Sunday Telegraph
December 7th 2003
Half way across the Charles Bridge in Prague, with its fairy
tale cobbles and turreted archways either end, I realized where I was. One Boxing
Day afternoon many years ago, my brother and I aged five and seven, were sitting
in the front row at a pantomime when suddenly Widow Twanky – the Pied
Piper, or maybe Puss in Boots – pointed down at us and, to a great blast
of trumpets, invited my brother to go up on stage. He burst into tears and refused
to budge so I eagerly offered to go instead. Unfortunately the widow, piper
or puss had already lost patience and was vigorously summoning another child
from another part of the auditorium to visit the brightly painted castle with
its shimmering towers, convoluted trap doors and sparkling fountains. I could
only watch in dismay as they got to stroll through the magical kingdom and then,
unbelievably, were given a prize to take home for their pains. Now, decades
later, in the middle of the crowded Charles Bridge it came to me in a flash
as bright as any geni’s. No wonder Prague Castle, perched high on a hill
above the prettily rippling river, looked familiar while ubiquitous warnings
about pickpockets that had me clutching my handbag tight, now resembled those
cries of “He’s behind you!” I, too, was up there at last on
the fairy tale stage.
Prague has everything a brightly coloured storybook Christmas should offer.
The streets are full of toys, puppets, music and mystery. There is a concert
hall called the Rudolfinum, a Square named after Wenceslas and ghost tours every
evening with such thrills as a local werewolf and the drowned man who once stole
a bicycle and rode it into the river. He can occasionally be encountered near
the Charles Bridge, dripping wet and trying to sell the stolen bicycle cheap.
I never saw him but every day in Prague has that strange expectancy of the night
before Christmas. Every hour on the hour an excited crowd gathers before the
fantastical astronomical clock on the old Town Hall. The tension is broken by
ritual “oohs” and “aahs” as the vast musical box goes
through its routine after which the inevitable sense of anticlimax is quickly
dispelled as the crowd disperses into the surrounding cafes and bars where waiters
are poised ready for the hourly influx. In this city where Mozart premiered
Don Giovanni, music spills from churches, upstairs windows and the unusually
accomplished buskers playing on the streets. Strains of Smetana and Dvorak drift
on the air while shops and stalls sell glass baubles galore and there are toys,
especially carved wooden painted toys, everywhere you look. Warm spicey wine
(svarene vino) is served at tiny booths on the streets, the smell of fresh baking
wafts from countless pastry shops and, as Christmas approaches, there is always
a high chance of snow. Scrooge would hate it but I felt seven years old again.
If I am lucky I may even get a prize to take home.
Visits to Prague best start at the Castle – the largest ancient castle
in the world and the size of seven football pitches - if only to take in the
spectacular view. First thing in the morning, the vista of a hundred golden
spires peaking through the early mist and smoke rising from the layers of terracotta
roofed houses is breathtaking. While Good King Wenceslas turns out only to have
been a Prince, his Chapel in the vast St Vitus’s Cathedral with its stained
glass windows and mosaics is not disappointing. Behind the Cathedral is Golden
Lane, a row of prettily painted single storey houses built into the castle walls
where artisans, fortune tellers and alchemists once lived. Today these Sixteenth
Century cottages are converted into diminutive shops selling attractive items
from old musical instruments, handprinted silk, framed antique prints, gems,
candles and soaps. I did all my Christmas shopping in one fell swoop although
I did rather feel like Snow White visiting each of the Seven Dwarfs as I breathed
in tight and worked my way down the street. At No. 22, once rented by Kafka
and now a bookshop painted bright blue, I bought a copy of The Country Doctor,
a story he had penned on the premises.
A forbidding jail at one end of Golden Lane now houses a glass workshop while
at the other, steep steps lead down to a courtyard where a toy museum is approached
up a twisting staircase in a Rupunzel-like tower. Here a floor of traditional
wooden folk toys, noah’s arks, elaborate train sets, farms, zoos and dolls
also contains a cabinet of space age daleks and robots, a reminder of the fact
that it was the Czech writer Karel Capek whose 1921 play about automata gave
us the word “robot” (meaning “worker” in Czech). The
upper floor houses over a thousand Barbie dolls, complete with outfits and accoutrements,
displayed in the subdued lighting and temperature control that befits a priceless
museum collection. I soon found myself mesmerized. There was a heavily pregnant
1960s model which had a tiny upside down baby Barbie suspended inside her hinged
stomach. I noticed that children who had been entranced on the floor below looked
bored here and it was their parents who, through the long years of the Cold
War never saw a Barbie doll, were pressing their noses against the cases.
I thought of Barbie again in the Church of our Lady Victorious at the foot of
the hill beneath the Castle where a Sixteenth Century wax effigy of the Infant
Jesus is tended by the Order of English Virgins who dress him up in elaborate
costumes, a few of which are on display in a small museum. Returning across
the river to the heart of the city, I entered the Bethelehem Chapel which was
like walking into a giant Christmas card with its pages of illuminated manuscripts
painted round the walls. For a crib scene nothing can beat the live animals
under the giant fir tree in the Old Town Square or the sight of children’s
faces as they queue for donkey rides.
You cannot avoid puppets in Prague as they are everywhere, either for sale or
in performances. You can buy parts to paint and assemble yourself and there
are many antique puppets available in the countless curio shops scattered throughout
the town. One of the nicest such places is Bric a brac just behind the main
Square in Tynska 7, a veritable Aladdin’s cave stuffed with theatrically
arranged objets de vertu. Another excellent spot for presents is Sparky’s,
a four storey toyshop, the Czech Republic’s version of Hamleys.
Prague is so full of theatres and concerts in Prague it can be hard to choose.
I booked tickets in advance from www.pragueexperience.com which was well worth
the small fee (£2) as I was able to research the possibilities and was
lucky enough to attend a truly fabulous performance of Janacek’s Cunning
Little Vixen at the National Theatre.
Security was tight at the airport coming home. Many handbags were checked, including
mine. As the giant pencil, toy soldiers, wooden crocodile, duck and hedgehog
on wheels were extracted and lined up on the counter to the amusement of other
passengers, the officer smiled: For your children? Certainly not, I replied,
scooping up my prizes possessively and thinking how strange that Prague could
be only an hour and fifty minutes’ flying time from Manchester, by jet
powered plane rather than magic carpet.
Charlotte Cory stayed at the Four
Seasons Hotel, Prague, Velestlavinova 2a/1098, Prague tel: 4 20 2 2142 7000