PT3 - 4:

CZECH REPUBLIC

3^rd July – 7^th July

 

Back home I wouldn’t think twice about driving 5 – 600 kilometres in a day, even more if necessary. But in Europe? Two hundred and fifty’s about par. Apart from the fact there’s a village every five minutes, there’s the sheer amount of foreign language signage, speed limits changing rapidly and regularly, constantly cycling anticlockwise through the mirrors, pedestrians, local traffic, left-hand driving through unfamiliar terrain while trying to follow sketchy directions, sorting your A roads from your B roads from your toll ways, your eintrags from your ausfahrts. Getting out of Vienna was a minor nightmare and I was already mildly stressed when we joined the A22 north to Stockerau.  

The further we travelled away from Vienna the more serene the countryside and my mindset changed with it. The plains unfolded endlessly, seemingly pinned to the milky sky by the hundreds of random church spires piercing the landscape. I was so lost in the rhythm of the road the Czech border appeared quite abruptly, the first actually manned frontier since the Allenby Bridge. The armed guards went about their business politely but matter-of-factly, conducting a cursory search of the car and checking our passports in the little office off to the side of the road. Bugger me, though, if they didn’t stamp Ted’s passport with a sudden burst of hearty good cheer.

Almost immediately we entered Czech the rain returned. Spotty at first, the bruised skies opened up as we approached Prague. Two heavy squalls swept over us one after the other, obscuring vision and instantly flooding the road. I was so busy negotiating the conditions I didn’t notice much peripheral stuff, like the character of the villages we passed through or the nature of the nature. What I couldn’t miss, however, were the Soviet era pop-up apartment boxes on the edges of most towns, a stark reminder of Russian presence here a mere eight years ago.

The trip meter clicked over three hundred and forty kilometres as the first glimpses of Prague appeared in the windscreen. It felt like three thousand. Fortunately the weather eased off as I entered the suburban network and Tess was able to navigate us to the Villa Anna on the south-eastern outskirts. We couldn’t rely on the weather to pitch camp here so it’s another B & B. The Anna was on a major public transport route and room two was comfortable, warm and the shower hot. The ground floor is also a restaurant, the Flambee, which offers what reads like a sensational menu for not much at all. After that it’ll be 25 channels of satellite TV (not Russian). Like hell…I’m stuffed.

*

Karel, our chatty host, prepared written instructions on getting to and from the city on the public transport system. He’d even bought us two tickets. Less than forty minutes by bus and metro later we emerged from under the Museum Building at the top of Vaclavskĕ Nămĕsti, the broad avenue running down the hill to Old Prague. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom and entered the pedestrian friendly old city, the Staremesto, that the true beauty of this Gothic/Baroque jewel shone.

To get a bird’s eye perspective we scaled the Powder Tower, originally constructed in 1475 as one of the city gates but later used to store gunpowder. From here the old town is, like Salzburg, clean, compact and full of bustling life. A short stroll down Celetna brought us out in the expansive town square which is dominated by the clock tower of the old town hall and flanked by pastel Baroque facades. We could see the unimposing frontage of Franz Kafka’s house just off the square on the corner of Maiselova. Busy market stalls ran along the western rim and a band played Bohemian music while two comrades in national costume whirled a couple of young American girls around the pavement in a traditional polka. The dancing skeleton on the astrological clock chimed 2pm. If Vienna is a pompous bore Prague is a colourful, fun-loving country cousin. You had the feeling the locals are still celebrating the end of the Soviet era.

As our route took us towards the Charles Bridge thick black clouds gathered behind Prague castle on the west bank of the beautiful Vltava River in a Transylvanian “I vont to sark your bllard” moment. Unfortunately, it was also a “piss down with rain” moment, forcing us in to the nearest pub for beers and a meal. By the time we emerged the rain had gone, so we strolled across the famous pedestrian bridge, crowded with hawkers and buskers. By the time we reached the other end the rain was back so we made our way home to the Anna. At dinner Karel put us onto Impuls, a bulk warehouse style supermarket where he assured us we could fill the bullet with enough supplies for a month for a modest outlay.

