As my sleek 1930s ferry glides across Lake Constance, scattering a squadron of indignant cormorants, I notice something moving across the pale blue sky above.
I look up and see a Zeppelin floating silently overhead. It’s a strange, surreal sight, and it’s also supremely fitting – for this vast and lovely lake is where these ghostly airships were built.
Lake Constance (or the Bodensee, as locals call it) is one of Europe’s unsung glories. A gigantic bulge in the River Rhine, 40 miles long and eight miles wide, it’s both a border and a thoroughfare, the ancient crossroads of Central Europe.
The northern shore is German, the southern shore is Swiss, and the Austrians own a narrow enclave at the eastern end of the lake.
It’s popular with German, Swiss and Austrian visitors, but it’s never overrun, and every town along its shores has its own appeal, its own character. For Brits, it’s a novelty to traverse three countries, all within a three-hour cruise.
The topography is pleasant rather than spectacular – a verdant tapestry of gentle hills and lush meadows. Most of the main sights are along the northern (German) shore, while the southern (Swiss) shore is charming, and the stylish Austrian port, Bregenz, feels like a slice of old Vienna, transported to the waterfront like the landscape of a dream.
I’m sailing to Friedrichshafen, the lakeside town where Graf Ferdinand von Zeppelin built his eponymous hot-air balloons (in fact fuelled by an explosive mix of hydrogen and methane).
In 1900, his groundbreaking Zeppelins took their first test flights over this enormous stretch of water. One flew from here to Rio de Janeiro.
Commercial Zeppelin flights began in 1910. In the First World War, they bombed England fairly ineffectively. There were 51 raids by 84 Zeppelins – only 54 returned home. Still, they killed 557, spreading fear and panic.
Zeppelin production ceased in 1940 but the company continued, switching to aircraft production. This stopped in 1945, before being revived in the 1990s. Zeppelins are now being built and flown in Friedrichshafen once again.
Ferdinand’s factory is long gone, but the modern Zeppelins still fly from here – tiny compared with his original dirigibles, but still impressive. Friedrichshafen’s main attraction costs only a few euros – its magnificent Zeppelin Museum, housed in a striking art-deco building.
I’m here for the opening of a new exhibition, Bild und Macht (Pictures and Power), showing how Zeppelins were portrayed in the German media between the wars. There’s some atmospheric film footage, and lots of moody photographs – eerie and otherworldly. But, as this show makes clear, these images were shrewdly stage-managed, presenting Zeppelins as a symbol of German economic might.
The permanent display is even more intriguing, covering the whole Zeppelin story in colourful, dramatic style.
The highlight is a life-size recreation of the plush passenger quarters of the Hindenburg, flagship of the Zeppelin fleet, whose catastrophic combustion in New York in 1937 brought the golden age of airship travel to a crashing halt.
Consequently, the Zeppelin factory switched to building aeroplanes, and this was Friedrichshafen’s undoing.
During the Second World War, the RAF bombed it flat. It was subsequently rebuilt in a bland, uninspiring modern style. If you’re at all interested in aviation history, the museum is fascinating; the best way to see it is on a day trip from one of the far prettier towns around the lake.
Every visitor to Lake Constance has a favourite base, and mine is Lindau, a quaint, antiquated port on an island in the lake. Like most other towns around the Bodensee, it came through the war unscathed.
The Altstadt (old town) is a picturesque cluster of handsome baroque houses, full of quirky cafés, homely restaurants and old curiosity shops. There’s no shortage of sightseers, but it’s not a tourist trap. Locals do their shopping in the outdoor market. Children play in the cobbled streets.
Getting here is easy. I flew to Munich, and travelled on by train. Three hours later I alighted at Lindau’s grand and gloomy station, then walked across the street to the delightfully old-fashioned Bayerischer Hof.
I last stayed here 20 years ago. It feels good to be back. My hotel bedroom overlooks the historic harbour. As I watch the ferries chugging past, against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, I plan my voyage round the lake.
I first came to the Bodensee 35 years ago, on an Interrail trip. Like most Brits, I’d never heard of it.
I’ve been back many times since then, and on each occasion I’ve discovered new things. This time, I’m feeling fragile, in need of nurture, not adventure. I want to revisit my most cherished haunts, lest this turns out to be my final trip.
I set off on the boat, zigzagging across the cool, clear water. You can see the Swiss Alps in the distance, sparkling in the sun. We stop off at medieval Meersburg, sailing on to Mainau, an island transformed into a garden, surrounding an ornate Schloss.
We dock in Constance, the biggest conurbation on the Bodensee, which gives this lake its English name. Its university lends it a youthful air, while the townscape is largely 18th and 19th century, free of modern eyesores.
Constance is a backwater today (and it’s all the better for it). But for four years in the 1410s, it was the centre of the Western world. Western Christendom had wound up with three popes. So the Catholic Church met here to pick one of them. Remarkably, the robust hall where they slugged it out is still standing. Today it houses a lively waterfront restaurant.
The conference dragged on and on, from 1414 to 1418. A merry time was had by all – apart from Czech reformer Jan Hus, who was burnt at the stake for heresy. This theological shindig is commemorated by a seductive statue on the quayside, depicting a colossal courtesan, holding a midget Pope and Holy Roman Emperor in the palms of her outstretched hands.
Jan Hus was imprisoned in a tower in the Dominican monastery in Constance. That monastery is now a smart hotel, part of the upmarket Steigenberger chain. It was the Zeppelin family home – Ferdinand von Zeppelin was born here in 1838.
I end up at Weingut Röhrenbach, a vineyard on a sunny hillside above the lake. Rebecca Röhrenbach is the fourth generation of winemakers here (the baby on her hip may be the fifth).
We taste some of her light and subtle wines – a delicate Müller-Thurgau, a fresh and fruity Spätburgunder. As I sit on her sunlit terrace, I see another Zeppelin drifting past.
What makes Zeppelins so beguiling? Maybe it’s that they represent a false start, a historical ‘what if?’. Obsolete yet futuristic, they seem like something out of vintage science fiction, a spooky fantasy by Jules Verne or H G Wells.
Or maybe it’s that they’re a relic of the best and worst of times, when – for the few who could afford it – life had never been more glamorous or exciting. How thrilling it must have been to fly across the Atlantic in just three days – twice as fast as the speediest ocean liner!
As I board my ferry back to Lindau, I realise this suave, streamlined vessel is just as old as the Hindenburg. Unlike those absurd and splendid airships, this 1930s pleasure boat is still going strong.
Doubles at the Bayerischer Hof in Lindau (www.bayerischerhof-lindau.de) from €252, including breakfast
