Pond building history 2 - Jakub Krčín

The personality of Jakub Krčín is so legendary that it is sometimes hard to make out what is true and what has been embroidered in peoples' imagination. Perhaps it is because this brilliant builder and engineer, estate manager and regent over the vast Rozmberk empire, himself a gentleman landowner with several own fortresses and châteaux and a great number of own farms and villages, was so spread out - both in the astounding amount of work accomplished and in distances he must have travelled - that it's hard to imagine a single human being capable of such an achievement. We have the facts that are indisputable, and then we have the mysteries: the greatest mystery is connected to his grave. The grave is inside the church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary in Obdenice, but the curious thing is that although the gravestone bears Krčín's birth date of July 1535, there is no date of death. And when in 1944 the church underwent a thorough reconstruction, the Krčín grave was found empty. Curious, given that he himself oversaw the building of his sepulchre and the making of his gravestone, and curious given that there were plenty of family around him, so they should have had the date carved into the stone. He wrote his will on the 19^th January 1604 but there is no record of his death or burial. And although guesses abound as to other places where he might have been buried, to this date no academic researchers or archeologists have found his remains.

Krčín studied at Prague University and then was employed as a land manager at a monastery in Borovany where he learnt his first pond-building skills from the experienced monks. But his main career started in 1562 when he entered into the service of the Rozmberks, where apart from ponds he designed and built more efficient sheep-farms, breweries, glass-works, mills, even silver mines. And he managed the running of the Krumlov castle - we still have his hand-written accounts in the Krumlov archive. He was obviously much valued as at the age of 35 he was made Regent of the whole Rozmberk 'empire'. But, as much as he was valued by his bosses, he was hated by the people who worked under him; he had a reputation of a cruel and impatient master – apparently, for example, he employed the local executioner as workforce supervisor at the building of the Rozmberk pond! No wonder then, that legends started to burgeon in people's minds. Often his brilliant calculations and engineering ideas seemed impossible to his workforce - they believed the only way that some of his more daring designs stood the tests of reality was because Krčín had a pact with Hell. They whispered that he walks the banks of his canals with black cats on his shoulder of a night, and when he built his own Krepenice fortress in a record time, people were convinced the speed was due to devils working for him in exchange for his soul. This especially as they observed noxious smoke issuing out of Krčín's chimneys on dark nights. This was the smoke from his alchemical laboratory. Whether he wanted to make philosopher's stone or just plain gold, or an elixir that would help him father a son and heir (he produced 6 daughters) we shall never know.

 But this was a time when Alchemy was a pursuit very much in vogue – especially here in Bohemia where the Emperor Rudolf himself, a man of burning interest in Nature, philosophy, and the arts and sciences of the time, was also passionate about alchemy, gathering around him in Prague not only top natural scientists, astronomers and artists of his time, but also alchemists and magicians. And Vilem Rozmberk – a man perhaps even richer than the Crown, wasn't going to be left behind, and his South Bohemian dominion became a meeting place for alchemists: Vilem even sheltered the English alchemists John Dee and Edward Kelly when they escaped Emperor Rudolf's wrath. But that's another story. Suffice to say that Krčín did labour on his own Opus. Well, who knows, perhaps he really managed to achieve the ultimate Elixir: perhaps he is still alive somewhere, hence the mystery of his empty tomb :-)

But what does make him truly immortal is his engineering genius, as all the ponds, and most of his other works have not only survived but are still in working order now.

Well, that's, in brief, the story of Krčín. I will do one more (and more sobre) blog just to finish the general history of the pond building.

