In 1564, the Vyšehrad Chapter, having decided that Vyšehrad – at that time largely populated by poor craftsmen – needed a brewery, opened one here. It was originally called Libušínn (which looks like a pun on ‘inn’ but obviously isn’t).
Subsequently known as Pivovar Libušinka, it apparently lasted all the way until 1899. This is a painting of the brewery building from 1903, by Jan Minařík.
In the same year, it was destroyed as part of work on the Vyšehrad embankment.
It’s named after its first owner, František Sequens, a teacher, despite the fact that it was sold to another family (which still owns it) only three years after construction was completed.
Václav Štulc was born in Kladno in 1814. After studying theology in Prague (1835 to 1839), he was ordained as a priest.
(painter unknown)
As well as his duties as a priest, he wrote poetry and contributed to various magazines (while also becoming editor of others). He also made financial contributions to the National Museum, which had been founded in 1818.
In 1860, he became dean of Vyšehrad. He was vocal about the extent to which the once-great area had disintegrated; the Habsburgs responded to this by giving him a two-month prison sentence in 1863.
Becoming provost in 1871, he set about Making Vyšehrad Great Again. MVGA involved creating a new residence for the provost (on this street) and the creation of a park (now known as Štulcovy sady).
He also installed the original (and formerly Václavák-based statue of) St Wenceslas on his horse in the park (don’t get too excited, though – the statue you see there now is a copy from 1950).
Perhaps most significantly, he helped turn the cemetery at Vyšehrad into a burial ground for many of the icons of Czech history and culture. Štulc died in 1887 and, fittingly, is also buried there.
Soběslavova was named around 1892, but already existed before then.
Soběslav was the youngest son of Vratislav II, Bohemia’s first king (from 1085). In true Přemyslid style, his relationship with certain family members was not the best.
His older brother, Bořivoj II, was Duke of Bohemia from 1100 to 1107, but his relative, Svatopluk Olomoucký, seized the throne in 1107 and had both Bořivoj and Soběslav banished to Poland.
Bořivoj II tried to regain the throne after Svatopluk was assassinated, but it went to the middle brother, Vladislav I.
Soběslav became a prince in Brno and Znojmo when the two sides in this brotherly feud made up in 1115; he was promptly removed from these roles (and banished) in 1123 when he fell out with Vladislav again.
When Vladislav died in 1125, Soběslav returned and became Duke of Bohemia. This went down badly with Ota II. Černý, brother of the late Svatopluk, who claimed the throne and also had German backing.
Lothair III, Holy Roman Emperor, subsequently sent troops in to get rid of Soběslav. This culminated in the Battle of Chlumec (1126), where Ota was killed and Soběslav captured Lothair (who was later freed).
(Painting by Adolf Liebscher)
In 1130, Soběslav uncovered a conspiracy to assassinate him. The main instigator was blinded and quartered, whereas another participant, Břetislav, son of Břetislav II (who had been Duke until 1100), was ‘merely’ blinded.
Soběslav died in 1140. Despite having at least four sons, the throne went to his nephew, Vladislav II, who would also become the second Bohemian king.
Soběslav was also the last king to have his primary residence at Vyšehrad; appropriately, he is buried in Saints Peter and Paul Basilica.
V Pevnosti was named in 1900 but presumably built some time before then. Its name translates as ‘In the fortress’.
Czech monarchs lived at Vyšehrad until 1140, when their residence moved back to Prague Castle. It wasn’t until 1348, and the rule of Charles IV, that Vyšehrad started to get close to its former importance.
Charles had Vyšehrad connected to the city walls of Prague, which were then being built, ordered the reconstruction of the fortifications, and had a royal palace built.
He also ruled that, when new kings were being crowned, the first part of the ceremony would take place here, the night before the actual coronation.
Vyšehrad was inevitably screwed over by the Hussites in 1420, and then became a small town inhabited by craftsmen.
