The river Isar runs like a band of jade inlay along the southern border of Bavaria. In the perpetual valley-twilight on the night-side of the mountain, Isar has banks of snow instead of sand. Spindly trees comb sunlight into silken strands. Fog, starved and thin, wanders through the valley like vagrant clouds who strayed too far to find their way back to the sky.
From the valley rises a crag shaded in pastel, so ethereal it must be a mirage, or a glimpse of some Olympian Otherworld.
When we draw nearer, we find the mountain has dreamed itself a valley-village. The scene seems to have been painted from a Claude glass: the edges are brushed out into a luminous aureole, lacquering the daydream in alpenglow.