tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47784723828977470992024-03-14T08:03:01.465+00:00Adventures in the Czech RepublicA Brit in the Czech Republic.Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.comBlogger560125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-80183266668617675832024-01-14T11:07:00.001+00:002024-01-14T11:07:42.876+00:00Revisiting the House 1<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbXcA9CM_Pk67vQssmKgLCvjCfZS-tN-tf7cO-VwzxsIMLcyljWZJNgxCH6tagDRPnA8gBv1sqrx3bNMBrNlZnFxVOFZe4bbHt9S_F-iw_BUHWdR9dBSTX0WoP5EowZTRktPob4dBUYK3JAwsYWQDpzjwRA9OK6YBi5YpMSemCX5QWXxXTgEzo9NF0nI/s4032/IMG_2073.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbXcA9CM_Pk67vQssmKgLCvjCfZS-tN-tf7cO-VwzxsIMLcyljWZJNgxCH6tagDRPnA8gBv1sqrx3bNMBrNlZnFxVOFZe4bbHt9S_F-iw_BUHWdR9dBSTX0WoP5EowZTRktPob4dBUYK3JAwsYWQDpzjwRA9OK6YBi5YpMSemCX5QWXxXTgEzo9NF0nI/s320/IMG_2073.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I apologise for the gap in posts. You must have thought I had given up on this blog, and maybe I had. Maybe having sold the house and been confined to the UK by Covid, bad knees and back it hurt too much to look at what I had lost/been forced to give up. It did and does hurt. </p><p>In November 2022 I did return to my little Czech village, staying in the house of my puppetmaker friend directly opposite my old home. It felt very strange to cross the bridge across her drainage moat and look at the bright lights shining out from my old home. In the November gloom the house was a beacon on the lower slopes of the Lisci Dira hill. I saw it as I crowned the hill on the track I took on my walk home from the bus, calling me down to the village and yet not calling me, because it was nolonger mine. </p><p>In the house someone else was stoking the stove, someone else was chopping onions and making goulash, someone else was talking to her friends. Someone else but not me. </p>Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-46580084450414508852021-02-18T18:52:00.000+00:002021-02-18T18:52:05.946+00:00Czech Prints - Puppets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB1z2PulSU5X__sLGFBSY3F2G5PJPihozaqmA67F10YLd7SWJrJZK__QiUKnP5DlFI5OTRI833nV6WfBqPbwrkGN7l37wuvC9A23Pzb_12Fg8kyfhm1pRqUE-LX14fK-xovbBtIQ4G8A/s322/cinybulk+june+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB1z2PulSU5X__sLGFBSY3F2G5PJPihozaqmA67F10YLd7SWJrJZK__QiUKnP5DlFI5OTRI833nV6WfBqPbwrkGN7l37wuvC9A23Pzb_12Fg8kyfhm1pRqUE-LX14fK-xovbBtIQ4G8A/s320/cinybulk+june+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>I was talking to my son this afternoon via Zoom and we came to the topic of Czech prints of puppets. As those of you who are regular followers of this blog will know, the Czechs are experts in the making of puppets. We had a wonderful puppet maker as a neighbour and I first met my friend, Hannah, when I went to her flat in London to borrow some puppets she had made. Anyway I promised my son I would share with him some of the puppet prints from my collection of Czech graphics.<div><br /></div><div><div>The print above is by Vojtech Cinybulk (as are the three immediately below). Cinybulk wasn't just an artist of puppets, he was active in puppet theatre, which no doubt accounts for how many puppet prints he produced. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzvj752KEqn6q25gobOVHfSCe2Z5xcJkn50r1lZ2W3GAqBtf588-hFJfIfjtN2Oxm9gn4ogWOu4mKe6M-yiWjgZa0HC-tZffziKUVTqb1vnc6AzivQcAEA7gH1XL55PbxHr836m2QW9sQ/s2048/cinybulk3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1319" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzvj752KEqn6q25gobOVHfSCe2Z5xcJkn50r1lZ2W3GAqBtf588-hFJfIfjtN2Oxm9gn4ogWOu4mKe6M-yiWjgZa0HC-tZffziKUVTqb1vnc6AzivQcAEA7gH1XL55PbxHr836m2QW9sQ/s320/cinybulk3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It is not generally known in the UK that Dr Faustus was widely performed as a puppet show in Europe.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LS-_d-OH5XHOfrwrhIiK0VhfmTxsRi3xohUw1Yv4ewN63ZSq7Opzu5KurwBBgcbjI00MozSfIUJ6R4fgH8efG1kx4YtLMGhZ19blb-8TCOKGqJrXEvoAJwjp_lTUhd2GQRnRmvMDD84/s1324/cinybulk+feb+19a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1324" data-original-width="886" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LS-_d-OH5XHOfrwrhIiK0VhfmTxsRi3xohUw1Yv4ewN63ZSq7Opzu5KurwBBgcbjI00MozSfIUJ6R4fgH8efG1kx4YtLMGhZ19blb-8TCOKGqJrXEvoAJwjp_lTUhd2GQRnRmvMDD84/s320/cinybulk+feb+19a.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi3B2MDZC9DRr1Ms8aDlMkTCX-gPOFmZZFhjJu7h3YhPH919lPgjp_fv7AoeBwrbhNEZC8w37RdqoDs8Qe2TwCKR8gH_2JDHKpO0UFd232BpL2jLeve1DgcbRM78xYv07sgJD_-6RLRQ/s1458/cinybulk+oct1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi3B2MDZC9DRr1Ms8aDlMkTCX-gPOFmZZFhjJu7h3YhPH919lPgjp_fv7AoeBwrbhNEZC8w37RdqoDs8Qe2TwCKR8gH_2JDHKpO0UFd232BpL2jLeve1DgcbRM78xYv07sgJD_-6RLRQ/s320/cinybulk+oct1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>This print is by Lander.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisI5JJuHWMAJGSkPKv8QkyXm9TrUWvpqSGByPQeVHlBYonScsSD3POu6DzxlHlY5rMWBTE9dd_xcC_9csdZ6SpiOKqsX_JSqGzzD_AK8C46At-mw6_Lil_0bNYrZSvyuO9ejV0jBYmM6s/s1662/lander+oct.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1662" data-original-width="1077" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisI5JJuHWMAJGSkPKv8QkyXm9TrUWvpqSGByPQeVHlBYonScsSD3POu6DzxlHlY5rMWBTE9dd_xcC_9csdZ6SpiOKqsX_JSqGzzD_AK8C46At-mw6_Lil_0bNYrZSvyuO9ejV0jBYmM6s/s320/lander+oct.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The next two prints are by Mahulka. A regular character in children's theatre is Kaspar, a marionette boy. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlJsuwDYPy3fHG53HL1f_N1hyuWlko-gSE3fE74HpPcgbMYNnHskGH_KsrrVHKXJSEk8SY6bm8irW2XeCYM9rfnrjjx8ZgY5sUWgVUHvr-iNsU8AKpQh2zZnBmAHN4uKI7aD-EuhzXJg/s1415/mihulka+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1415" data-original-width="1246" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlJsuwDYPy3fHG53HL1f_N1hyuWlko-gSE3fE74HpPcgbMYNnHskGH_KsrrVHKXJSEk8SY6bm8irW2XeCYM9rfnrjjx8ZgY5sUWgVUHvr-iNsU8AKpQh2zZnBmAHN4uKI7aD-EuhzXJg/s320/mihulka+2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOfBcNCOiAI7AcGcspur10dpfQTBdI7yuCFWIsdinb8FgR5cuTEV4BqedaFm3dAwNZxHHryZUUflCndc30g1xC4nbj1seVrIJ6gN27zjJQFaQci8mEdeHeS7__vrprB9odDfjdpqiwCo/s1073/mihulka+Jiri.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="809" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOfBcNCOiAI7AcGcspur10dpfQTBdI7yuCFWIsdinb8FgR5cuTEV4BqedaFm3dAwNZxHHryZUUflCndc30g1xC4nbj1seVrIJ6gN27zjJQFaQci8mEdeHeS7__vrprB9odDfjdpqiwCo/s320/mihulka+Jiri.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>Here he is again, this print is by Grmela</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULlwJa_4NOEohx65m7SACofAkaIGog-TZvzqUp-pXIoxHDCneCDllRcNZejrok5OxFQMqiZgVPXWY7igiWhKcO0ZOl4avR8Pt3bwOWvJGPKmd3NvVpi6nYEXaJUna6d-In-8qJIA4-iI/s1557/grmela3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1557" data-original-width="1001" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULlwJa_4NOEohx65m7SACofAkaIGog-TZvzqUp-pXIoxHDCneCDllRcNZejrok5OxFQMqiZgVPXWY7igiWhKcO0ZOl4avR8Pt3bwOWvJGPKmd3NvVpi6nYEXaJUna6d-In-8qJIA4-iI/s320/grmela3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and again by Borek</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNlAl7GsrqDUC80_7tMZ9Zcdaj1PghmlsnYn1hAGq05_Fl4sTP8TFgRDYxcEbvWm_FO79uqMxB6mj-EBpXfc0W65LxQ02S0fpTRjq1ew52p0Dn_oLnchWiUAlpcZn2is6zRsi7zWVuXE/s1290/borek.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1126" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNlAl7GsrqDUC80_7tMZ9Zcdaj1PghmlsnYn1hAGq05_Fl4sTP8TFgRDYxcEbvWm_FO79uqMxB6mj-EBpXfc0W65LxQ02S0fpTRjq1ew52p0Dn_oLnchWiUAlpcZn2is6zRsi7zWVuXE/s320/borek.