Paths through ponds of history in the Třeboň region

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As sleep eludes me on a humid summer night, my thoughts wander to last weekend’s trekking through the Třeboň nature preserve in South Bohemia. This region of the Czech Republic takes you back in time, at least in your imagination, to the lives of peasants and farm workers of medieval days who first built these ponds for the fishing of carp and possibly catfish. 

Carp is a fish traditionally associated with Christmas holidays in the Czech lands. But to meet modern consumer demand, the fish have to be raised somewhere. And where better than the murky waters of hundreds of ponds that dot the landscape along the Czech-Austrian border glimmering like numerous shards of a broken mirror whose pieces have fallen to the ground. The surfaces of the pond reflecting and taunting the clouds which will soon gather the precipitation to keep their water stocks aplenty.

The paths through this pond (or lake) district are fairly even, changing from asphalt to gravel and sometimes the plush comfort of earth and pine needles. The scent of the pine trees wafts in the air and rejuvenates your spirit in those special moments when you walk the paths alone, having found a detour void of road cyclists and tourist families out on bike journeys in the area … just because the terrain is fairly flat. Pleasant for both children wary of long adventures and parents who may have been locked in their offices too long, away from the physical conditioning offered by the Great Outdoors.

As you walk the trails, you revel in the sunshine (when available) and gawk at the many waterfowl who inhabit the lakes. No worries. They gawk right back at you: swans, mallard ducks, perhaps a few geese and here and there storks or herons who frequent the ponds from their nearby nests.

Another enchanting feature of the realm is the biodiversity of the local trees. While in most Czech forests you will find spruce, larch and pine trees interspersed with beeches and birches. The woodlands of the Třeboň area are rife with oak trees which also, in their own way, add to one’s mental image-making of long-ago medieval or renaissance times when perhaps the Czech counterpart of Robin of Sherwood or per chance one of Jan Žižka’s men rode these trails travelling to war camps or to pass a message to local nobility. It’s hard to say what might have transpired amongst these tall arboreal stands but it’s clear they have seen their fare share of history.

Most who go to the Třeboň area will want to visit the town proper and walk through its castle park. Or walk along the levees that form the ponds’ borders heading over to the Schwarzenberg family tomb or north to Rožmberk to take in the expansive surface of one of the area’s biggest bodies of water. Others will make their way eastward to visit the Czech Canada region, working their way through villages like Landštejn or Klaštér to visit castle ruins and historic monasteries on their way to the breathtaking renaissance village of Slavonice.

There is plenty to do while wandering among the ponds of South Bohemia. But the most rewarding activity is to absorb the serenity of this unassuming nature, make a small feast of the woodlands’ summer blueberry crop, and inhale the scent of the elder pine forests. They know and have seen much in their extended lifetimes. If you listen, perhaps they will share their stories.

Returning to my other HOME

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Three years after Covid forced me out and a major heart surgery threw a wrench in my travel plans, I finally made it back to Armenia last weekend. It was amazing how quickly the warmth of Armenians and reconnecting with old friends melted away the anxiousness I had about travelling to the southern Caucasus region. My worries were never of the normal kind, i.e., would people and places still be as I remembered? Would there still be a connection to, and love for, the communities where I trained and worked. I was more concerned about being fit enough for the journey.  

My current adventure began with new target destinations: to see parts of the country I had not yet visited; and this thanks to having a good rental car at my disposal.  Of course, driving also made me a little anxious but having a great, funny, supportive team of fellow travellers (Jesus and Ani from Peace Corps’ A27 cohort and our new friend Marietta) made my first trip to the Vayots Dzor region perfectly enjoyable. Our journey took us to the spa town of Jermuk, or what I call Armenian Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad for German or English speakers). This small, unassuming town nestled in between cliffs and canyon made for a nice respite from the stress of air travel. It also filled me with hope for all that tourism can, and hopefully will one day, offer local and regional businesses in Armenia. Although the dominant buildings in Jermuk are large therapy and rehabilitation facilities as well as a couple of resort hotels, the town’s charm, at least for me, derives from the nature that envelops it. There are the cliffs west of the town centre formed from volcanic activity and “tubes” of basalt. These geographic features always make me think of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Then, as you meander to the north end of Jermuk’s “Main Street”, you will find a sign pointing you to stairs that take you down to a beautiful, breath-taking gorge or canyon and the gurgling river that soothes even the most exhausted traveller’s nerves. 

