‘U nás’ is a simple phrase that can be translated in multiple ways in English, because we don’t have an equivalent of ‘u’ / ‘chez’ / ‘bei’ / ‘hos’, and so on. You could say ‘at our place’, ‘where we live’, ’round ours’, etc.
The whole Jirásek district thing is an excellent and fascinating idea, but, if there were a street called ‘Round ours’ simply because somebody thought that would sound all homely and wholesome, I think that would have been my favourite street name ever.
You know what philosophy is. You know what a philosopher is. But we’re not here because of Socrates, Plato, and whichever person on your feed has declared that he (it’s always a he) too is a philosopher and should therefore be listened to.
We don’t know when Václav Koranda was born, but we do know that, by 1414, he had founded a Hussite community in Plzeň, taking part in and often leading pilgrimages to the mountains.
This shouldn’t be taken to mean that Sigismund ever became a fan, though – by 1437, he had ordered Koranda to either stay in Tábor at all times or be punished by drowning.
Koranda died about two years later at Litice Castle.
In 1879 – you might have guessed where this was going already – Alois Jirásek wrote a historical novel called Konec a počátek (The End and the Beginning), in which Koranda, imprisoned in Litice, is the main character.
‘Polední’ is the adjective from ‘poledne’, midday or noon. You might be reading this on your ‘polední přestávka’ (lunch break).
In Polish (but not in Czech), ‘południe’ means not only ‘noon’ but ‘south’ (and, yes, the word for ‘midnight’, ‘północ’ also means ‘north’).
This is the first in a series of four streets, although the other three are entirely in Hodkovičky, and we’ve got *counts* another nine Braník streets to get through first.
Needing that ice to go away so I can go and take pics.
Josef Regner was born in Havlovice, near Trutnov, in 1794, the son of a miller (his mill, Regnerův mlýn, is still standing) and fervent Czech patriot.
He studied philosophy at Charles Ferdinand University in Prague, and then theology at the seminary in Hradec Králové. He first served as a priest in Náchod in 1817.
Regner (also known as Havlovický) devoted himself to noble courses throughout his clerical career: for example, he worked as a teacher, a farmer, a carer for the sick during a cholera epidemic in the 1830s, and as the owner of a mine which provided employment to those most in need of it.
Josef Regner Havlovický died in 1852. He then appeared in Alois Jirásek’s four-part novel U nás. Jirásek had been born in 1851 in Hronov, and so, while he was less than a year old when Havlovický died, he would have heard tales about him throughout his childhood.
Novodvorská was created in 1935 through the merger of two streets: Hlavní (Main) and Vozová (which is related to ‘vůz’, meaning wagon).
Once upon a time, there was a farmstead (in present-day Lhotka, also in Prague 4). Its name was Nový dvůr (New Court). It later became a monastery.
After that, it served, at different times, as a poorhouse, apartments for rent and a crafts centre.
In the late 18th century, the entire area became knows as Nové dvory (New Courts). The original building itself survives, and a proposal to demolish it was rejected in 2019.
The building got some unwelcome publicity in January 2006, when František Mrázek, known as the “Godfather of Czech Organized Crime”, was shot dead by an unknown assailant outside the building, where one of his companies was registered.
Almost exactly two months later (and unconnectedly, insofar as one can say that with confidence when a murder is unsolved), Novodvorská gained a shopping centre, Novo Plaza. It also had a cinema until 2008, although that was closed due to low attendance.
Josef Myslimír Ludvík was born in Dolany, near Náchod, in 1796. After studying theology at the seminary in Hradec Králové, he was ordained as a priest in 1819.
A year later, he became chaplain of Náchod Castle, staying in that role until 1832. He devoted much of his time to writing historical studies of both the city and the castle.
His writings were published in magazines which supported the Czech Nationalist Revival; in 1831, he co-founded Matice česká, a publishing house which was hugely influential in its dissemination of the Czech language.
By 1846, Ludvík was serving in Boušín; he was attacked by a gang of thieves in that year. When the local authorities did very little to investigate this crime, the local inhabitants hunted the attackers down and killed some of them.
Ludvík retired in 1848, and started work on Památky hradu, města a panství Náchoda, i vlastníkův jeho (Monuments of the Castle, City and Manor of Náchod, and its Owners). He died of a stroke in 1856, not living to see his work’s publication later that year.
Between 1896 and 1903, Jirásek published U nás (approximately ‘Where we live’, shall we say), a four-part chronicle taking place to a large extend in Náchod, and covering the Czech National Revival. The work includes Ludvík as one of its characters.
From 1927 to 1935, the street was called U rybníka, after a nearby and erstwhile pond.
From 1935 to 1973, it was called V Hodkovičkách, which presumably caused confusion, as it’s not directly connected to the other street in the area called that. More on that name when we get on to Hodkovičky (which is our next district after another two weeks of Braník streets).
Alois Jirásek – he who is the man behind the story behind most of the streets around here – published a novel in 1883 called V cizích službách (In Foreign Service), which includes a character called Vítovec.
It’s set in Litomyšl, where Jirásek was living and working as a teacher at the time, and a key theme is the use of Czech and German in everyday life.
Tellingly, it is set in 1847 (the novel starts with the banning of a student festival for May Day) and 1848, when rebellion erupted in Prague.
The students in the novel have a real love for their mother tongue, and read classic Czech literature, and yet, when they’re in public, they often end up choosing to speak German instead.
The principal male character in the novel is called Vavřena (hence the street name). He’s a serious, kind and gentle student who goes to teach in a family (the Roubíneks), and falls in love with their daughter, Lenka.
He admits his love for her during the May Day festival, which the students went through with despite the ban, displeasing the authorities.