Some history of pond building in Bohemia - I

Now, I am not a historian so I am sure I can't write with the kind of precision jargon others would, but I like stories, so here goes:
If you look at the map of Bohemia, especially using satellite imaging, you can see that it looks like a bowl with mountains for a rim. Legend has it that the bowl was formed by a meteorite – and indeed even in the Renaissance, the astronomers and alchemists believed this, calling Bohemia a sacred receptacle of the Hieros Gamos, where this 'Marriage of heaven and earth' left its passionately destructive mark. But this destruction was also a blessing because it formed an almost ideal environment for human habitation: moderate climate with defined seasons and little wind, and waters running from the surrounding mountains into wide, shallow valleys. The mountains were ideal for forestry and wine growing, while the broad valleys offered rich soil for arable farming. And then there were large areas of lakes and marshes: almost the whole of the Southern Bohemia lowlands – the Budejovice, Trebon and Vodnany regions, were one vast lake during the Tertiary period of pre-history, which slowly changed into marshlands over the following thousands of years.
Like I said in my previous posts, it was these marshlands that provided the basis for the wholesale landscape works that took place between (mostly) the 14th and the early 17th centuries.

In the last millennium the Bohemian lands were the home of Celtic tribes to start with, but it wasn't until the Slavs arrived, sometime in the 6th century, that the water-rich region began to be deliberately used for fishing: the Slavs made dykes and small dams to provide good environment for fish to breed, but also to ensure enough water for the hot, dry Bohemian Summers. Then, around 10AD colonising Christians made inroads into this territory, and started building ponds as the monks needed a good supply of fish for their monasteries. They kept themselves, and the fish, to themselves for the following 400 years or so, until Bohemia caught up as a civilised Kingdom and part of the Holy Roman Empire. A significant Royal dynasty of the Luxemburgs brought much order and prosperity to Czech lands, especially King Charles IV (to many Czechs the beloved and respected father of Bohemia). Charles IV (14thC) was a fascinating, erudite, truly visionary ruler and a mystic of whom tomes could be written – but I must try to stick to pond building (alas). He actually ordered his subjects by a decree to build ponds in and near their villages, so as to provide food 'and freshen the air'! - so a proto-ecologist as well :-)

From then on ponds were busily being instituted all over Bohemia, and it almost seems (to me) as a period of huge competition for prestige too – which aristocrat's pond is bigger than the other's. For example William of Pernstejn (Hluboka castle) had over 300 ponds built on his estate in the 15th century. But of course this boom was also due to the realization that ponds were a more profitable business than farming on wetlands. Because ponds supported not only fish growing but also – as I mentioned in my previous post - their supporting networks of canals, so clever that (somehow – I can't quite work out how) they could even run uphill, and gave cheap and plentiful energy to run flour mills, saw-mills, glass and metal workshops, iron foundries and 'hammer mills'. The ponds themselves were reservoirs for water, supplied breweries, prevented floods, served for filling moats for defence purposes, and quenched fires. Some of this was true also for the smallest of ponds - in fact even now if you travel around South Bohemia you will find that most villages are built around a green with a pictoresque central pond which inevitably has a little fire station right by it. And so by the end of the 16th century Bohemia had over 150 000 ponds. That was the peak – now there are only around 50 000. But more of all that later.

Riverside house - work in progress

I realize that I haven't really been showing any progress on the house since Christmas time. Well, the 1st floor where we live has not changed much but now we are coming to the last phase on the downstairs - so here are some pics, as i took them this evening without bothering to put away any untidiness. It's work in progress after all.
I've spent an inordinate amount of time sourcing old materials, so the house can feel nice and lived in - even though of course I am not trying to live in a museum :-) so I'm perhaps a little eclectic in some respects. But I am particularly pleased with the floor in the main two rooms downstairs - the brick flooring came from an old attic and so no tile is the same; some bear soot marks, some are scratched, each an individual in its own right, but together they form such a lovely whole that I shall be sorry to put furniture down once it's finished. You can see that it is still not entirely laid down, Stephan the builder is still working on it. But we did put the same floor on the study and dining room floor upstairs and they look and feel great - and with underfloor heating they are heaven to live with. Not the easiest of surfaces to clean, but who cares, it's all part of the ageing process (we age together nicely...)
Another challenge is always the higgledy-piggledyness of the curved and nooky spaces that the house is offering: how do you fit a bathroom in that, for example? Well, it can be done. Upstairs I put an old (1880's) stained-glass window in the shower room (with some trepidation lest the conservation authorities make me take it out, but they loved it, thank god) - the window is one of a pair, the other is in the bedroom/hall wall. It makes the rather cramped space feel lighter and more generous, and most of all, fun.
And then I love finding old doors - the whole of the upstairs has 'new' old doors; sheer pleasure to touch every time. You kind of wonder how many hands touched them since they are over 200years old, and just look at those hinges and fittings :-)
The staircase has been completely renovated but in the style it would have been originally (we took the 'modern' 70's lavatory-style tiles it was covered in off, mended what needed be and the carpenter (more on him in a separate blog!, a wonderful person) made these treads out of an old sycamore I bought from someone who had it drying for 8 years in their garage but whose daughter was getting married so they needed the money and since I needed well seasoned wood.... I love these kind of mutually beneficial exchanges.
Anyway, more of the same to follow. I am in a great mood, seeing it all come together. The attic space will have to wait for a long time yet, but it is fantastic to think that when our family come to visit in a week's time, they'll be staying in a place that is finished and functioning.