As you walk along the canyon path, you are surrounded by beautiful flora – wild roses greet you at every turn along with other colourful flowering plants (I couldn’t tell you their names for the life of me) that jump out in shades of pink, blue, yellow and purple. The trail also offers a break from the intense summer sun that warms all of southern Armenia. Cliff overhangs and large boulders (even a rock arch) cool the canyon and make the hike all the more pleasant. Finally, when you reach the river’s edge, it only takes a few more steps before you hear that a wonderful surprise awaits. The sound of rushing water shushing eager hikers soon reveals itself to be an amazing waterfall towering from the hilltop above. It carries the cool, refreshing Jermuk waters down to the river so they can travel further south to Armenia’s Syunik region.

Many travellers will journey to Jermuk to enjoy the curative spring waters, to relax or to seek rehabilitation. Odd traveller that I am, I went there to be hugged by the hillsides, calmed by the canyon river and streams and to listen to nature telling me to slow down. There is so much energy bursting in this beautiful landscape that I can’t wait to return one day: to hike more in the sun-drenched golden mountains; to watch local beekeepers as they gather their honey; to observe the farmers as they cut, mow and rake their hay into small bales; and mainly to enjoy the serenity that is, and always has been, the mountains, gorges and canyons of Armenia.

It felt good to be back in those Armenian mountains; it felt good to be back in, and embraced by, one of the lands I now call home.  

Train to the past present – back to Žďár

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A trip through memories from the start of my life in the Czech Republic

Traditionally this blog space is meant for my thoughts on travel abroad and, when possible, going to fun, exciting destinations. The pandemic and personal health issues have slowed all that down for me over the past two years (as with everyone). But recovery is in full force and I had what I will call the surprising good fortune to have my train re-directed on a route through my past during my recent trip to meet up with friends in the charming wine village of Valtice. 

Since Czech Railways is repairing part of their northern corridor, I quickly found out that my journey would take me through the southern route crossing the Czech-Moravian Highlands (the Vysočina region) and small part of my past. It did seem odd getting on the train and looking at an itinerary that skipped from Kolín (in Central Bohemia) on to Brno (what I call the capital of Moravia). But the diversion brought back so many memories as it crossed through the towns where I spent my first years of my sojourn (now life) in the Czech Republic. 

As the morning sun stretched across the landscape, I saw the names of familiar towns pass quickly by my window: Kutná Hora (home to the beautiful St. Barbara’s Cathedral and former mining town), Čáslav (home to a military air base and easily recognisable with the bell tower that stands watch over the town centre) and then Světlá nad Sázavou, a quiet town on the Sázava River, famous for its glass-making. I had the privilege of working many times, in my later career, with a local glassworks firm and both their products and customer service were flawless.

Soon though, we would arrive at the eastern frontier of Bohemia where it disappears into Moravia. That’s when I saw it: the blue and white sign announcing our passage through Havlíčkův Brod. This was one of my main weekend haunts in the early 1990s when a 22-year-old, naïve young man from Missouri had taken on a teaching job in nearby Žďár nad Sázavou (already in Moravia) and would travel to Havlíčkův Brod to spend weekends with teacher-friends in our small expats-meet-locals community. From the window of the train I could smell the memory of a tasty soup Jodi had just made on a snowy winter Saturday, or smoking Sparta’s or “Startky” or whatever was available during pub debates with fellow Missouran, Matt from St. Louis. With Matt, Jodi and guitarist Vojta or whomever else joined our crew, we were likely drinking a Rebel or a Ježek from one of the nearby regional breweries. Quickly though my view of Havlíčkův Brod faded from sight and I began trying to remember the names of villages the local train (Os – osobák; what we dubbed the “oh so slow me” train because that sort of rhymed with the official Czech name osobní) passed through before hitting Žďár. The only ones I recalled were Přibyslav and Veselí. 

