Sunday we spent mostly driving around the Vosges mountains in the rain. The Vosges are similar to the Appalachians, in that they are tree-covered and relatively short when compared to the Rockies and Alps and so forth. I think the highest altitude we attained was something like 800 meters.

Before we set out on the Michelin-suggested driving tour, we went to look for the spot where the Gutlouthof used to stand. Driving south for about 2 km, we saw nothing but knee-high corn. Not even a slight depression in the earth that would indicate settling of the soil over time in the spot where a building with a basement once stood. The only features of the area that suggested a different use were a short tree-lined patch of paving off the main road where a smaller road or driveway might have once been, and a small underpass that went under the train tracks, totally unnecessary today because a nearby road goes over the rails.

Once we got on our driving tour we quickly discovered that Michelin, while having fine maps, is not so good at directions. The guidebook will say something like "turn right after you enter town", not specifying the street name, the closest address, whether it's the first turn or the third. I think they're deliberately vague to get you out of your car to ask directions and talk to the local populace, but when you're antisocial you don't do those sorts of things unless you're totally lost beyond redemption. And we always knew where we were, just not how to get where we were going.

Our first stop was a short hike off the road to a spot overlooking Wissembourg. Brimming with confidence as usual, I failed to note which path we were supposed to take when we left the car. So we wound up and up, and it began to sprinkle on us. Then it began to rain. Then pour. We took shelter under a patch of scrubby pines planted in rows. We kept deciding that the tree a few feet away would be an improvement over the current one, but then it turned out to be the same. We kept moving, looking for that illusory dry spot. Eventually the rain let up a bit, and we headed back down, damp and chilled.

Once in the car we cranked up the heat and lit out for our next destination. We missed our turn due to the aforementioned ambiguousness, then I tried to get us back on track at the next town without turning around, and then all the roads looked too narrow to possibly be the way forward. We went from Wingen to Petit Wingen to Wingen and finally back to Petit Wingen. Every town had a helpful map if you bothered to park and look at it, which we eventually did, and the road we were supposed to go on was one of the ones that looked like it would just dead-end in someone's driveway. Eventually we got to where we were going, but ended up skipping a chunk of the tour and one of the stops we were hoping to see: a ruined castle. The place we ended up at turned out not to be a town, but a restaurant/hotel complex on a mountaintop.

As we were cranky and hungry by this point, we decided to stop for lunch. We parked and discovered that the castle we were trying to get to was visible in the distance, seemingly miles away. The restaurant was homey and family-oriented. The waitress warned me against the lasagna, noting that it took a long time to cook, so I ordered what turned out to be an extremely bland pasta with vegetables dish. Jack got trout in cream sauce, one of the Alsatian seasonal specialties, which was heavenly. We ordered a light and refreshing bottle of local hard cider to accompany it.

I was suffering a bit of despondency after lunch, but we decided to brave the intermittent rain squalls to hike in the general direction of the Chateau Fleckenstein ruins. Our path was littered with interpretive displays about how charcoal was made back in the day. The area was actually closer than it appeared, and we got to the base of the promontory on which the ruins were built, paid our admission and were given free rein to clamber about on the site. It was a bit cheesy, as they had added a number of things for the kids, such as spooky sounds and lights in a staircase carved through the rock that was referred to as the "troglodyte passage", but interesting nonetheless. Someday I hope to receive an in-depth explanation of why in the heck people built these huge fortresses high up on rock outcroppings, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Sure, they would be extremely difficult to capture, but what would you be protecting other than the small band of people living inside the walls? You could keep an eye out for troops approaching from any direction, but who would you notify? As far as the eye could see were trees and more trees. Standing on top of the ruins you could see the hotel/restaurant where we ate in one direction and an RV camp in another, but no towns, farms, or other signs of life in the rolling foothills.

After we had gotten our fill of the chateau, we returned to the car. We walked back by a muddy, rutted road that steeply climbed the hillside, and as we walked up it we realized this is the way we would have driven had we followed the directions correctly. No thank you.

Since we were finally going the right way, we continued on with the driving tour. We saw more Alsatian charm, vestiges of the Maginot Line (a dismal failure of French military defenses in WWII), and plenty of roadside memorials to war dead, since heavy fighting occurred in the area a number of times.

We detoured from the tour to visit Keffenach and Drachenbronn, the two towns where the Flicks came from before arriving in Altenstadt. Keffenach was a sleepy town with two churches and absolutely no commerce, and one small boy with enough bravery to taunt the strangers. Since there's no conceivable reason for tourists to stop there, I can only imagine that we were being watched by more than one set of eyes behind curtains.

Drachenbronn, where Jack's earliest-identified ancestor was from, was also home to a legend about a dragon coming down from the mountains and drinking water from the town fountain. We parked and walked from one edge of town to the other, greeted the local populace out for their early evening constitutionals, and talked to a politician from a nearby town who was running in the regional elections and putting up signs. He was a pretty young guy and sported a Donegal beard, so we decided we would vote for him. We visited the graveyard, bordered on one side by curious goats.

We returned to Wissembourg for our evening's repast, and the festival was in full swing. An all-accordion band was entertaining people in the square. After dumping our belongings we were lured back down to the plaza by the smell of grilling meats. We picked ourselves up a large sausage sandwich and a beer to share. Funny thing is, when your French pronunciation is bad, they switch over to German. If you're not French, then naturally you're German, right? So Jack ordered his sausage, and the guy said "mit?" meaning "with". Moutarde, what else? After we sat down to eat, we saw people walking around with these delicious-looking biscuity things with a side of apple sauce. Dampfnudel: some kind of biscuit dough that is shallow-fried in butter to arrive at a browned and crisp crust on both sides. They were 2 for €3, but for some reason the lady gave us 3. We must've looked emaciated to her pleasantly plump self. It came with a side of "compote" made of cooked apples. A satisfying meal indeed.