Ten days camping beneath the Bavarian Alps, with lakes, castles and spontaneous detours across the borders into Austria and Italy.
I went to Bavaria wanting to photograph it — the mountains, the lakes, the castles, the kind of light that gets people who don’t normally bother with a camera to take one out anyway. I also went with a back injury I’d picked up a few weeks earlier, the sort that makes six hours in a car feel like an argument with yourself, and getting up off a camp bed each morning a small negotiation.
There were four of us, one UK-registered car, a tent built for four, a gazebo to go with it, and — I’ll say this now so I don’t have to keep circling back to it — a lot more luggage than four people camping in the Alps for ten days actually needed. In my head, for years, Neuschwanstein had always been under snow. That isn’t the castle we got. More on that later.
Getting to Bavaria
We left for Dover in the middle of the night, which is fairly normal for how we start these trips — sleep is for people who aren’t trying to catch an early ferry. The crossing itself was quiet, quieter than I remembered DFDS crossings being, and breakfast on board managed to be both expensive and forgettable, though the staff were lovely enough that I forgave the eggs almost immediately. A seagull worked the deck like it had done this before, and got what I’m fairly sure was a piece of someone’s pastry before anyone noticed it was gone. I bought my mum a present in duty free, and we rolled off the ferry at Calais without a single passport queue worth mentioning, which after some previous trips felt like a genuine win.
Then came the drive. Hours of it, across France and into Germany. Choosing the beans for my takeaway coffee at a motorway service station brought me a genuinely silly amount of pleasure. The tolls were much less enjoyable. So many tickets to collect, cards to tap and barriers to reach through the window, with a back that was not thanking me for any of the sitting still required to make it happen.
Then came the drive. Hours of it, across France and into Germany. Choosing the beans for my takeaway coffee at a motorway service station brought me a genuinely silly amount of pleasure. The tolls were much less enjoyable. So many tickets to collect, cards to tap and barriers to reach through the window, with a back that was not thanking me for any of the sitting still required to make it happen.
Isarhorn — Our Home Beneath the Alps
We were staying at Isarhorn, a campsite between Krün and Mittenwald with the Isar running along the edge of it and the Karwendel mountains rising up right behind it. You choose your own pitch there, and we found one tucked among the trees, close enough to hear the river but not close enough to see it. Vango tent, Quechua gazebo, four people’s worth of stuff unpacked into a space that suddenly looked considerably smaller than it had in the shop.
The site is big — big enough that even on a busy week, it somehow never felt busy. That’s the strange thing I keep coming back to about Isarhorn: there could be a genuinely large number of people on that campsite, and you could still walk around in the morning and feel like you had the whole place to yourself. That sense of space was one of the best parts of staying there.
The best of it happened at the edges of the day. Walking to the toilet block at some ungodly hour and finding the sky doing a slow pink warm-up before sunrise, with the stars still hanging on at the other end of it — an entirely ordinary errand that had no business being that beautiful. Fireflies at the other end of the day, which I don’t get to see at home and which felt magical. And the water from the campsite taps, which I have no scientific explanation for, tasted better than water has any right to taste. I filled a bottle from it more times than was strictly necessary, purely because I liked drinking it.
We walked the river with water shoes on, sent the drone up over it, existed for a while without needing anywhere in particular to be. I wanted to swim in it. I sent Mindy in first to test the temperature, on the entirely reasonable theory that if it was fine for him it would be fine for me. It was not fine for him. He came out of that water with an expression that answered the question before he’d said a word, and that was the end of my swimming ambitions for the day. I never did find the time to go back and try somewhere else — one of the very few things about this trip I’d change, if I could.
Mittenwald — When It Felt Like Bavaria
We’d technically already been in Bavaria for a day by the time we reached Mittenwald, but it’s the first place that actually felt like it. I think it was the buildings — the painted façades on the old Alpine houses, still bright and beautifully kept, exactly what you picture when someone says “Bavaria.” I’d half expected to be disappointed by it in real life. I wasn’t. Add the mountains right behind the rooftops, and it stopped being a place I was passing through and started being the place I’d come to see.