And then I saw it on the horizon, the arrival of Žďár. The first glimpse includes the garden communities on the west end of town and then the rail line widens to service incoming and outgoing freight to the largest local enterprise, Žďás. I think at one time it may have employed over half the town. Although not visible from the train, I wondered how many of my old haunts, stores, schools and restaurants were still around. I know the White Lion Hotel (Hotel Bílý lev or Bílého lva) no longer exists. I assume my place of employment, the Škola ekonomiky a cestovního ruchu and its administrators the Holemářovi are still doing fine. But what of the grocery store Mana (by now it’s likely a Lidl or Albert) and the department store we called Papír, hračky, sport (Paper, Toys, Sport)? Because that what was written of on the windows of each floor when viewed from outside. Or what became of Süssův hostinec, the pub that was so local that we foreigners were scared to enter, but which somehow became super friendly once its beer garden opened in the summer? At the time, I spoke perhaps 8 words of Czech and didn’t have the gumption to ask the locals if our entourage could “přisednout” (i.e., join their table provided chairs were available).

Of course, the train moved on quickly towards my destination of Břeclav. But my mind remained stuck at the Žďár train station. What had become of all those students from so long ago. I know Jirka Filippi is a successful corporate manager; Petr Váněk, a good friend of Jirka’s whom I once told in a moment of frustration that his English was subpar and asked what he was going to do when Jirka wasn’t there to speak for him? Well, Petr has since proven to me that perhaps it was the teacher, not the student. He’s become a successful actor and has gone on to play not only roles in Czech movies, TV shows and commercials, but also in English-language films as well. Simply put, he showed me. And I’m so proud he did. So many more names came to mind as the train progressed toward Brno: what of Marek Pospíšil, of Lenka, or Renata or Vít (I hope I have his name right: he was a young, blond, bespectacled student from Havlíčkův Brod who studied in Žďár and invited me one Saturday to meet his mother … how we had any type of conversation in Czech is beyond me; I am guessing Vít was a good interpreter).

Needless to say, I made it to Břeclav and caught my connection to Valtice, where I caught up with the Hradec crew and watched them taste (sample) more wine than any of them can possibly remember. But děkuji (thank you) to Czech Railways for those rail repairs. You took me back to a place in time where both my students and I had our futures still before us. For that I am grateful.

The Secret of (Lac) Leman

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I spent my Christmas again this year in the Vaud region of Switzerland, running away from the noise of my work and the fears of my new reality after a life-changing medical experience. Returning to Saint Sulpice, I found that in addition to the care, love and attention of good friends, the nearby lake too has restorative properties. Lake Geneva, referred to locally as Lac Leman, is a vast expanse of water. It makes up part of the Rhône River, for which I’m particularly grateful, because those waters pass into France and quench the thirst of the thirsty hills in southern France (where some of my favorite wines are grown) before it (the Rhône) rolls into the Mediterranean.

But getting back to the Lake. It is a work of natural art, an expresser of moods and a giver of visual games depending on your vantage point. For me though, this year, it represented therapy; a respite from the worries of the (home) office and global concerns about whether 2022 would finally be the year the world moves past Covid life. I love the Lake especially because each morning the weather above it provides a different view: would we see France and its Alps, or would they be blanketed in lake-generated clouds and fog? Or would the sun dazzle us with how it reflected off the purple-gray mountains and their snow-crested peaks, offering incredible combinations of cerulean, azure, bronze or amethyst with its shadows and reflections. The morning view of the Lake tends to set your mood for the day.

