How Krumlov became Cesky

From Prague we took a three-hour shuttle to the handsome little city of Cesky Krumlov, described on many itineraries passing through the Czech Republic as a miniature Prague. It was evidence that even near the Austrian-Czech border, where Krumlov stood, Prague's shadow loomed large.

Below: Cesky Krumlov from the castle ramparts - Krumlov deriving from the German words for crooked meadow (you can see why here, though the meadow has long since been built up), and Cesky meaning Czech.

The Name of the Krumlov

Cesky Krumlov huddles round a particularly winding stretch of the Vltava River, many meandering miles upstream of Prague and a vital trade route linking the Danubian lands to the south and the rest of the Bohemian plateau to the north. In fact, the city derived its name from the shape of the river course in this neighbourhood - Krumlov is a Czech rendering of the original German words for crooked meadow. The Cesky that prefaces Krumlov means Czech, which seems fairly obvious given its geographical location. But the prefix was deliberate, and Krumlov by any other name would not have sounded as sweet to the fledgling interwar republic of Czechoslovakia.

Below: A fuller panorama from the hillier left bank of the old town. The town on both banks has been enclosed neatly by the river Vltava into opposing bulb-shaped peninsulas, its layout resembling the ancient yin-yang diagram with castle dominating one bank and church the other.

Much of the way since our journey began in Tallinn took us through areas which previously saw significant German settlement. Krumlov was no exception. Readers who recall their secondary school history lessons may find the German name for the Krumlov region very familiar - Sudetenland, that crescent-shaped slice of Czechoslovakia trothed to Hitler, Chamberlain's hecatomb to secure peace for our time.

During the post-imperial free-for-all at the end of the First World War, the Czechoslovak army forcibly incorporated the region into the republic after its German-speaking majority had opted to join Austria. The city's renaming served nominally to cement its claim to the territory. A generation later, following the upheaval of yet another European conflagration, the Germans in these parts were, like in Gdansk and Wroclaw, driven out of their ancestral homes at the end of the Second World War. Whether or not the expulsion and the inevitable extrajudiciary killings which accompanied it were justifiable is still a matter of controversy even today.

Below: Two of the many restaurants that litter the old town. Many of these buildings were once owned by Krumlov's German residents, expelled en masse after the Second World War.

The Yin and the Yang of Krumlov

While there is no shortage of accommodation options within Krumlov, many choose to visit on a very long day trip from Prague, to which Krumlov is often, inescapably, compared. Yet while Prague's impressive array of sights can appear to first-time visitors to be hard to swallow, Krumlov's are positively digestible and easily coverable in a dedicated half-day's worth of exploration.

Below: It's quite impossible to get lost in Krumlov's charming pocket-sized warren of cobblestone streets, with the three towers which dominate its skyline providing ample navigational assistance. Right below, on the flight of steps leading to the castle gate from the Latran quarter are those belonging to the churches of St Vitus (left) and St Jost (right). The bottommost picture shows the candy cane that is the Castle Tower.

There is a certain monadic harmony to Krumlov's urban geography too. The old town consists of two opposing bulb-shaped promontories, separated by the river, which interlock almost perfectly. Represented cartographically, the layout resembles almost uncannily the circular black and white yin-yang diagram.

Like Prague, the hillier left bank is topped by the sprawling castle complex. The castle's hulking profile is mirrored on the right bank by St Vitus Church, all the more prominent for the flatter topography which prevails there. This diametric arrangement is full of symbolism, redolent of the dualistic partitioning of the rest of the Western world into Heavenly and Earthly Kingdoms.

Below: Krumlov's city upon a hill, crowned by St Vitus Church.

Viewfinders

Such is Krumlov's iconic beauty that we spent much of our time there scouting out its best vantage points. There are several of note, each presenting a different facet. Many consider the castle walls to offer the best views, which captured nicely the old town nestling snugly against the bend of the Vltava.

