Anglicky in Olomouc

Olomouc’s Drunken Sailors

The old medieval part of Olomouc has seen its share of ups and downs, joys and miseries, successes and disasters. The good people of Olomouc have survived assassination of kings, wars and sieges, plagues and fires, religious strife and ideological intolerance. Their buildings are a testament to it all.

That there are buildings here at all is no surprise: the dry, hilltop city rises above a rich agricultural floodplain surrounding it on all sides. Man has lived well here since before Neolithic times and, whether invited or not, many visitors have often put down roots and enjoyed that which city life has offered.

Some of the more recent arrivals, our friends Roy and Sigrun, invited us over to their place in the old town to view a table they were not keeping and thought we might like. Their apartment is in a very quiet des res cobbledy street that appears to have been there forever. This part of town is undergoing development house-by-house. Those with the money are clearly transforming what could easily have been described as medieval slums into plush new residences, ripping out decaying interiors and replacing them with polished concrete floors and stylish cement stairways.

The merit or otherwise of such refurbishment is a moot point – should we preserve every particle of the past as a museum piece, or should the expectations and conveniences of modern life allow property owners to develop as they see fit? Certainly the Socialists prior to the 1989’s Velvet Revolution saw little merit in maintaining such ancient structures. Their attitude to older residential buildings was that of sufferance of the value-laden things of the past, a minimum maintenance of things of the presence and an ideological eye on the glories of the future. Unfortunately, that future was made uninspiring through political interference, with simple, cheap and angular forms that would make an ordinary architect wince – or sigh. Consequently, in 1990 many of the older properties of central Olomouc were near derelict and looked like they would topple in a stiff breeze.

This Olomouc property development bandwagon is an easy one to jump on if one has the readies. Many, however, are not so fortunate. Relative wages here are low: as living costs have risen the possibility of saving enough to put down a deposit on a flat has perilously teetered in the balance. Should the Republic’s financial position continue a steady growth then it is likely that more industrious and financially cautious Czechs should be able to purchase their homes. Others, however, are left to shrug their shoulders and carry on enjoying the sort of lives offered in the Olomouc of the 21^st century.

One such form of proletarian enjoyment widely available for humble Czech folk is to be found in the Herna-bars, the small casinos on street corners that cater for the popular dream of instant gambling success. That these places are fronts for criminal activities are undeniable: common though they may be, they rarely get more than a trickle of punters. The more respectable ones are café-like and offer coffee and drinks under parasol strewn pavements, others provide pizzas. Nearly all of them have flashing TV displays excitedly showing in graphic form the sorts of exciting activities available within: roulette, blackjack, Texas hold-‘em, and the elusive jackpot koruna total: 10,000 and rising – quick, get in there to win… It’s just as well I have never discovered nor fostered my gambling gene.

Czechs like few things more than good music, particularly modern rockovy. The town square is frequently occupied by a performance stage of one sort or another to celebrate a public festival or promote talent via a popular local radio station. Most bars have a performance space occupied nightly, but few bands of any international standing make it here – there just wouldn’t be enough return to justify the expense (and time) of a concert in the provinces. Some do, of course, and such well known names as Alice Cooper, Uriah Heep and even Suzi Quatro are set to perform in nearby Brno later this year.

Everyone smokes! It is hard to visit any restaurant that does not permit it and only the very finest shopping centres strictly prohibit it. (More on this in another post.)

And where, oh where, would the Czech Republic be without its beloved beer*? The lifeblood of the nation, the beautifully made yet comfortingly inexpensive amber nectar serves to ease a few of life’s inequities and burdens. At a Chinese Restaurant we recently bought a fondly remembered Tsingtao, much to our regret – its empty flavour and measly body a decidedly flat experience. How on earth so much of it is drunk in Hong Kong and beyond must surely be put down to pure thirst slaking and necessity.

So, last night we joined our friends Roy and Sigrun at the Ponorka bar, the local smoke-filled speakeasy. Roy, a native Chicagoan who has lived in Olomouc since the mid-90s, was giving his last performance as singer and songwriter before they move to Washington State where Sigrun takes up Chair of Mathematics and Computer Science at Puget Sound. This venue is akin to a small bierkeller in that there are long wooden tables and benches, but is fondly attended by many-an Olomouc crusty, the hazy dreadlocked citizenry who clearly enjoy turning revolving mandalas such as the one on the wall beside the performance area (quite hypnotic after a few pivos). The Czech system of paper chits was in effect whereby the efficient waitress will mark off each beer with a quick pen stroke to be easily totalled at the end of the night. Roy's excellent and intelligent songs commanded attention accompanied for some by an excellent fiddler and accordionist. Somehow the evening passed alarmingly quickly and, not long after the last song with the pub still humming with energy, we had to make our excuses. Before leaving the UK we were part of a barn dance band called Bandwagon that played at weddings, parties, functions, birthdays and anniversaries. With calling led from the Mem, we filled the night with reels, jigs, a few slow numbers and requests we could play until we were worn out, the dancing stopped or the beer ran out. One song we shared with Roy’s band last night was the last, the shanty What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? I confess to not having played it nor heard it performed for probably two decades, so recorded the last bit for posterity noting the incongruity of its performance in Czesky English in a smoky bar in a land-locked central European country by an excited young lad who would not look out of place performing festival rock within the ranks of The Levellers. Memorable.

 

*Unfortunately, beer and other alcoholic 'nápoje' are consumed with gay abandon on park benches and shop front window sills, proving you can have too much of a good thing, (although it is almost technically impossible for a Czech to admit he is an alcoholic).