And then there is Leman’s healing force. No wonder so many über fit Swiss folk choose the lakeside as the route for their daily runs or regular walks with their canine companions. Cozy footpaths intermingle with asphalt pavements to offer endless opportunities for the locals to see the Lake’s beauty from manifold angles. This of course gives my friends, once I’m armed with my smartphone camera and ambling along the Lake, cause for dread of my afternoon Instagram/FB posts, where I share for maybe the 9,000th time a slightly different shot of Leman: both its mood and robing for the day.

It was these daily photo sessions, my late morning promenades Ouchy-way or my walks with Jean, Izzi and Poppy that helped me feel a bit safer in my post-surgery world. And more confident in my ability to recuperate and to move forward with life. Each courteous bonjour and each playful chastising of Izzi when speaking to her in Czech made me slightly more certain that I was getting better and reminded me to be thankful for the health I had regained. It was all these faces and moods of Lac Leman that showed me each day would be different: some sunny, some overcast, some full of bluster, but all of them survivable. 

So I took to the Lake with gusto; usually a bit wobbly at first, wondering if my goals of 10K steps were perhaps a bit too ambitious. But as the waters set the tempo and empty benches along the shores invited me for a bit of rest, I learned to trust myself and work to the rhythm of Leman. The Lake is a constant. She is in no rush. She takes contentment in knowing she nourishes the lives of so many towns and villages on her shores and provides both travel routes and entertainment for the people who cross or play in her; from tourists and locals looking to make their way over to Évian-les-Bains (home of the well known spring water) or for the local ferry captains, fishermen, paddle boarders and/or windsurfers to whom the Lake offers both work and play.

From mid-December to mid-January, I had the good fortune to stay with great friends living near the Lake and take advantage of their overly-generous hospitality, and I downed all the medicine that Leman had to offer. I would soak in her sunshine, let her wind whip my hair and chill my face, listen to her stories told in the waves lapping on the shore, and watch her moods change as the clouds and light came and went. I am grateful for the Lake and knowing she is always there for me should I need to abuse her of the curative powers of her ample calm and spiritual nourishment.

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 2)

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In my last post, I spoke of my holiday hiking with friends met in Prague who now live in Lausanne. We decided that in today’s Covid-impacted world the best spiritual rejuvenation would come from getting out of the city and back to nature. Luckily, some of Switzerland’s most interesting and intriguing natural sites are to be found at the foot of the Jura mountains: not far from our home base in Lausanne. Our preferred destination is Les Clées (reached easily by car). Our first hike this season, a new one to me, was a footpath heading west of Les Clées village: in direction of the French border. 

I have to admit that his hike was not full-on serene for me. The nature was amazing and beautiful, but the precarious path and the threat of a possible fall off a steep incline down into the Orbe River had me a bit ill-at-ease at times. Initially, the route is wider and you focus more on questioning why you had such a big breakfast OR you wish you’d had more to eat. You need a good store of energy to push yourself up the constantly ascending path. However, quickly the route narrows and you look at the rushing Orbe below and wonder how rapidly you might plummet down to the water.

As with all things Swiss, this path is impeccably organized. Should you happen on an outshoot of rock: no worries. The locals long ago carved a tunnel into the grey-white rock so that hikers can easily navigate through the mountainside when need be. Likewise, this section of the Orbe River Path also has ample swells of fresh-water springs that trickle slowly to the rapids down below. In the winter season, these water flows offer an additional, amazing spectacle: icicle cascades. Passages through the rock tunnels along the route have an almost 2m tall person like myself dodging a number of frozen-water daggers: a) so as not to hit my head, b) in order to preserve the beauty the icicles contribute to this magical, wintertime, natural kingdom.

The hike provides ample amounts of calm and solace, with the only creatures interrupting our thoughts being Izzi our Vizsla canine companion (she’s afraid of the icy footbridges) and our Jack Russell named Poppy, who shoots up and down the path and sometimes along the icy cliffside without thought for potential consequences. Ultimately though, there is an incredible reward toward the end of the trail. These are the Le Day waterfalls (the Saut du Day) which tower over you as you reach a broadening of the Orbe River where it shallows out and serves up rocky sandbars that are perfect for a picnic. It was at the waterfalls that we went crazy with our cameras and took multiple pics of our beautiful surroundings. We let the dogs test the icy waters and run to their hearts’ content. Plus, it was there that we came across our first humans: other locals on holiday, who also apparently needed to escape their isolating in place for just an hour or two.