There are a few ways to get to the castle gate from the old town on the right bank, all of which involve walking uphill and passing through the quarter called Latran at the base of the castle. The complex is a potpourri of different architectural styles, which reflect the several changes in ownership it underwent since its establishment in the thirteenth century. The most crowded spots are on its westernmost ramparts just after the distinctive three-tiered bridge, where the loop in the Vltava is most visible. Bring a selfie stick, a very tall tripod or a drone if you'd like a photograph with the feature.

Below (top to bottom): The three-tiered bridge connecting both ends of the castle, as seen from the right bank; the castle complex viewed from the bottom, looking like a huge pile of bones; even in the drizzle, breathing space on the castle ramparts was at a premium.

But the castle viewpoints, while undoubtedly excellent, only present half of the old town. If you'd like a panorama of old town's main landmarks, head south to Nad Schody street. The most agreeable spot is at its western end, right before a rusty gate (private property) and in front of a three-storeyed brick building which had seen better days. Being an unheralded spot (it's simply an ordinary street with unusually good views), we hadn't needed to jostle for views. Krumlov from Nad Schody looked like what it would have done in the Communist era - quiet, quaint and decidedly dilapidated if you look at the immediate environs.

Below: The other Krumlov, as seen from nad Schody street south of the old town. Both the castle and the old town are visible, though not the river, and we only had a cat for company.

Pronouncing judgement on which viewpoint was the best is like wading into the interminable quagmire that is the power struggle between church and state in medieval Europe. We enjoyed both, and not for the last time, rued only the rain.

Hrad Karlstejn: The House that Charles Built

More than being another footnote to the fairy tale narratives woven around the Czech capital, the story of Karlstejn Castle is intimately intertwined with the story of the man who ordered its construction, and whose life has since become a hagiography of the Czech nation.

Below: Possibly the best view of Karlstejn Castle in the rolling Czech countryside all around.

This year, Prague celebrates the 700th birthday of King Charles IV, who is widely recognised in the country as one of three Fathers of the Czechs. Charles of Luxembourg was both King of Bohemia and Holy Roman Emperor in the fourteenth century. Deemed by many historians to be the man behind Prague's Golden Age, Charles aspired for Prague what Constantine once achieved for Byzantium - to become a new Rome. Prague became a personal project of piety writ large, adorned as it was with a slew of new churches and cathedrals and trebling its size.

Charles relied on his burgeoning collection of holy relics to build up the sanctity of his imperial capital. A new crown, bedecked with precious stones, was commissioned for the kingdom of Bohemia, to reflect the prestige that now accrued to its king who was recognised also as the foremost monarch in Western Christendom. A castle was constructed some 30 kilometres southwest of Prague both to function as Charles' private residence and to store these treasures, and thus was Karlstejn Castle born.

Above: A map of the Karlstejn vicinity. The train station (unlabeled) is southwest, across the Berounka River, of the village. We took the yellow path that led from the station northeast to the castle, following it as it turned right just beneath the castle walls. The picture above was taken in the oblong beige space which the yellow path dissects, as it continues southeast.

Below: It's quite impossible to miss the castle once in the village, the latter neither the first nor last in this corner of the world to be dominated by the former.

It's a wonderful story. Only, Charles was only half-Czech. It is well known that Charles hailed on his father's side from a dynasty with roots in the Low Countries far to the northwest. What is not so well known is how the castle walls which were to house some of Christianity's holiest treasures were raised by labourers brought in from Palestine.

Karlstejn Castle sits snugly within the wooded valley of the Berounka River. For a storehouse, the keep's location could not have been more cunningly chosen. The castle, despite commanding a hilltop location, was screened by the surrounding hills so that those approaching could not see it until the very final approach.

Above: The castle's location was cunningly chosen, screened as it is by surrounding hills and visible only at the final approach (uphill) to its gates. Passing by on the train, we were afforded only a second's glimpse before the castle was swallowed up again by the hills.

Below: The river Berounka, which empties into the Vltava, on a windless winter's day.

It was midweek and midwinter when we visited, and not for the first time we relished the thought of having the entire castle to ourselves. But walking into Karlstejn village just beneath the castle it seemed instead that we had wandered into a different sort of tale - more post-apocalyptic than pastoral. The silence on the close to lifeless streets was broken only by the odd passing resident, each of whom looked very surprised to find two very non-European visitors wandering about their village.

