The Ilm River is a lazy stream as it winds its way through Weimar, lazy enough for
wooden footbridges and a park that felt so "cozy" to me that I could easily understand
why Goethe loved it. The poet "designed" the park according to Worlitz's model for a sentimental landscape, but the pleasing, haunting setting was already "naturalistic." I’ve never seen a wood that appealed to me so much, and I found it impossible to decipher
where Mother Nature left off and Goethe began. What I know for certain is that this
work of art was designed to soothe the soul and that every neighborhood should be situated on a park like this. Perhaps that is what the poet wanted to communicate to posterity. After all, he did enjoy it as his backyard until he moved from his Garden House to a grander residence in town. His life here has been romanticized and the park added to the lure of the city.
When we entered the wood, we knew nothing about it except that it would lead us to
Goethe’s Garden House, his first home that he would never sell because he enjoyed it and the park in summer, even after he moved from the scene. After touring it, we walked back to town via a different path and discovered a large statue in the park. Imagine our surprise at stumbling across Shakespeare so far from home in an 18th Century wood! The bard wasn’t all. Behind him, a partial wall suggested a theater. We climbed up to it, and from there, we saw the entrance to an ancient temple--just the entrance, standing there by itself without any visible means of support. Only when we returned to the hotel did we learn
that Goethe had had these "ruins" built here. A follower of his had placed the statue in 1900. I’m still wondering what statement he
intended to make with this metaphor! Or is it metaphorical at all? Maybe he just liked
"ruins."
We encountered people romping with children and dogs. An occasional bicycle rolled along the primitive surfaces of packed gravel paths, defined by sparse rustic cover just enough to minimize our contact with the damp dirt, not enough to ruin the perfect scene from another time. A mist lay on the River Ilm, and I wished that I had talent as a painter. Even more than the old town center, this idyllic park took me back to another century. The wood is large, and since we were committed to a tour, we didn’t see it all. Two hours here would have satisfied me more.
On the way back to the hotel (2 blocks), we stumbled across more statuary: a
pedestaled bust of Alexander Pushkin, another writer far from home. He surprised us in
an unlikely place, along the sidewalk in front of what appeared to be an ordinary
house. As I said before, everything in Weimar is intended to delight and surprise.