I am thankful to have spent a part of my holidays admiring the Orbe River and the gorge through which it passes. It is a calming, fascinating place where I never cease to be in awe of how the water swiftly flows, sharing its gurgles with the random hikers who pass alongside it. I give thanks to the Swiss people who look after the nearby paths and make such wonderful views of nature accessible to all who journey to the area for a walk. As I sit here in Day 4 of my post-holiday quarantine, I can still hear the river calling me. Come back one day. I’ll be waiting. And surely I will return: for a future dose of much needed and appreciated serenity.       

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 1)

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Thanks to a friend’s accidental click-and-point approach to trail searches on a map of Switzerland, I was fortunate enough to come to know the peaceful beauty of the Orbe River this past year. I first hiked the river trails in June 2020, during an escape to Switzerland once Europe’s borders opened up after Round 1 of the Covid pandemic.

The Orbe is a meandering, bubbly, mountain river-stream deep in the Vaud region of Switzerland. It touches upon the base of the Jura Mountains some 40 or so kilometers north of Lausanne. My entry point to the river hiking routes has always been the quaint, little village of Les Clées, with its picturesque tower, church and stone bridges. From Les Clées, one can follow hiking and cycling routes east down to the town of Orbe or take the narrow hill paths to the West over to the waterfalls hidden next to the village of Le Day.

The best qualities of both paths include the calmness, the embrace of forest silence, and the soothing whispers of the Orbe as it gurgles to you from the sometimes scary drop below. The walk toward the town of Orbe begins as most of us imagine a Swiss hike should. The hiker trapses through meadows that hug the village of Les Clées. Soon, you approach the forest line, after passing a cow or two, and you walk along a sandy-rock path high above the mountain stream. The path offers tiny bits of natural wonder as you gaze at the stunning emerald moss that covers many of the trees and listen to the trickles of water from springs flowing from the hillsides. At times, wooden bridges help you over sections of the path, where the abundant water sources make the route too muddy to pass. Then a fork in the trail gives you the option to descend down to the bubbling, gurgling Orbe.

The descent can be daunting when the path is snowy or muddy. But with patience and care, you can make it down to the water safely. Plus, a slow downward walk affords the opportunity to notice the handiwork that has gone into developing forest staircases and root-formed guard rails that keep hikers from sliding directly down to the stream. At the bottom, the blue metal bridge gives a moment of respite and as the water lulls walkers into reflection. The blue of the bridge, the deep greens of the fluffy moss, the brown-grey-green-blue hues of the water and rocks offer a color harmony that overwhelm even a colorblind hiker like myself. My judgment of the various tones and hues is not that of the majority, yet still the natural color symphony takes my breath away. 

After several minutes of absorbing the sounds of the Orbe and its calming rush through the mountain rocks, I head upward along the what I call the southern bank, making my way back to Les Clées. That side of the stream offers vistas of the springs and waterfalls on the northern side; particularly, when hiking in late fall or winter after the leaves have fallen from the trees. Walkers have better views of the water as the hiking path rises above it and the mind quickly becomes overwhelmed by still more natural beauty. Part of you wants to sit and take in the river or, on a hot day, jump into the cool, soothing waters. Another part of you wants to indulge in the escape offered by these seemingly ancient forests in which you imagine Roman soldiers must have marched or where you feel like you may have been transported to the green moon of Endor as described in George Lucas’ Star Wars movies.

As you near the end of what I call the “East to Orbe” circuit (by returning to Les Clées), you catch glimpses cross-river of the green fields where the cows you saw earlier continue to graze or you notice from afar the village’s unmistakable tower. It lets you know that your car, and some well-earned rest, is not far away. This path has become a staple activity during my visits to friends in Lausanne. It puts my spirit at peace and makes me grateful for the simplicity of nature. The opportunities the Orbe offers for quiet hiking, smiles of non-speak with friends, and the curious meandering of our canine companions (specifically memories of my dear Mica) are priceless. In a restless world of Covid angst, the Orbe River surges with serenity.

