Well what is there to say about Prague? I suppose most of what went on in Prague must inevitably stay in Prague. There was our first burglary, brilliant Belgians, pedunk-a-dunk, free beer and two midgets in a cage. The rest is unutterable.

Weary, bleary eyed and slightly sheepish we left the capital of Czech and struck out towards Bratislava in Slovakia. We made it deep into sparsely inhabited Czech countryside before the sky began to darken forcing us to search for a camp. Among the indistinct pixels of our SatNav we noted a big blue splodge nearby and set a bearing for it. As the roads narrowed and tarmac gave way to root and mud we found our small car symbol within touching distance of the blue splodge but could see nothing resembling water and our way was blocked by padlocked barriers, fire pits and recently hewn trees. It was apparent that this area was actively being logged and strictly “verboten”. With the sniff of adventure in our noses we cut off the track into the woodland and with some careful driving we managed to pick a path through the tree stumps and thicket down to the edge of our target.

Brushing aside some low foliage we at last burst out onto a spellbinding scene. The lake we had found stretched out before us silver and endless in the mist. The cold sun shone off its surface and rose in a polished haze to veil the distant highlands. We made camp quickly and furnished our roof platform with chairs and table.

From our lofty perch, Czech beer in hand, we sat to soak up the dying light. Then in the subsequent gloom we cooked and ate by the light of our fire. Fed in ambitious style with an excellent lentil curry masterminded by Bass we decided to scout the area to see if the tiny town we had driven through held a pub. We bundled into the landie, the sleeping platform was erected in the back forcing Bass and I to travel into town like a couple of stiffs in the back of a jolly red hearse. After a little maneuvering out of the woods we soon found just the place. Heads turned as we entered. The sleepy spot clearly had not entertained tourists for some time.

Despite its being Wednesday night the pub was buzzing with conversation, grand gesticulation and bawdy laughter. I made my way to the bar. I ordered four beers from the barmaid, a thick set, weathered woman with the surly Slavic affect we had come to expect from the Czech service industry.  All French and German words useless here, I did so using the traditional method of jabbing one finger at the tap whilst holding up and waving four more fingers from my other hand. This appeared to work.

 I waited for my drinks but was waved away with an irritable gesture. Apparently our barmaid prefers to bring our beers to the table. This she did by deftly dancing her way through a gauntlet of ribald shouts and hearty slaps that shook her stalwart behind. She responded to her friendly hazing with smiles, winks and wiggles. Next time I order a round in Czech I must remember to accompany it with a firm clout across the rear, as this local custom seemed to be received far better than my attempted politeness.

Around us was a range of professions; mechanic, postman, farmer, all in their uniforms, straight from work. The farmer, a boxy man with hands of wood, took to investigating our presence in his pub. At least I imagine that is what he was doing as the conversation consisted simply of a smiling patter back and forth of Czech and English statements equally mysterious to one party as to the other. Despite the cheapest beer of the trip so far we soon ran out of Czech crowns and headed back to our glass lake for sleep.

At 8 the following morning we were awoken all at once by the distant sound of diesel engines. All four of us leapt from our sleeping bags and stood in silence trying to determine from which direction the sound came. Rich quickly noted, “it is getting louder, they are coming towards us”. We paused a moment longer; he was right. We set about frantically packing up the camp, table chairs, tools, stove.  Half finishing jobs and changing to another, we weren’t going to make it, the rattling of engines was upon us, less than 30 yards away and it stopped. Silence followed. We too stopped, Czech voices barked from the other side of the thicket and the groan of engines was replaced with the whir and buzz of chainsaws. We quietly but quickly put out the fire and packed the remains of our camp then sat in the car to plan our escape. It would be necessary to drive out past the lumberjacks. These were big Czech men with chainsaws and we were trespassers. We had to plan our escape to the finest detail to avoid death or mortal injury at the hands of these crazed woodsmen.

We waited through several pauses in the whine of blade on bark before starting our engine and making a frenzied break for it. We crashed though the thicket, bumping and rolling over the stumps and bracken. The Czechs shouted furiously as we passed and we yelled incoherently back at them. We skidded back onto the dirt track and made off as fast as the road would allow. We breathed a sigh of relief as we hit the first stretch of tarmac road and sped towards the Slovakian border, the whirr of steel still ringing in our ears.

Daniel Nuth