Riverside house progress

I haven't been blogging about the progress down at the Riverside much, because so much of our energy and most of our finances were this year devoted to the (so much bigger and complex) Lake house reconstruction. But we did slowly get on at the riverside, too. Here, the basic structure and layout was given - due to the fact that the house's historic walls cannot be tampered with (and who would want to). So the task was to try and respect what there is and replace unsuitable late 20th century reconstructions with more natural materials. The only changes to the actual building were our discovery and renovation of the historic ceiling in the 1st floor sitting room, two copies of other wooden ceilings that were beyond repair (- the original of one of them was carefully removed and placed in the archive of the local museum) and the removal of 50cm of solid concrete from the ground floor which was making the whole ground floor damp, encouraging water to spread up into the walls, and generally making it hard for the house to 'breathe'. I also decided to swap bathroom and kitchen over - but that only involved taking down some plasterboard partitions; most of the other work is also cosmetic - getting rid of the 70's layer of horrible floor tiles that, again, were choking the house, and replacing them with reclaimed floor-bricks set in lime-based bed, taking down any cement render where there was any, and again rendering in lime-sand mixture, and painting the walls with lime, too. This of course only in places where the old render and decorative finishes were beyond saving. I originally hoped to use clay plaster in some of the rooms, but the budget didn't allow it - however the properties of the lime render and finish are as healthy for the house as the clay would have been, so I am not too worried. We threw away most of the modern doors and sourced historic ones where possible. We lined the old chimney, making it suitable later (when there's money) for wood-fired stoves in the 1st floor sitting room and kitchen, and an open fireplace on the ground floor. The last addition was a new central heating boiler - I managed to beg lovely old radiators from a demolition site - not quite 'historic' but so much more friendly aesthetically than the usual suspects. That's about it for now: we shall be moving into the first floor very soon, having prepared the ground floor and the attic for the later stages of the opus :-)
It's been lovely so far, and although hard work, just being in such close contact with the soul of such an old old house is a privilege and a gift: every time I touch its stone walls or scrape tiny bits of new plaster off the layers of paint underneath it, I feel how brief our human time-span is compared with the work of human hands. So being one of those who are passing through this building, I am trying to do minimal damage, so as to leave it healthy for the generations that will come after us.
(For the history of this house and the steps in our reconstruction of it, see previous posts under 'riverside house' label)

secret well

Deep in a forest - you have to trek a good couple of kilometres uphill from the nearest road - lies, completely hidden, this little spring. No path leads to it. And hardly anyone knows about it - I've lived here 9 years now and no-one mentioned it until a wonderful female friend took me there, with her little daughter. 'I'll show you something truly out of this world', she said. And it was. Someone, long time ago, took the trouble to build a stone-home for this clear spring, perhaps because they thought it healing. And perhaps it is. And then, - I guess in the 19th century judging by its style - someone took the trouble to carve a figure in deep thought and reverence, to gaze into its source. And someone, now, took the trouble to bring a string of beads to adorn the statue, and left a couple of mugs for passers-by who are in on the secret.
We sat in equal reverence, gazing into the water so clear that you could hardly see it. And we drank - to our health.

