PLEASE NOTE: Part of this review previously appeared under Czech Trails. Space there did not permit the full op & this section has been extracted and completed. For those who have not read that opinion, it covers the walking aspects of the holiday. Here we look at the towns and villages we encountered.

LIBEREC: Day One proper of the Czech Trails trip is the transfer out of Prague to Harrachov. This is where small companies and (very) small groups come into their own, because options become available which are more difficult to accommodate on tight schedules and with large numbers of preferences. We were offered a diversion to Liberec. This was at (modest) extra cost, but did include lunch. As we knew as much about Liberec as we did Harrachov (where we’d otherwise have a free half-day): why not? If I tell you we made this decision half-way between Prague & the relevant turn-off of the motorway, you’ll understand what I mean by flexibility.

From the Kaverna we simply wandered the squares and streets. The town hall is fabulously Germanic and grand. Tesco’s is sadly ‘English’ and 21st-century shedlike! Mostly, the streets are of the kind I love in foreign towns, where real life goes on at ground level. In this case modern shop fronts with modern fashions and consumer goods. Evidently prosperous. Something only just slightly, enough, “other” than we are used to. On the upper stories, the glorious past remains in retained elaborations of architecture, neglected or nurtured as funds have permitted. A city clearly comfortable with itself. The main square, where we chose one of the many cafés to lunch al fresco, was hosting a hog-roast and a free showcase concert, presumably for the local youth, who performed enthusiastic, vaguely recognisable, pop’n’rock, and introduced us to the Czech passion for Country & Western.

HARRACHOV: Harrachov is a ski resort. It’s an easily reached base for getting out into the Krkonose. There are numerous hotels, enough stops and a good choice of restaurants. The trade caters primarily for the Dutch and German visitors, and the place can feel a little soul-less. However, the glass museum is worth a visit: try to go in the morning when the factory ought to be in production. Do also drop into the tiny chapel with its silvered mirror alter-piece and the glass bell in the open campanile. Incidentals of history can almost pass you by ~ like the fact that the memorial to the dead of the Great War is inscribed in German. This is much fought-over territory. The outer reaches of town, particuarly on the north-eastern edges are the least spoilt and worth an evening stroll.

Eating out is cheap. Being a resort there is a good mix of cuisine available. All four places that we ate at provided excellent food, good portions, friendly & attentive service. Pension 7 probably deserves a special mention for its sweet crepe dessert with lashings of fresh fruit and whipped cream! I will reiterate that if this is your first venture beyond Prague, do not expect English to be spoken, written or understood. This is something which should be relished while it still persists, but if it does cause you concerns, especially when ordering food, then the Rough Guide Dictionary Phrasebook has an excellent “Menu Reader” section. (It also has a short but highly amusing ‘slang’ section, which is best avoided if you are easily offended!)

SWIERADOV ZDROJ

Poland is very different. Within a kilometre or so of the border, the much lower affluence is brought home with stunning effect. The towns and villages are clearly very very poor. Traces of the old grandeur remain, but the decay is much further advanced here and the restoration attempts fewer and more limited. My knowledge of either economy is insufficient to determine why this should be, and I could only wonder at it.
Then the real shock. We came into Swieradov Zdroj. A rich spa town in the German mould. Parkland and trim green verges. White-washed buildings, abundantly stocked greengrocers, butchers and deli’s. Not the modern consumerism of Prague, or even Liberec, but rich, very rich by the standards of the towns and villages round about. At the heart of the town is the Spa itself. From the outside it is a breathtaking complex. The grounds are neat and healthy. Greenery and fountains. Peaceful walkways. There is a long gallery to rival anything the Elizabethans built. A vast vaulted roof in antique pine (I guess) a rich dark golden colour, walls of small square glass panes. The waters are bought in plastic cups at a tiny kiosk ~ there the pretension fails a little. This is the visitor centre: there are shops selling all manner of healing goods: herbals and potions and crystals and magic symbols…and for the non-believer trinkets of every other make and origin. Galleries sell original artworks from the ridiculous to the sublime (my host and I differed over which was which!). Despite the money-making angle, this is ~ so far at least ~ still more perambulatory than shopping mall, but it could so quickly cross the divide. For now, there is an unmissable coffee shop. A dark and gloomy place, with low ceilings, and exquisitely ridiculous décor ~ which may or may not be for sale. Dressmaker’s dummies model twenties/thirties fashions, mostly from the lower middle class ranks of woollen suits, but including a fabulous beaded head-dress from the casino-set. A crass wooden sailor off the end of some English pier or American fairground. In the corner a large heated tank houses a languishing iguana…whilst a smaller water-filled equivalent homes strange fish and an albino frog. The coffee is dark, and strong, and good.