Autumn Lockdown

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Walking from coffee, 
In anticipation of rain.
Thoughts like leaves, 
Flutter through my brain.

Could I make it to the river,
Without getting wet.
To guesstimate Prague weather,
Would be a fool's bet.

The day was so indifferent,
A sky of pinks and grays.
Colored leaves squealed the end of autumn,
Through a milky, sun-tinged haze.

I thought of coming seasons,
As I climbed the Kinský garden hills.
A virus has imprisoned us,
I fear a new year void of thrills.

So now I sit by the wading pond,
As dogs circle my legs.
One dashes into the water,
While the other nears me to beg.

Soon I will rise,
For to Malá Strana I descend.
My fall stroll will finish,
Having more coffee with friends.

Wandering Lužnice (Pt. 2)

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When finishing my previous post on hiking the Lužnice River trail in southern Bohemia, my friends and I had just arrived to the picturesque village of Dobronice u Bechyně. The hike into Dobronice was a tiring, but visually-pleasing finale to a long day of walking. As you approach the village, the path veers away from the river up a fairly steep hill that offers specials vistas of the Lužnice River from above. You see the water wind its way around the village below where small mills hug the right bank and the clackety-clack of the village’s single wooden bridge echoes up from the valley below. 

As you hike to the village center you first pass a look-out point just next to the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, which sits in serene isolation at the village’s eastern edge. The marked footpath takes hikers back down to the river, while guiding them alongside the entry to the ruins of what was once Dobronice castle. The castle’s one remaining tower can be seen from the walking path and also from several points along the river below. 

We stayed overnight at a local bed and breakfast and gobbled up the tasty traditional Czech food that the innkeeper prepared. There was sumptuous roast pig, traditional beef goulash and also typical fried edam cheese (that’s the option I chose, because I hadn’t had any in a good while). The bed breakfast/inn offered nice views of the river and I fell asleep that night to the sound of stray cars clanking across the nearby bridge. 

Waking up the next day, we had a special visual treat in the fog lifting off the river and clouding the air around us as we enjoyed our breakfast. It was a quick meal, as we still had about 15 km before us and wanted to get an early start to our final destination of Bechyně. The start of the path was merciful: it began with roughly 3-4 km of tromping over footpaths through dew-covered meadows before once again returning to the mud/rock combo paths they we had regularly encountered the day before. 

It was during this segment of our hike that we got to enjoy the serenity of the Lužnice. Not many rafters and kayakers were out on the water yet, so we took advantage of the morning sun and sitting on the boulders that lay along the riverbanks. The large flat rocks offered the perfect place for sunbathing or for jumping into the refreshing water. Unfortunately though, we were short on time, so we quickly carried on along the riverside path that would intermittently offer sections of marsh where we would hop from one wood plank to the next or sections of rugged cliffs facing the river. These fascinating rock formations were frequently laden with ferns and lush moss.  

Slowly, our river path gave way to gravel roads that led to a series of small cottages that are part of the village Senožaty. I later learned that a friend of mine from East Bohemia has a cottage there where he and his family often stay in summer months. After that, our path would once again pull us away from the river rising into dense beech, pine and spruce forests that would lead to the edge of Bechyně. The forests smelled of pine needles and were just damp enough to offer prime growing conditions for the various types of mushrooms that are found throughout the Czech Republic. We even came across some chanterelles; yet not enough to pick for a good sauce to accompany our dinner.

