Anglicky in Olomouc

St Alban's - Alone

Every day, even for a little time, we find ourselves alone – that is without the company of spouse, family or friend. That precious alone time might be planned, but is more likely to occur within a quiet work moment, a daily commute, an uninspiring grocery shop, during the hours of a sleepless night or even whilst sitting on the bog (that is, unless one is particularly and perhaps overly social).

Thus, last Tuesday with only Woman's Hour for company, I found myself driving towards the glorious utilitarian landscape of Junction 15, the sprawling M25/M4 connection. As it loomed into view a fearful panic set in. Undoubtedly life is made easier when the concrete highway designed to allow westerly ingress and egress from the nation's capital intersects with a circular one designed to ring it, but there must be many others out there who approach this motorway junction with utter dread. I cannot recall how often I have wished to skip this monotonous stretch of lane selection, speed regulation and urban/traffic planned familiarity. Would that someone else would take the wheel and allow me to take a kip, read the paper, do the crossword or complete a chapter of a book at that point. East of Newbury the M4 surely reaches the lower levels of hell, but it only gets worse after that: the whole M25 is nothing more than the ring of Satan: a terrible necessity in argument only – where would we be without it?

So today alone on this trip I panicked, turned off at St. Albans and had a lazy lunchtime in the medieval town, wandering about the olde worlde streets, taking a tour of the Cathedral and visiting the church where the Memsahib and meself were married a little over 25 years ago.

The cathedral/abbey is of course a beautiful sacred space. Originally built more than 1100 years ago, it has suffered demolition, collapse and well-meaning Victorian architects, yet remains a centre of earnest good will and utility.

The martyred St Alban may or may not have been interred in the shrine (one of only 19 such places in the UK, ya know), but the sanctimonious capital generated from this home-grown saint at the time of Nicholas Breakspeare, or Adrian IV  – the only English pope – made this abbey into the nation's foremost cathedral at the same time. This possibly unique situation allowed the abbott to also be a powerful bishop whose expected duties included the inspection of any religious house in the land... Nya-ha-haaah!!

The cathedral is also about as close as you're going to get to ecumenical heaven – on any day there may be either an Anglican, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Lutheran and even Free Church chaplain, a situation that may also be unique. I wouldn't be surprised if they go on to add an atheist chaplain just to stand around pensively proclaiming the inadequacy of established religion – a bit like this. From the look of one of the west wing doors below, they've already expressed an interest.

So the cathedral and town have survived quite well into their third millennia. The surviving modest little houses display their medieval footings and sloping gabled tiled rooves with unabashed relish, although the usual ubiquitous chain stores and prime location eateries have abounded – you can even order your sausage pappadelle at a prestigious Jamie Oliver restaurant! I also espied a branch of Greggs the Bakers lurking on the high street; an evil place along the lines of Grandma's Cottage designed to harden the arteries and widen the waistlines of honest ordinary citizens to then mercilessly cook them into vanilla slices or caramel doughnuts – someone please send for the woodcutter!

On my way back to the bilious-provoking M25, I stopped to see the miserable looking little church where the Mem and meself tied the knot those many blissful years ago. The world was a different place back then, with iron curtains, cold wars and Woolworths. We were so young, impetuous, naïve and as keen as mustard, living life without money, mortgages or kiddlies. The future looked good…

You see, that's the sort of maudlin nonsense that goes on when you've got more quality alone time than is good for you. 

The Parade of the Mounted Virgin King in Drag

It is commonly accepted that for the most part human activity has gone unrecorded. Indeed, it has always been thus; only the doings of Kings, the murmurings of wild eyed priests and rich lives of notable great men being sufficiently worthy for chronicling. We can know the foibles of Egyptian pharaohs but must guess at the motives of those that served them, and of the rarefied discussions of scholars and saints, but hear few words from their servants and converted. We are just as guilty of venerating our present-day worthies (read Hollywood celebrities) and find no interest in the mundane day-to-dayness of the honest citizenry who lap up their celluloid or digital performances. We prefer buying a copy of Hello! to Carp-Talk any day: it's probably a genetic thing...

Thus it is there is no confirmed historical record of the first Jízdě Králů. 'The first what?' I hear you splutter. Why, The Ride of the Kings of course! We'd never heard of it either our until friends Svetlana and Milon kindly took us to see the Jízdě králů in Doloplazy, a ribbon-like village not far from Olomouc. In processional form the village celebrates the arrival of a virtuous, silent king in drag and on horseback to the accompaniment of as much pageantry, music, dance and alcohol that can be mustered. That he is virtuous is ascertained by his virginal status (fnar-fnar), that he is silent by him holding a rose between his teeth – the rest being obvious.

This tradition used to be widespread across the Czech-speaking lands and there are similar processions in Poland, Austria, Switzerland and even further afield. The procession may also coincide with specific agricultural activities such as springytime sowing or harvestytime reaping and is likely to have had association with ancient preexisting religious observances. The arrival of Christianity saw these activities co-opted into the more acceptable Easter or Pentecost festivals. Such seasonal cultural punctuations being no longer necessary, the festivals are now held more for their bright colour and excitement as for any religious or regal connotations and since 2011 has been on the UNESCO list of Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.

