We all react to events and situations in different ways. To differing degrees, we all possess a sense of humour. What one person finds funny though, another may not. Some can laugh at themselves, for instance. Others, in a similar situation, may freak out in embarrassment.
We’re currently pitched up for one night at Autokempink Konopáč, Heřmanův Městec. Jonas, an English speaking Czech, with a definite Irish lilt, is on hand as part of his tourism management secondment. He very kindly ushers us to our pitch. He’s developed the Irish gift of the gab from a two year stint in Donegal. Words trip out of his mouth as fast as Guinness from a toppled glass. Beastie is given an acre to roam freely. The sky is blue and the view across the natural swimming lake, almost enchanting.
When we’re looking around inside a church Mrs S tends to make judgement, not on it’s state of repair, but rather on it’s state of cleanliness. If the statues and icons are covered in dust, then it’s liable to receive a thumbs down. Afterall, cleanliness is next to Godliness, isn’t it?
We apply a similar principle when on site too. A nice pitch. A nice view. All very well, but if provided with a dirty toilet block, then grey clouds can materialise, even on the brightest of days.
First item on the agenda is usually to go check out ‘the facilities’. So I do just that. The block looks as if it’s been transported in especially for the occasion from the Soviet bloc and wouldn’t look out of place in Stalag 17. I presume those green tanks contain water. (see what I mean about sense of humour?)
Oddly, I find it funny. It’s either that, or spend the next twelve hours feeling annoyed and frustrated. The ancient owner who outdates the block by at least half a century, speaks nor understands a word of English. So we make do with Beastie’s onboard home comforts.
Earlier on route, we make two stop offs to break the journey.
Sedlec Ossuary, at Kutna Hora, the number one attraction. If you can call it that. Consists of a macabre display of skeletal remains of over 40,000 people. The black plague and Hussite Wars providing plenty of ammunition for the constructors.
Photos not allowed, but that doesn’t deter Mrs S taking a sneaky couple while the attendant’s back is turned.
Money for old rope? In this case money for old bones. A £10 concession, gets us no more than fifteen minutes worth. They make a killing each year from the 400,000 touring numbskulls.
We cross town. Go visit the Gothic masterpiece of St Barbara’s Cathedral. Can’t miss it. Same name as my mum. The saint is the patron saint (amongst others) of miners. Mum was the daughter of a miner.