Hidden away on a wooded hillside on the outskirts of town is the Hotel Lesny Grod. Part spa, part kitsch tourist hotel. Peaceful grounds surround the main building, heady with the scent of woods and flowers. Tempting as it may be to stay outside, one must venture indoors. The restaurant must be experienced. Deliberately styled as a hunting lodge, it is full of trophies. Antlers and skulls of deer line the walls, but are accompanied by boar and fox and pheasant, and a pair of creatures so like raccoons we could come up with no other identity for them. The furniture is dark and heavy. Collections of Russian samovars, bohemian-style glassware, Polish folk-wood-carvings adorn the cabinets. The food somehow did not seem to be too important.

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I am, however, very taken with the village itself. Raspenava is in complete contrast to our previous abode. It is one of a number of towns and villages that stretch along the flat banks of the Smeda. It is utterly unpretentious. Although the main street follows the river, there are side roads and alleys and branch-offs that seem to be after-thoughts linking houses that appear to have pre-dated them. Houses of great antiquity intermingle haphazardly with much newer ones. The postal numbering is truly chaotic. It would appear the houses are numbered within the village, sequentially by date of construction, rather than anything else. The gardens are delight, if you veer to the wilder end of horticulture. Vegetable patches and tiny orchards abound; interspersed with flowering shrubs and borders and grasses, all allowed to run riot. There is evidence of former riches here…small mansions and large houses to tempt anyone with restoration money. Meanwhile the Czech occupy their modest abodes, and when the local cement factory closes in the early afternoon they retire to their gardens and their homes. Old women can be seen weeding and scything their patches, younger generations are more likely to sit in the swing and watch nature do her stuff. Dogs are everywhere. They all bark at your passing. Yet none make any serious attempt to clear the garden fence.

Another early morning walk takes us up over the fields, across the railway line, whose pleasantly haunting rumble and hoots were part of our wake up call. The meadows are in full bloom. As well as the familiar clovers and daisies, there are ragged robins, and cornflowers, and whitebells and small tiny white blooms (stichworts or sandworts or something entirely different)… In Sunday morning stillness, with sun overhead, a small boy climbs a tree to steal a sprig of bloom to go with his grandmother’s wild-picked posy. Such idylls can still exist, if we seek them out…and try not to mark them too much with our passing.

In the meantime, I urge you to pause in the central square for an hour. There are cafés serving good cold beer, should you need an excuse, but your reason is to listen to the town clock. To gain the full effect I’d suggest you arrive at about 10 past the hour, in order that you can hear the quarter strike. A simple melodious chime, albeit broadcast by loudspeaker and not genuine bell-work. You may miss the half-hour, for this does not appear to strike at all…but fear not, for the three-quarters will wake you from your reverie…time enough to prepare yourself for the full joy of the hour. I am ashamed to admit that I do not recognise the tune. As a child I owned a jewellery box with a pirouetting ballerina and a musical movement that tinkled out this piece. From the clock it comes over, slightly harshly from the transmission, but several bars of glockenspiel & xylophone guaranteed to make you smile. I cannot avoid the words: twee, quaint, delightful….but please do not take these negatively… it is so utterly incongruous in the setting…it really is a pleasure.

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SBRSKA: Our hosts finished our tour in their own garden. A barbecue in the grounds of their home in the tiny border village. Many of the properties have gone from this area. As we drove through, we were directed to empty plots where homes had stood, and many a building that was “the former…” post office, school, cinema etc etc. Germans frequently come seeking their memories or their family stories, not always with respect it seems. It’s a picturesque place, facing the trials such settlement face throughout Europe. History turns her back and walks away, leaving often only the elderly and the incomers to try to maintain what once was, or to transform it. Before settling down to our farewell repast, Peter took us out to the border itself. From the Czech side this crossing point was only permissible for Czech citizens leaving or Poles returning. As an English passport holder, Peter was not permitted to cross here. Under the common EU membership of Poland and Czech, this should no longer be the case, but at the time of our visit, that had yet to filter through the hierarchy to the border patrol. Plus ça change… The few hundred yards up to the border point itself resembles nothing so much as a wild west frontier town. The road is broad and dusty. There are no sidewalks. The shops (& virtually all of the buildings are shops) are bare sheds, without adornment. The saloon (pub, bar, whatever) is set back from the road, and is keeping with the general feel to the extent that I was disappointed not to see a hitching rail or two. It is all so at odds with the genteel age of the village just around the corner.