It’s the end of a warm evening in Nuremberg, and the sky over the river has turned peach and gold. The old half-timbered Weinstadel leans over the water with its steep red roof, the stone tower stands guard beside it, and the covered bridge curves across to the far bank.

Everything is reflected in the still river, and a great weeping willow trails its branches in on the right. You can almost hear the water lapping at the stonework. Is this the moment to stop and watch the light go?