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>But this delightful little fellow has evolved from a more raucous immoral character that stems from the same roots as the British Punch. The change was driven by a change in target audience, with many middle class families having their own set of puppets. </div><div><br /></div><div>But puppetry in the Czech Republic has never just been for children. From the cautionary tale of Faust, through the devil-beating Kaspar, to the surreal puppets of Svankmajer, Czech puppets have always also appealed to adults. They have always had a subversive element. The Nazis suppressed puppet performances, although brave puppeteers continued to perform in secret. Over 100 puppeteers and puppet writers died under torture or in concentration camps. The Czechs rightly take puppetry very seriously.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-88348727447948017842021-01-20T11:31:00.001+00:002021-01-20T11:31:05.266+00:00Czech Prints - Owls<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PhGtZIh8zNVwfT8FkeJLZkd2eCxgNaN0x3syXTYJmkFw_51nRjpxcxIcYs2jhVBNOJvGZGbVOsfMrYs5nTOKWGNytGquta3t73jWUvv4-qnENqWE0XK6c1a5t4ZBKCTYtv7Sd-wGYH8/s1304/palenicek+oldrich+jan+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PhGtZIh8zNVwfT8FkeJLZkd2eCxgNaN0x3syXTYJmkFw_51nRjpxcxIcYs2jhVBNOJvGZGbVOsfMrYs5nTOKWGNytGquta3t73jWUvv4-qnENqWE0XK6c1a5t4ZBKCTYtv7Sd-wGYH8/s320/palenicek+oldrich+jan+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I am mindful that I have not blogged here for a while. I have been unable to get back to the Czech Republic for a year now because of Covid 19 restrictions, which makes blogging difficult. However I do have an extensive collection (over a 1000 items) of Czech prints, mostly ex libris or PFs, which could stimulate an interesting series of posts - either about the subject matter or about the artist. <p></p><p>I am going start the series with a post about a subject dear to my heart - owls. When I was nearly three, my family moved house. My father took me exploring the garden, an event that has stayed with me to this day. The previous owner had kept owls in the old stables that sat at the bottom of the garden of our rather normal terraced house and Dad showed me the pellets. The experience is the subject of the poem that gave my newly published poetry collection its title. The poem appears at the bottom of this post. </p><p>Ever since then I have had a love of owls and it seems that the Czechs have too, as owls feature in quite a few prints in the collection. Here are a few of my favourites: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75T603pzm0a6JtCsfFkWIC9vR1MwpJJ5F8cFCpX5HyW6KfH7Wg4U4wFIxUBsz22i3KgwRb2uwHKDc6ik9SbfPSfHB3rVYHrCYaEYf4uQUXW3XFM-Ivau01bAzjFxE2mxZyZW4eWeRIyY/s557/hanak+exlibris+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="385" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75T603pzm0a6JtCsfFkWIC9vR1MwpJJ5F8cFCpX5HyW6KfH7Wg4U4wFIxUBsz22i3KgwRb2uwHKDc6ik9SbfPSfHB3rVYHrCYaEYf4uQUXW3XFM-Ivau01bAzjFxE2mxZyZW4eWeRIyY/s320/hanak+exlibris+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is by Hanak, it's just one in a number of owl exlibris by the artist.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH04_8UDsjLRQq_GkeuF7LxeZ9tFi18aJOxBzC7LVZN4KX095O3EE3Ae59UX-WHx1jjZCp50K0rwM8iPPnwjosLYQZUJglp3hMj7eO56z83N8qRAOfoIsdjLahQaVAQ0lXPD8zHm8AziA/s547/Plechaty+%25284%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="436" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH04_8UDsjLRQq_GkeuF7LxeZ9tFi18aJOxBzC7LVZN4KX095O3EE3Ae59UX-WHx1jjZCp50K0rwM8iPPnwjosLYQZUJglp3hMj7eO56z83N8qRAOfoIsdjLahQaVAQ0lXPD8zHm8AziA/s320/Plechaty+%25284%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This by Plechaty</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglREZxODwUvU7rbgjyyAreHmLvmAQUovGODFlebRYMp2Eq-3TlpBd59B7mvedO9-uHJPFZsm3Z6OfECqO0QDN8arXpjeWYndKHBMVLFD_JJEmgFkpYUsNxf7ZIw2q2hD0O5dmWv1SWLRE/s480/rajlich+sept+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglREZxODwUvU7rbgjyyAreHmLvmAQUovGODFlebRYMp2Eq-3TlpBd59B7mvedO9-uHJPFZsm3Z6OfECqO0QDN8arXpjeWYndKHBMVLFD_JJEmgFkpYUsNxf7ZIw2q2hD0O5dmWv1SWLRE/s320/rajlich+sept+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This by Rajlich</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesJHxvnj-WVJ5J9Eng56VeDjK-InlrVv5TnAwv3qSfIG-r84_GzP2x71At0IuAH-gDuakCPnL-wpvD9AaBFTVMo6WnDoRxtQtAxGDqZGE-T-jEvZGwSFnn1Nbt5AUFxYH62UeHVGuNTo/s854/Svolinsky4a+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesJHxvnj-WVJ5J9Eng56VeDjK-InlrVv5TnAwv3qSfIG-r84_GzP2x71At0IuAH-gDuakCPnL-wpvD9AaBFTVMo6WnDoRxtQtAxGDqZGE-T-jEvZGwSFnn1Nbt5AUFxYH62UeHVGuNTo/s320/Svolinsky4a+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is by Svolinsky</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljnfpRio78yrQM4-xP_34OFUOiPRmHT1SBLWbraavRMOsukFTg7of0Bx22Nj1GF8L7RHuJ9ffJJ0Bf4isEL9bUb5_E8Yda_M28XK-Entw0P6N6mORxGpbDT81G-YTBMWPAWF38IGdCbg/s1052/Bugan+feb18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="773" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljnfpRio78yrQM4-xP_34OFUOiPRmHT1SBLWbraavRMOsukFTg7of0Bx22Nj1GF8L7RHuJ9ffJJ0Bf4isEL9bUb5_E8Yda_M28XK-Entw0P6N6mORxGpbDT81G-YTBMWPAWF38IGdCbg/s320/Bugan+feb18.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And this by Bugan. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You will notice that this ex libris and the one by Hanak are for the same patron. You often find that patrons will commission different artists to create work on their favourite themes. Dr Pribys obviously loved owls. </div><div><br /></div>In case you are wondering the print at the top of this post is by Palenicek.<div><br /></div><div>Here's the poem. If you are interested in buying the book, it is called <b>Owl Unbound</b> and is published by Indigo Dreams Publishing - <a href="https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/zoe-brooks/4595048690">https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/zoe-brooks/4595048690</a>. I have a number of copies to sell (signed if you want), just email me on <a href="mailto:zoe.brooks@googlemail.com">zoe.brooks@googlemail.com</a> to buy a copy. </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Owl Unbound</b></div><div><div class="WordSection1">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First we found the snake<br />a ball of coiled skin and muscle<br />in a pickling jar at the base of the
hedge.<br /> <br />I followed my father up<br />the outside stair to the stable loft,<br />on one side the railway signal<br />without a track,<br />on the other a brick wall,<br />pocked as the moon,<br />that would crumble<br />like cheese in the rain<br />under the thud of my ball<br />and send it flying sideways<br />escaping me.<br /> <br />The tread creaked as my father
entered<br />and I followed into the dim.<br />I looked around, but saw<br />only an empty perching post.<br />The owl had gone with its master.<br /> <br />At my father’s instruction<br />I held out my hands<br />as if ready to receive bread and
wine,<br />but into my bowl of fingers<br />he dropped a pellet,<br />a galaxy of small bones and feathers<br />cocooned in fur.<br /> <br />That night I woke.<br />The moon shredded by clouds<br />hung over the stable roof<br />and an owl called unbound<br />from the cypress tree.</span></p>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: HI; mso-font-kerning: .5pt;"><br clear="all" style="break-before: page; mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></div>Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-48921113348195359722020-05-10T11:48:00.000+00:002020-05-10T13:42:45.323+00:00The Carpenter - Frantisek Jesus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFMRAA271XIVcnV7P6Bz0FmXkbgOhcrh7H3vPQCHmQaN1K0qX3C-01c7whEe1ATIq4YpmYurOF0MHhFGUOy5GxmrMPOxkUV-qjs8Of_psDZMMk8CHvFE0BN0GYafbTE_VGOsKRLe2t0Q/s1600/IMG_0150+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1526" data-original-width="1587" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFMRAA271XIVcnV7P6Bz0FmXkbgOhcrh7H3vPQCHmQaN1K0qX3C-01c7whEe1ATIq4YpmYurOF0MHhFGUOy5GxmrMPOxkUV-qjs8Of_psDZMMk8CHvFE0BN0GYafbTE_VGOsKRLe2t0Q/s320/IMG_0150+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I am sometimes asked how I found our Czech house. The answer is Hannah's carpenter - Frantisek. She told him I was looking and he took it upon himself to find the right house for me. When I said how it called to my soul, he did one of his mysterious smiles and said "Vim" (I know). That comment pretty much summed him up. He was a man of very few words, seldom more than two left his lips at any one time. But he had a spirituality that was beyond words. The first time I met Frantisek was when he was playing Jesus in the Horice na Sumava Passion play - a part he was made for. Hannah and I joked that he was so into method acting that he never came out of character. To my husband and me Frantisek is always known as "Frantisek Jesus."<br />
