Take a deep breath......
Pick yourself up,
Take a deep breath,
Dust yourself off
And start all over again.
Dorothy Fields / Jerome Kern
Curses! I hate Europe(an Sleepers!) On my way south and east, the company had downgraded me from Sleeper to Couchette, citing ‘technical issues.’ Now, with only days before the return, I am emailed to say the same will apply for the leg from Prague to Brussels. Curses!
As has often been said, it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, and much of the attraction of travel for me has always been in the anticipation. Like my father before me, I spend much time planning routes, choosing places to stay and sometimes even places to eat, things to see and do – and that is part of the pleasure.
When I was much younger, I enjoyed the chaos of Italian trains, standing in the corridor with no room to move, or spending nights sitting in compartments with smoking soldiers in Yugoslavia, even perching on the step of an open train door travelling through the night north of Madrid. I rode trains up and down India and across Africa, excited by the experience, and not too bothered about creature comforts.
But now, having clocked up my three score and ten, I like a little luxury now and then. I worked for it! And the journeys between Brussels and Prague were supposed to be spent in Sleeping Cars, not Couchettes, saving nights in hotels and arriving reasonably rested.
But curses! These plans have been foiled and I will not trust the company, ‘European Sleepers,’ again! They even had the cheek to email me yesterday about their new sleeper deal to Venice – but no way can I contemplate that now, and I advise all to beware this particular outfit.
Some will say they told me so! Some will blame Europe – but I don’t. Some will blame capitalism, others communism – but I don’t.
No, I suspect the problem is something to do with an inexperienced start up business without the expertise or the infrastructure to live up to their aims. But I don’t know. What I do know is that this trip has been tainted by these let downs, and by the discomfort of dirty carriages and compartments, poor service, delays and no attempt at apology.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, yes. Brno (pronounced Burn-oh). This was the main focus of the expedition, though I wasn’t quite sure about it, as Brno is the capital of Moravia and the second largest city in Czechia (with nearly half a million people) and was once a busy industrial town (mainly textiles) when it wasn’t being fought over (the battle of Austerlitz – also known as The Battle of the Three Emperors - took place only a few miles down the road) ..... But it turns out OK.
The people are friendly and Špilberk Castle, a hefty building atop a hill with a terrifying history, is actually rather fine, and the third-floor rooms are filled with Czech art, and there’s hardly anyone around.
Across the city there is the Villa Tugendhat, designed and built in 1929/30 by Mies van der Rohe, for a wealthy industrialist. This is the only example of modern architecture in the Czech Republic inscribed in the list of UNESCO World Cultural Heritage sites and was the inspiration for my friend Simon Mawer’s 2009 Man Booker Prize shortlisted novel, ‘The Glass Room.’
Thanks to Simon I join a guided tour in English (my Czech wouldn’t even bounce) and am impressed by the sense of floating space in the living areas, the beautiful onyx wall, and the views across the city to the Cathedral and the Castle. The design, engineering, and the use of materials, were revolutionary and still, almost a hundred years later, feel modern. You wouldn’t be surprised to see it on Grand Designs!
Although, (pace Simon) having followed Kevin McCloud’s progress from his Dunstable upbringing, I cannot help but feel that even he may occasionally doubt that the outcome of expensive projects will necessarily lead to eternal partnerships of harmony and light. Certainly, the story of ‘The Glass Room’ is not a reflection of serene happiness.
But, yes, Brno is a hit. I visit the Žlutý kopec Water Tanks, and test for Echoes, wondering where Narcissus is (You don’t know? Ed.) I drink Burcák (pronounced Boor-chark) from girls in stalls on the street. This is essentially the first fermentation of the grape harvest, and is thick, sweet, and not too strong (like me, he jested - That's a jest? Ed)....
And then it is time to leave. Next stop Vienna, a city haunted, for me, by memories of previous visits. OK, the first time was in 1978, when I attempted to drive a flock of my students through the remains of Graham Greene’s imagination as well as the whole gamut of tourist attractions from the Prater to the Boys’ Choir.
