Underneath was the legend In the restaurant of the Hotel Alpenrose, the ancient dining room smelled so strongly of sausage and cheese that the air itself seemed smoked.
In a booth, a whiskered man picked at a zither, his whirligig tunes adding to the festive atmosphere.
A short stroll before dinner was enough to reveal the impact Mathias Klotz had made. Their graceful silhouettes adorned shop signs and restaurant menus and the bottles of schnapps in the liquor store.
Several murals indicated that buildings had been violin workshops or, in some cases, still were.
Mathias had left Mittenwald to study his craft in Italy, where some believe his tutor was Nicolò Amati, the man who also inspired the world’s most famous violin maker, Antonio Stradivari.
Mathias took his newfound skills home to the Bavarian alps, married twice, and passed on his knowledge to his progeny, including son Sebastian and grandson Aegidius, whose instruments far outshone their father’s. These bits of historical information piqued my own curiosity.
Klotz had inspired an entire industry that continues to this day.At the far end of the Obermarkt was the town’s 18th-century church, lavishly decorated with trompe l’oeil paintings, and in the shadow of its pink tower, on a large marble pedestal, sat a statue of a man.A profusion of curly hair escaped from the edges of a cap, and he was working on the violin that rested on his left knee.amily aside, my longest-lasting relationship has been with a piece of wood. My parents let me pick her out at a shop in London when I was 12, and we’ve now been together for more than two decades.Sure, we’ve had our musical differences—we’ve spent long months apart, and I even once abandoned her on a train—but ultimately, we’ve always been reunited.