<br />
Frantisek was an artist rather than a carpenter. I remember how he stroked the curve of a desk he made for Hannah out of one plank of wood. Nothing Frantisek made was ever quite straight, which was a problem if you wanted him to make a door, but not if you wanted something beautiful. How I wanted him to make me some furniture. But first the house needed repairing, and after a disaster in which he removed my windows to repair without numbering them, I was disinclined to offer him precision work.<br />
<br />
One day he arrived excited that he could source some wood cheaply for Hannah and me. We both ordered a load of rough hewn planks - Hannah chose oak and I elm. Mine were piled in the barn to wait the time when they could be transformed into furniture. Very soon I discovered that mine had woodworm, something elm is prone too. Woodworm didn't seem to worry Frantisek over much. On a visit to his house and workshop in Horice, I found my feet sinking into the floorboards they were so wormy. When I finally left my Czech home, the elm planks remained unused and were only fit for firewood. I never did get the chance to own one of Frantisek's quirky bookcases.<br />
<br />
Over the years Frantisek would occasionally turn up for a wordless visit. But then his visits stopped. When I asked my neighbour, a mutual friend, she told me that Frantisek had been working in Germany (something many local craftsmen do) and that one day coming home over the Sumava mountains and probably tired after a long week of work, he mistook a tight bend and drove into a tree. His son who was with him was thrown clear, but Frantisek was killed.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvv6gU64L5_5VL4k8595hqD5a3iLqPju10Yr2NCQPcoiyDhFpQ2OXymj89Qo-wYj537Zct81OZEnCatGs9dm5A4H2uGsvyov5jOycgaK1cmZoAMtefUZuxwfdP9KcLhr9uE8lHEVNAF2A/s1600/IMG_0055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvv6gU64L5_5VL4k8595hqD5a3iLqPju10Yr2NCQPcoiyDhFpQ2OXymj89Qo-wYj537Zct81OZEnCatGs9dm5A4H2uGsvyov5jOycgaK1cmZoAMtefUZuxwfdP9KcLhr9uE8lHEVNAF2A/s320/IMG_0055.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I shall always be grateful for that silent, strange and wonderful man. When I left my Czech home I left a carving, the only thing Frantisek made for me, a self portrait of Jesus. It was too heavy to take on the plane and besides I very much felt that it should stay there.<br />
<br />
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-70031751908463815642020-03-24T11:02:00.001+00:002020-03-24T11:02:48.634+00:00Little things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dGElrEYGjfJqti3gSJmyqd-Aivl9Q-aNRNWJERPBg7K6i-7TBj1gBIS-cxxEKtl9uYtrksp98YwcD4cEWkfuJRATVNhBcrPf2pxpy3rcYJONEI-o6sLbpZmtkPhCmebcO8yHsDEsU-U/s1600/telc+bees.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1392" data-original-width="1600" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dGElrEYGjfJqti3gSJmyqd-Aivl9Q-aNRNWJERPBg7K6i-7TBj1gBIS-cxxEKtl9uYtrksp98YwcD4cEWkfuJRATVNhBcrPf2pxpy3rcYJONEI-o6sLbpZmtkPhCmebcO8yHsDEsU-U/s320/telc+bees.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
One thing being in the Czech Republic gives me is a tendency to observe more closely those little things, that usually I pass by. There I was walking around the square in Telc, a place bustling with tourists, when I observed these little eruptions between the cobblestones. They were everywhere.<br /><br />Czech cobbles are bedded in sand and the gap between them had made a perfect place for solitary miner bees to excavate their nests. In burrows, under the tourists' feet, the bees had built egg chanbers, furnished them with a sack of pollen, and laid their eggs. Now the new bees were hatching unobserved by all but me and launching into the air to feast on the flowers that decorated the square. Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-57995001230633416422020-03-12T15:24:00.000+00:002020-03-12T15:24:13.246+00:00Smallholding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0LgGIpCFHgMex6u_Yhf9FUTM6pVJtg2RmeqsDz4seFHZpQjA0UnPHVMELONXET63FN5YUtaDPtNnaHT9nUDEQnMAEEx3j3muMdjyt0bbC0B-qEWGdq0C-zG7jMQ3_i9_clDzaZsNWks/s1600/smallholding.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0LgGIpCFHgMex6u_Yhf9FUTM6pVJtg2RmeqsDz4seFHZpQjA0UnPHVMELONXET63FN5YUtaDPtNnaHT9nUDEQnMAEEx3j3muMdjyt0bbC0B-qEWGdq0C-zG7jMQ3_i9_clDzaZsNWks/s320/smallholding.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
When the purchasers of my house first visited, they asked about the land around the house. On hearing that it had always been rented to the house owners by the council, they got very excited about being able to grow vegetables and fruit. The dream of having a small holding is one that Czechs hold dear. A few may want flower gardens, but many want to have sheep or goats in the orchard, chickens and rabbits in lean-to shelters, and potatoes, squash, cabbage and beans in ground. Go into a country dweller's home in winter and you will find jars of tomatoes, soft fruit, sauerkraut, and potatoes in sacks, stored apples, onions and garlic. As a builder once told me "All a Czech needs for the winter is potatoes and cabbage." He should have added beer, but that goes without saying.<br />
<br />
I tried to join in this dream of self sufficiency by planting fruit bushes, but was not in the country enough to fight off the deer and birds that raided my garden. I was soon disillusioned of my rosy ideas of the rural idyll - growing food was a battle, but rearing animals for food was more demanding.<br />
<br />
This was made very clear to me one day. I was standing at the bathroom window cleaning my teeth, when I saw my neighbour take one of the rabbits from the hutch. I watched as he killed it, hung it from the apple tree to strip it of its fur and gutted it. He had spent all summer carefully picking dandelion leaves specially to feed it and yet he was brusk even brutal when it came to killing the animal. I was shocked, this was so unlike my gentle giant of a neighbour. It made me think about my attitude to meat. I had never seen an animal killed for food before, although I eat meat. Mine is the first generation in my family that have had the luxury of ignorance. My mother remembered the killing of of the family pig and no doubt other animals. My grandmother talked in great detail of the flurry of activity that followed the pig's death, including the making of those famous Lincolnshire sausages. Wasn't the Czech approach more honest than mine?Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-29974679966891695592020-01-27T19:53:00.002+00:002020-01-27T19:53:42.782+00:00Lety<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTePLQMcozk50RGEcx4FoC_FQJIeSpmXBNEl2j94aTuV0IIIoOCn0QY82cawjphffQ1s-WlgX9TuAQWsj1rosV3ccbTdMgy0H6_nvFvUquQspPodrQh-BJlKPCFMzr6lhYvAjs0Hrdck/s1600/lety.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="400" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTePLQMcozk50RGEcx4FoC_FQJIeSpmXBNEl2j94aTuV0IIIoOCn0QY82cawjphffQ1s-WlgX9TuAQWsj1rosV3ccbTdMgy0H6_nvFvUquQspPodrQh-BJlKPCFMzr6lhYvAjs0Hrdck/s320/lety.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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On this the Holocaust Memorial Day this post is about the concentration camp at Lety close to Pisek. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Lety was built as a labour camp for criminals by the Czechoslovak authorities, but in 1942 it was designated by the Nazis as a camp for "gypsies and gypsy half-breeds" of which there were 6500 registered in the country. The camp's capacity was increased to 600 inmates, but that was soon exceeded: by August 1100 men, women and children were crammed into thin-walled wooden huts. In December 1942 typhus broke out in the unsanitary conditions and lasted until the camp was closed in summer 1943. 326 people died at the camp, including all the 30 babies born there. The rest were transported to Auschwitz/Birkenau and the final solution of the "gypsy and gypsy half-breed question". Only 600 Czech Roma survived the Holocaust or the Devouring as the Roma call it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RP2Vs0Cqf8NNIl8Qg2rAl_Sc8jVSjQ_yYt6bNKB51vhyTXOeiyo84tihHkQ1QoX0JnLe92dFiTg734NhgybdnloAT3iPjkl5c36SBf0UQA88ROvcVjqBcx78-6RvDfNY6Tk5z1VsSWo/s1600/lety_baraky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="600" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RP2Vs0Cqf8NNIl8Qg2rAl_Sc8jVSjQ_yYt6bNKB51vhyTXOeiyo84tihHkQ1QoX0JnLe92dFiTg734NhgybdnloAT3iPjkl5c36SBf0UQA88ROvcVjqBcx78-6RvDfNY6Tk5z1VsSWo/s320/lety_baraky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lety camp 1942 (<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">photo: </span><a href="http://www.rommuz.cz/index.php?lang=en" style="background-color: white; color: #6d6d6d; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Museum of Roma Culture</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lety has been a sore in the history of Czechoslovakia. There were many who argued that it was simply a labour camp for criminals and sadly there still are people who believe this. The camp guards were employees of the <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">police force of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, not German SS officers. </span></span>The brutal treatment of the prisoners went unpunished after . <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Over the decades since the war t</span></span>he Roma have had to fight for the removal of a pig farm built on the site and for a memorial to be erected to the dead. The Roma and Sinti remain the forgotten victims of the Holocaust.</div>
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This poem of mine was published in the second <a href="https://www.versefirst.org/poetrybirminghamjournal">Poetry Birmingham Literature Journal</a> at the end of last year:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>RAINBOW
OVER LETY</b></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I view from
a passing coach</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
the broken
wheel of light <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
one end
stuck in rutted clay,</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
one in
forest loam.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Under the
trees the leaves are flayed skin,</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
the roots
whitened bones.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We move too
fast to watch the light fade,</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
the
dissolution of the arch into grey.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We, who are
blessed with movement,</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
hurry past
the stillness of the dead.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The restless
ones rustle but cannot leave,</div>
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
they for
whom movement was everything</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-4345918240778708692020-01-13T20:27:00.001+00:002022-11-23T08:34:34.739+00:00A Final Walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwE997sUdEPxF2cQg01wCoWrRISii9Fh88WMcnFtQ1lrFxRHWYiJ84lf9VQgIq9aS3FTXpXyf9iwasuURXtGAPp3yPNzLNcDANua6FOx-yfc_8lM4aqo8ILVaZm67cxl66A_v9NP8MGE/s1600/cesky+krumlov+2020.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwE997sUdEPxF2cQg01wCoWrRISii9Fh88WMcnFtQ1lrFxRHWYiJ84lf9VQgIq9aS3FTXpXyf9iwasuURXtGAPp3yPNzLNcDANua6FOx-yfc_8lM4aqo8ILVaZm67cxl66A_v9NP8MGE/s400/cesky+krumlov+2020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Before Christmas I spent four weeks waiting to sign the contract for the sale of the house. In the end the signing took place on the morning of my departure date. So I am again in the Czech Republic to partially empty the house and sort various other matters.<br />
<br />
So here I am sitting in a room that no longer feels like mine - there are no books, no cds, no pictures on the wall and very limited choice of food. I will be handing over my keys on Thursday, this is the end of my life in my Czech home. I have removed the brass fox doorknocker from the front door and for the first time I haven't seen my friend and mentor the local fox during my stay, although I am hoping he will come and say goodbye before I leave.<br />
<br />
My lovely husband is with me for this last visit, for which I am very grateful as this is all proving very hard. Today was his birthday, so we took the early evening bus into Krumlov and had a meal at Nonna Gina's, the pizza restaurant we used to regularly visit with Hannah. Afterwards we took a walk through a nearly deserted town. It was just like it used to be, when first we visited the Krumlov. Without hordes of visitors and with wood smoke hanging in the crisp air, we could enjoy the atmosphere and beauty of the historic town, imagining that around the corner might appear someone from a time gone by. I haven't felt like that for a long time.Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-78185742915010437232020-01-02T22:34:00.000+00:002020-01-02T22:34:08.487+00:00Black Stork at the Swimming Pond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg547ucbWWAlCmpmWjiuoPK2NMfS57jXwawQnf34ejyPLpxJ4JXD_lSzePgtEE7D2GwuJgkKkVB6VuOfhsvlMKu-0A6RukCGAGSqVGLExvjDVT2zx6PiUgRZv-f5S6jCt2fEKasdMyIdz8/s1600/9803888_s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg547ucbWWAlCmpmWjiuoPK2NMfS57jXwawQnf34ejyPLpxJ4JXD_lSzePgtEE7D2GwuJgkKkVB6VuOfhsvlMKu-0A6RukCGAGSqVGLExvjDVT2zx6PiUgRZv-f5S6jCt2fEKasdMyIdz8/s320/9803888_s.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On
the walk down to the train station I pass the swimming pond. The pond is now frozen over and soon the ice will be thick enough to skate on. But on hot
summer days it is full of locals enjoying the cool waters. This is
not a swimming pool as we Brits know it. It is fed by water from the
local brook and is a place for nature as well as humans. In the
spring and autumn the water is sometimes disturbed by carp rising to
the surface and returning to the depths or by flies breaking the
surface as they take their first flights. Occasionally a heron
patrols the shallows and for a while an enterprising fisherman had a
boat moored at its side.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
remember how there used to swimming ponds in England like this one.
There was a ruined one a few minutes walk from my Cotswold town,
where the more adventurous kids used to swim even though
it was silting up. The rest of us would cycle to Stanway, where there
was still an open-air swimming pond, with wooden changing cubicles
and mown grass on the water. These attractions have all gone, no
doubt considered unsafe and unhealthy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A
year or so ago I was walking past the pond when I was amazed to see a
black stork wading in the water. Whilst white storks are a common
sight in villages and fields throughout the country, the black stork
is an altogether rarer sight. The black stork is a shy bird, avoiding
humans and restricted primarily to the forests and lakes. I suppose I
should not have been as surprised as I was, after all my village
borders the Boletice forest, which for many years was a restricted
area. But still I had never seen a black stork at the pond or indeed anywhere
else before, and I have not seen one since.
