I stumbled upon “Berlin-on-Sea” almost by chance. I’d come to the city of Rostock, just over two hours by train north of Berlin, for solid historical reasons, having a personal interest in the huge medieval trading empire that was the Hanseatic League. And because it wasn’t strictly part of Rostock itself, I’d overlooked the fact that this riverport was also connected to a glorious stretch of Baltic sand, backed by hotels, villas and fishermen’s cottages. The closest seaside resort to Germany’s capital.
My initial impression of downtown Rostock was slightly disappointing. Apart from a good long stretch of city wall, it had few buildings left from its Hanseatic days. The depredations of World War II and a half century of living behind the Iron Curtain had seen to that. But it was a cheery place nonetheless: particularly along the main pedestrianised shopping street, Kröpeliner Strasse, dotted with those bits of brick Gothic, Baroque and more recent neo-Renaissance facades that the communist German Democratic Republic (GDR) thought worth keeping.
Different languages were being spoken in the cafes on Kröpeliner’s Universitätsplatz, which is not surprising given that modern Rostock has cruise ships and ferry services to Denmark, Sweden and Lithuania. Many of those visitors were stopping to take photos of Universitätsplatz’s so-called “porno fountain”. Statues from the GDR days are usually propaganda-led, but this square’s open fountain – officially called Brunnen der Lebensfreude – features a joyful collection of human and animal figures in various athletic poses, including a boar doing sit-ups. All are naked, hence “porno”, although the nickname seems a bit unfair, given that huge numbers of statues all around the world are also, as the Germans say, textilfrei (“textile-free”) as were many locals on the nearby beach – but more of that later.
Meanwhile, I had a last surprise in Rostock. The Baltic coast is mostly sandy, so the serious architecture hereabouts is brick, not stone. Especially Rostock’s massive Marienkirche (St Mary’s Church), with its piebald exterior and two treasures inside. One is the huge organ loft, where the Duke of Mecklenburg’s royal box hangs under the 5,700-pipe organ like a gazebo under a hot air balloon. And the other is the 15th-century astronomical clock, the equal of its far more famous cousin in Prague.
This 15th-century clock may not be able to match Prague’s hourly apostle processions for popularity, but while the latter is now electric, Rostock’s clockwork mechanism still needs to be wound every day. It’s also far more easily admired than Prague’s, being mostly at eye level. And besides telling the time and date, and hosting an hourly apostle parade, it has dials detailing things like the phase of the moon, the state of the harvest, and the actual timings of Rostock’s sunrise and sunset.
I didn’t spot anything on there showing when to hit the beach. But by now I’d heard talk of Warnemünde, and I didn’t need an astronomical clock to tell me that 2pm on a hot, sunny summer’s day is the perfect time for the seaside. The S-bahn took just 20 minutes to get to the former fishermen’s village north of the city. A cruise ship was tied up by the quay, a funfair just beyond, and a bridge across a narrow waterway led me to a line of boutiques and bars in former fishermen’s cottages lining a grassy embankment. Below them, moored fishing boats offered all manner of fishy snacks. A happy international crowd mooched through, stopping regularly for pilsner and ice cream.
Warnemünde beach itself stretches westwards, broad and generous, for a couple of miles, backed by a long promenade that starts at the foot of a pivotal lighthouse guarding the river mouth. The view from the top of the lighthouse was magnificent. To the north, the Baltic, dotted with ships, and with a regular flow of ferries. To the east, across the rooftops to the other bank. And finally to the west, along the line of fancy 19th-century villas, past the Hotel Neptun, a landmark property from the GDR days; West Germans were allowed to stay, but every member of staff was supposedly a spy.
That afternoon I dawdled along the beach, through the serried ranks of strandkorbs (rentable beach chairs) colonised by families and the middle-aged. Some of the latter were completely textile-free when they strode out into the warm, shallow sea.
In the evening, there was a shift in gear as a young crowd decanted from the S-bahn and headed for informal beach bars. I settled in at Wal Strandbar, a rustic wooden building with a DJ hut and a sculptural shark’s head sticking out of the roof. The deckchairs here were free, the currywurst was cheap, the beer was chilled, and the sand felt delicious between my toes as I sat and watched the sun go down, among a cool tribe of Gen Zs and millennials. I’d arrived in Berlin-on-Sea.
How to get there
easyJet, British Airways and Eurowings all fly from the UK to Berlin, from which direct trains to Rostock take just over two hours.
Where to stay
Hotel Neptun has doubles from £500 for two nights in September, while the Pentahotel in downtown Rostock offers better value, with B&B doubles at about £115 a night.
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