Nicholas Treadwell Gallery: a hidden jewel

Only a short ferry-hop across the Lipno Lake lies a pretty, small town of Aigen - just over the Austrian border. And if Cesky Krumlov is a supposed centre of art and artists in the South of Bohemia, its close Austrian neighbour might beat it hands down in being more bohemian still, in a truly wonderful, outrageous fashion.
This is because it became the home of a British gallerist, Nicholas Treadwell, who moved his famous British gallery here, of all places - into the back of beyond, where he bought the historic Aigen courthouse and town jail, painted it all pink, inside and outside, and voila!, filled it with his collection of paintings and sculptures in what he calls a 'superhumanist' style. His large, fabulous collection ranges from meticulously over-realistic humans, usually in a state of some surprise or torment, to funny, joky, super-colourful views of life as his artists would see it - mostly again with a thorn in the joke somewhere.
Nicholas Treadwell himself is a charismatic man who clearly loves his life in art, and the artists he represents. Besides art, he indulges in theatre and plays music, an iconoclastic figure who proudly puts on his advertising leaflets a quote from a Guardian critic:
'Nicholas Treadwell has done for fine art, what McDonald has done for haute cuisine'.

If you have a few days in Cesky Krumlov, do take a trip there: it only takes half an hour or so. You drive to the Lipno lake and take a delightful ferry ride, and then on through a deep dark forest (empty of humans or dwellings, as this used to be the 'no-man's land' of the ex-Iron Curtain), descending into Aigen which in itself is worth a trip for its Austrian chocolate-box pretty-ness. How apt for the bad taste which Treadwell so loves :-)

When we got there, we were greeted by the man himself, dressed and coiffured in pink, and although there were only three of us, we were given a 2-hr tour with so much information, detail and anecdotes, that it felt like a huge privilege, a true 'insider' view that you simply don't get anywhere else. Certainly not at the immensely boring and stuck-up, grant-fat Egon Shiele centre gallery in Cesky Krumlov!
More on Nicholas Treadwell and his gallery here: take a look.

The Five Petalled Rose festival

This year Krumlov celebrates 700 years since its first documented mention as 'town'. So the yearly festival was extra special this June, though the weather wasn't as kind to it as is usual at around the Summer solstice.
I've written two exhaustive posts about the festival last year, see
Krumlov - British Expats: The Five-petalled Rose
so rather than repeating myself, this time I shall just post a few pics from the market which you can (obviously) see by clicking onto them.

The joys and the sorrows of reconstruction

What a lovely thing to report: the larger of the two ceilings at the river house has revealed itself. A lovely old man who is an expert for this kind of work took the top planks off, cleaned them and oiled them and injected some stuff into the woodworm-weakened bits. Then we uncovered the underside of the ceiling and the planks were replaced.
Voila! here is a view that was hidden for up to some four hundred years. We even found a date scratched into the gable end wall above the ceiling - 1638. It may or may not be the actual date the ceiling was put there, but from its shape and manner, the conservationists all agree it's near enough (sorry, that's the best pic I could get). I fancy that the ceiling might have been built during the time the Krumlov scribe lived there (see below) as he was the only one of the long string of occupants who might have had enough money to do it? Anyhow: the main beams will now also be cleaned and preserved, and we should enjoy living in its presence from now on. Feels good.
What doesn't feel good is that due to a huge tax bill on the sale of our previous property I shan't have enough to do everything I hoped to achieve. Wouldn't mind if I knew the money was going to good purposes but when I see how public funds get squandered (see 'protest' below), I'd rather be able to spend mine on employing local craftsmen and preserving historic buildings such as this one. There: it's off my chest. Grrr.

some history of the riverside house

For those who might enjoy this sort of thing, here is an extract from the search report on our newly acquired Cesky Krumlov house at Parkan. I find it very moving to now know the names of some of the people who passed through the house. One wanders through the (still empty) rooms and imagines their lives. Where they ate, slept, worked... how their lives passed, whom they loved...