</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-24030905836409387702019-12-21T23:19:00.000+00:002019-12-21T23:19:26.029+00:00The House Gnome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8LddQF5c2_4p8F98xooPWxyopLCxbwppXD8myVO6qxPLuHWEJ-xexcLEFSltgEPLlT2oBKpmgUXLIPpaatk0o_mT6rXh4h0JKkBJRLGiO6u0He8YcSCdwnwW85CzB1D-GkVV31eXLgc/s1600/house+gnome+med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8LddQF5c2_4p8F98xooPWxyopLCxbwppXD8myVO6qxPLuHWEJ-xexcLEFSltgEPLlT2oBKpmgUXLIPpaatk0o_mT6rXh4h0JKkBJRLGiO6u0He8YcSCdwnwW85CzB1D-GkVV31eXLgc/s320/house+gnome+med.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This little fellow came
with the house. He was here when we took possession of the place on
that bright sunny November morning in 2005. He has stood watch over
the approach to the front door ever since. In winter he wears a hat
of snow, in summer his paint fades and blisters still more. At times
he has guarded more than that. Keys were left under his feet and the
person who was to retrieve the key was told that “our little friend
has the keys.” When I leave this house for the last time, I will
leave it under his watchful eye. Like those ancient household Slavic gods (the Domovoy), you can't easily part a gnome from
his house.</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-19564120384278455272019-12-10T17:46:00.002+00:002019-12-10T17:46:35.607+00:00Wolves or not<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0poeelW0VSdh1qe1yZCS1gZd2n2YFZZqmZSBsIw-ZSC2cQZJ-uapLngGkyFvncYmifMpdoJ5iBgsk36rmZSJ8GvTBR2GBSEgrf6bXRbKkbbsajHIylTmSWsCmGb37dIqP0bow_kXBziM/s1600/wolf-1583199_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0poeelW0VSdh1qe1yZCS1gZd2n2YFZZqmZSBsIw-ZSC2cQZJ-uapLngGkyFvncYmifMpdoJ5iBgsk36rmZSJ8GvTBR2GBSEgrf6bXRbKkbbsajHIylTmSWsCmGb37dIqP0bow_kXBziM/s320/wolf-1583199_640.jpg" title="Image by Marcel Langthim from Pixabay " width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A
friend and I were laughing recently about our mutual friend, Hannah,
who always denied that wolves could be in the Czech Republic. But
then she always denied that anything bad could be from the country.
Even if she had a flu it was because you had brought it from England.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wolves
had been hunted to extinction here in the 19<sup>th</sup> century,
indeed there is a memorial in the Sumava to the last one. The big bad
wolf of the fairytales was banished to the forests of other
countries. And yet, the memory of wolves lived on in folk memory. I
felt it distinctly in the darkness of the forest I viewed from the
window of that night-bound train in Easter 1990. I felt it as I lay
in a bed piled high with duvets on those freezing nights of my first
stay in the house. As I heard the pad of snow dropping from the
broken roof I thought of wolf padding through the drifts at the rear of the house,
the following day my imaginings were reinforced by fox prints
enlarged by the melting of snow. Maybe that is why the first book I
wrote here was called <i>Mother of Wolves</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
big bad wolf is now officially back. He was first seen, caught on a
trip-camera near Vyssi Brod barely twenty miles from here. Wild
creatures do not respect lines on maps and once the physical barrier
of the Iron Curtain had been removed it was only a matter of time
before the wolves' wanderings brought them into the Sumava Forest and
beyond. It seems only right that EU freedom of movement should extend
to this beautiful animal, if not in future to Brits.
</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-73133449415344241132019-12-04T20:24:00.000+00:002019-12-04T20:24:43.617+00:00Sumava - The Sound of the Forest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBgsk_D6zfMJN6k29A3332oD3D4WpJ95WNjZ9WQ4vEniD2XixUbQQpXg5rdnidzggxg2txVByyxeHaFmt5jqXRJH3BBbcKmeV8u0xmyK3RotzfFxGxDuLKG9l9_0ffRzQSSzvvIbwN_g/s1600/libinview4-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBgsk_D6zfMJN6k29A3332oD3D4WpJ95WNjZ9WQ4vEniD2XixUbQQpXg5rdnidzggxg2txVByyxeHaFmt5jqXRJH3BBbcKmeV8u0xmyK3RotzfFxGxDuLKG9l9_0ffRzQSSzvvIbwN_g/s320/libinview4-small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have been listening to a delightful radio programme on the BBC called <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000b6sm?fbclid=IwAR1KGSBpKEUMQULbmEI3a2CLPZA9QYeCKO-0UwSdvtfo65mLZAeAf5COyGQ">Susurrations of Trees</a> - susurration is the English word for the sound trees make. The programme does not just explore the sound made by different trees, but also the different words we have for those sounds - psithurism for example is the sound of the wind in the trees. Of course the Czechs also have a word for it, but they go one step further their largest forest is called the psithurism - The Sumava (pronounced shoomava). My home is on the edge of it; the little town where I catch the bus is called Horice na Sumava. </div>
<br />
The Sumava extends over the border with Germany, where it becomes the Bayerischer Wald ( the more mundane Bavarian Forest). This huge forest is the most extensive (over 54,000 hectares) in central Europe and has the nickname the Green Roof of Europe or sometimes the Green Lung of Europe. And I love it.<br />
<br />
I have spoken in earlier posts of the importance of forests to the Czechs, that it has a role in the Czech mind that is equivalent to the sea to the British. Sometimes when I walk in the forest and a wind gets up I feel this connection strongly. The psithurism of the trees is so like the sound of waves that I could close my eyes and I think myself back on a British shore.Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-10386089347953766342019-11-30T06:49:00.000+00:002019-11-30T14:08:52.105+00:00Dreaming Of Houses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VLaRVsHqd6F0erD8aydiSTv3n7pzf3tKHt8jAdH-f31VPTEqd_Kky0pbRqKPFjcjDKLI7W_TYdgqSs-Z20u7Sr_hsYu2_YWJJDMFerha31Pdn5SMdSUhGHwCL8pEMA9I3hNY2qSCm_E/s1600/house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VLaRVsHqd6F0erD8aydiSTv3n7pzf3tKHt8jAdH-f31VPTEqd_Kky0pbRqKPFjcjDKLI7W_TYdgqSs-Z20u7Sr_hsYu2_YWJJDMFerha31Pdn5SMdSUhGHwCL8pEMA9I3hNY2qSCm_E/s320/house.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I sometimes dream of houses; I did last night. Hannah used to take the Jungian line on house dreams that they are not about houses but about the dreamer, with the various floors representing the dreamer's different levels of consciousness. I just note that they tend to happen when I am busy organizing something about my Czech house, not that the house in my dreams is my Czech house.<br />
<br />
When I was buying and reconstructing the house, I dreamed a lot about squeezing through a crack and finding new attics - huge and full of lovely beams. Later I dreamed I was going round and round a house, still squeezing through cracks but into hidden staircases and secret corridors.<br />
<br />
Last night I had a different dream. I dreamed that I was sitting with Eliska, and we were talking about how lucky we were to have such nice lovely neighbours. I referred to the ones who had bought and done up the other half of my house. This is interesting as my real house is detached from the neighbours'. Maybe my dream talk was of the potential buyers of my house, who are keen to develop the barn which is attached to the house. I understand their enthusiasm, I too had big visions for the barn and ran out of money. It is one reason I was happy to accept their offer. We will see if their and my dreams come true.Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-29948080139221553662019-11-24T12:23:00.000+00:002019-11-24T12:23:00.530+00:00Blogging<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvVmfQFaqxdvYREOZuY4eJhNfFqtlO-VGIDq_pk-HJyZPNhqqC4zjOGEOnRGB5ruzef7PNX6c64kBSba7uCUe3IPgu-sEY_HnTV2dxqSzWEUidevIsBUjIoOINiWayVoyguM09M3F7tY/s1600/4871504_s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="401" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvVmfQFaqxdvYREOZuY4eJhNfFqtlO-VGIDq_pk-HJyZPNhqqC4zjOGEOnRGB5ruzef7PNX6c64kBSba7uCUe3IPgu-sEY_HnTV2dxqSzWEUidevIsBUjIoOINiWayVoyguM09M3F7tY/s320/4871504_s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One
wonderful thing about my life in this country has been this blog. I
don't think I fully realized its importance to me until now. Writing
the blog was my first step towards starting writing again. Hannah
knew that and encouraged me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now
as my stay in this country draws to a close, I have a wonderful
record of my experiences, thoughts and feelings. My parents both
enjoyed reading the blog. Much as they would have loved to they were too elderly to visit my Czech
home, but the blog allowed them to share my adventures. And then of course there is you, dear
reader. I thank you for all your support and feedback. I hope you
enjoy the blog posts to come, because even when I leave the house, I will
continue blogging about the Czech Republic. I have a list of
blog-post topics I have yet to cover. The list of titles extends over several pages
in my notebook! And of course I will be visiting Czecho regularly.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This
blog is important in another way. I am working on a collection of
poems about my love and experience of the Czech Republic. This is
separate to the collection I will be publishing next year with Indigo Dreams. I have
written approximately half the collection and am working on more
poems. Without this blog triggering memories and feelings I doubt I
could write the new material. Watch this space.</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-21690177079609780812019-11-21T16:22:00.000+00:002019-11-22T09:10:25.671+00:00Remembering Hannah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKtSa_Jnlqyz06gcLXOpvb2R03QmvElfwr3MxUk2ojExqGGb7TWVswh1BRMb7yvCoumdozP_QV7vD7kJkIzED8lyVN0C-zKRC-_rQhv-EockysTviQPiAvyt5lpGk0aEvBF1O-n2-SUw/s1600/krumlov+march+05046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKtSa_Jnlqyz06gcLXOpvb2R03QmvElfwr3MxUk2ojExqGGb7TWVswh1BRMb7yvCoumdozP_QV7vD7kJkIzED8lyVN0C-zKRC-_rQhv-EockysTviQPiAvyt5lpGk0aEvBF1O-n2-SUw/s320/krumlov+march+05046.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
am in a strange state of mind. I have returned to finalize the house
sale. Unless things get delayed, which they might, this is my last
stay in my home. I am already saying goodbye to places I have loved
for years, and not just places.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As
I walked through the woods with Helena, and again when I went alone
up to the woods above my house, I found myself thinking a lot about
Hannah who introduced me to the Czech Republic and all things Czech.