All You Need is Demlova

Most move to a new place of domicile to take advantage of opportunities. For the businessman, entrepreneur and dealer this may amount to the availability of new prosperous markets, for the artist as yet unseen sources for inspiration, for the evangelist fresh souls to save and for the teacher untested classes to edify, inculcate and indoctrinate. For those of us with notions for whimsical novelties such a move signifies the possibility of new titillation, fresh bemusement that may conjure wry smiles or even provoke the 3-year old within into paroxysms of howling delight.

It appears that the glorious Czech Republic has so many subconscious connections with the Anglicized world, one particular vein of which can be seen in terms of the polite mannerisms similar to that found within the British psyche. What is important here are formal introductions, personal meetings, the socialising of colleagues and potential business partners beyond the workplace (especially over beers) and attention to language. The latter’s emphasis is particularly striking in this highly literate society. Bookshops are popular and nearly every modern title in English is translated into Czech. Even supermarkets have book aisles and many people take time out of their day to pop down to the tabak, pick up a newspaper or magazine.

There is an official Academy of the Czech Language. Since 1911 Czechs have appointed guardians of their language, such as those in Paris or Beijing, although Czech speakers seem quite competent at the task themselves. Perhaps this is where similarities with British culture slightly diverge – many in the UK would see attention to linguistic niceties and grammatical precepts as mere pedantry of the sort that occupies letters pages of the Daily Telegraph, but in matters Czesky the finer points of language are hotly and popularly debated: it is a language cherished for the very qualities that make it exact and precise, highly nuanced and suitably rich.

But times they are a-changin’. Some women now choose to omit the suffix -ana to indicate the feminine form of their husband’s suffix –a; thus a smart new Miss or Mrs Vaclavana may decide to call herself Ms Vaclava. The Czechs enjoy their suffixes, and it is because of this that the British name Brenda must become Brendé in order to emphasise its natural feminine ownership (unless anyone knows of a bloke out there with that name). In general, add -sky, –ky or just -y to an ordinary English word, like boxerky or slipy in clothing outlets, and you're probably getting there.

As a newcomer to all of this it is interesting to note how in many ways the Czechs have a fondness of sorts for the ole Anglictiny. I can only really attribute this to the flimsy efforts at diplomatic entente before Hitler decided East was where it's at (those efforts resulted, of course, in abject failure). Perhaps it is that the Brits have been amongst the few European nations not to have stomped their military boots upon these rich potato fields either as conquerors or on their way to conquer other poor sods  – mention not within these towns the hated Hun or reviled Russian! Cool Britannia is still a bit of a fad here – planting Union flags on pieces of Czech clothing or in decorative advertising cannot fail to give the product an instant breath of uber-coolility in much the same way that the Stars and Stripes excited us Brits back in the 70s when Americana was in and even Coca-cola logos were most desirable: everyone wanted to buy the world a coke or sing about it!

For a multitude of historical reasons probably best not to go into here, the lingua franca of modern times has become English, This has meant that for many museums, galleries, restaurants and railway stations all over the world the preferred second language is that of those pesky Angles and Saxons. Whilst fortuitous for us adventurous Brits, it has also had the effect of making us into lazy little buggers in our attitude towards the acquisition of foreign tongues – I mean, there are so very many of the blighters! Do we really have to learn Swahili, Swedish or any of the Slavic national languages; can't they all learn English?

So, it is possible to find howlers on restaurant menus throughout the world, malapropisms-a-plenty in nomenclatures for domestic products, ill-adopted English names and wordy similitude. And that really is the point of this post. There are wonders to behold in any new country, even in the home of double ententres. No doubt there are tribesmen in the Upper Volta that regard a visit to London as hilarious because for them the name Trafalgar Square sounds like “I’ve got a tiny penis”.

There was plenty of this sort of thing in Hong Kong and China and there is a wonderful website Engrish.com of many years extant that catalogues the extraordinary nonsense translated as English. In a similar vein is that online application Bad Translator that by the wonders of Internet trickery translates any given text as many times as is desired between English to Chinese to Hindi to Hebrew and to any other automatic translating dictionaries it can get its hands on. For some probably immature reason I find this intensely amusing and can lose myself for hours in playing with words and finding astonishingly hilarious outcomes.

No such translating machine is required to find good honest similitude on the streets of Olomouc. The Memsahib looked at a flat that I dearly wished would be right for us on Wanklova Street where, incidentally, there is an enormous red cock painted on the side of one the residential buildings: I so wanted us to become the new Wanklovas of Wanklova Street: it sounded so like a wonderful naughty book title! At least we don't live on Prof. Fuky!

Not quite a similitude, but in bookshops it is charming to see the promotion of that latest naughty book by J.K. Rowlingova.

But the best discoveries here are the -ovas. The main street in Olomouc is Denisova, named, one presumes, after the astonishing gin drinking exploits of a certain Mr Thatcher – or maybe it was in honour of the bushy eyebrow growing propensities of a certain Mr Healey? They're everywhere! Franklinova, Rooseveltova, Mozartova, even Sukova... You try it: Hangova, Leftova, Rollova – the possibilities are endless.

Two out of Three Concerts Ain't Bad

It is a fairly common thing to buy a concert ticket. One glimpses concert titles, or follows artists or attends an event that chimes with prior experience. All of us have done this over the years, for better or worse; we rack up a collection of musical memories for future reference that become inner mulch for solo train journey cogitations, or simply jaw-slapping bragging rights over unkind dinner conversations.

A concert ticket also enables the holder to become part of the performance. Other than in the minds of stalkers, the pleasure of seeing artists perform is necessarily transient. Some get down with the performers and party, such as the excellent Rod Stewart time who shared the Odyssey Arena in Belfast with 10,000 or so well oiled Norn Irsh and us. When famous names tour we like to say that we attended because it gives us a sense of worth in our otherwise fairly humdrum lives – we steal a little of their glory, bask a little in their limelight, borrow a little of their glamour. Other performances, such as those of the classical concert variety, may demand a little less from the attendee in terms of participation and rely on intellectual stimulation.