We did the unglamorous things first — a stock-up in REWE, which had more or less everything we needed and then some, and a wander past bakeries good enough that I developed a genuine, ongoing appreciation for pistachio croissants that has not worn off since. Gelato was around two euros a scoop at the time, which felt like a mistake in our favour, and I worked my way through pistachio and hazelnut more times than I’ll admit to. There was also a kebab, from a place with a queue out the door, that I still think about — so fresh that the queue made sense after the first bite.
By pure luck, we landed on the local fire brigade’s garden festival — bunting, food stalls, families in traditional dress, kids in traditional dress, sauce dispensers shaped unmistakably like udders that nobody else seemed to find as funny as I did, that particular warmth of a town doing something for itself rather than for visitors. Nobody was performing Bavaria for us. They were just having their festival, and we happened to be there for it.
Eibsee
Eibsee sits right at the foot of the Zugspitze, and I’d arrived with a plan to properly photograph it. What actually happened first was that I couldn’t get my camera to change its aperture. I tried everything — every button, every dial, turning it off and on like that’s ever fixed anything in the history of electronics. I was genuinely convinced something had broken. It hadn’t. I eventually realised the lens hood wasn’t fitted properly. I’d been so focused on the aperture that I’d missed the simple thing right in front of me, a very efficient way for a camera to humble its owner.
Getting low for a shot and back up again wasn’t exactly comfortable with my back the way it was, and I noticed it again here — oddly, walking for an hour around a lake bothered it far less than sitting still ever did, which wasn’t remotely what I’d expected going into this trip.
Once the camera was sorted, the lake did the rest of the work. The colour of it is the sort of thing that photographs slightly better than you can quite believe while you’re standing there, and it was busy — properly busy, people arriving with picnics and cool boxes and paddleboards and the general air of a group settling in for the whole day rather than passing through. Within about ten minutes, I understood why — this isn’t a place you stop at, it’s a place you move into for the afternoon.
Zugspitze
Both Mindy and I are the sort of people who go a bit quiet and happy around mountains, so Zugspitze was always going to land well. Germany’s highest point, a proper “I’m on top of the world” feeling once you’re up there, the haze doing something to the light that made every direction look slightly unreal. I remember finding some kind of family ticket that worked out much better for the four of us than paying individually would have, and I’d look for that again. The summit sits right on the edge between Germany and Austria — close enough that you genuinely feel surrounded by both, the two countries’ cable cars arriving from opposite sides of the same mountain, which is a strange and quite lovely thing to stand in the middle of.
And then, somewhere up there, in the middle of one of the more improbable places to bump into an old acquaintance, Mindy found a Lithuanian he knew. I still don’t fully understand how this keeps happening to him. I’ve stopped being surprised and started just waiting for it.
What made it more than just a funny story was that he gave us a heads-up: he’d tried and failed to get tickets for Neuschwanstein. That was enough to send a small jolt of panic through me — we hadn’t booked ours yet — and by the time we came back down the mountain, sorting that out had gone straight to the top of the list.
Garmisch-Partenkirchen
We stopped in Garmisch-Partenkirchen mostly for lunch, and it turned out to be a pleasant, unhurried sort of place to do that in — a parade going past, church bells doing their thing, nothing that demanded more than an afternoon of us. It’s also where our cool box, which had been slowly dying since roughly the ferry crossing, finally gave up entirely. Its replacement came with both
European and UK charging leads, which was brilliant for us.
Beyond Bavaria — Austria, Italy and the Freedom of Having a Car
Bavaria was where we slept, but having a car meant we didn’t have to stay within its borders. We could change our plans, follow a view or pull over simply because somewhere looked too good to drive past.
One afternoon took us into Austria, to Swarovski Kristallwelten. I’d been before and was happy to return. It’s full of sound, light and deliberately overwhelming displays, the sort of place you either fall for or you don’t. This time, there was an exhibition marking Marilyn Monroe’s hundredth birthday, with gowns, jewellery and archive photographs that I hadn’t expected to see and rather enjoyed. The rest of our time in Austria was less glamorous: replenishing face masks, trying my first onigiri, and eating katsu and soup in a shopping centre because we were hungry.
