You climb down steep wooden steps from the clifftop, each landing offering new angles on the contorted trees that gave Gespensterwald its name. Beech trunks lean at forty-five degrees, their exposed roots gripping the eroding bluff like desperate fingers. The wind has sculpted every branch into curves and spirals, and in fog—which rolls in most mornings—the effect turns genuinely eerie, these botanical skeletons emerging from gray nothing above the sand.
“You watch a primeval forest losing its centuries-long battle with coastal erosion in real time, one storm at a time.”
Crashing wave at sunset
The beach itself runs narrow and wild, hemmed between the unstable cliff and the Baltic's persistent gnawing. After storms, you'll find whole trees newly fallen, their root balls torn free, bark still bleeding sap. The sand here mixes with clay and small stones, and the waterline shifts dramatically with each season's weather. You spread your towel in the shadow of the forest, feeling the particular microclimate where cool woodland air meets maritime warmth, where the scent is equal parts humus and brine.
Photographers arrive at dawn when the low light turns everything gold and purple, when morning mist threads between the twisted trunks. You've seen the Instagram posts—they don't exaggerate. But the best moments come when you're alone here on a weekday afternoon, watching the forest's slow-motion surrender to the sea, these ancient beeches making their final stand above waves that will inevitably win.
