Mirabell Palace

Listen for a moment. Gravel crunches under shoes on the garden paths. Water falls from a fountain somewhere ahead, and a guide's umbrella bobs above a small crowd. The flowerbeds are laid out in tight, clean patterns, like a carpet spread on the ground. Lift your eyes past the hedges and the statues, and the fortress of Hohensalzburg sits high on its rock across the river. That view, a frame of formal garden with the old town behind it, is the reason so many people come here first.

Welcome to Mirabell Palace and its gardens, on the right bank of the Salzach River in Salzburg. The building in front of you looks calm, pale and orderly. Its story began with something much less orderly: a prince of the Church, a woman he loved, and a family that his position said he should not have. To understand this place, we start in the early seventeenth century, with a man named Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau.

Wolf Dietrich was Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg. That title meant two things at once. He was the senior churchman of the region, and he was also its ruler, with land, taxes and armies. He was ambitious, and he rebuilt much of the city. He also lived openly with Salome Alt, the daughter of a Salzburg merchant. They had many children together. In 1606 he built a residence for her outside the city walls of that time. It was first called Altenau, a name that carried her family name.

That arrangement did not last. Wolf Dietrich came into conflict with powerful neighbours, and in 1612 he lost his power. He spent the rest of his life as a prisoner in the fortress you can see on the hill. Think about that for a second. From this garden, the woman he built it for could look up at the walls where he was held. Salome Alt and the children had to leave Salzburg.

His successor, Markus Sittikus, took over the residence and gave it a new name: Mirabell. The name is usually explained as a mix of Italian words for admirable and beautiful. The old name, with its link to Salome, quietly disappeared. It is a small act, renaming a house. But it shows how a new ruler can write over the memory of the one before him, without tearing down a single wall.

Over the following century, later archbishops turned the house into a true palace. In the early eighteenth century, the architect Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt reshaped it in the Baroque style. Baroque is the style of curves, drama and rich decoration that you see across Salzburg's churches. Then, in 1818, a great fire swept through this part of the city and badly damaged the palace. What you see from outside today is mostly the result of the rebuilding after that fire, in a plainer, more restrained style.

Here is the first thing most visitors miss. Not everything burned. Inside, the grand staircase survived the fire. It is often called the Angel Staircase, and it was decorated by the sculptor Georg Raphael Donner. Chubby marble children, called putti, play along the balustrade as you climb. They twist, lean and seem to tumble over the stone rail. If the building is open when you visit, it is worth stepping inside just to walk up those steps.

The staircase leads to the Marble Hall, a room of polished stone, gilding and tall windows. It was once a festive hall for the archbishops. The Mozart family is linked to this palace too. The young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and his sister Nannerl are said to have performed for the court here. Today the room is used for concerts and civil weddings. So on many days, you may see a bride and groom posing on the steps outside.

And here is the second surprise. This is not a museum palace frozen in the past. Mirabell is a working building. It houses the office of Salzburg's mayor and parts of the city administration. Behind some of those windows, people are answering emails and planning the city's budgets. The rooms where archbishops once held court are now part of everyday local government. That mix of the grand and the ordinary is very Salzburg.

Now, back to the gardens, which most people come to see. Their basic layout dates from the late seventeenth century, when the architect Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach worked on them. The design follows a strong central axis. Paths, beds and fountains line up so that your eye travels straight toward the cathedral domes and the fortress beyond. Stand at the right spot, and the whole old town seems to sit at the end of the garden like a painted backdrop.

Look around the main fountain at the large stone statue groups. Each group shows figures locked in struggle, and they are usually read as the four classical elements: earth, water, air and fire. Nearby you will find the Pegasus fountain, with the winged horse of Greek myth leaping into the air. Further along there is a small hedge theatre, an outdoor stage made of clipped green walls, one of the older features of the garden. There is also a quiet rose garden for a slower moment.

One corner usually makes people smile, children especially. It is the Dwarf Garden, a group of marble figures of small, round, comic people with exaggerated faces. In the Baroque age, collections like this were a fashion among European courts. Some of the original figures were removed and scattered over the years, and some later came back. Many film fans know these gardens for another reason. Scenes from the 1965 film The Sound of Music were shot here, including part of the song Do-Re-Mi.

Before you leave, find a bench or a shady spot and look one more time along the main path toward the river. Listen to the fountain, the gravel, the mix of languages around you. Four centuries ago, this was a private house built for one woman. Then it became a prince's palace, then a burned shell, then a seat of local government. Now it is a garden open to anyone who walks in. As you head back toward the river and the old town, notice how the fortress stays in view, watching from the hill, just as it did for Salome Alt.