It wasn’t until the Thirty Years’ War that Vyšehrad’s fortifications were strengthened. In 1653, five years after the war ended, construction of a proper fortress began. Both the design and its actual construction were largely carried out by Italians.
One consequence of this was that the town of Vyšehrad was destroyed. The fortress itself was a pentagon (not all sides were of equal length), with six bastions, originally named after saints but later numbered 33 to 38.
For all the work that took place on the fortress, it never ended up being used in active combat. It was occupied by the French (1741-2) and by the Prussians (1744), but fighting never occurred and Prussian attempts to destroy the fortress were thwarted by locals.
By 1866 – the year in which the Austrians lost to the Prussians at the Battle of Sadová – it became accepted that city fortresses were no longer that useful or relevant.
The walls were gradually dismantled starting in 1875, and, in 1911, the fortress buildings became the property of the City of Prague. Vyšehrad itself had become part of Prague in 1883.
Our Vyšehrad stories have all been legend-based so far. So now it’s time for some stuff that we can be confident actually happened.
By the year 1000, Vyšehrad had started to be mentioned in writing. We know that, around this time (i.e. in the reigns of Boleslavs II & III, as well as Jaromír), a mint existed here – coins with the name of Boleslav II on them are for sale quite often.
In 1070, Duke (and later first Czech king) Vratislav II had a dispute with his brother, Gebhart, and decided to move his seat from Prague Castle to Vyšehrad.
He also founded the Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul there. The version you see today is somewhat more modern (built between 1887 and 1903 in the Gothic style), because the original was destroyed in a fire in 1249.
There was also a royal palace (no longer present), a stone bridge (traces remain), several other churches, and – giving today’s street its name – the Rotunda of Saint Martin, probably built between 1060 and 1090.
Rotundas are the main feature of Roman architecture in the Czech Republic, and this one is both the oldest rotunda in Prague, and the only building surviving from Vyšehrad’s days as a royal residence. It’s likely that the rotunda served as the Vyšehrad parish church.
St Martin is Martin of Tours (died 367), who, according to legend, cut his cloak in two to give half of it to a beggar, and then dreamed of Jesus wearing the half he had given away. Martin was also a patron saint of France during the Third Republic.
The rotunda was badly damaged by Hussite raids in 1420 (but what wasn’t?), and also by a fire in 1528. Although the chapel was restored, it then got damaged by Prussian fighters in 1757, and Joseph II later decommissioned it as a place of worship.
While it was meant to be destroyed in the 1840s to make way for a road, this didn’t happen, largely thanks to the intervention of Karel Chotek of sady fame.
In 1875, the Vyšehrad Chapter (which is located at the church of Peter and Paul, pictured above) purchased the rotunda, which led to its full restoration. In a nice little two-fingers-up to the Prussians, its interior includes a walled-up cannon ball.
Libušina was built so long ago that I can’t even guess the century.
Until the mid-19th century, the street was known as Převoznická (approx. ‘Ferry Street’), because this was where the once-upon-a-time ferry to/from Vyšehrad would stop / start.
As mentioned a couple of days back, Libuše was the youngest daughter of Krok, and, as happens so often with mythological siblings, was the wisest and the most beautiful.
When her father died, Libuše ruled over the tribe as queen, which many male members of the tribe found displeasing.
Society’s come a long way since th… yeah, no, it hasn’t, has it.
In particular, when Libuše ruled in favour of one man in a dispute, the other man asked for a male ruler.
She predicted the existence of a ploughman, and instructed her men to let a horse loose, as the horse would subsequently find this man.
The horse went all the way to Stadice, which is now in Ústí nad Labem district, and found the man, exactly as Libuše had said.
His name Přemysl Oráč (the Ploughman). They married.
Libuše’s gift of prophecy was important for another reason. Standing on top of Vyšehrad, she looked out and predicted the future existence of of a wonderful city ‘whose glory will touch the stars’.
She could, of course, have been talking about Blackpool or somewhere. We will never know.
But she did request the building of a castle, and predicted that the next few centuries would not be the easiest.