Buying concert tickets to see unknown artists (unknown to yourself, that is) is a little rarer. Most of us are cautious of novelty, but aware that potential rewards could outweigh the risks. I am sure that those in February 1957 who first saw the new group The Quarrymen probably have fairly good memories of the event, think about it often and have become notorious braggers at any given opportunity. They were, after all, witnessing the birth of The Beatles.

With such trepidation we bought a slew of tickets for upcoming concerts in the Moravian Philharmonic's Dvořákova Olomouc season. The first by the ArteMiss trio, Proč bychom se netěšili, consisted a words-and-music review of that well-known Czech one-time revolutionary and composer Bedřich Smetana.

With orations of Czech contemporaries Jan Neruda and Aleš Heller spoken by a certain Valérie Zawadská in a voice only a gravelly 60-a-day habit can generate, the Czech piano trio reviewed Smetana's work brilliantly, bringing up several well-known pieces (as well as a few by Shumann). Overall, it provided about as wonderful and accomplished an impression of his work possible on a 2 hour balmy Sunday evening. (By the way, smetana is also the Czech word for cream!)

The performance was nearly outshone by the brilliant, kingly setting in which the concert took place, the magnificent Ceremonial Hall of the Prelature of the Hradisko Monastery. A wondrous baroque creation, the lavishly decorated hall contains every kind of ornamentation of that period – stuccoes here, there and everywhere, a painted ceiling of the feeding of the five thousand, a feast of tromp l’oeils and a near-surfeit of reliefs in every direction.

The building is now operated as a hospital. So lavish are the decorations, I feel like popping along with a contrived ailment or two just to have the pleasure of staying there.

And on top of that, the view of Olomouc on this summery night was sheer perfection!

Outside on the balcony at half-time the birds twittered joyously and the bells of Olomouc rang across the meadows down by the river.

Within three days we were again at another concert, this time at the much less exciting performance hall in the Vlastivědného muzea or History Museum. The Ola Viola Sound were Korean viola players – well, most of them (they included in their number guitar, cello and double bass). The ensemble carried off a few well-knowns, such as Bach's Sonata No 3 and the 'New World' largo bit from Dvořák's 9th Symphony that is now synonymous with Hovis bread and Gold Hill in Shaftesbury. Not much to write home about, but the audience enjoyed seeing funny looking oriental-types with big fiddles; we both felt a little homesick for the lovely people that live on that side of the planet.

The interval introduced us to the courtyard of this former church of St Claire. With echoey swifts flying above us, it was a reflective space, surely its original purpose if my recollection of the solitary Claires is anything to go by.

At all that, we exited the venue to find the noise of the nearby Olomoucký Majáles music festival banging away in a nearby grand courtyard venue, a property previously owned by the bishops of Olomouc (who would surely have deeply disapproved). The band we stayed to hear, Lavagance, seems to have a bit of a following and certainly kept us there for a beer or two, even if their encore was Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus. The only reason I mention this is because in the Czech Republic almost every café, bar and restaurant with a music system is tuned to one Depeche Mode song or other. Perhaps it's a law. I must endeavor to find out!


The next day was a beautiful Czech holiday; warm sunshine, a light breeze and a lack of the usual workaday traffic meant the afternoon walk around the Botanical Gardens was a real taster of the coming months. The gardens are, unfortunately, a little shabby – there are only so many Koruna in the public coffers and I'm sure the local government pay of these well-meaning horticulturalists is niggardly. At least we were serenaded rastafari-stylee from the ongoing gig in the old fort next door – a local Reggae band that went by the improbably name Homebwoyrasta. They look devastatingly uncool, but were actually quite good... on the day.

This rather nice day ended with a drop in at one of our locals, the bar next to the Letní Kino or outside cinema which is on the daily dog walking route. The rickety beer garden tables surround an open stage under enormous sycamore and beech trees, a hostelry of arcadian bliss. It would not seem out of place for a goat-hooved Pan to pop out from the shadows to blow his pipes on stage and encourage revelers to remove clothing. The performers that night, however, were mostly locals although a band of unhappy neo-Kraftwerk ne'er-do-wells took the stage at dusk to offer a beat-driven set akin to the Ozric Tentacles (but with lyrics). We sat and talked much with local studenty-types, but I forget their names – the band, that is.

And so to the third concert, of the celebrated Latvian violinist Gidon Kremer. Actually, we didn't make it. I'm rather sorry about this because I would have loved to hear this legend. Actually, my sorrow is also tinged with embarrassment. You see, thinking it was a Thursday we went out with some friends to a café for afternoon beers in the glorious sunshine but when time came to realise our mistake, it was far too late that Friday (and we were by then in a bit of a state). Oh, the shame!

Brahms Requiem at St Maurice's Church

The Church of St Maurice in central Olomouc has the feel of a very old place. It is indeed ancient, in all likelihood a religious site at St Maurice’s (chrám sv. Morice) being extant at the time of the  foundation of the town itself.  The present columned gothic structure dates from the late medieval period, complete with a beautiful twisty double spiral stone staircase that leads up to the bell tower. One very blustery wintry morning a few weeks ago, meself and the Mem took ourselves up it whereupon I had my first ever terrifying incident of vertigo: the tower was sure to collapse immanently, my jellied legs were on the verge of giving way and I was about to die a terrible death... or be killed... or worse!