But since then, Amanda and I checked in and sipped Wiener Melanges in Café Hawelka, and got dazzled by Klimt and Schiele. And so, although I am travelling with an old friend, I cannot help but feel alone in the midst of the morass of touring humanity. In the swirling throngs of tourists (yes, I know I am one too!) I feel I am drowning in a dark vat of microplastic chips, and I cannot tell up from down.
I had a dream the other night. I was trying to get away from a truck of soldiers in grey uniforms. I scrambled bareback onto a beautiful chestnut horse, and we leapt over a fence and across a field at full pelt, then crashed through a dense hedge and I came adrift, slipping back off my mount but grabbing desperately for its tail as it tore away. Then I was alone, adrift, the soldiers approaching.
I wanted to go back to the Albertina, but the queues, even late into Saturday evening, were down the steps and along the street. In St Stephen’s cathedral the aisles are as crowded as Euston on a Friday afternoon, and about as religious.
But Sunday is different, and I get to pay my respects to Chagall et al in the Albertina after all, without too much hassle, and then head out to Grinzing for lunch at a fabulous Heuriger (Zanderfilet – pike perch - with Riesling, then Zwetschkenknodel – plum dumpling – with Trilogie, then coffee with Müllers schnapps....) Then, for a wonderful view (and some fresh air) up to Kahlenberg Hill. Take a deep breath!
It isn’t far from Vienna to the Bohemian diamond, and I spend a very pleasant afternoon walking by the vast Svět fish pond at Třeboň.
It’s a small town, around 450 metres above sea level, and though the sun is kind in the day, the evening becomes fresh, and the streets empty.
Though this is somewhere new to me, the dark emptiness oppresses me. It is now eight months since Amanda died, and though I know I won’t see her again, of course I still miss her terribly. It wasn’t a shock when she died – it was something of a relief, after the years of decline and suffering – but there is no getting away from the loneliness. Looking back, all the good times just made me sadder, so now it is time to look forward, even though all sorts of needles prick my nerves.
I begin to blame her for leaving me, then I reprimand myself for such selfish thoughts, such shameful self-pity. She would tell me not to be so foolish. She would say, take a deep breath, dust yourself off, pick yourself up and start all over again. Who would have thought that in the depths of Bohemia, Jerome Kern (as voiced by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers) would be giving me strength?
The last stages of my journey see me passing through Tábor, four times as large as Třeboň, but really much the same. Again, lots of carp and beer.....
Then Prague, with a resident population of around 1.3 million and (according to data from the Czech Statistical Office) 7.4 million tourists – both domestic and international – in 2023. It is hard to make progress through the Old Town Square and the Castle is impossible.
Amanda and I first came here in around 1986, when it was relatively quiet, and then we visited again about eight years ago, when she was already failing, but it was still manageable.
This time I make a trip out to Karlstejn
to avoid the crowds, and then fill in an hour or so at the Strahovský klášter (the Strahov Monastery) whose astonishing 200,000 volume library has a Baroque Theological Hall, established between 1671 and 1674,
and a Philosophical Hall dating from 1794.
And then it is time to take the European Sleeper back to Brussels, of which I have said enough already. What a pain! Two hours late and no apology, but time enough for a drink at À La Mort Subite, Jacques Brel’s (and my) favourite bar,
and then a wonderful evening in my favourite Brasserie, which I am not going to name, as some things remain sacred.....
Then all the way back home. For the record, just as all the trains I took on this trip (apart from the European Sleeper) were punctual, clean and generally quiet, the Eurostar from Brussels to London made it in under two hours. But then it was the best part of four hours from King’s Cross to home, on a standing room only train to Cambridge, then on to Ely from where it was a coach substitute to King’s Lynn.
It was a relief to get back. I love travelling, but perhaps the best is in the past? Now, somehow, I have to follow Fred Astaire’s advice, and,
Pick myself up,
Take a deep breath,
Dust myself off
And start all over again.
Dorothy Fields / Jerome Kern
{I just wish I could dance! Watch this clip}