I owe this whole Czech adventure to Hannah. I realised as I walked
with Helena, that the route was one that Hannah and I had followed on my first walk in a Czech
forest several years before I bought my house. The same was true of the woods above my home, where Hannah
gave me my first lesson in mushroom collecting. Over the brow of the
hill the woods drop down to the road to Lake Olsina, where Hannah had
her cottage.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hannah's
main home was in Cesky Krumlov. She moved three times in that town,
so everywhere there are reminders of her. Although she died in April
2011, those memories never used to bother me. I always took comfort
from them. But now I am glad the willows planted on the island she
fought for have grown so large that they curtain the view of her last
home, where my memories are most painful.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Selling
my Czech home seems like letting her down. When she was dying she
worried that the little colony of Brits that had grown up about her
would break up. I told her: no offence but I didn't just buy the
house because of her and wasn't planning to sell up after her death.
She was relieved by this. It mattered a great deal to her that I
bought the house as a place to write poetry. She loved my poetry and
wanted to encourage it. The visit I made with her to Prague in 1990
was the inspiration behind my poem for voices <i>Fool's Paradise.</i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was chatting to her son the other day, who told that his mother would
have been delighted that my poetry had suddenly blossomed and that at
last I have a book of poetry accepted for publication next year with
Indigo Dreams (more of that anon). I know too that Hannah would have
understood the fact that I now need to be in UK to pursue my poetry
dream. And yet...</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-17088918602285693262019-11-15T11:46:00.001+00:002019-11-15T11:46:58.813+00:00 Mosquitoes, midges and other biting insects<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBJbC2NUFLrGa-kiSicjc1P9bw-90eiJ7VMGZsbuVbo5wlUbJXiJQWg6-LtiJd5KCp79UOTIunZEqO_-VrdmM2V7NRinRhB3xLMnytH4XZ44G_I6BBENG46mzvZU9w54tSiIjdIFY-2Q/s1600/olsinalake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBJbC2NUFLrGa-kiSicjc1P9bw-90eiJ7VMGZsbuVbo5wlUbJXiJQWg6-LtiJd5KCp79UOTIunZEqO_-VrdmM2V7NRinRhB3xLMnytH4XZ44G_I6BBENG46mzvZU9w54tSiIjdIFY-2Q/s320/olsinalake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Olsina Lake</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As
I was lying in bed the other night I watched a battle taking place
above my head. Mosquitoes that had escaped from the cellar when I
was fixing the pump now bounced over the ceiling. Whenever I turned
off the light, their whine came closer and closer as they homed in on
my scent. I knew I was in danger of waking with itchy red bites.
Fortunately the ceiling was being patrolled by a number of thin
legged spiders and harvestmen and I watched as they pounced on
passing mozzies, the predator become prey. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
remembered evenings at Hannah's cottage next to Lake Olsina. I loved Hannah's
cottage. Its position was idyllic, with the lake encircled by the
steep hills and deep forest of the Boletice. But you always pay for
such divine pleasure and in Olsina you pay with blood. As evening
drew on there would be so many mosquitoes rising from the lake that the
sound was thunderous. There was another
danger at the cottage, horseflies. I remember Hannah commenting on
what a beautifully marked fly had landed on her trousers, only to
yelp as the fly's sharp mouth parts bit through the thick fabric.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
forests have their own pesky insects, most dangerous of all being
ticks. These small insects, barely visible as they wander on your
clothes and skin, will swell up as they suck your blood and be buried
head first in your skin. As they can carry Lyme disease and
encephalitis, I always spray myself with DEET-based insect repellent.
I do that in the UK as well, as disease-bearing ticks have spread
there too. Another annoyance are the midges that rise in clouds and bite
any exposed skin. And finally there is a small black insect, which
looks like a spider but has wings. I have not been able to identify
it, but it has a sharp bite and is often a problem when I am
mushrooming. Any suggestions as to its identity are welcome.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyway
back to my bedroom ceiling, although the spiders were doing a good
job, the number of mozzies was too much for them, so I resorted to
chemical controls – sliding a tablet into the plug-in mosquito
killer. Turning off the light I settled down to an unbitten sleep.
</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-51220445883983521132019-10-30T17:05:00.001+00:002019-10-30T17:05:54.814+00:00Squatters in the Septic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxbWpjUlei4F006QomOFbB0m4MLwOLFekyNsEM2jzyND7hrzShCmSL-T0O6JiM_No5yukEbs9xzhrhkU4CnEA9CfnpzzvixdL7JY7PsZjQ4zh22ZASNt821_m5FfFVKY9tIyfCyIYMT8/s1600/20191013_112343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxbWpjUlei4F006QomOFbB0m4MLwOLFekyNsEM2jzyND7hrzShCmSL-T0O6JiM_No5yukEbs9xzhrhkU4CnEA9CfnpzzvixdL7JY7PsZjQ4zh22ZASNt821_m5FfFVKY9tIyfCyIYMT8/s320/20191013_112343.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The other day I was
clearing moss from around the hatch to the septic tank. I lifted the
metal hatch to ease some moss out to find that we have squatters in
the septic tank. One – a large toad – was on the ledge where the
hatch sits. Further down what I think was a frog could be seen with
its head stuck into a hole where the pipe from the cellar pump sits.
It was just like a small child playing hide and seek – “If I
can't see you, you can't see me.” A movement in the water revealed
two more frogs or toads. Goodness knows how many there are living in
the tank, as the area of water revealed by the hatch makes up not a
twelfth of the water surface and no doubt there were more in the
depths.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was surprised by our
squatters, as I had always thought the water coming from the house
with its mix of detergent and other chemicals would have caused them
problems. But I suppose the majority of the water going in is pure
spring water and the silt at the bottom must be feeding all sorts of
worms and other food. That combined with the protection from
predators and cold weather, probably makes the septic an amphibian
des' res'. I put the hatch back carefully so as not crush the toad
and let my squatters get on with it.