Below: The only footsteps echoing on the streets that day.

The only shop open in town was Doma Cafe. The co-owner was Karolina, an amiable young lady who hailed from the mountainous Czech-Slovak-Polish tri-border region and with whom we had a lively exchange over tea and cake (by this time we had developed a fondness for Bohemian honeycakes). We learnt that her family had connections as cosmopolitan as the castle. Having witnessed her two sisters marry respectively an Algerian and a Jamaican, Karolina has been on the receiving end of endless jokes for marrying locally. Her fiance is actually Polish.

From Doma Cafe we turned left and followed the only road through the village northwards towards the castle. This passed rows of houses built right under the shadow of the castle. Where the slope steepened and the road started to meander, we turned right into a small path that led into the forest. This climbed gently along a little gully before emerging in a meadow between two hills. Serious walkers, most of them Czech, would continue beyond the meadow to better explore the rolling Bohemian karst landscape.

Below: Wandering off the main village road and into the surrounding woods to get better views (see first picture).

But the furthest we got was the closest bench (a distant 200 metres into the meadow), from where we enjoyed agreeable views of Karlstejn Castle towering like a dreadnought above a sea of green. It was the view we came for, which helped a great deal to mitigate the earlier disappointment of walking into a virtual ghost town.

After all, we still had pretty much the entire village to ourselves.

Logistics

Visits to Karlstejn are usually undertaken as day trips from Prague. The village is served by frequent trains from the main station in Prague. Approaching from Prague, one can snatch glimpses of the castle on the train's right as it passes a gap in the hills. Once at Karlstejn, signs point the way to the castle. Opening hours vary, and depend on the time of year (visit https://www.hradkarlstejn.cz/en/plan-your-visit/opening-hours for more information). At the time of our visit near the end of January, the castle (and much of the town) hadn't yet reopened after the Christmas-New Year festive period.

Below: Karlstejn train station, look out for it because you might miss the castle on the way here.

Prague Spring

It was meant still to be deep winter when we visited Prague at the tail end of January. Indeed we hoped to see this city of a thousand spires sparkling enchantingly under a layer of snow. Hope often deceives - we endured spells of sunshine amidst temperatures of around 10 degrees Celsius. Hang on, do I sound like I'm complaining? Yet it looked to be the destiny of Prague springs to promise much and deliver little.

Below: Our favourite spot in Prague, overlooking the gentle Vltava valley and the arched grace of its many bridges.

Bohemian Rhapsody

The poster girl of Eastern European tourism, Prague manages to be regal, ravishing and rhapsodic all at once. Time seems to stand still in this bejewelled and much beloved city. There seems hardly to be any room for the city's rich history amidst the droves of self-absorbed spire-seekers jostling in its streets. But it is nigh on impossible not to be self-absorbed in Prague. Looking from the castle ramparts at dusk towards the Old Town, often aglow in a golden haze - snow or no snow - the opening verses of Queen's immortal song spring to mind. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Below (top to bottom): the impressive spire-scape in the Old Town Square, boasting from left to right the Astronomical Clock Tower, the Church of St Nicholas and the Church of Our Lady before Tyn; the view from near the Astronomical Clock, where crowds gather like clockwork on the hour to witness the elaborate passage of time.

Like the rest of the song, the city is an eclectic admixture of human attempts both febrile and feeble to fashion the beautiful. And like the rest of the song, he who delves into the city's past finds a profound darkness barely concealed by the veil of nonchalant gaiety which some have come to associate with the term Bohemian. Although it has come a long way from its early days as a slaving station, Prague hardly stands aloof from the long civil war that is European history. The city even has a place in the violence hall of fame. Twice, Prague witnessed defenestrations (an act which usually involves throwing hapless subjects of popular wrath out of the window) which sparked long ruinous wars in the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries. The former was a vicious civil war that involved Czechs condemning (and burning) one another as heretics. The latter, known to posterity as Thirty Years' War, was Europe's most destructive conflict until the cataclysm of 1914.

