rogue BBC policemen seem to come, was as yet unexplored and still a mere couple of hours from Bamburgh. (Yes, where I come from we measure distance in hours).

An honorable Bucketless mention goes to my valiant effort of driving from Glasgow to Bamburgh. Even in Europe, trains do not reach every corner of the continent, and one car ride is always simpler than two trains, a bus, and a cab. I will not lie, anxiety was high, and even as someone to whom driving is as natural as walking, I was by no means sure that either the car or its passengers will emerge unscathed from this trip.

And yet we did. I never, ever, not in any demented fantasy, pictured myself driving on the wrong side of the road. But once I did, I realized that the wrong side of the road is not the problem, you just move along (and the helpful “Drive on the left” sticker became a mantra I constantly whispered to myself). It’s sitting on the wrong side of the car, with all that unaccustomed space on the left where nothing but the door should be, that is the real issue. It is difficult to stay within the lines and not veer to the left. If I had a continental car, it would have been a piece of cake. In any case, no one got hurt, and I never want to do it again in this lifetime—even though I am quite inordinately proud of having done it. But seriously, it was not enjoyable at all.

Driving up to Bamburgh castle from the road, seeing it just suddenly come into view, imagining what those Vikings must have seen over a millennium ago as they approached this imposing stone bastion—well, all I could do was yell “Foto machen!”at the spouse, as I could not pull over for fear that I would lose my precarious driving momentum. Is it beautiful? Of course. The current owners—not Uhtred’s descendants, alas—do a good job of displaying the history of the area and showcasing the connection to “The Last Kindgom” (not the books, but the TV series, which I, expectedly, found to be a pale shadow of the books). The castle is majestic, and the views of the North Sea from the ramparts are stunning. The village at the foot of the fortress is charming and picturesque.

I have seen a lot of castles in my lifetime, including an exhausting obligatory field trip of the Loire Valley during my semester in France, at the end of which I could not imagine that a time would come when I would voluntarily seek out a chateau if I was not required to write an essay about it. Oh, the irony! Last year, I visited Mont St. Michel, another bucket list item, certainly more famous in the world, and arguably more magnificent, in the eye of any beholder. But, I have never read a book about Mont St. Michel, let alone an epic full of longing for home, a decades-long quest to regain one’s destiny, a story of homesickness and loss that echoed in my heart with every installment of Uhtred’s journey’s many setbacks and heartbreaks.

This is why Bebbanburg. It is not just a cool castle. And it is not even just a cool story. It’s THE story. Uhtred loses parents and parental figures, siblings, wives, children, and friends. He lives a life that is not his, a life that was thrust upon him by circumstances and the wills of others. He goes viking, serves and follows orders of people he hates and who hate him, fights in foreign wars, has adventures, achieves success, fame, and fortune, and makes friends for life. Yet through it all, he just wants to go home. Bebbanburg is the reality of his childhood, the dream of his adult life, and ultimately the recaptured reality of his old age. He went home again, and he stayed home. It was exhilarating to stand on those ramparts and imagine him there, his life’s goal achieved. We should all be so blessed to end our journey exactly where we belong.