Calw

Calw is not on the way to anything, which may be why it feels so intact. Tucked into the Nagold valley in the northern Black Forest, it requires a deliberate detour — a winding drive down off the plateau through dense fir, or a regional train from Pforzheim that takes forty minutes and stops everywhere. I came because of Hesse, and I stayed because the town turned out to have a river and a medieval bridge and a market square that nobody had improved with concrete and street furniture, and because I found a Konditorei that made Pflaumenkuchen — plum tart on a short pastry, the plums halved and pressed close together — that was the best thing I ate in three weeks in Germany.

The Nikolausbrücke — a medieval bridge with a small Nikolaus chapel at its midpoint — crosses the Nagold at the old town’s edge, and it is the view from here that Hesse used repeatedly as his emotional anchor for the fictional town of Gerbersau that appears across his novels and stories. Standing on the bridge in October, the river running clear and dark over limestone, the half-timbered houses of the old town rising above the bank with their gabled rooftops at all angles, I understood what he was writing toward: not a beautiful place in a postcard sense, but a specific place whose specificity is the whole point. The water, the houses, the particular way the valley walls close in from both sides — these are not decorative details but the structure of a certain kind of German provincial consciousness, and Hesse spent his life both escaping it and being unable to set it down.

The Hermann Hesse Museum, in the house where he was born, is small and carefully curated, and it does not oversell him. There are manuscripts, photographs, and personal effects including some of his watercolours — he was a competent and enthusiastic amateur painter — displayed with an honesty about his complicated relationship with this place and with Germany in general. He left Calw as soon as he could and never returned to live here, but he returned in prose again and again, and the museum understands this paradox without trying to resolve it into tourist-friendly simplicity. I spent an hour in it and came out feeling that I understood something I hadn’t understood before, which is what a good literary museum should do.

The market square sits slightly uphill from the river and is entirely ordinary in the best sense — a space where the Tuesday market sells vegetables and local honey and socks, where the Gasthof on the corner has had the same menu board for what appears to be several decades, and where nobody is performing anything. I bought a bunch of carrots and some Emmental from a farmer who charged me what the carrots and the Emmental cost, which felt like a transaction of great honesty. Calw is not a destination that requires explanation or justification. It is simply a town that happens to exist and to have produced someone extraordinary, and the town predates him and continues.

When to go: May and June for the Nagold valley in full foliage and the Pflaumenkuchen season beginning. October for the river at its most atmospheric and the market square under autumn light. The museum runs a Hesse festival in midsummer that brings in readers from across Europe but does not overwhelm the town’s natural quietness.