Castles in the Air (Prague, Czechia, part 3)

As we basked in possibly the best weather we've had since we left home, it was important to make the most of it, dear reader. No lying in and wasting a day do nothing but sitting in the garden, eating cheese and drinking wine. No. That can wait for Paris.

Wedding photo day near the bridge entrance.

We were away early again, heading up the hill to the Prague Castle or Pražský Hrad, if you prefer. Before we commence the climb to the castle in the air, the historic Charles Bridge had to be crossed. Ah yes, the link to today's title, one from the master storyteller of the USA, Don McLean's 1972 Castles in the Air.

The Charles Bridge gate.

The Charles Bridge, like Powdergate is, or was, a gate into the old city. The bridge itself has now become a part of a pilgrimage. There are particular statues and reliefs of significance on the bridge, hence the differing states of repair. 

We are the unloved.

Some are blackened and decayed by the air we breathe in modern life. Others are bright and shining due to constant touching and rubbing. For reasons of decorum, my editor has removed my metaphorical comparison.

Well polished.

It was still relatively early for Prague but the bridge was coming to life. The hawkers were setting up their stands. We had plenty of room to move and wandered from side to side to admire the view as we zig zagged our way to other side of the Vltava River, eyeing the ever-approaching climb to be completed before we reached the castle.

A serene morning on the Vltava

The other side of the river was flat for a short distance before the cobblestoned climb commenced. As was expected, the route was well sign posted, until it wasn't. I didn't consider that to be troubling, just look up for the castle and walk towards it. We paused half way and Jayne's eyes surveyed the steepening path before us. Happily, we zigged again and approached the lower entrance. Past the busker who only commenced his routine when he thought you were within hearing distance, to the view from the almost top.

The gate on the other side.

Around the corner we zagged, past the guards in their little boxes. It was positive to see that they take eye health seriously in Czechia and both were wearing sunglasses. I approached the next guard, removing my backpack to pass through the metal detector. He just waved me through, "You are OK," he said. We know I'm not, dear reader, but it was nice to have a vote of confidence.

Tickets purchased, tour groups avoided as much as possible, we moved to the Cathedral of St Vitus. As you would expect it has a massive soaring edifice in typical style. The buildings are so close together it is not easy to photograph.

A looming presence.

In we go to discover the usual level of extravagant opulence. The stained glass windows were beautiful and those facing the east were throwing reflected light onto the interior walls. It was almost a religious experience.

Doesn't quite capture it.

The pulpit was, once again, next level. No comment.

Stairway to heaven?

I don't even know what this is. Impressive.

The rose window above the entrance and exit was equally spectacular.

Yeah, yeah, I've seen a few. We even had one at Campbelltown.

From levels of grandeur only seen in churches, we walked across the courtyard to the singularly unimpressive old palace. If my palace looked like that, I would want a new one too. While it provided a window into the past, that window was rather small and narrow.

Little kids' school excursion. Cute.

The most interesting part of the old palace was the defenestration room. Isn't that a lovely, quaint expression? 'Fenestra' is Latin for window, so if you were de-fenestred you were essentially removed from the room via the open window. Cute. I wanted to employ the same tactic with the over-sized tour group that arrived and sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. Apparently the windows can no longer be opened. Yes, I tried.

The not-so-grand hall.

Onward to the room of shields. It was also a place to drink wine. Hmm, things were looking up. Sadly, no win. There were a few books. They used to store the municipal records here back in the day. Then there was a fire. You know what happened. All records on site were destroyed. Interestingly someone had taken a significant number of books home for some obscure reason. They weren't destroyed. So, what was in the books? Municipal records: debts, disputes, rulings, ownership records. Obviously someone had to something to gain from the saved books, as they did to benefit from those burned. That would make an interesting Venn diagram.

Like, it's just sooo European.

