You don't simply climb up to the Havelblick. You leave something behind below. Noise, for example. Thoughts, perhaps. Or just the impatient pace of everyday life. The path winds gently but steadily through the Grunewald forest – and suddenly, without any grand gesture, it lies before you: the Havel, stretched out like a silent promise. The view stretches far, over the water, over the small island of Lindwerder, over the branches of the seasons.
In summer, the blue glitters like freshly painted; in autumn, a golden veil hangs over the water, and even in November, the view has a clarity, as if the wind had briefly cleared your mind. Below, the boats, above, the buzzards. In between: you. Perhaps with a thermos, perhaps with a premonition that this moment is one that will last.
The Havelblick is not an Instagram spot. It is a place that wants nothing. No spectacle, no explanation. It is simply there – and whoever stands here stands amidst time, water, and light. You almost want to thank the path, the tree, the sky.
And when you move on, you don't really move on—you just carry something with you. A piece of Havel peace in your mind. A brief pause under your ribs. And the silent resolve to return. Soon.