Czech Republic

 Monday 18th - Thursday 21st January

And so we passed into the Czech Republic. We found ourselves somewhat out of our comfort zone here as no-one had very good, if any, Czech. The going is easy enough: flat agricultural land, interspersed with large areas of forest. It inspired a few people to remember stories from Grimms fairy tales, with some contemporary twists. To say the countryside is sparsely populated is no exaggeration and by the time we reached Belá nad Radbouzou we were quite hungry. It was then that we realised what a large group we had become: sixty-one people descending on a smallish village drew the attention of the locals. They came out to stare. There was a café but the owners were not terribly pleased to see so many of us and it took a long time to get served as the waiter was seen first at the village shop then knocking on doors for extra supplies. 

Out of one of the houses came an imposing woman wrapped in a voluminous overcoat. We could see her trying to count heads. Eventually she came over and fired questions in rapid and incomprehensible Czech. Interpreting her gesticulation, we guessed she wanted answers to the obvious questions so we wrote down the number of pilgrims and showed her our maps. As soon as she realised where we were going and how far we'd come already (we wrote 765 miles down then remembered to convert it to 1,231km) her whole demeanour changed as did that of the assembled locals when she bellowed our news to them. Suddenly we were welcome guests and a coffee stop became a party.

Our friend in the coat pulled a mobile phone out of her huge pocket. She dialled and, while she was waiting, dabbed a broad finger on the map and then indicated her phone. She shouted excitedly at the person who picked up, dabbing all the while at the map. We peered: Horsovsky Tyn. It looked bigger than Belá nad Radbouzou. When she'd finished she looked us in the eye with a smile of satisfaction and said: 'Piotr, Piotr' dabbing again at the map with one hand while indicating food and sleep with the other. The locals nodded in agreement. With only the haziest idea of what it was all about, we smiled and said 'thank you', gathered up our belongings and were escorted cheerfully out of the village.

At the village of Srby the people stood on their doorsteps and waving. Word had got out. We were met outside Horsovsky Tyn by a broad man in a red pickup who introduced himself as Piotr and led us triumphantly into the town centre where it was evident that we were expected and that we provided an excuse for a party.

In a sports hall, beer flowed freely, tables groaned with food labelled in Czech: Vepřo knedlo zelo turned out to be pork with delicious dumplings and Česnečka was a potent garlic soup. There was music and dancing until, eventually, we were led away to soft beds in local houses. How to repay so much wonderful hospitality? They wanted nothing in return but seemed delighted to have had a reason to brighten up a winter Monday evening.

And so it continued: our arrival was expected all along the way so it was just as well we had a good walk in between feasts. The town band of Klatovy turned out in our honour on Tuesday night; on Wednesday we had a warm welcome in Ceske Budejovice and were treated to Svíčková na smetaně, marinated sirloin. With the utmost reluctance we prepared to cross the border into Austria on Thursday afternoon. What wonderful people our Czech hosts were: they entered into the spirit of our adventure and wafted us through their country in a haze of garlic and beer and kindness.

A couple of times as we walked a ghostly figure appeared at my side. When I looked, I was met by the steady brown-eyed gaze of a whippet, a Crusaders' dog, an appropriate link with out forefathers. He trotted quietly by my side for an hour or so and then was gone. I hope I'll see him again.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Week 7 Florence to Santiago de Compostela

Image
Monday 22nd February By the time we have bought new boots and succumbed to an expensive note book bound in gorgeous Italian marbled paper, it is almost lunchtime but we have a long way to go, and new boots to break in. 'Don't throw away the old ones yet!' Instead of sinking into a chair on a Florentine Piazza, we buy picnic food and set off for the coast. Tempting as it is to call in and say hello to the leaning tower of Pisa, we take the more northerly route through Lucca and Viareggio, past the marble quarries at Carrara and on to La Spezia and the Cinque Terre. Here we join the Sentiero Azzurro, the cliff path connecting the five towns with their brightly coloured houses that cling to the steep coastline. It is getting dark by the time we reach Genoa and the new boots have done quite enough for one day. The birthplace of Christopher Columbus seems like a good place for footsore travellers to stop for the night. Tuesday 23rd We set out bright and early. 'Lunch in Mona
Read more

Saturday evening, Sunday morning 23-4 January

Image
Hungary, the bits we've seen of it, is, on the whole flat. We walked on into the dusk and crossed uneventfully into Romania, which promises us mountains. This, we reflected, might be a mixed blessing: easier on the eye, harder on the calf muscles. We were, however, still on the great Hungarian plain even here and couldn't see now, in the dark, whether the landscape before us was changing much. It didn't feel like it.  Eventually we arrived in Timisoara, a city big enough to offer us a comfortable night's rest.  The squares of old city centre are lined with brightly coloured buildings and two cathedrals, the Orthodox and Roman Catholic, stand opposite one another in Piata Unirii, each as elegant and impressive as the other. We weren't surprised when our waiter told us, in perfect English, that Timisoara is know as 'Little Vienna'. He was a chatty fellow (he introduced himself as Phil) who had come away from his plumbing job in Birmingham after the Brexit refe
Read more

Week 6 Greece and Italy

Image
  Monday 15th February Likou was there to meet us as promised, his eyes twinkling from the depths of his wrinkles, on the inland edge of Marathokampos. He looked us up and down. We are walking fit, hardened by almost five thousand miles over every kind of terrain, and his Greek sideways nod said he could see this. Even so, Mount Kerkis rises steeply from the seashore, its rocky head as grizzled as Likou's, an imposing and rugged climb. He set a slow pace at first but, as we bunched behind him Likou, an observer not a talker, picked up speed until we were swinging along at our usual rhythm. Once we had gained some height, instead of taking the trail that led towards the rocks, he turned along the flank of the mountain, heading steadily inland and dropping at length into a green valley spangled with anemones, red, violet, white and humming with bees. Ahead of us the track was lined with brightly coloured hives, like miniature beach huts. Some of us were not keen to go any nearer but
Read more