“And that the network of these Spree canals lacked none of Venice’s magic…” – Theodor Fontane
Pickle Ahoy! – An Autumn Day in the Spreewald
A Crime Drama in Real Life
I can’t tell you how many Spreewald crime dramas I’ve seen on TV. But I can tell you this: every time, I thought, we have to go there.
Those misty water channels, called “Fließe,” looked like Venice after a quiet dream.
And now here we are. Not in a thriller – but in a wooden boat. A mild October morning. Autumn leaves hang from the trees like sheets of tissue paper. It smells of damp wood and summers long gone.
Morning light on a Spreewald canal – as if the trees were whispering secrets into the water.
Boating with Bastie
Bastie is our boatman. With his long wooden pole – the “Rudel” – he pushes us gently away from the bank. No motor, no noise. Just the soft splash under the boat and the occasional sigh from Reinhold when he’s asked to steer.
“It looks easy,” we say.
“It is,” says Bastie.
Reinhold gives it a go. The direction is… more or less right.
Reinhold at the helm – focused and determined. Sven, the seasoned boatman, lets him have a go. And me? I quietly enjoy the gentle wobble of role reversal.
A Land of Water and Stories
The Spreewald may look untouched – but much of it is shaped by human hands.
Centuries ago, the Sorbs began to guide the water, not conquer it.
They built their homes on sandy islets called “Kaupen,” living with the river, not against it.
Even today, every bend of a Fließ tells a story of this quiet alliance between nature, craft and culture.
As we glide past, it becomes clear: this isn’t just a landscape – it’s a legacy.
Between Canals and Quiet Amazement
The Spreewald doesn’t run. It reclines.
Everything here feels like time once sat down – and simply forgot to get back up.
Between the canals: sandy islets, old farmhouses, timber homes with sloping roofs and that gaze of a hundred years.
I ask Bastie what exactly a “Fließ” is. He looks at me as if I’d asked whether water is wet. Then, kindly, he says: “Everything here is a Fließ.”
And yes – the mail comes by boat. The garbage, too. Children once went to school that way.
I briefly consider ordering that life for myself.
Via Fließ, of course.
Burg – On a Different Clock
Later, walking through Burg: small log houses, thatched roofs – everything seems to have fallen out of time.
The houses are scattered along the canals as if they deliberately lost their way.
In the herbal garden, the air smells of mint. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell rings.
And I think: maybe this isn’t a place, but a mindset.
The Pickle Principle
Of course, there are pickles. Always. Everywhere.
On the bread, next to the bread, instead of bread.
And while I’m chewing – my third kind today – I wonder: How much pickle can a person take?
The waiter chuckles as if I’d spoken aloud.
“It was the Dutch who brought them,” he says. “But they stayed willingly.”
The Spreewald pickle.
More than a vegetable. A way of life.
A true Spreewald lunch: lard bread, local beer – and more pickles than you ever thought possible.
Final Thought?
The Spreewald feels like a memory you haven’t yet lived.
A slow place for slow thoughts.
And if you’ve ever glided down a Fließ in autumn, you know: not every path needs a purpose – sometimes, drifting gently is more than enough.
Impressions from Burg and the surrounding waterways – bridges, masks, haystacks and silence.
Edith writes at
wanderlust-knows-no-age.com
Travel, memories & champagne – that’s her world.
As a 70+ blogger with curiosity in her heart, she shares stories about journeys that matter and places that linger.
Always by her side: Reinhold – calm compass and loyal co-traveller – and a touch of self-irony.