Characteristics: A mediaeval building, re-built in renaissance style in the second half of 16th century. Other major rebuilds happened in the classicist period around 1800 and in the 2nd half of 19th century. Modernisation of ground floor and some upper floor rooms took place in 1990s.

Successive owners during the early parts of the building's history:
The first available record shows one Melichar, a weaver, who died in 1519. In that year the house was sold by Tomas of Mysleny, alias Pint, probably a testament executor, to cobbler Girgl, who lived in the house only till 1524. He sold the house to Jan Nevrlec, who again only owned it for a short period and sold it in 1524 to tanner Hanzl. Hanzl married a widow of tanner Ambroz, and lived there till his death in 1572. His wife then remarried and her new husband, tanner Linhart Kropf, continued running the tannery workshop. But soon Hanzl's son Prokop took over the house and sold it, in 1584, to one Martin Krumlovian - originally from Trebon, a Rosenberg scribe. In the 1590s, the records mention canner Ursula, widow of next door's blacksmith Havel. In 1596 the house had three chimneys (could have served the cannery workshop), but in 1602 there is only one. Canner Ursula sold the house in 1605 to Michal Wagner, who sold it in 1611 to spurs-maker Hans Temel. In 1637 Temel sold the house to a rope-maker Alxandr Prenner, who lived there till 1654.

What amused me was that the report now says 'no newer owners were searched for'. NEWER? Obviously, in a town reaching so far in history anything beyond mid-17th century is 'new'.

the protest is growing in strength

Today groups of people were seen discussing the issues around the disappeared trees and the about-to-disappear island. And in just two hours, over three hundred more signatures were added to the petition. Generally, outrage is still being felt, not just by the citizens of this town but by native visitors, too (the petition is in Czech so no foreigners signed, although they, too, often stopped by and expressed their interest and support).
And the model duck on the island has attracted media interest so the issues are also being aired by journalists (very cautiously!) and on various newspaper web-forums.
Mostly, people are cross that they haven't been told in advance about the demise of the trees. Or the planned removal of the island. Well, the most often quoted defense by the town's luminaries is that 'information was given out duly, and well in advance'. So a couple of activists spent hours in libraries looking through past issues of local papers, and examining the town hall's past public notices. Yes, there were a few tiny - sort of 'by the way' - mentions of an application for grants for flood prevention back in 2007, but no mention of trees or island in particular, or of the actual extent of the works in question. The actual applications and building permissions, as well as the environment commission approval somehow happened. Quietly. More work needs to be done in this area before any meaningful action could be taken - but I am happy to report that the protest activities must be stirring the Town hall at least a little bit, as the Mayor who until a couple of days ago was always saying 'it's been approved, what can I do now?' has been quoted in a local paper saying he will see what he can do!

So keep those fingers crossed please. The trees can't come back now, but we may - just - save the island. And make sure no other damage is being quietly prepared within this 'flood-prevention project': apparently the grant given for this is 180 000 000 crowns (cca 6 million pounds) that's a lot of money to spend on the poor old river within such a tiny town area as Krumlov. The river rising has always been part of every Spring's picture, sometimes barely lapping the bank, sometimes spilling like fury. But the sturdy mediaeval houses on its banks, built with floods in mind, saw no damage except getting very wet. Unpleasant, yes - some years VERY unpleasant, but people who lived there always knew, and know now, that this may happen from time to time - and the calculations about removing the island would mean a difference of 10cm(!) in the water-height flow. Which actually means no difference at all, given how high the floods can get once in a hundred years or so. And by the way, the biggest flood, in 2002, was allegedly caused not by Nature but at least partly by mismanagement of the outflow of the dam upstream during high water, because its reservoir (Lipno lake) is a popular place with Dutch tourists whose Marina had (allegedly) a contract with the river authority about keeping the water level at a constant height. Whereas before, the lake was always let down in anticipation of Spring surge in its inlets.
But I am no engineer, so maybe I am veering onto a territory I am not qualified to touch. All I can say is that every single person asked who lives in the riverside houses (bar one) has answered to the activists' questions that they would rather suffer the occassional floods than watch the devastation of their so-far gentle and pleasant banks. Let alone the gaping damage to the UNESCO town monument's overall feel. Goodness, they'd better start printing new postcards now that the greenery has gone from the banks!

the fragile layers of history

I was asked if we'd found similar stencil patterns as we did at our newly acquired house in Krumlov also at the Lake house. The answer is yes - here are a few pics (from last year) to show you.