Famous representations of Libuše include Bedřich Smetana’s 1881 opera of the same name.
On 11 June in that year, it became the first piece to be performed at the National Theatre.
Just two months later, the Theatre would be devastated by a fire; when it reopened in 1883, the first piece fo be performed was, once again, Libuše.
Libuše was also the subject of 2009 film The Pagan Queen, directed by Constantin Werner. Some American critics were fairly complimentary about it; Czech critics… were not.
The street is also located just below the ruins of Libušina lázeň – Libuše’s spa, a pentagonal building built as a guardhouse in the 14th century, apparently in the spot where Libuše used to bathe.
During the Nazi occupation, this was Albíkova, after Zikmund Albík z Uničova, or Sigismund Albicus (died 1427), provost of Vyšehrad and archbishop of Prague from 1409 to 1423.
In 1817, a young lawyer called Václav Hanka allegedly went to Dvůr Králové nad Labem, and, while in the Church of Saint John the Baptist, found a manuscript from the 13th century (approx).
Given its place of discovery, it became known as the Rukopis královédvorský (RK).
Hanka was granted ownership of the manuscript by the local authorities in 1818, and published it in 1819, complete with modern Czech and German translations.
The RK contained fourteen poems: six epics, six love poems, two lyric epics and a fragment of a larger poem, the remainder of which was missing.
One of the epics was called Záboj, about how Záboj and Slavoj had a victory over a German called Luděk.
One of the characters in the poem was a singer called Lumír, who sang beautifully enough for the people of Vyšehrad to get a bit emotional about it.
None of these individuals are mentioned elsewhere, but Lumír gave his name to the current street – part of which was called Zábojova until 1968.
Along with another manuscript, the supposedly 11th-century Rukopis zelenohorský, which was apparently also discovered in 1817 (but in Zelená Hora), it became popular enough to be published time and again. It even got translated into English.
There was a bit of a problem, though. While some authorities, such as František Palacký, were convinced that the manuscripts were genuine, and were proof of the long, proud tradition of Czech literature, others, such as Josef Dobrovský, were not.
In 1886, a certain Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk became quite vocal about his belief that they were fake. Key Czech philologist Jan Gebauer also disputed their authenticity.
It all got rather heated, and Masaryk was accused of being anti-Czech, but voices suggesting that the manuscripts were authentic gradually died out.
In 1893, the Austrian Ministry for Education classified the manuscripts as ‘modern’ Czech literature (i.e. not ancient).
Between 1968 and 1971, Czech non-fiction writer Miroslav Ivanov headed a team at the Institute of Criminology, using forgery detection methods that hadn’t been available back in the 1880s.
They concluded that both manuscripts were palimpsests. In other words, old pieces of parchments had the original text scraped off them, and somebody wrote new text on there instead.
However, the Czech Manuscript Society, even now, wants to prove that the manuscripts were written in the 11th and 13th centuries, and not by the people who claimed to have randomly discovered them in 1817: https://www.rukopisy-rkz.cz/rkz/csr/
But none of this mess has stopped Lumír from getting his own statue at Vyšehrad, designed by Josef Václav Myslbek. You may recognise it, but here’s the original draft.
During the Nazi occupation, this was Jarlochova, after Jarloch (1165-1228), an abbot who wrote one of the post-Kosmas parts of the Chronica Boemorum.
Speaking of Kosmas’s Chronicle? That’s our source for information about Krok.
Kosmas says that the first Czechs in Bohemia were teetotal, weapon-free and happy to engage in dangerous things like private property. Or marriage.
But then they decided to go off the rails. So Krok, a wise, rich, sophisticated and apparently just plain perfect man*, appeared and became the first duke of the Czechs.
* If you ever see someone on a dating app with this bio, it probably is, indeed, a load of old Krok.
Despite being wise, rich, sophisticated and apparently just plain perfect, Krok also failed to be interesting enough for Kosmas to write anything more about him, except that he had three daughters.
