But, ah, the Mosel! From my perch about feet above where the rivers converge, I am struck anew by the differences: the Rhine, wide and brown and churning with tugs and barges; the Mosel, clear and placid after its long meander between vineyards and castles.
This was not my first visit; I was here five years earlier, in autumn. It was at the height of harvest festivities, and crews of pickers were still working, moving quickly through the rows, hoping to outrun the frosts that come early to the Mosel. To the villages tucked into the bends of the river, all of which live by and for wine, a harvest that beats the frost is reason for celebration.
Village wine gardens and streets were bursting with weekenders singing and dancing and waving their glasses in toasts and greetings.
Susser, new wine, was the celebratory drink; Zwiebelkuchen, an onion tart spiked with caraway seeds and sprinkled with bacon, the perfect accompaniment. The river begins in the Vosges Mountains of France, where it is called the Moselle.
A travel guide in English was attached. As we drove out of Koblenz, I discovered that we were on the opposite side of the river from where we wanted to be. But I saw on the map a dotted line marking a ferry. We drove on board for a five-minute, open-air crossing on a car ferry built for two, complete with geraniums flourishing in the wheelhouse window boxes.