And he was right. We did indeed lay in enough camping supplies to see us off the continent for what amounted to a few bucks. Karel failed to mention the cheap fags and booze; I picked up 50 half coronas for A$28 and a litre of Becherovka, a kick-arse cinnamon-flavoured spirit guaranteed to warm the soles of your feet that Micha put us onto in Jordan, for $A10. Tess loaded up with wine and we chucked in a carton of 12% Budweisers – yep, you read that right – just for good measure. The bullet fairly groaned out of the carpark.

Drizzle was back under heavy skies as we set course for the castle at Konopištĕ (Konnopishter) forty ks south-east of the capital. There was a gut-churning pile up on the freeway north of Benešov, two cars crushed like cigarette packets, which reminded me how easy it would be to end up the same way with a moment’s inattention, especially in the conditions. I was extra watchful for the rest of the journey.

Konopištĕ proved full of surprises. I had no idea it was actually the seat of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, the very same Franz Ferdinand and Sophie assassinated by Gavrilo Princip in Sarajevo in June 1914 to trigger WWI. Their death masks form the centrepiece of a display which also includes what purports to be the actual bullets in question, about the size of starting gun pellets. Their three children saw out the war here, but were interned in Dachau during the Second World War as opponents of Fascism. The two boys died shortly after WWII, while the daughter died only six years ago in her 90s.

The Nazis commandeered the castle as a regional HQ and looted all the Hapsburg treasures when they finished with the place. Much of the stuff was eventually recovered and most of it returned to the chateau, although some pieces are now held in the National Museum in Prague. On display here are FF’s ceremonial uniform, all the elaborate furnishings and an unbelievably extensive collection of armour and weaponry. 

• Random factoid: the average weight of a full kit of armour was about a hundred kilos - sixty for the horse, forty for the rider.

Less engaging are the hunting trophies; deer, bear, wild boar and even a croc. For all that, Konopištĕ is strangely inviting, with a sense of warmth and homeliness you rarely find in these relics of lost grandeur.

On the way out we paused at the raptor enclosure near the gate. Here I saw the biggest bird I’ve ever seen in the flesh, an Eagle Owl. The size of a monkey, only death will free prey from its grip; a fabulously majestic creature with huge unblinking eyes like precious stones. I also had the thrill of hosting a Saker Falcon on my hand.

On the way back to Prague we swerved off to the Hrad Češky Sternberk, a bit of a mouthful for what is only a stately house after all. The tourist hordes had just left but rather than turn us away the two charming young girls at the entrance treated us to a private tour. They kept us engaged and amused with a practised series of quizzes and trick questions about the history of the home. Although much less imposing than Konopištĕ it’s the only noble house in Czech still in private hands. When the communists nationalised it in 1949 they allowed George Sternberk to stay on as castellan, or caretaker. Sternberk outlasted the Soviets and in 1992 the castle reverted to the family, who still occupy the second floor.

A thoroughly interesting and pleasant day, in spite of the relentless drizzle.

*

Prague Castle dominates the capital. It is the largest ancient citadel in the world and has changed hands more times than a poker player. A pastiche of architectural styles from the Gothic to Romanesque to Renaissance to Baroque, it’s been around since 870. It’s best admired from afar though, because it’s pretty much empty; the only thing worth seeing, the national crown jewels, are kept in a concealed compartment deep in the complex.

The most interesting building on the hilltop is St Vitus Cathedral, a vast hymn to Gothic excess illuminated through the most intricate and spectacular stained glass you’re likely to see anywhere. What we really wanted to see now more than another castle or cathedral was dinner at the Anna, so we jumped the metro to Vykupni Podnik – and that’s a sentence I don’t write every day.

If you’re a carnivore like me and you’re ever in Prague, I recommend the Krakanoš; an enormous pork chop with a side of mushrooms and grated potato pancakes flavoured with garlic and marjoram and bulked out with ham, onions, capsicum, tomato and a splash of soy. Tess quite fancied the smoked duck with dumplings and sweet cabbage. Have you ever noticed how quickly a nice red evaporates as soon as you whip out the cork?

Coming up: The road to Berlin...