Prague

Prague. Prague. It helps to say the name at least twice as a countermeasure to the ridiculous ease of modern travel — especially when visiting cities of one syllable. Another countermeasure is to arrive by train, where the sweep of the landscape gives a better sense of Prague as the grand Bohemian capital than as a retreat for Hapsburg aristocrats and easyJet stag parties.

There are direct trains from Munich and Budapest, and of course Vienna and Bratislava, to Prague’s Hlavní nádraží station, originally christened Wilsonovo nádraží after the US president who championed Czechoslovak independence. A new Wilson monument stands outside the station, replacing the original statue, which the Nazis melted down for its bronze. The art-nouveau station building is quite a sight, and a short walk from other ‘sights’ — the Old Town and Wenceslas Square are just a few blocks away. Avoid the taxi ranks unless you need a reminder of how easy it can be to get ripped off in Prague. That’s entirely unnecessary in a city which remains navigable on foot and is full of music and beer, both of which are excellent and affordable.

The music came first, for me. Smetana and Dvořák’s scores, so central to the emerging sensibility of the country’s nationalist revival, also provided my teenage years with much of their soundtrack. The beer came a little later, from the cramped bar of West Hampstead’s Czech club, where enormous glasses of frothy Gambrinus pilsner and smaller ones of slivovitz were all you could order, or want. There were two old posters, one of the young Václav Havel holding protest, another of a woman on a bike having her bottom spanked, both of which made me keen to travel to the country.