</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-26555969636060110362019-10-19T07:57:00.000+00:002019-10-19T07:57:38.635+00:00A Walk in the Woods with Helena<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-zqrSKJzwDZZRlg6_iHbrnI1a69fPFPU8X_AZDIXp-q-ytg1SH1b507yZx9w9cWEsejRgqntSpkGdKcCVBP4lqGTe-8HVmlCx-dMepkYo3PNjTyNwP4DW4Z5URIs_9NraGJKYVgeFks/s1600/20191017_121759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-zqrSKJzwDZZRlg6_iHbrnI1a69fPFPU8X_AZDIXp-q-ytg1SH1b507yZx9w9cWEsejRgqntSpkGdKcCVBP4lqGTe-8HVmlCx-dMepkYo3PNjTyNwP4DW4Z5URIs_9NraGJKYVgeFks/s320/20191017_121759.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Saturday I met my
friend Helena in Cesky Krumlov and walked with her over Dubik hill
along the old pilgrim's way through the forest to Kajov. It was a
slow affair, as we stopped to admire nature and the scenery, and of
course to look for mushrooms. I had thought that there would be lots
of people with mushroom baskets, but no the woods were empty apart
from a child with her mother and they had no basket.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Helena explained that
September had been a fabulous month for mushrooms. The summer here
has been very dry, indeed there had been a drought, so it wasn't
until the rains came in September that the woods exploded with
mushrooms. You apparently couldn't move for fungi. Last week there
had been frosts – earlier than usual – and they had put paid to
many mushrooms. We found the blackened remains throughout the forest.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know my Zoe will
find mushrooms,” said Helena with an optimism I did not share.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The first edible
mushrooms I came across were amethyst deceivers. Not great mushrooms
but better than nothing, they went into the basket. I remember my
friend Hannah showing me them, when first I learned to identify
edible mushrooms. Without her guidance I would never had got up the
courage to forage. My son and his girlfriend are going on a day's
workshop about hunting mushrooms. I am delighted they have taken an
interest, but a side of me wonders how much one can learn in a day.
The only way to learn is to go repeatedly into the woods at different
times of year with someone who knows what they are doing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX92BvjW4Me2gSvYMVXJnIq7e9AHBWMN5qz8JVCEiecUznToK2aBHrn4kzUEb1OlC-L1m_Ft041v0nuM5HR4VfMV03Exfi4degk9AlQQugLSEP_Vnf15fYLLC17CtZ8TBbrZKGJbGW3eQ/s1600/20191017_140554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX92BvjW4Me2gSvYMVXJnIq7e9AHBWMN5qz8JVCEiecUznToK2aBHrn4kzUEb1OlC-L1m_Ft041v0nuM5HR4VfMV03Exfi4degk9AlQQugLSEP_Vnf15fYLLC17CtZ8TBbrZKGJbGW3eQ/s320/20191017_140554.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Up a path that branched
off the main track through a plantation of fir trees we came across
yellow-legged autumn chanterelles, hedgehog mushrooms and the normal
chanterelles. All favourites of mine. Now as we walked along the
track nearing Kajov we picked more chanterelles, and even some
boletus which had been sheltered from the frosts by mosses. The
basket wasn't full when we got to Kajov, but there certainly were
enough mushrooms for at least two meals, plus some put down in the
freezer.</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-27712271789628988652019-10-11T14:25:00.000+00:002019-10-17T20:13:50.233+00:00Neighbouring Mushrooms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_PwPPcIzJ4OGKemm7ceIS1X2xBGNBHO_7E_M0F8U9gIQAQzRzUann6r3DYOnwmIv-I66B5icuLjAsOV9LSPHlhocXudR-0lcD-WKv8sZOmGPjrpwdt6i1tfZiopDhxg3hYXsqPfoJD0/s1600/20191008_172526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_PwPPcIzJ4OGKemm7ceIS1X2xBGNBHO_7E_M0F8U9gIQAQzRzUann6r3DYOnwmIv-I66B5icuLjAsOV9LSPHlhocXudR-0lcD-WKv8sZOmGPjrpwdt6i1tfZiopDhxg3hYXsqPfoJD0/s320/20191008_172526.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I arrived back at
the house a few days ago, I found my neighbour's lawn covered with shaggy ink cap mushrooms and others. I am
told this also happened last year. “Shame she can't eat them,” said my
other neighbour. Seeing my look of surprise, she said “You can't
eat them, can you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The white ones,
yes,” I replied. “But you want to eat them young, before they
start to turn to ink.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It turns out that the
owner of the mushroom-filled lawn was in Prague performing in a show. Nevertheless, that afternoon there were fewer mushrooms in the
lawn.
</div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-70954950694486130382019-10-06T21:21:00.000+00:002019-10-15T21:22:01.056+00:00Update on Selling the House<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
It has been a difficult
year so far. Not long after I had returned from my short trip to
check on the house, my mother died. It was quite sudden. On the
saturday she went with my sister to a garden centre cafe and enjoyed
a cup of coffee and a cake and by the following Saturday she had
slipped away with her three daughters by her side. Although she had
Alzheimers and was physically weak, we thought we had maybe a couple
more years with her. We dreaded the time when she would forget who we
were, but that time never came. It was as good a death as one could
probably wish for. But nevertheless her death was a shock and I am
still feeling it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As the immediate reason
why I had decided to sell our Czech home had been the need to care
for Mum, and because I didn't feel able to make decisions at that
time, I took the house off the market. Then a few weeks ago I got an
email from my friend, saying there was someone who was seriously
interested in buying the house and was I still interested in selling.
The buyers were willing to pay near the estate agent's estimate. So
what to do?
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What these few years of
having to be in the UK for mum have taught me is that unless I can
commit spending some serious time in the house, the old building will
start to deteriorate. So can I make such a commitment? The answer is
probably no. I have started building a life in the UK – growing a
garden, building friendships and committing time to writing and
promoting my poetry. I don't want to give that up. Nor do I feel I
can leave my husband for the long spells of time I used to. So for
these reasons I think I may still sell the house.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From a purely financial
point of view: with the pound down against the Czech Korun (because
of Brexit) selling now means I should get more £s for my house. The
converse is also the case, the cost of running the house is rising,
just as our family income is going down.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So I have decided to
say yes, I am interested in selling, but not so much that I am
putting the house back on the market. I will put the matter “in the
hands of the angels” as my friend Hannah used to say. </div>
Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-51482173108211917542019-03-18T13:22:00.000+00:002019-03-18T13:22:38.858+00:00Sooo Many Tourists<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fw39LZnonjjT6fcdmlJAGLu08MT6PITdc74sT0Xko2jAJ1qmL0X7RPZsgxt9h-IhrFJM4BCaC9wtFitJo26y3wDO1CKhEDIlxl6T0fdCXq_4y6HbvNpftdw2BX4o1ZapRsapwLb8478/s1600/krumlov1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fw39LZnonjjT6fcdmlJAGLu08MT6PITdc74sT0Xko2jAJ1qmL0X7RPZsgxt9h-IhrFJM4BCaC9wtFitJo26y3wDO1CKhEDIlxl6T0fdCXq_4y6HbvNpftdw2BX4o1ZapRsapwLb8478/s1600/krumlov1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been wondering about blogging about the levels of tourism in Cesky Krumlov for some time now. You may think me a hypocrite for complaining about tourist numbers, having published a visitors guide to the town. But then I have always argued for sustainable tourism with visitors staying long enough to benefit the town, rather than the quick in/out visits we are getting now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The major change we have seen over the past few years has been the massive rise in Chinese tourists, so much so that the Czech press had nicknamed the town <span style="background-color: white;">“Činský Krumlov”. </span></span><span style="background-color: white;">To put the issue into numbers - the town has 14,000 inhabitants but gets over a million visitors. 40% of those visitors are Chinese. But u</span><span style="background-color: white;">ntil a few years ago Chinese visitors were rare. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Most of these visitors come on day trips by bus from Prague, but when I say day trip their actual stay in the town is a lot shorter than that.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> The result is that the town is overburdened with tour groups who do not spend enough time here to actually make a positive impact on the local economy. The centre of the town has basically been surrendered to the tourists. Over the last fifteen years I have watched as shops serving locals have all been replaced by tourist shops, even my bank has vacated its site on the main square and moved out (it is going to be replaced by a hotel). Last year Katerina Seda, a conceptual artist-in-residence at the Egon Schiele Gallery, satirized the situation by hiring locals to live in the town centre. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;">The Town Council has just announced that it will be charging bus companies 1500 czk (60 Euro) for each bus visit to the town with effect from June of this year. But 1500 czk is not a lot when divided between a coach load of tourists and I doubt will have any impact on visitor numbers. But then it is hard to see what would. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;">The Chinese love the romantic nature of the town, so much so that Chinese tech giant Huawei is constructing a full-size replica of Krumlov's castle at its Chinese headquarters in Dongguan, just outside Shenzhen. Yes you read that right - a full-sized replica! They have as much right to enjoy the town as any other nationality, and who can blame them, but how do we balance that with the adverse impact on the town?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-77485607205687014102019-02-12T17:49:00.000+00:002019-02-12T17:49:29.761+00:00Murder in the bedroom. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYY96-obe_xghsMMfkYofGBLXhRGzPecdsHDmAeI1dckWCGso9fHDEpoDE2G1Y99D3G8baNVl5VJNdNlygZsCGQL-BCIrYro6neDw6GV3J5kjhf1PphP0XDb-wHp044LFjzeidcFd9iU/s1600/massacre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="798" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYY96-obe_xghsMMfkYofGBLXhRGzPecdsHDmAeI1dckWCGso9fHDEpoDE2G1Y99D3G8baNVl5VJNdNlygZsCGQL-BCIrYro6neDw6GV3J5kjhf1PphP0XDb-wHp044LFjzeidcFd9iU/s320/massacre.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