Kazi, the oldest, was an expert in herbs and fortune-telling. She worked as a healer.
Teta, the middle daughter, was a pagan priestess who taught people to worship rivers, trees, stones and forests.
Libuše, the youngest one, was also the smartest, and, when Krok died, she took over.
I won’t reveal what happened next, as it’ll leave me with nothing to write in a few streets’ time, but you won’t be surprised to know that it involves Vyšehrad.
From 1906 to 1940, and again from 1945 to 1948, this was Sámova, after Samo, whose empire, from 623 to 658, is the first known political union of Slavic tribes.
During the Nazi occupation, the street was called Hemina, after Hemma, or Emma (died 1006), wife of Bohemian duke Boleslav II.
Alois Václav Čikl was born in Slavětín in 1900. After finishing school, he took courses at the Czechoslovak Hussite Church in Olomouc, and was ordained as a priest by Bishop Gorazd (pictured) in 1922.
When the Nazis occupied Bohemia and Moravia, Čikl, along with an Orthodox priest, Vladimír Petřek, created falsified baptism certificates for Jews so that they could escape persecution.
They also provided a hiding place for Přemysl Šámal (pictured), a leading resistance figure who had been Chancellor of both Tomáš G. Masaryk and Edvard Beneš.
After Heydrich’s assassination in 1942 (he was attacked in May, and died in June), the Orthodox church provided shelter to both Kubiš and Gabčík in Saints Cyril and Methodius Cathedral. Čikl and Petřek were among those who helped arrange this.
They were arrested, along with Bishop Gorazd, on 18 June. All three were imprisoned in Pankrác, and executed at the Kobylisy shooting range on 4 September.
Čikl was 42; Petřek was 34; Gorazd (real name Matěj Pavlík) was 63.
Čikl’s wife, Marie, was one of many participants in Operation Anthropoid who was murdered at Mauthausen on 24 October.
Na Slupi was built in 1448 and was called Slupská until 1870.
Sometimes we go *way* back. And, the further back we go, the more likely it often becomes that we don’t entirely know where street names come from.
It’s likely that, before the New Town was founded in 1348, there was a manor here by the Botič, which is the stream located round here (more on this in about 25 streets’ time).
Theory No. 1 concerns a slup, an old Czech word that isn’t in use anymore; apparently, it’s a wooden basket that you place in a weir in order to catch fish.
I am a total non-fisherman, so please let me know if there’s an English word for this.
Elsewhere in the Czech Republic, there’s a village called Slup in Znojmo District, one called Sloupno near Hradec Králové, and a small town called Sloupnice near Litomyšl. All are also believed to be named after this device.
Theory No. 2 suggests that the manor was built on pillars – na sloupích.
From 1940 to 1945, this was Gebhardova, after Gebhart (also known as Jaromír), who was the fourth son of Břetislav I and Jitka, and was Bishop of Prague from 1067 until his death in 1090.
Svatopluk, meanwhile, was born around 840, and was reportedly the nephew of Rastislav (below), the second known leader of the Great Moravian Empire.
It was Rastislav who got Byzantine Emperor Michael III to send Cyril and Methodius over in order to educate local Moravians as priests.
In 870, Svatopluk decided that standing by your uncle is overrated, and announced he would obey Carloman of Bavaria in future (below, looking like an annoyed Simpson), not Rastislav.
Rastislav tried to get Svatopluk killed.
Svatopluk captured Rastislav and handed him over to Carloman.
Carloman sentenced Rastislav to death, but later decided to merely imprison him for life.
Svatopluk hoped to rule the rest of Great Moravia, but Carloman was having none of it, and two Frankish lords (and brothers), Wilhelm and Engelschalk, got it instead.
Svatopluk, meanwhile, was put in prison for being ‘disloyal’.
Believing Svatopluk was dead, the Moravians elected a new leader, Slavomír.
Is this what whoever put that death hoax out last week was trying to achieve in the Czech presidentials? It was probably easier in the 870s.
