Legends and stories

The beast of Colmar

The informed visitor of Colmar knows that it is best to steer clear of the rue des Clefs at certain hours of the night. The street, by day a bustling shopping area (the Town Hall is also in the same street) at nightfall becomes the haunt of a terrifying calf, the famous Colmar Nachtkalb.

No one knows exactly how long he has been playing his evil tricks, lowing mightily from his hiding place and sometimes charging poor animals that have wandered away from the safety of their homes or tourists staggering out of the local wistubs, their bellies full of the local wine.

The club of Hercules

Hercules, the half-God, on his way back from the garden of Hesperides, found himself in the region between the Vosges and the Rhine, that would later become Alsace. It was late, hot and he was thirsty. He decided to halt and drank local wine that was (already) good.

Entering an inn, he downed vast quantities of the local wine which was reputed even then and thereupon fell into a deep sleep, his head spinning. When he came to the next morning, his head was aching and he saw that his herd had run off during the night. Rushing off in hot pursuit, he left his club behind. The locals, with their love of all things tidy, eventually placed the forgotten club in the town´s coat of arms. This probably explains why, for as long as can be remembered, the inhabitants of Colmar have been known as the Kolbnarren - the mad clubmen.

The phantom of the milkwoman

If you lie in wait patiently, on certain nights in the rue des Augustins, just next to the prison of Colmar, you can espy the pale, furtive outline of a woman clothed all in white, the phantom of the milkwoman.

The poor woman, many, many years ago, was caught adding water to her milk and God, from a sense of justice, obliged her to return every night, in her penitent´s garb, to throw the offending liquid into the well of the Augustinians.

The mysterious horse with no body

Seldom seen, but even more terrifying, on certain days of the year around midnight, there can be heard whinnying and the clattering of hooves on some stairways, heralding the fleeting glimpse of the bodiless, emaciated head of a galloping nag.