Unlike other Nazi-occupied towns and towns of Europe, Olomouc survived World War II relatively intact. This can be attributed to two things, the first being the overriding influence of the large pro-Nazi ethnic German population that lived here at that time. This meant that Nazi domination was a relatively simple matter of a largely unobstructed takeover: no morning waves of screaming Stukas or indiscriminate flattening by merciless howitzers. Secondly, the town held little strategic resources that the preexisting Czech requiring defending and was projected to be a German-held enclave ready for expanding Germanization in the region. Hence, despite the burning down of the old central synagogue in Olomouc's very own Kristallnacht, many of the historic buildings of the city centre remain standing and the windswept tower of St Maurice’s is one of the more obvious examples. It could be argued that the communists were actually worse caretakers...

To the May 1^st concert in this ecclesiasitcal setting. Part of the Moravian Philharmonic Orchestra's Dvořákova Olomouc season, it featured two pieces: a first performance of Bohemian boy Petr Fiala's Pocta Antonínu Dvořákovi or Tribute to Anton Dvořák. Made all the more spectacular by the bouncy, echoey acoustic properties of the church, this breathtaking, complex and moving piece held me spellbound for its entirety. It worked on so many levels; magnificent in its scope, infused with passion, full of crashes from a massive gong and smashing timpani. If this large orchestral work doesn't make it out of the Czech music world and onto the world stage then I'll be forced to concede to a simian nephew.

The second piece was Brahms’ A German Requiem. To say that this is a seminal work is like saying la Gioconda is a picture people quite like the look of. It is a gargantuan megalith around which other pieces of music are pebbles in so much sand.

To hear the piece first time round is, to use another metaphor, to be overwhelmed by strength of force storming the battlements – any lull in the action is but the precursor to the next assault. Don’t get me wrong; there is nothing within the forms, thematic growths, developments and resolutions in the Requiem’s entirety that is not close to perfection itself, but wave-upon-wave of the mid-19^th Century romantic composition crashes upon the self, upon the very soul, with a uncompromising imperturbability.

Written between 1865-9, Brahms’ somewhat sombre Requiem departs from the usual liturgical form of an established Latin requiem as its sung and choral parts are in German. The title, therefore, refers to its language (and is not, as I once thought, an ironic lament for a Germany that has died in some way) – hence the title Ein deutsches Requiem (emphasis on the A). The specific use by Brahms' self-selected Biblical text, however, is such that the Requiem does not become an overt or direct reference to a recent demise, as would be the case with a more conventional Roman Catholic requiem. It is, instead, a decidedly positive reflection of life through a more humanist perspective that encompasses many other things than merely his emotive response to the losses of his mother and of his dear friend Robert Schumann.

 

The Youtube clip above of the DRSO - Herbert Blomstedt live performance is amongst the best out there from which are selected just a few examples (at minute intervals in bold below). From a quiet, gentle introduction, Selig sind, die da Leid tragen (Blessed are they who bear suffering), the cosmic second movement, Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras (All flesh is as grass) 10:05, bestows a sonic grandeur difficult to take in at a first sitting. It is no wonder that many on hearing this work considered him as conqueror of Beethoven, a composer he much loved and emulated – a reputation he tirelessly attempted to live up to. Towards the end of the the third movement 30:35 the mood changes: Ich hoffe auf dich (My hope is in you) and Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand (The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God) must count as the most perfect musical account of optimism ever written, akin to brilliant sunshine bursting into view through thick, dark clouds. The fifth movement, Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit (You now have sadness) 39:25, a section that Brahms completed last, has a pace, mood and depth not commonly associated with music from the era, even though Brahms' was steeped in the history of pre-romatic music. This dramatic optimism surely finds its apotheosis in the 6th movement's Der Tod ist verschlungen in den Sieg (Death is swallowed up in victory) section 49:35 where, with obvious Bachian fugal form, the choir builds on the work of the baritone soloist. After all that the last and slower movement Selig sind die Toten (Blessed are the dead) 58:00 must surely be Brahms' most heartfelt outpouring to those for whom the composition was dedicated, in effect if not directly in name. Somewhat unfashionable now, some may call its subject morbid, but to be remembered thus takes into account the full gravity and finality of death and the crushing pain that accompanies loss that leaves only tender memories. You may wipe away your tears now...

The performance was accomplished and exact with few noticeable errors. Conductor, soloists, choir and orchestra worked as one – undoubtedly the product of thorough rehearsals. One lengthy, generous and well-deserved applause later, the Olomoucian audience upped from their unforgiving pews and seats in the chilly church pronto and, mingling with the odd instrumentalist and the choristers from the Czech Philharmonic Choir Brno, practically ran out of the building. I cannot recall a quicker exit from a venue without someone shouting "Fire!". Perhaps it's the Czech way, but there didn't seem to be much of the usual lingering and chatting about what had just transpired: perhaps they hear so many excellent performances that they have become just a little blazé and only want to get home on the next tram.

The requiem's performance was also personally poignant: the recent loss of a old school friend, Claudia Tacke-Price, made this a moving experience. Claudia and I had at one time been very close and I recall her telling me that Brahms was her favourite composer. She went on to marry, have children and live happily in Auckland where she had been cellist with the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra. She, like Brahms, originated from Hamburg. She like Brahms, died from the same dreadful and unforgiving pancreatic cancer. I had very much hoped to catch up with her again soon, and we exchanged a few words on Facebook, but, sadly, it was just not to be. For me this German Requiem was, therefore, in her memory.

Barka's Story – in His Own Words

HE WALK – with SQUID and RONNIE. Normal tree and tree walk around water: same smell. WALK by long grass poo and big swim water to drink stream. Happy!

