Bathing in the home
“Memories are a paradise from which one can not be expelled.” These are wise words of the poet Jean Paul. Even the memories of summer bathing at home belong to this paradise.
For us children, the little pond behind the grandmother’s mill in Nollendorf was such a piece of paradise. A Mühlgraben, fed by a part of the village stream, was our Eldorado. Trout usually romped in the water,
fleeing when we arrived at the washing trough on hot summer days. The water was fresh and clear and for too long you could not stand it. But when fumbling on the surrounding meadows, the teeth clatter lost
again soon. It was always a happy Geplansche and to the in-house youth usually also joined a few village children.
By contrast, the ponds in the neighboring villages were already correct bathing ponds. Whether the two Schönwalder waters were relics of a brickyard, I do not know. They were certainly a place for “connoisseurs”, nestled beautifully between two flat hills. In the south they were bordered by the “Kühbusch” , through which came the inflow, fed by the springs in the Kaiblerwiesen. To the north, the view was clear to the Saxon border. For swimming, mainly the upper larger pond was preferred. There was no bathing facility, most of the year they were lonely and were only from the game and birds visited. If a poet had lost his way here, a few atmospheric verses would have come to this idyllic place. It took us almost an hour to get there. The road led almost straight through the beautiful Kühbusch, which was not a bush in my youth, but a very well-kept 30-40 year old spruce forest. Along the road there were larches, which formed a nice contrast to the dark spruces at all seasons.
Almost equidistant from us was the Peterswalder pond . He was in the upper village, at the confluence of Schönwalder Straße in the village street. On bathing days, especially on weekends, there was a lot of activity here, almost like at the “Cote d`Azur”. Swimmers and non-swimmers romped in the water. You could also rent a rowboat and watch the water from all the hustle and bustle. For food and drinks provided the adjacent catering, tables and benches completed the offer. Naturally, the new summer dresses were also made, and even then you showed what you had. Peterswald was a potent place.
A beautiful, albeit long walk – children’s feet barely made it in an hour – was the dirt road to the “brick pond” . It came from a rocky road from the Erzgebirge and then went over to the Elbe Sandstone Mountains . As far as Oberwald it was stony as I said, then suddenly only sand. Beautiful light gray to white sand, which almost enticed to go barefoot. Also the forest was to Oberwaldanother. Pine trees stood there, almost a different world for a child. In addition, I was told that witches live here. So I ran through my heart for some years. The fear, however, was quickly overcome when the water of the pond shimmered through the tree trunks. The brick pond was very lonely in a slightly wavy landscape. Tyssa with its famous walls was only 15 minutes away, behind a hill, so it was not directly visible from the lake.
The several-acre pond was bounded in the south by forest. On a causeway led the access road from Tyssa to the plant. There was everything that was needed for a happy bathing. In the 1930s, a scaffolding from a former windmill had been erected and springboards at different heights had been erected. The very sporty swimmers who plunged from the boards into the floods, of course, were admired accordingly. Splashing, swimming, boating, eating and drinking – everything was possible here. The brick pond was also a popular destination and a stopover on the way to the Tyssaer walls or Schneeberg , except for the bathing season, On the way home we always went a little detour and looked at the beautiful weekend cottages, which were very close in the forest.
So these were our unforgettable summer bathing possibilities. What may have become of the places?
Where, as children, we happily paddled through the mill pond in the washing trough, where Aunt Grete caught a trout so often under his hand with a protruding stone, now stands a twenty meter high pillar of the motorway bridge.
The well-kept meadows with their fruit trees around the mill have given way to undergrowth and wild growth. The village path, over the years totally forfeited and partly torn away from the occasional flood leading brook, it was
repaired for highway construction. The mill itself was demolished in the 50s and shipped the demolition inland. My mother her “most beautiful meadow reason” it does not exist anymore. Also the Kühbuschas we called him no longer exists. The spruces were all victims of acid rain. It looked like a forest fire in the 70s. In part, you have planted then blue spruce, but for the most part there is only more bushes.
If the ponds still exist? In the adjacent small valley village value are now a few cottages stand.
The Peterswald pond was a big mess in the previous year. No water, but mud and scrub found where once so happy bathing life prevailed. One purports to reactivate it, so I heard. Perhaps one hopes for appropriate support from the West-.
Also the brick pond looked totally decayed a few years ago. Nothing, but nothing at all reminded more of the then so popular and well maintained bath pond. Here too I heard that he was again fed to the bathing establishment.
Unfortunately, the unforgettable images of memory are in no way in line with the present. This is how the idea that one can not be driven out of the paradise of memory comes true.