Carloman then decided to release Svatopluk from prison, as long he promised to fight on his side against Slavomír.
Svatopluk then defected and launched a huge attack on the Bavarian forces, who left, leaving Svatopluk as leader of Great Moravia.
After Svatopluk repealed further Frankish attacks in 871 and 872, the conflict was ended by the Peace of Forchheim in 874.
Svatopluk was now free to expand his territory – adding, for example, Silesia (in 880) and Bohemia (in 890, after the death of Bořivoj).
During Svatopluk’s reign, the Frankish and Byzantine Christian missions in Moravia got into some pretty big arguments. I
n 880, Pope John VIII ruled in favour of the Byzantines, naming Methodius archbishop (Cyril had died in 869), and recognising the Old Slavonic liturgy.
(Painting is ‘The Introduction of the Slavonic Liturgy’ by Alfons Mucha, 1912)
Svatopluk died in 894; Great Moravia would fall apart twelve years later, after wars with Hungary and Bohemia’s decision to secede (895).
Meanwhile, soon after Svatopluk’s death, the Latin liturgy took hold, and Cyril and Methodius’ pupils were banished.
Nuselský most – Nusle Bridge – was opened in 1973.
The first discussions about building a bridge here occurred at the start of the 20th century, but it took over sixty years – and the appearance of the high rises of Pankrác – for its construction to become a priority.
The bridge was to include an underground tramline, which ultimately became the C line of the Prague metro.
If you’ve ever wondered why Hlavní nádraží metro station has adjoining tracks, much like a regular tramline, it’s because its construction started in 1966, before the decision to make this change occurred.
Interestingly, this isn’t why Vyšehrad station has the same setup – that one is apparently because of the station’s location / shape, for reasons I understand in my head but am too scientifically challenged to explain coherently.
Here’s a video of some houses in the Nusle valley being destroyed in 1965 to make way for the bridge, accompanied by some inappropriately jaunty music:
And here’s a brief 1968 piece about the construction:
The bridge – known as Most Klementa Gottwalda, after Klement Gottwald (1896-1953), first Communist leader of Czechoslovakia and murderous old bastard – opened in 1973.
Vyšehrad metro station, opened a year later, was named Gottwaldova.
Both received their current names in 1990.
Sadly, the main thing many people in Prague will think of when they think of the bridge is its popularity as a suicide spot.
Pod Karlovem is literally under Karlov, which is an area in Prague’s New Town, directly north of the Nusle valley.
In 1350, Karel IV ordered the building of the Klášter augustiniánů kanovníků / Monastery of Augustinian Canons (located on what is now Boženy Němcové), as part of his efforts to raise Prague’s international prestige.
It was consecrated in 1377, and, somewhat predictably, got abandoned during the Hussite wars. Canons returned in 1437.
Further renovations took place in 1498 and 1575, although the building was then severely damaged by lightning in 1603.
During the Passau Invasion of Bohemia in 1611, the abbot and several canons were murdered.
For a period after the Thirty Years’ War, the buildings were used as an armoury, but later reverted to their previous use.
When Joseph II cancelled the monastery – and many others – in 1785, it became a mental health hospital.
The City of Prague turned the premises into a depository in 1948, into the Museum of the Border Guard into 1960, and into the Museum of the National Security Corps in 1973.
Until 1947, this was Přemyslovo náměstí, after Přemysl Oráč, AKA Where It All Began (see recent posts for brief details).
From 1947 to 1952, it was Hašlerovo náměstí, after Karel Hašler (1879-1941), a songwriter and actor (and supporter of Czech fascism…), who was murdered at Mauthausen in 1941, having been arrested due to his patriotic songs.
He also taught at the Czechoslovak Business Academy (1903-19 – teaching languages, which he had studied at Charles University) and the Prague Conservatory (1926-29).
He conducted in other European cities too. Here’s a great picture of him in Bucharest in 1929 (he’s the first on the left).
There are two particularly interesting theories as to where his name came from.