GET UP to new WALK. Excited good and new smell. New HOUSE, no people. New DOG: little, alone and bark – no fight. New path-on-water strange and wind blow. HE sit, see long.

HE have CHEW STICK for SQUID and RONNIE and BARKA good. GET UP new path, HE WALK under tree and tree.

GO HOME – not HOME now. New people have HOUSE, new wood stick seat and new DOG MONTY: DOG MONTY fight me, fight SQUID and RONNIE before. BAD BOY, MONTY! Big fear. No safety – alert. Little sleep.

Near DINNER normal HE WALK, GET UP tree and tree and river, same smell. Alert – MONKEY smell, hear and see: bark and bark. Happy!

GO HOME (not GO HOME) and DINNER. New man near OUT. Door open, big fear. Big noise car near OUT – run! HE not happy. HE call, “BARKA! BARKA!” Big fear – big hide. No more HE call, “BARKA!” HOME quiet – WALK quick past new man. Safety under new wood stick seat. HE: LEAD on – to new box. Into new box (with bed smell cloth). Oh no! Big fear. SQUID into new box. RONNIE into new box. Cat DOOLEY into new box. Box SQUID, box RONNIE, box BARKA and cat DOOLEY box into big noise car. New smell – strange DOG. Big car move: big fear. HE talk noise new man.

Night. Big noise car stop. BARKA box, SQUID box, RONNIE box and cat DOOLEY box out to new HOUSE ­– not like. HE near and talk noise, “GOOD BOY!” Can see outside box: people and people face near BARKA. Talk and talk noise and new smell strange. Unhappy! Drink and food in box. HE OUT. SQUID box, RONNIE box, BARKA box and cat DOOLEY box move outside. Big noise new. New smell. Can see. Big fear. No safety.

SQUID box, RONNIE box, BARKA box and cat DOOLEY box up in air: new HOUSE. People OUT. HOUSE is big noise and move strange. Alert and big fear! Big noise HOUSE not move now: little sleep. Then move strange and noise strange. Big fear. Then cold air. People talk noise strange. Big fear – unhappy! New HOUSE people and people face and talk noise. New smell. Then HE voice! HE voice! HE! Can see HE: HE COME HERE. Happy! No OUT. Not happy!

SQUID box, RONNIE box, BARKA box wait. Talk noise. Cold air. HE OUT. HE COME HERE with new big noise car. DOGS OUT box – UP. DOGS into big noise car: SIT. “GOOD BOY!”

HE SIT: big noise car move. No fear. Alert. Happy! Little sleep. Big noise car stop. LEAD on HE WALK – cold air and cold hard water for paws. New smell. DINNER: HE and DOGS with bread and meat. Happy!

Night. Big noise car stop. SHE voice! SHE voice! Can see SHE! SHE! Cat DOOLEY box with SHE. Big car stop and new HOUSE. New people. New smell – strange DOG! Alert. DINNER. HE and SHE call, “BYE-BYE!” and OUT. Unhappy! SQUID, RONNIE, BARKA, cat DOOLEY all sleep in new HOUSE.

New people nice. New voice noise. Day and day, night and night new people: new WALK with new people, SQUID and RONNIE. Cold air and cold hard water for paws – strange is normal. New people little girl – nice. Happy!

– – –

HE and SHE COME HERE. Happy! WALK in cold air and DINNER. HE and SHE call, “BYE-BYE!” Oh no! HE and SHE OUT. Unhappy! SQUID unhappy! RONNIE unhappy! Cat DOOLEY happy!

HE COME HERE. Into new big noise car and GET UP to new HOUSE! New smell – strange DOG. No wood stick seat. HE and SHE and SQUID and RONNIE and BARKA and cat DOOLEY alert: little sleep night. New HE WALK, new smell – strange DOGS. Alert new water bird and new furry tree MONKEY (not MONKEY).

LEAD on WALK new park and WALK river. New people DOGS – good dogs happy (no fight me). New people and people – new fear. New HOUSE new people big noise day and day. SQUID, RONNIE and BARKA bark and bark. Night HE call new people, “BYE-BYE!” and then big sleep good. New HOUSE good: new normal good, now HOME good. Happy!

Composers of Palacký University

"It's a free concert, at least it is for me!" said the Memsahib, beaming that her employment at the University provides such exciting perks. As a non-teaching-non-anything-really-Joe Publicky, I had to dig deep into my pocket to pay the exorbitant sum of Kč80 for the privilege – that's nearly £2.62/HK$31.36 in old money!

We thought we'd seen all there is to see at the Moravské Divadlo Olomouc (Moravian Theatre) on our last outing there to enjoy the classical 19th century warmth of Donizetti's Lucia de Lammermoor. That particular performance back in February had at first a touch of the am drams about it, but the mostly-septuagenarian audience appreciated a lively show that worked itself into a suitably Czech lather. But the Moravian Theatre has another excellent performance venue upstairs, the Reduta (redoubt in English) – a concert hall that has obviously had some money spent on it in the last few years as it is in tip-top condition for expertly produced quality concertyness. Proud Olomoucians in their ill-fitting black or grey Sunday bests, in restrained flowing evening wear or all out in mismatching, bulging tops and skirts are right to treat the venue with such respect.

This particular concert was to mark the occasion of the 440th anniversary of Palacký University. As part of the Olomouc Music Festival it comprised compositions of music professors at the University and proved an eye/ear-opener of the first degree. When one thinks of provincial towns (Olomouc is the Czech Republic’s 6^th largest town) one cannot help but feel that the standards are necessarily lower, that the expectations are more gentle and that the quality of production understandably less – misconceptions one and all. What followed was a concert of intellectual stimulation as good as that served up anywhere and by anyone and my Kč80 proved well spent.