Italy was the bigger adventure, and it began with a plan falling apart. We’d hoped to visit Alpe di Siusi, with Seceda as a backup, but by 9am we couldn’t find parking for either. Rather than call the morning wasted, we kept driving. The Dolomites unfolded around us, and I think they might be my favourite mountains anywhere. I haven’t made a serious study of the competition, but I can’t imagine getting bored of looking at them.
We stopped at a year-round Christmas shop mostly because other people were stopping there too. Somehow, we came away with coffee beans so good that I’m still rationing the last of them. Bolzano gave us a proper Italian pasta lunch and a speck shop I couldn’t walk past. From there, the Renon cable car took all four of us up to the plateau, where a cold beer overlooking the mountains felt like exactly the right way to spend twenty minutes. It also reminded Mindy and me of our previous winter visit, when we’d used a free travel pass to get up, entirely unaware that we could have driven to the top. You live and learn, several years too late.
Vipiteno gave us dinner, eventually. Our first choice was closed, and the second had a wait long enough that we were very ready for our pizza when it arrived. It was good, though I won’t pretend it was the best pizza I’ve ever had. We picked up olive oil, balsamic vinegar and more good things than the car really had room for. I’ve been trying, without success, to find one particular type of pretzel in the UK ever since.
That was the pleasure of having the car. A full car park could change the plan without spoiling the day, and a stop for coffee could become something we’d still be talking about months later.
Partnachklamm
Partnachklamm exceeded my expectations. The crowds inside it did not.
The gorge itself is more striking than photographs can convey, with cool air rising off the water on a hot day and walls closing in overhead. What I hadn’t expected was quite how busy it would be. Where the path narrowed to single file, I could feel the people behind me wanting to keep moving. It wasn’t the place to stop and compose a shot, or simply stand still and take it in for a minute.
That was a frustration at some of the places I’d most wanted to photograph on this trip: not quite having the time or space to slow down properly. I wanted to get low, wait for the light and move on when I was ready, rather than when the people behind me needed to pass. It made me even more certain that I prefer travelling outside peak season whenever I can.
None of that changes how I felt about the gorge. I’d go back tomorrow, crowds and all. Next time, I’d just aim for an earlier visit or a quieter time of year.
The Green Sky, the Storm, and Linderhof
This one day did more to shape the trip than almost anything else, so I’m not going to rush it.
Linderhof, the First Time
We arrived at Linderhof not really knowing what to expect. Neuschwanstein was the castle I’d grown up knowing about, not this one. The Venus Grotto got me first: an artificial cave built for Ludwig II, staged like something from the operas he loved, with lighting that changes the mood of the whole space. It felt like stepping into somebody’s private fairy tale rather than a museum exhibit. For the first time on this trip, I found myself curious about the man behind it, not just what he’d built.
We had time to fill before our next ticket slot, so we planned to head towards Oberammergau. But just as we got back to the car from the grotto, the sky turned green.
The Sky Turned Green
I’d never seen a green sky before. I’m still not sure I have the words for it. The colour was clearly, unmistakably wrong, and everyone in the car seemed to go quiet at once. It turned out to be exactly the warning it looked like.
The storm that followed was fierce. Thunder, lightning and rain so heavy that the windscreen wipers could barely keep up. We were lucky to be at the car when the storm hit. Mindy wanted to go straight back to the campsite, understandably. Our tent was somewhere beneath that same sky, and he was imagining what the storm might do to it.
I persuaded him to make a quick stop at Ettal Abbey anyway. I’m not proud of how much negotiating that took, given the weather and how worried he was about the tent. But when we walked inside, nobody said much for a minute. Ettal was worth the stop, and we weren’t there much longer than we’d spent debating whether to go in.
Linderhof, Properly
When we returned to Linderhof, I finally had time to take in the grounds. The gardens, statues and water features were immaculate, with the fountains coming on at intervals rather than running constantly. Every part of it seemed carefully tended.
Inside, we joined a small English-language tour. There were few enough of us that we could ask questions, and that’s where Linderhof really got me.
