Jasmund National Park

Listen for a moment. Under the beech trees, the air is cool and still, and the ground is soft with old leaves. Then the forest ends, quite suddenly. In front of you, the land drops away in a wall of white chalk. Far below, the Baltic Sea moves in pale green and turquoise, and you can hear it working against the shore.

Welcome to Jasmund National Park, on the island of Rügen, just north of the harbour town of Sassnitz. It is Germany's smallest national park. Most visitors come for one thing, the chalk cliffs. But the park is really two places joined together. There is a coast of white stone, and right on top of it, an old beech forest. Over the next few minutes, we will walk through both.

Start with the chalk itself. It looks almost too white to be natural, but it has a very natural origin. Tens of millions of years ago, in the age of the dinosaurs, this area lay under a warm sea. Tiny algae floated in that water, each one covered in plates of calcium. When they died, those plates sank to the seabed. Over immense spans of time, layer after layer built up and pressed together into chalk.

So the cliff in front of you is made largely of microscopic shells. Look closely at the white faces and you will often see dark bands running through them. These are lines of flint, a hard stone that formed inside the chalk. Down on the beach, the flint gathers as grey and black pebbles. Among them, sharp-eyed walkers sometimes find fossils, such as the bullet-shaped remains of belemnites, ancient relatives of squid, or the rounded shells of sea urchins.

The cliffs did not stay where they began. During the Ice Age, glaciers pushed across this region with enormous force. They broke the chalk layers, lifted them, and tilted them. That is one reason the coast here looks so uneven, with sharp ridges, deep gullies, and stone at odd angles. Streams still cut small ravines through the forest down to the sea, and some end in thin waterfalls over the edge.

Here is something many visitors do not realise. This coast is not finished. It is still moving, every single year. Rain soaks into the chalk, frost cracks it, and the sea undercuts the base. Then whole sections let go and slide down onto the beach. In 2005, a large part of a famous formation called the Wissower Klinken collapsed into the sea. Painters had shown it for generations. Today, the cliff line simply looks different.

That constant change explains the fences, the warning signs, and the closed paths you may see. Please take them seriously. The edges can be undercut, which means the ground under your feet may have no support beneath it. Paths along the top are sometimes rerouted inland after a slide. The view always stays — but the exact spot you stood on last year might now lie on the beach below.

The best known point in the park is the Königsstuhl, which means the King's Chair. It is a chalk peak more than one hundred metres above the sea. Legend has it that in old times, whoever could climb it from the beach would be made king. Another popular tale says a Swedish king once sat here to watch a naval battle. These are stories, not records. But they show how long people have treated this rock as a special place.

For a long time, so many people stood on the Königsstuhl that the ground itself suffered. Today, visitors reach the viewing area on a modern walkway that curves out above the peak. It lets people look down onto the cliff without wearing away its top. Nearby, a national park visitor centre explains the geology and the forest. A separate ticket is needed for that area, so check before you go.

Now turn around and look at the trees. This beech forest is part of a UNESCO World Heritage listing that groups together ancient beech woods from across Europe. Beech trees once covered much of the continent. Here, they grow right to the edge of the cliffs. Their smooth grey trunks rise tall and straight. In spring, the new leaves glow a light, almost lime green. In autumn, the floor turns copper and gold.

The forest is quieter than the cliffs, and that is part of its value. Fallen trunks are often left to rot where they lie. That dead wood feeds beetles, fungi, and woodpeckers. Between the trees there are small bogs and ponds. One of them, the Herthasee, carries an old legend about a Germanic earth goddess who was worshipped near the water. Historians treat that story with caution, but the dark, still lake does have a strange calm.

This landscape has shaped how Germans picture their own coast. In the early nineteenth century, the Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich, known for his quiet, spiritual landscapes, painted the chalk cliffs of Rügen. His picture shows figures at the edge of a white cliff, framed by trees, looking out at the sea. Copies of it hang in classrooms and homes across the country. Many people arrive here already carrying that image in their minds.

If you have time, the high coastal path between Sassnitz and the village of Lohme follows the cliff top through the forest. It is a long walk, with roots, slopes, and many viewpoints along the way. In several places, steep stairs lead down to the beach. Going down is easy. Coming back up is a real climb. Below, you walk on loose flint, so steady shoes make a big difference.

Before you leave, stand still for one more minute. Notice the contrast around you. There is grey bark and white stone, green leaves and a turquoise sea. Listen to the wind in the beech tops and the sea far below. The cliff you are looking at took millions of years to form, and it is changing even now... slowly, quietly, one small piece at a time.