Below: The Jan Hus Memorial near the northeastern corner of the Old Town Square, commemorating the fourteenth century reformer whose efforts led to civil war. Nearly two centuries before Martin Luther, Hus railed against the corruption of the Catholic Church and pushed for the use of, in place of unfamiliar high-flown Latin, the local vernacular in worship. Incidentally, the square also saw the dying agonies of Hussites and burnt at the stake.

It was as if the embers still smothered when we arrived at Florenc bus station. Smoke hugged every step of our twenty-minute walk to the apartment we booked. This was born of tobacco and not gunpowder, though we didn't know which was worse. It wasn't apparent to us before, but it seemed that every other person in Prague had a cigarette clasped by either lip or finger.

Our apartment Pragapart was run by a Georgian-Czech family whose heritage was given away by their large collection of Russian DVDs in the reception. It stood just two minutes' walk off Wenceslas Square, where the Old and the New Towns met. Today's Czech Republic was born at Wenceslas Square in November 1989, when what began ostensibly as a commemoration of International Students' Day gathered pace and led ten days later to the collapse of communism in then Czechoslovakia. Dubbed the Velvet Revolution because everybody kept their heads (literally and figuratively speaking), this and the Velvet Divorce which spelt the end of Europe's most unpronounceable state in 1993 (the state broke up into the Czech and Slovak Republics) were heralded for their anomalously peaceful resolutions. These in fact numbered as one of the few occasions when European discord wasn't settled by a decisive show of force.

Below: Wenceslas Square, where the Czech Republic we know today was born in 1989 and where the Old and New Towns met.

Our Winter's Tale

We sought as much as possible to avoid the throngs, which formed around the usual attractions - namely, the Astronomical Clock at the Old Town Square, the entrance to Prague Castle and Charles Bridge. Brief drizzles apart, the weather was quite delightful, and we wondered how it was still only January.

Below: Front and back views of St Vitus Cathedral in the castle complex, possibly the most photographed landmark in Prague where Bohemian monarchs (many of whom also occupied the throne of the Holy Roman Empire) were crowned and (some of them) buried.

Prague owes much of its beauty to its location in the winding wooded valley of the Vltava, a blue ribbon across a rolling sea of tiled roofs, stately domes and iron spires. The aforementioned attractions also proffered the most popular blockbuster views, where the desired panorama often unfolded above a tousled, polychrome bar of hats and hair - felt, velvet, polyester, matt, auburn and blonde. We decided on two other vantage points where the same views could be savoured without having to vie for elbow room. These we covered at either end of a long day's walk, and were situated on the hilly slopes of the Vltava's left bank where the castle also stands.

Below (top to bottom): A walk along the Vltava yields possibly the most famous view of the Prague Castle complex from across the Vltava; and also of Art Nouveau facades south of the Old Town.

The first was Strahov Monastery, a Premonstratensian (named after the order's place of origin and not any inherent predilection to preach) establishment which boosts two magnificent libraries. The monastery could be reached by following the famous Nerudova Street (which once linked the castle across Charles Bridge to the Old Town) uphill from the Mala Strana. We left the Nerudova as it turned north towards the castle. At that point the views began and the street became refreshingly quiet. Disappointingly, we could only admire the libraries' gilded splendour from behind a simple barricade. It had been a while since we were last in a silent library.

Above: Strahov Monastery, west of Prague Castle and an unheralded location from where marvellous views could be savoured of the Old Town.

Below: Eyes only were allowed to roam the beautiful libraries to which visitors to the Strahov often flock.

After the Strahov, we walked northeast through the castle grounds to Letensky profil - the second viewpoint and possibly my favourite spot in Prague. Set on a bluff at the edge of a out-of-the-way city park, Letensky profil offers arguably the best view of the city's bridges. Few tourists knew of or bothered to get there. Apart from a few dedicated photography enthusiasts, the only people we encountered were locals either walking their dogs or exercising. We got there just in time for dinner, which we had at the adjacent Letensky zamecek. There was no other alternative. Romantic views alone did not staunch Mary's pressing hunger.