Photographs weren’t allowed, so I can only describe what I remember: mirrors everywhere, gold catching the light, and rooms that seemed much larger because they reflected back on themselves. Ludwig II’s fascination with French royalty was everywhere. He’d built himself a world inspired by kings he’d never met and a court that no longer existed. It didn’t feel like a palace designed for visitors. It felt personal, as though all of it had been made for one person who happened to be a king.
I’d arrived mildly curious about Ludwig II and left genuinely interested in him. I hadn’t expected a king to become one of the things I kept thinking about on this trip, but he did.
Neuschwanstein: The Castle I’d Been Dreaming About (Just Not Like This)
I’d pictured Neuschwanstein for years, always in winter, always beneath a layer of snow. What we got was lush, green, full-colour summer Bavaria. It wasn’t the castle I’d imagined, but it was every bit as impressive as I’d hoped.
You see it first from below, then again and again as you make your way up. We passed a small church that seemed to be drawing almost as much attention as the castle. Hohenschwangau came into view across the valley, and the lakes below began to look almost ornamental. Up close, Neuschwanstein has a scale that photographs never quite capture.
By then, Linderhof had changed how I saw Ludwig II’s castles. Neuschwanstein was where he was arrested in June 1886, after being declared unfit to rule. The next day, he and the psychiatrist who had assessed him were found dead in Lake Starnberg. The circumstances of their deaths remain a mystery. Standing there, thinking about how much of himself Ludwig had put into these places, I felt sadness alongside the awe. Neuschwanstein also helped inspire Disneyland’s Sleeping Beauty Castle, but knowing Ludwig’s story made it harder for me to see this one as only a fairy tale.
Down in the valley, we spoke to a woman driving one of the horse-drawn carriages. She knew far more about the area than we did and was generous enough to share some of it. Afterwards, I had a Paulaner wheat beer in the town below, which tasted like exactly the right way to end the afternoon.
I don’t want to rank Neuschwanstein against Linderhof. Neuschwanstein was the castle I’d dreamed about for years, and seeing it felt just as special as I’d hoped. Linderhof took me by surprise and left me thinking about the man behind both places. I’m glad we saw them together.
Leaving Bavaria
I wasn’t exhausted by this trip, not even close. Ten days in, with a long list of places behind us, I still wasn’t ready for it to end.
Packing down camp on the last morning helped a little. It was hot and sweaty work, with a spell of rain thrown in for good measure. My clean clothes were buried somewhere at the bottom of a very full car, and I’d acquired three mosquito bites with what felt like suspicious precision. By the time everything was packed, all I wanted was a shower. If I hadn’t felt so grim, sticky and bitten, I don’t think I’d have wanted to leave Bavaria at all.
Stuttgart Reset
We broke the drive home with a night in Stuttgart. Our hotel had a Brazilian rainforest theme that could easily have felt gimmicky, but it was genuinely lovely. It had a few thoughtful eco touches, a kitchenette, a supermarket a short walk away and a breakfast worth looking forward to.
At that point, though, I cared most about the shower, clean clothes and a bed that wasn’t an inflatable mattress on a groundsheet. After all three, I felt considerably more human.
The Burger King we stopped at on the way to Stuttgart also earned my entirely unscientific award for the most disappointing meal of the trip. Make of that what you will.
Final Reflection
I’d drive from the UK again without a second thought. The hours, the tolls and my back’s opinions about both were worth the freedom the car gave us once we arrived. I’d camp with the same four people again too, though I’d bring far less luggage. We took more than we needed, and next time I’d probably add a hotel night halfway through. A shower and a proper bed would have been a welcome reset.
I’d pack snacks for the drive, always, and book the day after we get home off work. I’ve learned that lesson often enough to finally act on it.
What I wanted most was more time to photograph Bavaria, not just see it. Time to get low, wait for the light and stay somewhere without thinking about how much of the day, or how much energy my back, had left. I still wish I’d gone back for that swim.
Ten days gave us so much, but I came home wanting longer there. I wanted the chance to slow down in the places we’d found, and to see where the days took us when we didn’t have somewhere else to be.
The photographs will give me plenty of reasons to return to these places. Next time, I hope I’ll have a little longer to stand still and take them in.
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