As you roll across the fields from Rhinow, something white and red suddenly shimmers in the corn in the distance. No sign, no tower, no house. An airplane. Not a small one. An Ilyushin IL-62. Wide, long, proud as a Soviet carp. And you inevitably ask yourself: Who brought this thing here?
Stölln. A place where the history of aviation began with Otto Lilienthal. And where, in October 1989, it dared to make one last, brilliant landing attempt – without a control tower, without a runway, without a net or a false bottom. "Lady Agnes," named after Lilienthal's wife, wasn't just parked anywhere. It landed. That's right. In a meadow. With thrust reverser, engines switched off, and complete trust in the wind – and the courage of Captain Kallbach.
The attempt failed three times. Fog, rain, technology. As if the elements themselves had tested whether this absurd idea was really serious. Then, on October 23rd, a picture-perfect day. Two overflights. Then a touchdown. After 850 meters, she came to a stop. Dust, cheers, a world record.
Today, Lady Agnes rests where other cows graze. On the runway at Stölln. Between brick and the silence of Brandenburg. Children race around the nose wheel, wedding couples exchange vows on 27C. In the seats of the GDR airline, you dream of flying without leaving the ground. And the sign next to the gangway reads: "Entrance."
Those who pass by here on bicycles rarely come just for the air. You stop, laugh, marvel, take a few steps back. You see an airplane where one doesn't belong – and realize: Perhaps that's precisely the point.
Lady Agnes is not a monument. She is a salute from a time when utopias still landed on wheels. A place where technology, daring, and gentle melancholy go hand in hand. And those who have seen them will continue on differently. Maybe not higher. But with a quiet wing in their head.