Below (top to bottom): The perfect Prague evening involves first watching the sun go down from Letensky profil, a viewpoint north of the Old Town; and then enjoying dinner at the Letensky zamecek, the restaurant just behind.

Hints of home

Prague also marked six weeks away from home for us. We missed the warmth and regular daylight hours of Singapore's eternal summer, and thought sometimes about char kway teow and kway chap (especially at night when our rumbling stomachs complained about suppers taken too early). Yet it was still mostly manageable, and we had not then stepped yet into the Eastern Europe shunned by tourists and comfortable infrastructure. A visit to an Asian fastfood restaurant on our first evening in Prague changed all that.

Whilst the green curry we ordered wasn't all that fantastic, it provided the most immediate reminder of home we've had thus far. Henceforth, each picture on Facebook or Instagram taken in Singapore triggered little pangs of longing. It didn't help that these depicted the revelry of pre-Chinese New Year festivities - of tub after tub of pineapple tarts and bakkwa, lor hei-strewn tables and pun memes involving festive greetings and animals from the Chinese zodiac.

With Vienna and Budapest still to look forward to, the tipping point came much later. But where homesickness was concerned, it was evident that we crossed some sort of Rubicon when we arrived at the Danube.

I blame the Czech attempt at Thai green curry.

Bratislava: Once and future princeling of the Danube

On a snowy afternoon, we finally arrived in the little big city of Bratislava - all many ever associate with Slovakia, and the once and future princeling of the Danube (or Dunaj, as the famous river is know in Slovak).

Below: Bratislava Castle and historical prominence, all water under the bridge.

Once and future princeling, or forgotten king?

Bratislava was the first of three cities (the other two being the usual suspects of Vienna and Budapest) we would visit on the Danube, accounted mighty amongst Europe's rivers. Yet many travellers would typically devote more time to Vienna and Budapest, and Bratislava would be for them a place to break the journey between the two - a lesser light amongst shinier jewels and where visitors may proclaim there I've been to Slovakia.

It wasn't always the case. The site occupied today by the Slovakian capital had always been valued as a place where north-south and east-west trading routes converged. The Celts and then the Romans were there long before Slavs, Germans and Hungarians arrived on the scene. Centuries before the city officially became Bratislava in 1919, it enjoyed a celebrated history as Pressburg (in German) and Pozsony (Hungarian). Under the above names, the city became the capital of the Hungarian kingdom between 1536 (when the previous capital Buda was taken by the Ottomans) and 1784. During this time, Buda (still separate from Pest) by contrast was a relative backwater. It was the fateful decision by Joseph II in 1784 to move the capital back to Buda which consigned Bratislava to the slide into its present provinciality.

Below (top to bottom): The yard at St Martin's, the cathedral where Hungarian monarchs were crowned; St Michael's Gate, the northern entrance to the Old Town and the sole surviving gate from its medieval fortifications.

Bratislava in a day, or ten minutes

We set aside three days in Bratislava in yet another of our periodic slowdowns amidst being constantly on the go. One day, however, is enough to take in the main sights in town. If city panoramas from a lofty viewpoint suffices for you, then that figure can be further reduced to ten minutes. (Time was when travelling as a student in a bygone era without smart devices, I would make a city's highest point the second stop - after the tourist information centre.) This can be obtained from several places, most notably from Bratislava Castle, the viewing deck atop Novy Most (New Bridge, popularly called the UFO Bridge because of its saucer-shaped viewing deck at its atop) and St Michael's Gate. We recommend the second if only because both the castle and the entire Old Town can be seen together.

Above: Views of the Danube, or the Dunaj as it is called in Slovak, and the Old Town from the Novy Most (New Bridge) viewing deck.

Below (top to bottom): From the same vantage point, one can peer into Hungary (wind farms); and Austria (hills) too; Novy Most looking most convincingly like its nickname on a foggy evening.