Within 15 minutes or so, we were out of the forest and walking a field path that would lead us into Bechyně. The smells of autumn surrounded us: fields had been harvested and local apple trees had begun to shed their fruit. We stopped for a last group photo by the sign marking the town limits and then walked into the center to enjoy our “victory coffee”.  With my feet starting to protest a little too much, I left my friends to explore the beautiful chateau in Bechyně and to look at its lovely gardens. I, on the other hand, slowly began my way back to the local rail station and took in views of the public park that surrounds the town’s local spas. It was a wonderful end to the weekend: enjoyed with last-minute photos on Bechyně’s main square and catching glimpses of the town’s “rainbow bridge” as we took the train back to Tábor where we would pick up our car. It took my feet 3-4 days to forgive me for our weekend sojourn, but it was well worth it in the end.

Wandering Lužnice (Pt. 1)

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It was a couple weeks ago that two friends and I went hiking along the Lužnice River in southern Bohemia. The Lužnice (called the Lainsitz in German) originates in Austria and we decided to walk the stretch from Planá nad Lužnicí to Běchyně. This portion features serene, mildly-flowing waters that attract swimmers, cyclists, rafters, and hikers like ourselves.

Our first afternoon, a roughly 17km trek, had us walking through various towns and villages just south of the larger town/city, Tábor. It’s an area full of small cottages and well-kept gardens, where local residents use the path along the river to make their trips to visit friends or to their local grocers more pleasant. The first part of the route was rendered more enjoyable by the cool breeze flowing up off the water and the views of gardens that townsfolk seemingly attend to with great care. The river path is brightened with the radiant yellow of sunflowers, the blazing reds of dahlias and cosmos, and the regal purply-blues of late-summer asters.

As we neared the first crossing to head up into the forests south of Tábor, my friends decided to take a dip in the river and to enjoy the refreshing chill of the water. Such a treat was much needed in the sweltering heat of that Friday’s 36-37°C sun. After taking some time to rest and dry off, we stopped for a quick beer in Sezimovo Ústí and then crossed the pedestrian bridge into the forests and glades on the opposite side. The welcome shade cooled us off as we made our way to the Tábor Zoo in the village, Větrovy. By the time we neared the village, the forest had given way and the late afternoon sun was punishing. As we neared the center of the village, we quickly acquiesced to the bidding of a local ice cream salesman, whose wares we hadn’t realized we so sorely needed. It would be his vanilla/pistachio soft-serve that sustained us all the way down the hill into Tábor. In roughly an hour, we descended into the city; via the quiet villages of Horky and Čelkovice. That night the beers served with dinner never tasted better. Then we capped of the evening with a brief tasting of Romanian wines that my friends would later bring back to Prague in ample supply.

The second day, after a night of troubled sleep in a mistakenly-booked B&B that turned out to be a hostel, saw us up early to get a quick start at the 20+ km that lie before us. This was admittedly the most beautiful part of our hike as we set out from Tábor with riverside views of First Republic villas and once active mills that had previously ground grain for nearby villagers and Tábor residents. It was during this portion of our hike that we met our first rafters and kayakers who had chosen to spend their weekend “taming” the Lužnice. Our path and the terrain along it varied repeatedly: with different segments of asphalt road amendable to cyclists interspersed with muddy marshlands and sometimes precariously placed boulders. Here, the river twists and turns until you get to the highly anticipated points that the Toulavá Lužnice website describes in its path highlights: the cliff tunnel after the Breda path intersection and the hanging boardwalk that takes you around the bend right to the Příběnice camping area. It was in Příběnice where a belated lunch (coupled with slower-than-average service and a missing Wi-Fi connection) sent one of my friends into a panic.

But luckily abundant beer would soothe his nerves. Once again, the Czech tradition of generously placing pubs along bike routes and hiking paths did not disappoint. And soon we were fortified with the golden treasure that is Pilsner beer. A second pitstop at the nearby campsite close to the Lužničanka settlement would fortify us even more. Soon we would be nearing the Empire-style bridge below Stadlec after braving the muddy, uneven path that would become slightly more treacherous as we ceded way to families of cyclists who hadn’t anticipated the difficult terrain. Many of them would find themselves faced with the repeated choice: ride and risk flying into the water or just carry their bicycles a good part of the way. It was under the Stadlec Bridge where we would take some extra time to rest our weary feet and enjoy the coolness of the Lužnice’s now rapid-flowing waters. Swimming and soaking our sore limbs, we admired the rafters as they worked to negotiate the sluices below the bridge.

