You cycle through the quiet forest between Götz and Deetz; the path is narrow, the asphalt old and worn by life. And then it stands there – as if it had fallen from another world: the hollow tree trunk. No information board, no neon sign, no Instagram post. Just a tree. Or what's left of it.
What looks like a mossy giant that has slowly retreated from time is in fact a monument. Not a monument in the traditional sense, but one made of wood, moss, and wind. Centuries have hollowed it out, insects, weather, and the course of events. And yet it still stands. Or again. Or simply like that.
The shell is open; you can look inside, almost walk inside. Doing so suddenly hears completely different sounds – the whispering of the forest, the cracking of the wood, the echo of your own footsteps. It's as if you've briefly stepped through a gate – not into another world, but into a deeper perception.
The bike path curves gently here, as if to avoid the tree, to give it space. And that moment remains: that even the asphalt pauses briefly here.
The "hollow tree trunk" isn't a natural wonder in the tourist sense. But those who encounter it take away more than just a photo. Perhaps a question. Or simply the quiet realization that even transgression can have a form of dignity.