The commonly held assumption is that the king (Svatopluk II, one of the blokes called Wenceslas  or the Hungarian king Matthias Corvinus  – take your pick!), after a disastrous battle or similar military escapade, found himself in hostile territory. Disguised in ladylike attire and remaining silent by holding a rose in his mouth, he then had to make the perilous journey back home without exposing his identity. His re-appearance was thus celebrated with an imitative procession on horseback and much joyous peasant singing and dancing.

Despite copious research over the centuries, the true origins of this cultural activity are certainly, to use a cliché almost as ancient as the festival itself, lost in the mists of time. Some have seen similarities in coming of age festivities celebrated in Kyrgyzstan where wrestling, horseback riding and polo is accompanied by much decorative horseyness. These similarities may be abundant, but perhaps there is a common and forgotten pre-Christian ancestry to it all.

So we arrived early afternoon in the pretty, but fairly standard Moravian village of Doloplazy – nicely mown lawns and pretty window boxes galore. It didn't take us long to find the village hall where beer tents, trestle tables and two stages were set up. Taking our local Zubr beers with us, we trotted back out to the street to watch the procession.

The first part of the afternoon was taken up with the local folk song and dance group that tried to get the mood going. The local dances can be lively, but tend to centre around the men standing with an arm raised singing a stately verse, whereafter during the exciting chorusy/instrumental extemporising bit the girls either join in or get vigorously swung around to much excited screeching before they retire back to the side, the whole thing continuing until at the very end the blokes jump into the air making sure they smack their heels in a testosterone-fueled display of Moravian extra-bravura.

That done, everyone takes a quick swig or two of homemade slivovitz, and another folk song starts up in pretty much the same style, the whole thing continuing all day until the necessity of toilet break/incapacity/over-intoxication compels a cessation. The girls' many-petticoated skirts are set delightfully above their brown woollen Nora Batty knees giving the appearance of overturned double flake fairy cakes. Each village also has its unique headscarf/hat routine. In truth, the scene was not too dissimilar to the six o'clock dancing workers at Chigley!

The costumes are lovingly constructed, each bearing the recognised characteristics of that village or region, displaying a genuine love for authenticity that testifies to the love people have for these traditions. There are, of course, notable absentees – the teenagers who obviously think the whole thing is way below them: I heard it mentioned that even those steeped in the tradition suffer ridicule in school and drop out for fear of complete social death. That said, the primary school-age kiddlies nicely-adorned in traditional costume sang nursery rhymes in a simple little performance on one of the stages, something that will hopefully stay with them and positively colour their future cultural feelings.

  

The parade proper began when the horsemen and horsewomen in all their feathered and booted finery, akin to old Austro-Hungarian military cavalry, escorted the riderless horse to the top end of the village. Once picked up, the retinue returned the King back down the village street to much hoopin', hollerin' and noisy crowd interaction. These parades, however, were not always so very well behaved. In the past each village in this region had it's yearly King, the intense rivalry was so bad kidnapping and ransoming had become regular features of the culture. So bad did this get that early in the 19th century occurred the Battle of the Four Kings, a scene of carnage between King's men from four villages – 8 out of the 80 were killed on the spot, 20 later died from their wounds and 40 more were seriously injured! Since those rather more impassioned times the festival has taken on the character of an English village fete, but without the vicar's opening speech, cake marquee and coconut shy.

The remains of the afternoon were spent drinking beer, watching performances by singers and dancers; more of the local stuff, beer, Spandan – a sparkling touring troupe from Rajastan, beer, and Uralskaya vechora – an astonishing Russian teenage singers and dancers (did I mention the beer?).

The young whistling Russkies whirled around dressed in traditional 3/4 length folk dresses and nontraditional crimson lolita lipstick and bright blue eye shadow, or leapt courageously in boots and slavic tunics, much to the delight of the audience. Many in the crowd would have witnessed the 1968 invasion and occupation of Czechoslovakia by Russian troops (in the following period of 'normalisation' folk customs would have been tolerated only if they glorified the inherent virtues of a patriotic proletariat).  Time, however, appears to be a great healer and there didn't appear to be any grievances directed towards the children in respect to their soviet forbears. As such, this excellent troupe's effect as innocent cultural ambassadors of the new glorious Russia worked wonders. I also think the beer helped.

The local song and dance group Moravian-Slovak Ensemble Lipina from Vracov, accompanied by darn good fiddler, drone, bowed bass and cimbalom (a hammered dulcimer), continued on and off for most of the day. Finally a band popular at the national level, the wrinkly blue grassers Druhá Tráva, played on into the fading light until falling over time.

That ancient Moravian folk traditions should be alive and well in 2013 may come as no surprise: such things have experienced similar happy revivals in other countries. That these traditions are maintained with vigour is testament to the cultural identity held in this and many other villages in the region. Long may they continue!

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!