One is that, while Přemysl thought a lot, and had ambitions, Nezamysl… did not.
Another is that the seven mythical princes were derived from Old Slavic names for days of the week – with Nezamysl being Sunday.
Nezamysl’s name is given in Chronica Boemorum, written by Cosmas of Prague between 1119 and 1125. However, we don’t know much about him, a problem not exactly solved by the fact that he possibly didn’t exist.
He ruled after Přemysl – and was therefore possibly his son – and was followed by Mnata. Who doesn’t get a street in Nusle or anywhere else in Prague.
Nezamysl does appear in the million-selling 2012 video game Crusader Kings II, in which he apparently tries to attack Bavaria, only for his army to get crushed at Regensburg.
Until 1947, this was Přemyslovo nábřeží (Přemysl Embankment), after Přemysl Oráč, or Přemysl the Ploughman, husband of Libuše and ancestor of the Přemyslid dynasty.
Ivan Sekanin was born in Nové Město na Moravě in 1900.
He studied law at Charles University and joined the Czechoslovak National Socialist Party (which was a democratic socialist party and not affiliated with the Nazi Party).
He moved left and joined the Communist Party in 1925. As a lawyer, he went about protecting Communists from justice.
He joined and/or several communist / anti-fascist organisations, including the Left Front / Levá fronta), the Communist Party’s grouping of intellectuals.
In 1938, he was one of the organisers of Věrni zůstaneme, an anti-Nazi petition committee.
As soon as the Nazis established the Protectorate in March 1939, Sekanin was arrested and sent to Pankrác, then to Berlin.
A political trial, due to be held there, was cancelled, and he was sent to Sachsenhausen, where he died in May 1940, aged 39.
Anyone who read yesterday’s post will remember that Oldřich blinded his own brother AND HE STILL GETS A STREET NAMED AFTER HIM.
Begrudgingly, here’s his bio.
Oldřich was the youngest son of Boleslav II, and his mother was either Boleslav’s second wife (possibly called Božena) or Boleslav’s third wife (possibly called Juta).
Like Jaromír, Oldřich fled Bohemia to escape the cruelty of their brother Boleslav The Sh*tbag, sorry, III, and returned with Jaromír when the latter became Duke in 1004.
However, in 1012, Oldřich led a rebellion against his brother, became Duke himself, and had many of Jaromír’s supporters killed while his brother took refuge in Utrecht.
Gradually, Oldřich managed to win Moravia back from Poland, a process completed in 1031. He put his illegitimate son Břetislav (who would himself be Duke of Bohemia from 1034 to 1055) in charge.
Oldřich was deposed by the Holy Roman Emperor, Konrad II, in 1033, seemingly for being too supportive of Poland. Jaromír was reinstated, and Oldřich was banished to Bavaria.
However, in 1034, he was released, and went back to Bohemia, where he promptly blinded his brother, who, let us not forget, had already been castrated by another brother.
Oldřich died later that year, apparently ‘between eating and drinking’. Poor old Jaromír understandably refused to contest the throne again, and Břetislav became Břetislav I.
Jaromír was another Přemyslid, born around 975 as the son of Boleslav II.
His older brother, Boleslav III, was a bit of a sh*t – he had Jaromír castrated so that he could never produce an heir to the throne.
Fleeing to Bavaria with his mother in 1001, he returned in 1003, when Boleslav the Brave (of Poland) declared him Prince of Bohemia. However, he had to flee from his brother again in the same year.
Jaromír came back in 1004, and, with the support of Henry II, the Holy Roman Emperor, ruled Bohemia until 1012, when he was deposed by his brother Oldřich, who also had him blinded and exiled.
With the support of Conrad II, Holy Roman Emperor, Jaromír was able to regain the throne in 1033, but Oldřich was restored a year later.
Jaromír was imprisoned at Lysá nad Labem, and was murdered there by members of the Vršovec clan in 1035, apparently while on the toilet.
What's in a Prague street name 