First up, Concerto for two percussionists and orchestra – a lively two-movement piece by the late Pavel Čotek (1922-2005). Témbry (Timbres), the first movement comprised composery flouncing at a large collection of percussive instruments –vibraphones, glocks, timpani, tubular bells and a host of cowbells, drums, cymbals and triangles. The overall effect was, at first, of form over substance, of the sort of excited arrangement that exercises a composer's mind at night (with enough free rein). But then the patternization meted out by father and son percussionists, Ladislav Bilan Sr and Ladislav Bilan Jr, created a stronger form than I supposed achievable. The orchestral interventions and background added to overall weight and depth in much the same way as the stretched canvas is necessary for painted artistic endeavors, no matter how abstract. The second movement, Rytmy (Rhythms), perhaps carried the audience a little better, using more familiar rhythmic structures, but its dénouement cleverly brought the listener back to the staccato-esque 'pots and pans' beginning of the first movement. There may have been one or two formal clichés throughout, but the performers, conductor Petr Vronský and Moravian Philharmonic pulled it off with such panache that we were truly moved, more so at the appearance within the affectionate applause of the composer’s frail widow.

All change, please. From Vít Zouhar’s operatic pen came the next piece for the Moravian Phil, Ritorni, a modified form of a Philip Glass meets Vivaldi piece already premiered at other festivals. This premiere was of an arrangement for strings and harpsichord. Its gentle classically-resonant phrases flowed and repeated, flowed and repeated: it would make great music for a TV advertisement of some sort –grandiose without being inhuman– maybe for a high street bank… But perhaps I am unfair: it was, like the previous piece, accomplished and not without flair. At least the composer’s programme notes were relatively restrained, descriptive not prone to flowery hyperbole. Which is more than can be said for what occurred after the interval.

Intermissions usually involve the customary steam roll towards the bar, but this was the most unusual experience in that, outside a supermarket checkout, this was the first time I had seen Czechs form a queue – an orderly, first-come-first-served queue in the old fashioned sense. For the locals the provision of alcohol is clearly worth the queuing! Bypassing this gobsmacking novelty, we asked for two gin and tonics, to be told there was no tonic. Well aware of the grave toilety dangers of skulling interval beers, we opted for Fantas (haven’t had one in years) and to later have one-or-two pivos for the cobbled road. It is customary at any public venue to complain uproariously about the state of the gents, however, the Memsahib’s retch-inducing visit to the ladies powder room proved that many ladies are ladies in name only and the mellifluous lingering odours that emanate from their unwashed nether-parts testifies to the most un-ladylike of ablutional habits…

 

Marek Keprt, young(-ish) Olomoucan composer, pianist (see Youtube above) and teacher at the Department of Musicology at the Philosophical Faculty of the University, obviously trusted enough to be given free range in February and March of this year to come up with the four movement ČtverJho chořních dob that began the second half. And if you are given freedom then I suppose you should use it! Certainly Mr Keprt was unorthodox in his arrangement of the traditional orchestra and of instrument usage (noisy air blowing through brass, use of timpani sticks on open piano strings), of solo violins, violas and cellos glissily slippin’ and slidin’ about on their fretwork to find 'micro-intervals and minimalism’ and of a wailing soprano placed alone on the balcony all brought about a decidedly nonconformist, if not overall muddied, impression. But in truth it was not the interesting abstract music that bothered me so much as the programme notes thrown together by the man himself: “JasJho (BrightnessYoke). Jas jha (Brightness of the yoke)? Jho jasu (Yoke of brightness)? The perception of the brightness of the yoke (or the yoke of brightness?) Is suppressed, distorted, ever less conscious.” And so it goes on… simple questions and banal statements like so much teenagery philosophy – it’s just the sort of drivel that gets up my nose.

And so the evening concluded with Jan Vičar who, through a Fullbright/CIES scholar-in residency that enabled him to make his way through eight universities in the States, clearly enjoys his time as Professor at the Department of Musicology if the Philosophical Faculty here in Olomouc. Křik (Cry), his one-movement cantata from 1981 was written in anticipation of the birth of his first child and uses as libretto an anti-modernist poem of the same name by renowned poet Jiří Žáček. Incorporating an accomplished blend of orchestra, baritone and mixed choir, the end product became a conflagration of such astonishing power, intensity and complexity that at its conclusion the 5 trumpeters shook hands in relief. It's just as well that this concert was formally recorded – gotta get me a copy!

Rapturous applause at the end signified the recognition of music excellence, on the part of the composers, the conductor and the musicians. Provincial music may have a bit of a reputation, but that was certainly not in evidence on this night. Allowances were neither requested nor required: this performance could have occurred in the best venues of any of the major capital cities. With such a concert Olomouc, one-time home to Mozart and Mahler, can rightly hold its baroque musical head up!

Birthday Demolition

It's my birthday, the sun is shining and there's decent coffee in my cup. This morning at five o'clock the birds twittered their excited announcement that for them spring has finally sprung and a short while later the good people of Olomouc arose to head off to work a little closer to summer and their holidays. The only fly in the ointment is that the owner of the Dolce Vita coffee shop that I use as an internet café seems to be addicted to Kenny G. All addictions are, by their nature, irrational.

So, as a short post to celebrate/commemorate 46 years since I first squealed into existance, I'd better give a short resumé as to the current circumstances of this birthday baby and what's going on.

Having lived merrily in Hong Kong for the past 15 years, for all sorts of reasons we made our decisions not to continue with employment in the Pearl of the Orient and began arranging a move elsewhere. It's notoriously difficult for British expats to adjust to life back in Blighty and, having endured BBC's The One Show online, we decided that life in the UK just wouldn't be right for us. Or perhaps it was the other way round.

