Schloss Johannisburg

Put your hand flat against the wall for a moment. The stone is red, a deep, warm red, slightly rough under the fingers. This is Main sandstone, cut from quarries along the river below you. In low afternoon sun the whole palace seems to glow like the coals of a fire. On a grey day it turns darker, almost the colour of dried earth. Either way, this is the first thing everyone notices about Schloss Johannisburg. It is not white, not grey, but red.

You are standing in Aschaffenburg, a town in the far north-west of Bavaria, close to the border with Hesse. The river Main runs just below the palace terraces. For centuries this town did not belong to Bavaria at all. It belonged to the Archbishops of Mainz. These were powerful churchmen who were also princes, and also electors. That means they were among the small group of rulers who chose the Holy Roman Emperor.

Mainz was their main seat, but Aschaffenburg was their second residence. It was a place to escape to, to hunt in the forests of the Spessart hills, and to display their wealth. This palace was built to do exactly that. It was raised in the early seventeenth century, between 1605 and 1614. The patron was Archbishop Johann Schweikard von Kronberg. The name Johannisburg, the castle of John, connects to his name and to Saint John.

The architect was Georg Ridinger, a master builder from Strasbourg. His design is simple to read from the outside. There are four wings set around a square inner courtyard. At each outer corner rises a tall tower. The result is calm, balanced, and very solid. This is Renaissance architecture, the style that looked back to the order and symmetry of ancient Rome. Ridinger was proud of his work. He later published a book of engravings showing the palace in detail.

Now here is something many visitors miss. Look at the courtyard, and find the one tower that does not quite match. It is older and plainer than the rest. This is the keep of an earlier, medieval castle that stood on this spot. That castle was badly damaged in 1552, during a regional war led by Margrave Albrecht Alcibiades of Brandenburg-Kulmbach. When Ridinger designed the new palace, he did not tear the old keep down. He built around it. So inside this Renaissance square, a piece of the Middle Ages still stands.

Walk slowly through the courtyard and notice the details. The window frames, the gables, and the stair towers are all cut from the same red sandstone. The decoration is concentrated at the doorways and the upper storeys. Shadows move across the walls as the day passes. Sounds carry here too. Footsteps echo, voices bounce from wing to wing, and pigeons settle on the ledges above.

The palace did not have an easy twentieth century. In 1945, near the end of the Second World War, Aschaffenburg was heavily fought over. Schloss Johannisburg burned and was left as a shell. Much of what you see today is the result of a long and careful reconstruction in the decades after the war. The outer walls survived well enough to guide the rebuilding. Inside, rooms were restored and furnished again. When you look at the facade, you are looking at both the seventeenth century and the patient work of the post-war years.

There is another chapter in the story. In the early nineteenth century, the old church principalities of Germany were dissolved. Aschaffenburg changed hands, and in 1814 it became part of the Kingdom of Bavaria. The Bavarian kings took over the palace. King Ludwig the First liked this town very much. Its mild climate and its river views reminded him of Italy. That love of Italy left a mark nearby, which we will come back to.

Inside the palace, several collections share the space. One is a state painting gallery run by the Bavarian State Painting Collections. It holds works by Lucas Cranach the Elder and his workshop. Cranach was a sixteenth-century painter famous for his portraits and religious scenes, often on wooden panels, with sharp outlines and strong, clear colour. Standing close to these panels, you can see fine brushwork and the grain of the wood beneath.

The second surprise is a collection that sounds strange until you see it. It is a gallery of architectural models made from cork. They show famous buildings of ancient Rome, such as temples, arches, and the Colosseum, in miniature. They were made in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries by a court confectioner named Carl May and his son. Cork is light and soft, and its rough texture looks remarkably like weathered ancient stone. This is considered one of the largest collections of its kind anywhere.

The palace also has its own chapel. Its altar and pulpit are carved from alabaster, a soft, pale stone that takes very fine detail. The figures are small and crowded with movement. The work is associated with Hans Juncker, a sculptor active in this region in the early seventeenth century. In the princely apartments, you can also walk through rooms furnished in later styles, with polished wood, painted ceilings, and quiet, formal light from tall windows.

When you step outside again, walk toward the river side of the palace. From the terraces, the land drops toward the Main. Follow the gardens along the slope and you will soon see a small yellow villa with Roman columns. This is the Pompejanum, built for King Ludwig the First as an idealised copy of a Roman house from Pompeii. It is a separate site, but it belongs to the same story of princes who dreamed of the ancient south.

Before you go, turn back and look at the palace once more. Notice how the four towers frame the sky. Notice the older keep, quietly holding its place among them. Listen to the river, and to the town around you going about its day. The red stone has seen archbishops, kings, fire, and rebuilding. Now it holds your shadow too, for a moment, as you walk away.