The Adventures of Clive Tully

As the world celebrates the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, I’m reminded of one of my early press trips. For my sins, I went on the very first ever officially organised British travel press trip to East Germany, and I was with such luminaries as the leader writer for The Guardian, and the man who filmed most of the Vietnam War for ITN.

For me, it was a hilarious introduction to being a decadent Westerner in a totalitarian state. We were looked after very well, although curiously the number of people taking photographs of the group was rather more than one might expect for your average press jaunt. But without doubt the highlight was the unscheduled detour to Colditz Castle. We’d noticed from our maps it wasn’t far off the motorway between Leipzig and Dresden, and our persistence with our hosts paid off, although it did entail making a 6am start.

The fact was, the East Germans were embarrassed to show us Colditz because it was in use as a hospital for mentally ill children. But we did discover in the process that the glider which the PoWs were building in the attic as one of many ingenious escape plans was still there 41 years later. We suggested to the East Germans that they were missing out on a trick, and ought to open up Colditz to tourists – turn it into a hotel, maybe. Ironically, when the idea gradually gathered pace months later, The Sun ran a story saying “how dare they desecrate the memory of Our Boys”, without realising a bunch of British hacks had actually hatched the plot in the first place!

So as a little tribute to the end of East Germany, I repeat below the story I wrote as a result of my visit in 1986.

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Like many, I once thought that a grey sombreness pervaded the German Democratic Republic, and that visiting westerners would stick out like sore thumbs. I obviously didn’t. GTF, the firm who arranged my visit to GDR, took the “V” of my middle name to be “Von” rather than Vernon, with the result that Clive Von Tully was addressed in German rather more frequently than he would have preferred.

One long-standing illusion cracked as we arrived at “Checkpoint Charlie”, the main point of entry into East Berlin for foreign nationals and diplomats. Our visas were checked not by some sour-faced heavy, but by an attractive, smiling, young lady.

The most immediate contrast was the traffic. There’s a good deal less, and the cars are mainly East European bread bins powered by lawnmower engines. The city itself doesn’t have the crowded, cluttered feeling of West Berlin, nor does it have the litter. No neon signs or advertising hoardings either, just a few slogans on public buildings, declaring “Workers unite”.

They’ve done surprisingly well at restoring buildings damaged during the last war. The Pergamon Museum and Schauspielhaus are among those restored to their former splendour, and they’re rather pleased with the fact that they have the cream of the historic buildings, although the Brandenburg Gate, straddling the beautiful avenue Unter den Linden, isn’t so accessible. Just a few feet behind lies what the East Germans euphemistically refer to as the State Border, described more graphically on the other side as “the wall”.

In Potsdam, I visited Sanssouci Palace, the splendid Rococo home of the Prussian King Frederick the Great. But the bizarre decorations in some rooms confirm that our Fred wasn’t exactly straight-laced. Nearby Cecilienhof Palace was built in 1916 in the style of a Tudor country house. But the illusion founders when you study its precise, straight lines – no half-timbered Tudor mansion could look this perfect. Cecilienhof achieved its moment of glory in 1945 as the setting for the “Potsdam Conference”, where the occupying powers carved up Germany. It’s a tourist hotel now, with guided tours through the most important rooms of the conference.

Apart from its world famous china, actually manufactured in nearby Meissen, the name Dresden comes to mind mainly as a result of the somewhat tasteless architectural remodelling by the RAF in February 1945. But the city (twin towns Coventry and Leningrad) has risen again. The focal point is Theaterplatz, a square flanked by the Semper Opera House, Zwinger Picture Gallery and the Cathedral, presenting a grand air which contributed to Dresden’s 18th Century title as the “Florence of the North”.  The shells of other historic buildings have yet to be restored, but their turn will come eventually. Only the ruins of the Frauenkirche (Church of our Lady) will be left as a poignant reminder of the terrible destruction.

My night in Dresden coincided with the premiere of a totally incomprehensible production of Strauss’s “Elektra” in the recently restored Semper Opera House. But whilst the performance itself didn’t appeal to me, I was bowled over by the fabulous beauty of the building itself. There were no original plans for the restorers to work to – only old prints and photographs. The result of their labours is stunning.

Not far from the autobahn between Leipzig and Dresden is a place now part of British folklore – Colditz. Our hosts had initially expressed reluctance to take us there, not least because it now serves as a hospital for mentally ill children. Colditz itself lies on the River Mulde, with town and castle on the side of a hill. The towering walls, the cobbled passage up through the gatehouse, the grim courtyard inside – I found myself humming the television theme tune, and imagining scenes which spawned some of World War II’s most ingenious POW escapes.

But seeing the close proximity of surrounding houses, and the steepness of the hill, I wondered where the sole member of the Colditz gliding club, who assembled his craft in the attic of the castle, planned to make his landing. It looked a little dodgy to me, and probably just as well the inaugural flight was postponed by the end of the war.

The East Germans are trying hard to show that the GDR is as good a holiday destination as anywhere, but it seemed a pity they hadn’t exploited the potential tourist goldmine which Colditz represents. But all that may well change. What a splendid irony to get people paying willingly to stay in a place where not so long ago, they would have paid to get out!