This kind of research is always something very exciting as one peels the layers - or, indeed, as they fall off once you touch them! One imagines the generations that lived there before us, and contemplates one's own mortality. The house stood here for centuries, and will stand long after we had gone. And one day there will be someone that starts peeling the wall and finds our own thin layer that passed briefly through.
But what is the correct procedure once you find the layers? Should you strip the whole wall down to the stone or brick, and start new render from scratch? Well, some do, but we try to find a more respectful way. The conservationists here divide between two schools of thought:
1/ carefully uncover different layers in different places on the wall as best as possible, then photograph them and/or trace them. Knock off anything that is obviously about to fall off, then make good the bare bits, and cover the wall with new paint, lime based. Then make fresh stencils copying the patterns you found, and paint the whole, or parts of, the wall with them.
2/ Having uncovered different layers in different places, carefully restore them to as good as you can make it (scalpel work is required here) and then paint them with organic penetration agent to fix them. The rest of the wall can be repaired, keeping the hidden layers undisturbed wherever possible. Then paint the wall, leaving 'windows' to the past where you have prepared and fixed them.
Here is a picture of such a restoration we did in our Prague flat. But which way we go at Lake house and the riverside house in Krumlov is not yet clear. But the main thing, while making the space suitable for living, and while making sure it doesn't deteriorate further, is to try not to destroy its history more than is absolutely inevitable. Well, at least we shall try. Which way would you go?

conservation research

Not sure if anyone's really interested in the details of our search (see blog below), but I am finding it all very exciting and can't resist posting at least some observations, as the initial confusion begins to lead to at least a partial enlightenment.
Looking at the layers of decorative stencilling on the 1st floor, we get information about the age of the walls, and the approximate date of the major reconstruction(s?) that caused such an upheaval to the layout of the rooms and the ceilings. Here you can see an early 20C stencil (floral).
Under it is this gentler green design, then a couple of (pinkish) layers that won't separate but then you get two blue patterns, one on top of the other (the darker blue design is the older). The main partition wall's layers end here. It's a lovely, generous stencil in deep blue, with grey band around the floor level and a grey-blue strip below the ceiling. Our expert dates it to mid-19th C, which confirms the reconstruction having taken place at the time when ceilings had to be hidden or gotten rid of by decree. (Quite why the then builders had to chop the ceiling off at the partition is another question though - but on that later).
The outside wall's decorative layers continue deeper - the reds probably baroque, the black probably as old as the 16th C, which would date the 1st floor and above being built around that time (the ground floor is a vaulted Middle Ages space).

We racked our brains though: where is the main interior wall that would have originally supported the large ceiling? The beams that remained at their original length suggest a 25x25ft room, a heavy ceiling... but apart from the 'new' partition there is no supporting wall for the original length. We paced the place, we measured, we traipsed up and down the attic stair to compare but no matter how we tried, the direction of the imagined wall would have led right into one of the windows. Then an idea: perhaps the window wasn't there in the first place, and was added ad the same time as the reconstruction we are talking about? We looked at the plan and sure enough there are 5 windows in the facade at that level - 2 and 2 on the outsides with exact distances between them, and a middle one that isn't so exact. Just a theory this (so far) but it is possible that the classicist facade we see now is the result of someone's 'grand design' to modernise their house and bring in more light.....
I am sure we shall get the answers eventually. For now, I am on tenterhooks :-)

