The wrong way to Nymphenburg Palace
Sometimes the best things happen by accident. In my case, it was Google Maps. Rather than sending me to the wrong destination (or over an unfinished bridge), Google conspired to take me on a delightful detour—through the grounds of a palace. Not just any palace, but the Nymphenburg Palace in Munich—entered from entirely the wrong direction.
When I travel, I like to give myself freedom. I’ll pick two or three things to do ahead of time, then leave the rest open to chance. The joy of this approach is that every day can surprise you, and that day’s surprise came courtesy of a phone app.
Google Maps was adamant: take the S-Bahn to Obermenzing, then walk a short distance to the palace. The destination seemed clear enough. I had chosen Nymphenburg because, well, it was a palace—and after crossing the Alps from Venice by train, I was curious to see how the grandeur of the German Baroque might compare to the Italian.
Stepping out of the station, however, I found myself on a quiet suburban street. Elegant houses, yes—but no palace in sight. The route wound through well-kept gardens, but the only sign of royal architecture was the polite certainty of my map. Surely Google couldn’t be wrong?
At the end of the street, a narrow path disappeared into the trees, ending at a single, muddy doorway in an anonymous concrete wall. It was small, almost secretive. According to my phone, this was the entrance. With a mixture of curiosity and mild trepidation, I opened the door and stepped through.
On the other side was a wooded and muddy path. Joggers and walkers passed me without concern, which reassured me that I hadn’t accidentally trespassed. The scene was pastoral and peaceful—brooks bubbling under arched bridges, the scent of pine and damp earth, and birdsong echoing between the trees. It was idyllic in an calm and effortless way.
After a while, I came upon a small villa—Amalienburg, I later learned—a Rococo hunting lodge built in the 1730s by the court architect François de Cuvilliés the Elder for Electress Amalie. Inside, it was an ornate jewel box of mirrors, sky-blue stucco, and silver leaf. I wasn’t alone: a kindly attendant greeted me and, intrigued by my unusual route, offered me a map covered in pen circles. “Follow the fountains,” he advised with a grin. He was clearly excited I had come in the wrong way.
His advice proved excellent. The Nymphenburg Park covers roughly 200 hectares, laid out in the late 17th century by Henrico Zuccalli and later transformed by landscape architect Friedrich Ludwig von Sckell. It was one of Europe’s first large-scale Baroque gardens—a blend of strict geometry and natural Romanticism.
As I followed the water channels, I passed deer grazing in the meadows, ornate pavilions like the Badenburg, which houses what is reputed to be Europe’s first heated indoor swimming pool, and the Pagodenburg, inspired by early 18th-century fascination with Chinese design.
Eventually, I reached a roaring fountain ringed by sculptures of classical gods and goddesses, and there—finally—was the palace itself, a distant vast façade gleaming across the central canal. The approach, though unintended, turned out to be theatrical in design.
Later I read that 18th-century visitors often experienced such gardens as a kind of promenade theatre: you began in the wilderness, and the architecture gradually revealed itself, each pavilion a “scene” in a choreographed sequence. The palace was the grand finale, a revelation at the end of a carefully staged journey.
Inside, Nymphenburg did not disappoint—frescoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and sweeping halls that once hosted Bavaria’s Wittelsbach dynasty. The main hall, the Steinerner Saal, remains one of the most magnificent examples of Bavarian Rococo—vaulted, gilded, and luminous.
So if you ever find yourself in Munich, take my advice: enter Nymphenburg Palace the wrong way. Let Google lead you astray. Follow the fountains, get a little lost, and let the palace find you.
To learn more visit: Nymphenburg Palace website