Soon, we reluctantly shoed back up and embarked on the last part of our journey for that day: heading to our accommodation in Dobronice. It was that early evening segment of the Lužnice path that tested our mettle. With the final few kilometers making the whole day’s pedestrian (meant here in the hiking sense) efforts all worthwhile. We pushed our way up the final ascent just before Dobronice where we got our first views of the winding waterway from up above. We took a short pause at the Chapel of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin to get some glimpses of the sunset and to admire the mills along the river below, near which we would soon be having dinner and getting a good night’s sleep.

The (Swiss) hills are alive …

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

It’s been awhile since I’ve added to this blog. That’s mainly because the past few months have been about readjusting to life in Central Europe and trying to get things organized in my business. However, I recently had the good fortune, once Europe re-opened its borders, to go spend two weeks hiding out with some very special friends, Pete and Laura, at their home in St. Sulpice, Switzerland.  It’s a cute little town/village/suburb on the outskirts of Lausanne, and it must be said … they have an awesome view of Lac Léman (Lake Geneva). 

One of my favorite take-aways from my time there was all the gorgeous vistas around the lake; with mountains on every side and the confusing geography that always has you wondering: am I looking at France? Or am I looking at Switzerland.  In any case, there was so much beautiful nature to take in; including the calm waters of Lac Léman, the moody storm clouds rolling in from the Alps or creeping in from the Jura. There was also the morning songs (and sometimes cackles) from the birds who lived near the lake.  When I think back on my visit, I reckon these are some of my favorite memories…

The incessant ringing of the mountains

When we took a Sunday hike in the mountains north of Gland/Arzier, it became immediately apparent that each cow/bull has a bell. And those bells clang non-stop as the animals graze in their alpine pastures and wander to find new meadows unexplored. The sounds give the hills an almost church-like atmosphere where the carillons of cow bells call you to nature’s cathedral and invite you to commune in the lush fields and enjoy the soothing, warm winds that pass through the forests. 

The tangy taste of Gruyère cheese

This was one of my favorite moments during my visit. Parking just below the medieval village of Gruyères and walking through the old gate into this fortified settlement made me feel like I had travelled back in time. As you walk over the cobblestone-paved square and admire the shops and cafés that hark back to a time long ago, you can quickly imagine horse carts and wagons as they must have once brought in wares and crops from the surrounding area. Or vendors as they traded goods from shops and stalls in this hamlet that is home to one of my favorite cheeses. Just down the hill from Gruyères, in the town of Pringy, you can visit the Maison du Gruyère museum and buy all the delicious cheese you want. That coupled with the exquisite views of Le Moléson mountain gives you a sense of serenity and contentment that is worth they journey.

The markets of Évian

Just across Lac Léman from the port at Ouchy lies the peaceful village of Évian les Bains. The town famous for its freshwater springs and its spa hotels makes a nice day trip for visitors from Lausanne, Geneva or the surrounding areas. I travelled there with Laura to explore the Friday farmers’ markets and enjoy the promenade along the waterfront. The animated vendors as they hawk their meats, cheeses and vegetables are a wonderfully intriguing sight to observe. Or sipping a rich cup of coffee while eating a pain au chocolat is just the right treat for starting a holiday weekend.  Plus, there’s the added benefit of looking back at your holiday home on the Swiss side of the lake and taking in the serene Vaudois shores.

I am so grateful to my friends for allowing me to “disappear” at their home for the past couple of weeks. Switzerland and its captivating, hospitable and welcoming countryside was just the right antidote to this spring’s long periods of isolation mandated by the Covid world. If you get the chance to wander through the Swiss mountains and explore the paths that lead you to breathtaking views of the country’s many lakes, definitely seize that opportunity. It’s well worth it.