Our current residence in Olomouc came about as a result of the Memsahib's position at Palacký University, a wonderful ancient institution that seeks young go-getters who wish to further their academic excellence within it's august walls. The monetary rewards for such, however, are paltry if not risible. Although living costs in the Czech Republic are comparatively low, to have also paid a rent for accommodation would have meant being thoroughly financially hamstrung. We therefore decided to buy.

The 1910 apartment property we purchased is located beneath the hallowed Saint Wenceslas Cathedral beside a curve in the little river next to the site of the old castle. It is also 2 minutes amble to and from the Mem's work. With old properties, of course, come old problems and the savings knocked off the purchase price have now been swallowed up in a thoroughly modern conversion comprising a new koupelna (bathroom) and kuchyně (kitchen) – they just don't evolve out of the woodwork without some of that precious Czech koruna being thrown about. Thus it was that yesterday we both took a sweat-inducing gulp and coughed up hundreds of thousand of them to our contractor with an extraordinarily powerful handshake, Mr K.

Mr K, not one for wasting any time, decided that today was a good day to begin the work. Thus this morning, our having only just consumed breakfast and completed ablutions, his chaps arrived and quickly removed kitchen units, sink, the bath, tiles and even the walls – all of it! The floor comes up next...

Quite how we're going to get on without these soft modern conveniences remains to be seen. Pictures and commentary will, of course, follow blog-like, but it feels a little like another eagerly anticipated birth, 46 years on. When the apartment is complete it will be easier to work, live, host and entertain there.

So thank you, everyone, for your birthday wishes – I am now older than I ever was and also younger than I will ever be. Na zdraví!

Finding the Detail Underneath

We've been spending the past few weeks going at a snail's pace – this seems to be advisable in the Czech Republic. It's not that the Czechs themselves are slow, far from it. Their approach to business matters, professional service and prompt delivery are as good as anywhere else. No, it's not they who are slow, but us. There is a good reason for this: we have needed time to unwind from Hong Kong. Although we both loved living there, it was a madly frenetic place – even in the Sai Kung Country Park. Stepping away from work and wages, money worries and the commonly held status envy has been as a load lifted and in more ways than we imagined.

I always grumbled that I didn't have enough energy to devote to artistic endeavors, particularly to writing, and the Memsahib felt the need to get away from the Hong Kong academic milieu (or at least the chauvinistic direction in which it appears to be heading). Setting up here, then, should have been a relief and a chance to get busy again. For me the near-opposite has been the case.

It would be the most country of bumpkins that views Olomouc as an exciting and vibrant city. It is cute, picturesque even, but not a thrashing metropolis like Hong Kong. It has medium scale industry on the outskirts, nearby farm land surrounds in all directions and the city centre attracts those with regional financial, shopping and culinary needs (more –much more– on the latter in a later blog). It has wonderful trams that rumble heavily about the cobbled streets wobbling the coffee cups in the many establishments that sell the rich continental kava. Nothing happens on a Saturday or Sunday, unless church-going is high in your top 10 priorities. The rest of the week people shop, students sit about in the park and the town gears itself up for the coming summer touristy season, but Olomouc is and probably always will be a sleepy place.

All of this has meant our lifestyle has drastically changed – and that's been good and necessary. Despite eating lots and quaffing beers a-plenty, we've lost a bit of weight and are probably more chilled than we have been in quite a few years. We certainly have lots of time and have spent it going out to eateries, the odd bar or two and for walks with the dogs through city parks and along muddy riverbanks of the fast-flowing rivers. We've even been able to watch the spring slowly emerge for the first time in 15 years: our life here thus far has also been slow, sleepy and happy. The lovely university where the memsahib is at work does appear to be one of the busier places round these parts with corridors full of constantly chattering and energetic young studenty-types. My busy life, however, revolves around arranging renovation work on our new flat. Oh, and the odd bit of writing.

We've painted a few rooms, with mixed success. Unfortunately, the small steps we brought with us from Hong Kong where they were perfectly adequate for the lower ceilings there are in need of another 3-4 feet. So painting and decorating has taken much longer than it would elsewhere. At least, that's my excuse!

Whilst taking the paint off our bedroom ceiling (sanding/scraping/washing – 2 days and a serious crick in the neck later) I uncovered the Art Nouveau detailing. It appears the original ceiling decoration back in 1910 was a hand-rolled floral motif with wide dark blue border. We had chosen the exact same colour blue for the walls. Spooky! Had I not been taking so much time over this I would have completely missed the detail, something we are seriously thinking of incorporating in the finished room. But then you'll have to come over to stare up at it from the bed...

Across the Rooftops of Olomouc

"I can not wait longer than Thursday noon!" wrote the Palacky University internet specialist in a somewhat urgent email.

Apologising for fairly good English, he arrives and we go by lift to the 6th floor and open the two doors that lead to the loft space, the enormous area that covers the building's two wings. Somewhat open to the elements through nicks in the walls and draughty apertures by the turret (yes, we have a turret), the inspection of roofspace was accompanied by the cooing of doves and shrieking of a family of kestrels that have taken residence.

"I need to go up." he announces, climbing the ladder and opening one of the skylights. Within a second he is out and fearlessly wandering about on the metal sheeting of the roof. "You coming?"

Having recently climbed St Maurice's church tower and encountered my first ever vertigo, I politely declined. Even the few short steps on the ladder that allowed my head to pop into the sky gave me the heebie-geebies. My God! How can he do it? Clambering about as if  there weren't a 100 ft drop to the rather unforgiving pavement beneath – the folly of youth?

Time for a few shots, enclosed.