 

The good, the bad and the ugly

We remembered Bratislava less for its landmarks than for the people we met there. Nothing serves up the universality of humanity - immeasurable yet intimate, familiar yet foreign - more thrillingly than meeting people on the road. With one's perceptiveness heightened by a profound vulnerability, kindness is for the spirit ether to rudeness's brimstone. Good, bad and ugly were juxtaposed as if in a morality play.

We started with good, thankfully - for good is harder to mar when established than to make when absent. Igor lives with his family in the unit next to our hostel, and gave us so comprehensive an introduction to the city that we might as well have taken it for sightseeing. He also teaches at a school for the visually impaired. The hostel job was taken on to supplement the meagre salaries teachers received in Slovakia. (Incidentally, there was a teachers' strike the following day.) Knowing Braille is useful though, I later remarked. A half-smile formed on Igor's face. Yes, but we hope we won't need to use it, was his terse response.

Below: Another view of the castle from Obchodna Street where our hostel was.

We had a vastly different reception when we went to the train station to get tickets for Prague. The cashier's glare as we approached her (we'll refer henceforth to her as Nemesis) counter would have turned even Medusa to stone. Her volcanic outburst came when we discovered the price we paid was twice that advertised on the Internet. To cut a long story short, her (much) friendlier colleague at the customer service centre explained that the discounted fares can only be obtained online (which didn't exist) and then wrote us a refund note in Slovak. When we returned to Nemesis and later asked (very nicely) if she could reissue the tickets at the discounted price, she flew inexplicably into a rage. Internet! Internet! she thundered. I raised my hands in mock surrender. It's okay, don't be angry, your internet isn't working. If condescension could be honeyed, this would come close. Inexplicably it softened her tone, although she still had unapproachable written all over a sullen face.

I suppose it all adds to the romance of the unheralded train journey we earlier wrote about - travellers still have the run the old-school gauntlet of buying tickets from cantankerous cashiers.

Below (top to bottom): Watching mechanical chefs air-bake imaginary confectionery outside a lavishly decorated tea room. If only all our interaction with service staff could be so deliciously straightforward.

Now, the ugly - Nemesis might have been a mere inconvenience, but what follows is a lot harder to swallow. As we posed sillily near the iconic Cumil statue downtown, a Kazakh girl approached us hesitantly. Can I walk with you? We hesitated too. And then the reasons came along - a gaggle of well-dressed girls on her tail, Romani by the looks of it, one of whom shoved an umbrella into the Kazakh lady's face as we watched in stunned silence. They walked away soon after, and our expanded party broke again into its constituent components by the next junction.

Where do we even begin to unravel these tangled layers of discrimination? Although not all the facts have been established, the act we witnessed seemed to confirm one thing. In a world (outwardly at least) aspiring to be colourblind, only that pathogen we call prejudice really operates regardless of colour. At this point, green seems to be the only unaffected hue.

Not for long methinks. Race, religion, language - they're all fair game.

Below (top to bottom): Mary puts her foot down on voyeurism, at the iconic Cumil statue where we witnessed a very disturbing instance of public (read, racialised) bullying; elsewhere, disturbance comes in the form of my wife's preference of tin men over me.

The latest Green movement

We visited just five weeks before Slovakia's next parliamentary elections. Everywhere the benevolent faces of candidates courted from billboards and buses the votes of passers-by, delivering pomp and promises as bread and beatitudes. Moving Slovakia forward, one said. Slovakia, a better place to live, another read. One of the more eye-catching ones (it has certainly caught the attention of the foreign media) declared, next to the steely gaze of present Prime Minister Robert Fico, Protect Slovakia. In a recent widely-reported rally, he announced that if elected he would close Slovakia's doors to Muslim migrants. - bold claims made on behalf of a city with a distinctly un-Slovak history.

Below: A scene from a city cemetery on our last morning in Bratislava, eerily  representative of the latest turn in Slovak politics.

Having said all that, I'd still urge readers to visit Slovakia. The mountains are really worth seeing. They are probably the only places in Slovakia where white, green and brown sit by each other harmoniously.