Tracing My Roots Through Wine and Time in Southwest Germany

(Photo Credit: Depositphotos.com)

I didn’t expect to love it. I’ve always imagined myself French at heart—drawn to the artwork of Cézanne, the lavender fields of Provence, the sheer elegance of a Parisian boulevard. Germany? It was never high on my list.

But there I was, rumbling in a rustic farm wagon through sunlit vineyards of Baden-Württemberg in southwest Germany, sipping a light, fruity Swabian Trollinger as a green tractor pulled us along the winding rows. It was as romantic a setting as any in Bordeaux—and the beginning of a homecoming I never saw coming.

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

Baden-Württemburg, I quickly learned, is the only German state where people drink more wine than beer—a detail that immediately drew me in. After all, I’ve never exactly embraced my German roots.

Though I’m 80 percent German by heritage, my connection to the “motherland” has always felt distant. I remember how my paternal grandmother described speaking German at her parents’ silver anniversary party around 1910, and I still make some of her recipes—beef grits, anis cookies, and others passed down through the generations. Beyond that, the cultural thread is weak. 

Traditional fare like sauerbraten, sauerkraut, and würst never appealed to me. The language strikes my ear as too harsh. The architecture feels austere. And while Germany’s snowcapped mountains and winding rivers are undeniably beautiful, its climate always seems to be cold, gray, and dour. 

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

For most of my life, I wished I was French—the land of Gothic cathedrals, lyrical vowels, more than a thousand types of buttery cheese—and wine! I studied French, lived in Bordeaux, and return to France whenever I can. If identity were determined by affinity, I’d be a Parisian—or maybe Niçoise. But my family tree tells a different story.

Or does it? In Baden-Württemberg, I began to see things differently. 

Heidelberg on the Neckar River was my first stop, home to Germany’s oldest university, founded in 1386, and still pulsing with youthful energy. I wandered down Haspelgasse, a narrow lane brimming with inviting shops, cozy cafés, and ancient student bars. At the historic Café Knösel, established in 1863, I discovered the story behind the Heidelberger Studentenkuss (Heidelberg Student Kiss), a decadent blend of praline, waffle wafer, and chocolate, originally created as a discreet way for students to pass romantic notes. At the nearby Studentenkusshaus shop, I picked up a bright-red box of my own adorned with the iconic silhouette of a kissing couple.

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

Watching over all is the ruined Heidelberg Castle, once the lavish Renaissance residence of the prince electors of the Palatinate. Much of its destruction, I learned on a tour, came at the hands of French troops during the Nine Years’ War in the late 17th century—part of Louis XIV’s ruthless Reunion campaigns. That’s when sparks began flying in my brain: a French invasion. Not exactly the kind of history to romanticize, but could such history have left more than ruined stones behind?

In Schwetzingen, I wandered through one of Europe’s most exquisite palace gardens—an 18th-century blend of English landscape ideals and French formal design. But it was the French-inspired section that stopped me in my tracks: a grand circular parterre framed by elegant, semicircular colonnades and cradle-shaped pergolas of espaliered fruit trees. Classical fountains splashed at regular intervals, and at the garden’s heart stood an open-air theater presided over by a stately Temple of Apollo, god of music, poetry, and light. It was simply magnifique.

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

Moving on to Esslingen, an enchanting medieval town along the Neckar River, I toured the ancient, spider-web-draped cellars and tasted sparkling wine at Kessler Sekt, Germany’s oldest producer. Georg Christian von Kessler, who founded the company in 1826, had trained in France with none other than Veuve Clicquot, the formidable widow who revolutionized the Champagne industry. He brought home (some say stole) the secrets of the méthode champenoise.

And then, of course, there’s the region’s vibrant wine culture, nurtured by some of Germany’s warmest temperatures. The vineyards of Baden, stretched along the River Rhine, mirror the climates of French regions like Alsace, Champagne, and the Loire Valley, producing French grape varieties including Pinot Noir (Spätburgunder), Pinot Gris (Grauburgunder), and Pinot Blanc (Weißburgunder). Farther east, Württemberg distinguishes itself as Germany’s only region specializing in reds. While known especially for Trollinger and Lemberger, it also features Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier. 

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

Scattered across the landscape are picturesque wine villages, award-winning vineyards, cozy wine hotels—and for those who prefer to linger, the 230-mile Neckar Valley Wine Route ambles through tranquil, vine-draped hills along the Neckar River.

As I explored Baden-Württemberg, I found evidence of cultural blending at every turn: German precision wrapped in French flair. France’s presence in the region wasn’t a fleeting occupation. Over the centuries, its armies marched through—including the Nine Years’ War, as well as the 19th-century Napoleonic Wars and Franco-Prussian War, and 20th-century World War II—but so did ideas, tastes, and traditions. They didn’t just conquer; they mingled, lingered, and left traces that still echo in the language, cuisine, and architecture today. 

(Photo Credit: Depositphotos.com)

Could my French leanings somehow trace back to these crossings of culture? A forgotten love story between a local German and a French soldier? I shy away from any thoughts of conquest, but history, like ancestry, is rarely simple. 

I received further proof when I returned home and finally took a DNA test. The results didn’t just confirm what I already suspected; they spelled it out in black and white: my roots run deep in both Germany and France, converging right here in this very corner of Europe. 

Only later did I realize I’d unknowingly driven right past a town where my great-great (possibly even more greats) grandmother—and surely other ancestors—is buried, a tangible link to the German side of my family. I couldn’t help wonder: Did she carry traces of that French connection, too? Was it in her blood, her cooking, her stories left untold? 

(Photo Credit: Barbara Noe Kennedy)

Somehow, I felt my family’s presence in the swirl of cultures that define this region. In the wine, the flair for food, the elegant architecture—it was all there, quietly woven into the landscape and, perhaps, into me.

It felt like a quiet affirmation, as if something ancient within me had always known. How I knew, exactly, remains a mystery. One I’m more than happy to toast with another glass of Swabian wine.

Author Bio:

Highbrow Magazine Contributing Writer Barbara Noe Kennedy is an award-winning writer and editor, who specializes in travel writing. She worked for more than 20 years for the National Geographic Book Division, and she has also written for the Washington Post, National Geographic Traveler, the Los Angeles Times, and Fodor’s — in addition to penning a few books — including 25 Joys of Paris, which was published recently. She is also a Lowell Thomas travel journalism award winner. Barbara has traveled extensively around the world and, along with her husband, is actively involved in helping Zambian students achieve their education and career goals. She writes travel articles for Highbrow Magazine.

For Highbrow Magazine