From the mundanity of the palace to the Basilica of St George. Can anyone explain to me why there is a need to have a Cathedral and a Basilica within spitting distance of each other? One almost abuts the other. Ok, it lacks the grandeur of the Cathedral, but in its day, it had some pretty tidy frescos on the roof. Ceiling art is a big thing over here. Maybe it's a trend that needs resurrection. I think I'll contact The Block when I get home. It would be sure to boost their ratings and they're always looking for a new and pointless angle to sell shit to people who don't need it.

Basilica? Absolutely. St George colours and all.

Next stop was the Golden Lane where, most unfortunately, we collided with many tour groups. Some of these groups were 50+ people. I'm sure it's nice for whoever rakes in the tourist dollars but it seriously negates the experience of others. 

Ceiling frescos.

The Golden Lane is a series of houses dating back to the 16th century, originally built for castle guards but then given over to goldsmiths and other tradies - hence the name. They are small and cramped and conjoined. 

I heard Kafka lived next door.

As such they have been converted into a museum, of sorts. The staircase to access the displays is narrow and extremely steep. It's not a good place to meet someone coming the other way. Yes, dear reader, it would have been a simple process to have a single, separate entrance and exit point, but they didn't. It was exasperating and this is the shoulder season. 

He's excited to go to war.

Nightmares are made of what this disorganised debacle would look like in the peak season. The blue house on the golden lane is of particular note, having been the home of the sister of Franz Kafka, who sponged off her for 2 years while he tried to reach literary perfection.

Implements of torture Kafka's sister should have used.

The views over to the old town were good, if a bit hazy. I, quite out of character as I'm sure you would agree, had had enough of people pushing, shoving and jostling and decreed it was time for coffee.

As it transpired later, there were cafés at every turn. We walked into the first one we saw which just happened to have the most beautiful vista back over the valley towards the old town. Winner. Table secured, we ordered our coffee and a toasty. The waiter returned with our coffee and two metal washers. The washers were for access to the toilet. paying customers only you know - there was a turnstile and everything.

After enough peace and tranquility and passive cigarette smoke, it was time to continue our exploration. We made our way back toward where we came in, to see if the gardens rated the effort required to access them. In short, no. Although there was an excellent crab apple tree in flower in the inner courtyard.

It was here we discovered growing crowds on the other side of the glass doors. We were in the inner courtyard and the doors looked through a guarded ante-chamber into the aptly named Courtyard 1. You can sense the excitement I know. It was changing of the guard time. As you may have surmised, dear reader, Jayne loves a changing of the guard. I am as indifferent to this, as much as I am into Liberal politicians. Maybe that is a slight understatement. 

Anyway, we assumed our position, at the glass doors, one courtyard away. Interestingly, we drew a crowd despite the action occurring, for most of those now crowding around us, out of their view. One man stood well behind the growing throng and held his oversized smartphone in the air and filmed everything. Let's think about this. Filming through two sets of glass doors about 4 metres apart. Sure. That'll work.

A freshly changed guard.

At the conclusion of the guard changing ceremony, the attendant soldiers came marching into the anteroom. Right up close and personal to us on the other side of the glass door. Someone was excited (it wasn't me). Once the final soldier was in the other door, it was closed. Parade over, they all walked off to the other room. Of course the Austrian soldiers had their special march style. I am convinced there is some sort of covert discussion between armies about how each is able to differentiate their marching style. From memory, Heller commented on this in Catch 22. (Note to self: re-read Catch 22).

I knew we had a big day, but this post is way longer than I anticipated. Sorry. Unless you're enjoying it, in which case, you're welcome.

The Loreta Convent was a little further up the hill but the incline wasn't as noticeable as it was, on the initial climb from the river. We slowed our pace as we left the rabid tour groups behind and walked, on cobblestones, to the summit to look across to the Černín Palace, now home to the ministry of Czech Foreign Affairs, and down to the Loreta Convent.

The Loreta Convent.

Down the hill, into the entrance area, tickets and audio guide purchased, in we went. In the interior quadrangle was a small, simple church. On the inside. The exterior was covered in carved reliefs of the life of Mary.

An understated sacred house.