the joys and sorrows of reconstruction

One of the duties of a new owner of any listed building is that before any reconstruction can begin, and in order to even ask for a planning permission, one has to get a thorough 'historic research' done on the fabric of the building and on its archive history. Which is great, I totally approve of the conservationist approach because I love and respect old buildings with a passion - although others here revile the conservationists for interfering.
Well, so we started - otherwise we'll have nowhere to live if we tally too much. So in I went with my architect friend who officially oversees the project, the project engineer who specialises in historic buildings, and my dear friend who owns the Museum of building crafts in Cesky Krumlov, and has years of local experience as Krumlov's top conservation consultant. Why am I giving you all their professional qualifications? Because the expedition to the house turned into a huge argument - each expert saw different priorities for conservation, each wants different things exposed and preserved, or indeed covered up and conserved. And in the middle of it is me (my partner is in England now) with my own imagination of which way to take the house. Everyone means well, but there is no single way! (and this is not all - the report and the project design have to then be submitted to the regional conservation body who might have yet another view...)
Well, like I said, the house dates back to Middle Ages. Since then its many generations of owners did what they deemed practical for the time the house was in their care. Sometimes it is quite easy to peel the layers back, but sometimes the successive re-builds result in such a puzzle that it is almost impossible to see how the original house might have been conceived, and indeed, it is hard to decide which of the historic re-builds to take as the bits that will be exposed. Should one force the mediaeval look back onto the house, or should one stick to the 19th century rebuild? This, too, is history after all. The only thing that we all agreed on is to get rid of anything that appeared since the 1970s which is all a very shoddy B&Q type do-it-yourself job.
My first hope when we bought the house was to recover and expose the renaissance ceiling. But the rooms below suggested that its original size would have stretched over some partitions so the whole disposition of the first floor didn't tally with the imagined size of the ceiling. 'Easy', I thought. 'We'll knock the new partitions down, and re-build the missing walls under it, the ceiling is worth bringing back to life'. I nursed this idea because Krumlov has many such ceilings that were discovered hidden under boards and reed-scree. The reason for this was that during Maria Therezia's time (mid 19thC) a decree was given to get rid of all wooden ceilings because they were fire hazard. So people hid them, rather than have the trouble of removing them. So I thought this would be another such re-discovered beauty.

Well, having had the first small glimpse of the existence of the ceiling on Saturday, I now spent the whole day with a builder in clouds of dust carefully removing lines of floor bricks and filler-rubble from the attic trying to trace the outline of the main ceiling and also looking in other places for signs of the disposition of smaller ceilings - to discover the original lay-out of the rooms below. Or so we thought.... as what we discovered was a total patchwork of perhaps three or four different re-build epochs: part of the posh ceiling, but much of it removed and replaced by half-timbers and weird layers of planks. Nothing made sense. Which is the point at which my three wise counselors started to tear their respective hair out. And my idea of getting rid of the 'modern' partitions underneath was also put to rest, as they turn out to be at least 150 years old. Well, whatever gets decided, it won't be easy!
I don't know what will be the result of all this.
I wonder what you think of all this, Thud....

Cesky Krumlov Nativity

This evening Pushkin and I, plus my visiting parents, went to the Town square where the residents perform their yearly Nativity. It's always a fantastic event, as it is completely un-official, un-sponsored, devised by our friends from the Mill but enjoyed by all, old and young alike.

People joyfully dress up as angels, shepherds, farm-folk, etc, and those who don't take part all come to watch in a big crowd. It starts with a procession of musicians playing carols, then angels dancing and prancing - the most delicious are the little children of course, but the odd beer-bellied dad is also something to behold! There follows a more solemn procession with Mary and Joseph with a (proper live) baby, and more carols and dancing. Last in are the Three Kings on horses - provided by our friends of the Pohoda stable. The shepherds settle by a roaring campfire, the carols are cheerfully joined in by the whole audience. The last, most solemn, carol - a Czech 'Onto us the Christ is born' is sung in all seriousness by everyone on the square upon which the little angels all go round with plates and baskets of biscuits (baked at the Mill) and little jars with candles, handing them to the audience as presents.

The whole thing is absolutely lovely and genuine. Always brings tears to my eyes, I am not ashamed to admit. My parents loved it, and Pushkin took these photos for you to share. We were just sorry there was no snow this year - plenty on the hills but here in the town it's just got too warm lately. But even so, I wouldn't have missed it for the world :-)