He then comes down and tells us we need to have access to one of the chimney flues to put in the internet wiring. I think he enjoyed the view and may have enjoyed scaring us a bit.

City in the Snow

The Czech Republic is made up of three distinct parts – Bohemia and Moravia and the slither of land called Silesia. In the past each has been a separate and distinct power waxing and waning until eventually combined into the land of Czechishness we see today. Unless you have lived in the region or have studied WWII history it is unlikely you will have heard of Silesia. Everyone, however, has heard of Bohemia, Bohemians and Bohemianism, whether that's through a fantasy enchantment with the so-called Bohemian lifestyle of artists and performers that eke out a poverty-rich existence in garrets and perform unhappy Gauloises-infused poetry long after midnight in streetside Parisian cafés, or through the Puccini's fantasy opera La Bohème, or even because of Queen's 1975 anthemic Bohemian Rhapsody. Prague is the magnificent and ancient and modern-day capital of Bohemia. Well, we don't live there.

Moravia is the slightly quieter country cousin of the Bohemia occupying most of the eastern half of the country. It is a beautiful land of of gently rolling hills, of deer-filled woodlands, of productive farms with vast open fields. It is famous for producing light aircraft, grapes, beer and guns. Amongst the most famous noteworthies are Sigmund Freud, Gregor Mendel and Oscar Schindler. Another local hero John Comenius (Jan Amos Koménsky over here) is credited with inventing Education proper-like wherewhat kids n' that do lern stuff proply without rote remembrin and that. More on him in another blog.

Enough of this preamble! Our move here from Hong Kong has been somewhat difficult, especially in getting our things from Prague to Olomouc. But, that's also enough for now – another ranty moan of  a blog beckons further down the line...

What has struck the Memsahib and meself about this wonderful place is the quite fantastic atmosphere within its cobbledy old streets and richy decorated and imposing baroque buildings. An overused word, but Olomouc is simply a 'gem'! We have all been on holiday to beautiful places with excellent scenery or architecture, but this city is splendid, rich in history and a joy to roam. don't take our word for it – come and visit! The only distraction from it all has been the bloody weather. All of my winter coats and clothes are in a container held up in Prague, brrrr... (and grrrr..!)

The rest of Europe has suffered snow and frost in this winter like few others. Temperatures may not have been the lowest, but the snowfall has been relatively heavy, particularly in Britain where poor sheep and lambs have been buried alive, and the longevity of the season has quite worn us all out!

Having said all that, the wintryness has added a frosty charm to it all. It has also meant that each hostelry has been fondly visited (like I needed an excuse!) as much for warmth as victuals. Included in that, mention must be made of the Menhir bar, Olomouc's very own Welsh bar tucked away in a particularly quiet square in a particularly quiet part of the old town. Some may think it odd to have a Welsh bar in Moravia and they'd be right! I have yet to decipher a genuine Welsh connection: no-one speaks Welsh there and the owner is as Czesky as the next Welshman not born or raised there and who doesn't speak the beloved language. I have my suspicions that despite a red dragon and the Tengwar-esque name 'Menhir' painted in red on the window, the name simply acts as a resonance for Arthurian mystery and romance, Menhir being the Breton word for standing stone. Another bar in Olomouc is Mithril named after the famous impenetrable armour fashioned by Tolkien's dwarfs. There are also two Irish bars near to us, the Black Stuff that serves lots of Irish Whiskey and Merlin Irish Pub – both of which capitalise on international Irish drinkeyness.

The cold weather has also made us wonder how the drunks, the down-and-outs and the poor survive in such an inclement climate. There are plenty of them here, the local crop popping up in quiet shop doorways and unattended park benches. Those addicted to Bacchus that live in warmer climes such as Thailand, the Philippines and Indonesia simply have to find a dry place to put down their weary heads, their only chill being from a nearby particularly vicious air-conditioning system, but to do likewise here is clearly lethal and may result in frostbite at best. The cold-resistant drunks, therefore, are clearly men and women that deserve respect as true warriors of wine!

We are consistently told by the locals that this winter is very long and spring is near, but I don't know about all that – I think we are entering another Ice Age. And this may not be such a bad place to see it in. Each shop, bar and coffee shop is a warm as toast, enough to forget the inclement temperatures without. In fact, the Czechs expect snow each year and know instinctively how to deal with it – if you're not skiing or sledging on it then the snow-clearing machines are called in to pick it up off the slippery paths and pedestrian ways of Olomouc and summarily down it at the edge of town next to a smelly cabbage field: hey-presto! the local people are able to get to work and their kids to school (attention British people – I have seen these things and can testify to these astonishing miracles!)

The only places that buck the centrally-heated trend are the magnificent churches which are, and I kid you not, actually colder inside than out. Anything other than a very brief touristy trip around these most exquisite and frozen baroque places of worship will result in increasing numbness of toes, fingers, noses, ears and anything else foolishly exposed: it's actually a relief to go back out into the warmer frozen snowy wastes! Perhaps for the more religious locals there's an element of good old-fashioned atonement of sin in wanton exposure to such bone-numbing chill – and there's certainly enough locals popping in for silent prayers at every church we've visited thus far. Perhaps, like good catlics, they enjoy extended periods of misery, whichever way it's served...

As I write, the snow has gone, apart from the resilient patches where abandoned persons of snow have left their lumpy misshapen whiteness as sole testimony to their existence and the effort that created them. This has been an interesting time to acclimatise to Europe. Perhaps we could have awaited the swift's calls, the open windows of summertime and the need for shade under the street-side bar's parasols, but to tell the truth we've enjoyed the cold as a contrast from the intensity of heat and humidity now experienced in Hong Kong, a remedy from 15 years of semi-tropical softiness. What's that you say – more snow? Bring it on!