The verandah area around the courtyard contained several altars with specific dedications. Most carried reliquaries. No? Ok. A reliquary is an item that stores a religious relic, like a piece of the cross of Christ (like that exists) or a piece of bone from a saint, or the teeth or breasts of a martyr. Ok, breasts is a step too far, but stay with me. This place had a really weird bent to it.

Placed in between the altars were prayer cloisters, dedicated to individual saints for the nuns to venerate and petition (Jayne wrote that bit, I had no idea). Interspersed between these sainty things were open air confessionals. I'm not sure if this was because this order of nuns was so sinful or they just loved the outdoor life. Hoping the former.

Ooh, I have been naughty.

From the verandah, we moved to the Santa Casa (Sacred House). It is a Marian pilgrimage site but doesn't have the grandeur of a church because a male isn't in residence. The Church of the Nativity, is all of 10 metres away. Male designed, male operated, it has all the opulence and extravagance that is not required of a church within  a couple of hundred metres of a Cathedral and a Basilica.

External corridor.

The startlingly features of this church are a couple saints' skeletons with wax face masks (think Madame Tussaud's). Nearby are their statues with cherubs floating above, depicting their path to martyrdom. On one side is an evil crew holding forceps and a tooth. The other has an equally evil looking cherub holding a plate of breasts. Now haven't we all ... no, yes, you're right, inappropriate.

Totally appropriate.

The 'waxed' martyr.

The cherub with a plate of breasts.

Time to head up stairs to the treasury. That should be safe.

Basically the top floor held the treasury of really expensive stuff they previously used in the church. The jewel in the crown was the 'Sun of Prague'. It was a monstrance. Nope? Google it if you don't know. It held pride of place in the treasury and contained no less than 6,222 diamonds. I'm sure God thought that was necessary and she was very thankful. Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

The photo doesn't do it justice.

Walking further around the corridor, things got really weird. There was a series of artworks that depicted various representations of the crucifixion, each one more gruesome than the last. This ended in a curtained doorway into a darkened area. On your right, as you walked in, was a jar that looked like it contained blood. The sign above said to sniff it, but not remove the lid. Yeah, nah.

Through the curtains into the darkened area we gingerly stepped. It was like a ghost house at a country fair. In the corner was a coffin. That was enough for me. No. I didn't open it. My brain was attempting to reconcile what I was seeing in a religious institution. And no, this is not the time to discuss cannibalism and the body and blood ... perhaps we should mention the bearded girl who was sainted after she was crucified by her father for going against his marriage arrangements?

Oh, alright, but you insisted. She was given away in marriage and wanted to devote herself to the church (as if). That night she went to bed and awoke the next morning with a beard. No juvenile jokes please.  As a result, her father had her crucified. Time to go.

Thee view as we descended towards life as we knew it.

As we departed the scene, we were serenaded by the Loreta carillon bells that ring out on the hour every day.  We headed back towards the Charles Bridge, down the steep incline we had scaled that morning, eschewing the monastic library. It is apparently worthy of a visit but is no longer open to the public because the breath of visitors is playing havoc with the ancient books. 

The view upriver on our way home.

The bridge by this time, was a seething mass of humanity, much like the castle area. We traversed it as quickly as possible to make it back into our local hood to enjoy a well-earned beer, accompanied by a stint of people watching. I may have had 1 litre beer, but that was less than 100ml of beer for every kilometre traversed. Hydration people, you know it's important.

It was good.

We saw many interesting spectacles that afternoon. A mother and daughter using 'scissors, paper, rock' to decide which café they would choose. A young man, his name could have been Daniel, being filmed doing backflips. A 30th birthday birthday celebration, complete with golden tiara and sash. To cap the day off, an ambulance arrived at the Starbucks across the square. I believe an ambulance, no, a hearse, should arrive at Starbucks every time they serve a coffee - because they have just murdered it. Not sure whether the ambulance was attending the death of coffee or assisting someone who was reacting to the fact that they thought they were drinking coffee. Amusing nonetheless.

Following the afternoon's entertainment, we returned to the apartment and the courtyard garden. We dined at home.

Until next time.