A European Castle Call

As we meander through the Neckar River Valley, passing castles perched on pine tree–covered hills, John pulls out a veritable Teutonic hit list of CDs—Beethoven, Wagner, Strauss, the Austrian DJ duo Kruder & Dorfmeister, and, reserved for the autobahn only, the '70s electronica band Kraftwerk. We leave the highway, switching onto the smaller B27, and forge past the not-so-imposing Guttenberg Castle, which has been owned by the Gemmingen-Guttenberg family since 1449. I scan the surrounding countryside and can see three castles within the panorama, their stone towers sticking up incongruously amid the rolling green hills and forest. We come around a bend, and the medieval walled town of Bad Wimpfen appears in the distance, its stone ramparts, church spires, and 100-foot medieval Blue Tower silhouetted against the midday sun.

Though I'm just getting used to the car, I'm a sucker for climbing medieval spires. Ten minutes later, we're trudging up the winding staircase of the Blue Tower. A middle-aged woman sitting in a doorway holds up a finger to indicate the one-euro fee needed to get to the viewpoint. Behind her, in the doorway, is what looks like a comfortable apartment. Blanca Knodel introduces herself as the first female tower keeper in German history. As a perk of her job—which no longer consists of watching for invading armies but does include selling admission tickets to tourists—she gets to live here. Soon enough, we're in Blanca's apartment, and she's ushering us around as if we'll be staying awhile, pointing out pictures of her children and showing us her family tree (she comes from one of the most established families in Bad Wimpfen), where she sleeps, and even the contents of her bathroom. Blanca tells us that she plans to be the oldest tower keeper in German history. "Thirty-one more years," she says without blinking an eye. "I just have to make it to eighty-five."

Back in the Solstice, driving over the vineyard-draped hills between Heilbronn and Schwäbisch Hall (a town highly recommended by the guys in the Hirschhorn pub), we realize that the circuitous Castle Road will get us to our day's destination long after dark. Which gives me the excuse I've been looking for: We pop Kraftwerk into the stereo and jump onto the A6 autobahn. It's snarled with traffic, and it's not until we change to the emptier A7 that I can put the Solstice to the test. The 177-horsepower four-cylinder is like a lawn mower engine compared with the German-made machines I'm sharing the road with, but I get the needle past 120 miles per hour. Then the blip in my rearview mirror becomes—in the span of ten seconds—a blue Mercedes station wagon flashing its lights at me to get out of the way. With the sun hovering on the horizon, we pull into Colmberg Castle and finish the day with goulash and beer.

Day Two, 225 Miles: Colmberg to Kynzvart
In an attempt to avoid driving through busy Nuremberg, we depart from the Castle Road itinerary and jump onto the small B470 road straight up to Bamberg. We're in Franconia now, a once autonomous region that's been in the fold of Bavaria for the past two centuries (courtesy of Napoleon, of all people). Lush river valleys give way to green prairies and gentle hills; bulbous, onion-domed village church spires take on the appearance of Prussian helmets; even the greeting changes from Guten Tag to Gruss Gott—from "good day" to "greet God"—which is, save seeing a guy walking down the side of the road wearing lederhosen, the most distinct sign that we have officially arrived in southern Germany.