One of the problems with leaving my Czech house empty for months at a time is there are sometimes some nasty surprises when I get back. Once it was a blooming of dryrot fungus in the kitchen. This time it was the signs of a murder in the large bedroom.<br />
<br />
While I was away my neighbour with my agreement showed a friend around the house, as the friend was looking for somewhere to buy in our part of South Bohemia. What my neighbour did not know was that you needed to make very sure the cellar door is closed because the local farm cats like to jump through the cellar window and get in to a nice warm house. There was a definite cat smell about the house when I arrived and paw prints on my furniture, but that wasn't the worst of it.<br />
<br />
In the large bedroom the floor was covered with tufts of fur, and flecks and smears of blood. When I swept up the fur it was apparent that the creature that came to a grisly end there was not exactly a mouse, the hair was longer, had an orange tinge and there was a large pile of it. I still do not know what the victim was, but I do have a good idea about the identity of the murderer. I suspect that the creature that did the deed was a beech marten. I have seen them around occasionally. They are capable of taking quite large mammals: such as rabbits and squirrels. They will also take kittens, something my cat-loving friend was always worried about. It may well have been an immature cat which was followed and cornered in my bedroom. I will never know for sure. Whatever it was, I had the unwelcome job of clearing up.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Beech_Marten.jpg" title="I, Atirador [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)]"><img alt="Beech Marten" height="240" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a0/Beech_Marten.jpg/512px-Beech_Marten.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
<br />
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-44004858230670910122018-12-31T19:32:00.001+00:002018-12-31T19:32:31.039+00:00Happy New Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORG0HU4Ow6jWj2RjBwXyDF6t-9VUeJR9DFDeJHyieWAfcMJcFC05tOcRruD7YUt9Hs6ntYccLFamCOECFzM9HxWRi13roHKKxAD6H8H0IU1nc_zv3CgsElnPRT9tha4ltQrqEqvrHnFc/s1600/svab+ruda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="800" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORG0HU4Ow6jWj2RjBwXyDF6t-9VUeJR9DFDeJHyieWAfcMJcFC05tOcRruD7YUt9Hs6ntYccLFamCOECFzM9HxWRi13roHKKxAD6H8H0IU1nc_zv3CgsElnPRT9tha4ltQrqEqvrHnFc/s320/svab+ruda.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Another graphic from my collection of Czech exlibris and PFs (Christmas/New Year cards). This is of course Happy New Year card and was created by Ruda Svab. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So to all of you a happy 2019, may it be a better year than 2018. </div>
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-57376481895496201572018-11-28T14:08:00.001+00:002019-01-21T14:08:08.618+00:00A Major Decision - Leaving the Czech Republic.I have finally decided that my Czech adventure must come to an end and that I will be selling my Czech home. It is a heart-breaking decision to have to make. I love this house, this country and its people and they have all enriched my life tremendously, but all good things must come to an end they say.<br />
<br />
Over the last two years it has become difficult to sustain my home here. There was/is of course Brexit which has thrown all expat lives into question. But in the end it is not Brexit that is the reason for my decision. It is something far more important than that: family. My father died in 2017 and my elderly mother is finding it increasingly difficult to manage by herself. She has heart failure and Alzheimers and over the last few months I have seen a decline in her. She needs my in England all the time.<br />
<br />
But what tipped the scales against keeping the house going are two financial changes. The largest cost re the house is electricity, which is very expensive here. I have electric central heating for when I am away (when I am in the house I used the much cheaper wood stoves), obviously being in the UK all the time would necessitate having the central heating on more plus an email arrived the other day from EON warning of a price increase. Quite simply I cannot afford it, especially as my husband is about to retire and can no longer support my Czech adventure as he has in the past. Of course selling the house will liberate some money which will allow me to come back here regularly and see my Czech friends.<br />
<br />
Will this be the end of this blog? Well of course there are going to be posts to come about my travails selling up and moving. And then there is the backlog of subjects that I never got around to blogging about, which I still want to cover. So no, not for some time.<br />
<br />Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778472382897747099.post-27429414467407292552018-09-30T14:34:00.002+00:002018-09-30T14:34:42.126+00:00They are made of tough stuff here...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9cKv686vHX2E_KEDNYXpGY8ltkssO8NJStW1OzGAE2dJhL2DjMdtY1FJ0fIDJuOmwCYf-FxYdlYMDmtwE2zIWXG3wNNw42DwOMwFYBPCJ_59oBJzvomnOEmyIGcf4e_qy_GKwqOiq-o/s1600/hus+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9cKv686vHX2E_KEDNYXpGY8ltkssO8NJStW1OzGAE2dJhL2DjMdtY1FJ0fIDJuOmwCYf-FxYdlYMDmtwE2zIWXG3wNNw42DwOMwFYBPCJ_59oBJzvomnOEmyIGcf4e_qy_GKwqOiq-o/s320/hus+castle.jpg" width="213" /></a> </div>
<br />
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Yesterday I went for a walk in the Sumava Forest. It was a delightful day - pleasantly warm and the forest had that lovely smell of resin and mushrooms. </span></span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">My walk began with a visit to the ruins of Hus Castle. The castle like so many in the Czech Republic was built on a promontory above a river thereby maximising its defences. The path dropped steeply to the river, and I found myself watching my feet as I clambered down. In front of me was a family of four. The father was carrying a wheelchair. His wife held the hand of their teenage son, who appeared to have something lik</span></span><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">e cerebral palsy - he clearly was unable to straighten his legs. At one point the father abandoned the wheelchair in the bracken and went to help his wife support their son in his perilous descent. </span></span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">I passed the family as they recovered on the river bank. The next trial was a very high metal bridge over the river. Whilst the steps up were steep, it was the ones down that made me hold my breath - in two places steps were missing and in another the step rocked alarmingly. "I can't believe they will make it over that," I thought. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
The climb up to the castle ruins on the other side was another steep one. When I got to the top I turned to see the family had made it across the bridge. I pushed on along the path to discover that the way was not now flat, as I had expected, but rather a series of descents and climbs where parts of the castle had fallen down and where there may have been an inner defensive ditch. All the time on either side the ground dropped away to the river. I made it out of the castle walls and looking back I saw the father and his daughter (but no son or wife) working their way along.<br />
<br />
There in front of me sat an old woman in her wheelchair looking out across the scene. I said hello and we had a chat. She told me her daughter was in the forest collecting mushrooms. The old lady beamed "It is so lovely here," she said and I agreed.<br />
<br />
How did she get there? Ah, there was broad path. As I walked along it, I realised that even negotiating that route would not have been easy for someone pushing a wheelchair (and its occupant) - they were plenty of holes, bumps,and tree roots to make life difficult. And the path was about 2 kms before we came to a tarmacked road.<br />
<br />
Afterwards when I chatted to my husband on Facebook, we came to the conclusion that Czechs are made of tough stuff and that they must have a special specification for wheelchairs: able to negotiate forest paths and coming with dedicated mushrooming basket. <br />
<span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><br /></span></span>Zoe Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812139316593467950noreply@blogger.com2