You cycle through the tranquil lake landscape west of Brandenburg, the asphalt glows softly in the sun, the fields smell of hay, and somewhere frogs croak as if they were on the air. And then suddenly it appears – the church of Semlin. Not a monument to tourist crowds, but a house that simply stands there as if it had always been there. And somehow, it has.
It was built between 1730 and 1732 from plastered brickwork, which gives it a stubborn, almost rebellious charm. The hall is strictly rectangular, the tower slightly recessed – as if it wanted to listen, not disturb. The weather vane on the roof has seen more wind directions than one's travel plans.
Inside, it is bright, simple, and friendly. No pomp, no pathos – rather, the quiet whisper of past centuries. The organ, the altar, the pulpit: all from 1893. This wasn't a show of ostentation, but a design. And it still works today. Between 1985 and 1988, the church was carefully reconstructed, the beams reframed, and the plaster renewed – as one does with things dear to one's heart.
The village church of Semlin isn't a destination for pious pilgrims or architectural guides. But it is a place to pause. For cyclists who value breaks as much as exercise. For people who prefer to observe rather than photograph. And for all those who sometimes feel that history isn't so far away – perhaps just a chime away.