Its name betrayed the simplicity of the place, but not its elegance:
Cesky Krumlov, the "Czech bend in the river." There in the 13th century the
local village erected a husky tower from which the garrison could survey the
watercourse and hillsides below. From roadside where our bus from Prague
delivered us, the tower - cylindrical, drawn to a flag-bearing point over a
porticoed walkway apt for crossbow-bearing archers - dominated the horizon.
But the tower's prominence receded immediately as we approached the village
and the river drew into view. A dramatic oxbow bend made permanent by the
human settlement that fortified its banks, the river (headwaters of the
Vltava/Moldau) poured forth from the wooded foothills of the Oumava
mountains, nearly touching its own shoulder blades here before hustling north
to the plains and eventually through Prague. Within the confines of the
switchback lay a cobbled village of whitewashed buildings, tiled roofs, and
arched, timber bridges.
Like most towns from the medieval period, Cesky Krumlov had a castle; this one
- the Krumlovsky Zámek - leered over the granite rock-face at the northern
shoulder of the river bend. We ascended through the bold, wrought iron gates
and traversed the length of courtyards and antechambers to a bridge of sorts
leading to the western wing of the castle.
I'll remember little of the castle, frankly; rather what will remain among
the visceral memories of this noble little village is the hail storm that
slipped over the hillsides from the west as we looked down at the village from
that crenelated perch. The late spring sky darkened with the first heavy,
frigid water drops, and then suddenly the ice fell: opaque pellets the size of
green peas, ricocheting off the castle walls and plunging into the roaring
river below. Up in the eaves of the castle, we remained safe and dry until the
storm passed and the late afternoon sun bathed the now shiny town in orange.
That night, we warmed ourselves with chicken stew, stuffed pork, and dark
beer, a meal probably unchanged since medieval times, with a new appreciation
for the ardor of medieval winters past. But it being late May, we slept with
the window open to the river, and let the cool spring air carry in the rustle
and chatter of the waters, in a village in the bend of the river.