In 1848, he goes to Prague to join the uprising; at the end of the novel, he marries Lenka and becomes a doctor.
Filosofská historie was made into a film in 1937, directed by Otakar Vávra.
It had what you can only describe as one heck of a cast: Václav Neckář, Marta Kubišová, Helena Vondráčková, Waldemar Matuška, and Jiří Štědry. Coincidentally (or not?), it opened in the same year that this street first did.
The earliest mention we have of Jílová is from the 1200s, when it was a mining settlement (the writer wanted us to think the document was from 1045, but it turns out that it’s a forgery).
As happens too often in these stories, economic activity was dealt a heavy blow in 1422, when the Hussites conquered and burned Jílová. The mines were restored, but reports from the 1500s suggests they weren’t nearly as successful as in the past.
Here’s an account showing the purchase of gold and operations of a mill in Jílová in 1506 / 1507.
Larger-scale mining started in 1689, and lasted until 1968, when the last mine was closed due to its lack of profitability.
The painter Joann Venuto painted Jílová in 1821.
And here’s a 19th-century engraving by an unknown artist.
And a photo of the town hall and main square, taken around 1908.
The people with a connection to Jílová that you’re most likely to have heard of include the Renaissance occultist Edward Kelley (1555-1597 or thereabouts), who purchased a mine here.
And František Chvalkovský, who had the task of being Czechoslovak Foreign Minister from October 1938 to March 1939. Chvalkovský was born in Jílová in 1885.
Němčická was built at some point between 1973 and 1982 (warning: today’s post is going to remain about this vague).
The street is likely to be named after a village called Němčice (whose name, in turn, I assume comes from the fact that its inhabitants were once predominantly German).
Unfortunately, there are at least nine villages in Czechia with that name, as well as five former villages which are now parts of larger municipalities.
On top of that, there’s a Dolní (Lower) Němčice, two Horní (Upper) Němčices, a Velké (Great) Němčice and a Němčice nad Hanou (on the Haná river).
And none of these places is particularly near Prague, so the jury’s out.
Behind this street, you’ve got Velký háj (‘The big grove’), a forested area with parkland. Only a small portion is owned by the City of Prague; the rest is in the hands of various private individuals.
It showed plays between May and September each year; personally, I can think of nothing more delightful than watching a play in a forest on a moonlit summer evening.
The theatre had almost 600 performances up until 1951, and could welcome audiences of over 5,000 (although seating was limited to 500 people). However, by the time of the last performance, it was running at a loss, and, in 1958, the buildings were demolished.
That could have been quite a downbeat ending – but, according to https://lesnidivadlokrc.cz/, the theatre should be opened again in the summer of 2026. Somehow, this has made me as happy as someone old enough to remember the theatre as it once was would be.
We’re still in ‘novels by Alois Jirásek’ territory: between 1887 and 1890, Jirásek published a trilogy called Mezi proudy (Between the Currents), based on real events which occurred between 1381 and 1409.
Those real events concerned Czech resistance against German oppression during the reign of Wenceslas IV. As this was the era that saw the rise of Jan Hus (who began teaching at the University of Prague in 1398), the trilogy also gives a lot of attention to the immorality of the Church at the time.
The first of the novels, Dvojí dvůr (Double Courtyard), ends with the king granting Czech speakers of Prague greater rights in further education.
Volume two, Syn ohnivcův, would most easily be translated as ‘The Fireman’s Son’. This is because the main character, Jan Ohnivec, is the son of Šíp, who was once asked to be a royal fireman.
By volume three – Do tří hlasů (In Three Voices) – Jan Ohnivec is a royal courtier. This novel is focused on the rivalry between two noble families – the Trocnovs and the Rosenbergs, who don’t get on (to put it mildly).
At the start of the novel, Jan Žižka meets Ohnivec, who has been injured by thieves while on a journey, and takes him in. Meanwhile, the Rosenbergs capture King Wenceslas and try to get him to improve their standing in the state.
While public opinion in Prague is largely on the side of the Rosenbergs, the king’s brother, who, like 117% of the people in these three novels, is called Jan, manages to turn the tide. They build an army – including Žižka – which forces the Rosenbergs to give in.
The king was ultimately freed; despite being captured and tortured, Ohnivec remained faithful to him.
Later on in the novel, the Rosenbergs are trying to capture Jan Žižka, but the king, with Ohnivec’s help, manages to prevent this.
Other things happen in the novels too, of course, but I’m saving those in case there’s another Mezi proudy-related street coming up. The novels were successful, despite Catholic commentators not appreciating the portrayal of Jan Jenštejn.
Making our way south to Braník, the streets around here are mainly named after characters from Jirásek’s novels. Fittingly, the district is therefore called Jiráskova čtvrť (Jirásek’s Quarter).
One of these novels – or, more accurately, a trilogy of three novels – was called Bratrstvo (Brotherhood), and concerns Hussite exploits in Slovakia around the 1450s (spoiler: the Hussites’ finest military exploits had been and gone by this stage).
Another character in the story is Pobera z Lomu, a fighter whom we first see when he’s (only just) escaped death at the hands of the Germans.
Pobera, while staying just outside Žilina with his army, meets a local, Bodorovský, who decides to settle his considerable debts by selling his wife, Mária to, yes, Pobera.
Pobera tries to win Mária’s heart, but she makes arrangements with Jan Talafús – he of Day 264 fame – who secretly takes her away. At the end of the first novel, Pobera and Talafús commit to a duel to the death once the war is over.
When this duel eventually happens, Pobera manages to seriously injure Talafús.
We don’t know anything about Petr Aksamit’s life before 1440, when he was put in command of the Brotherhood / bratříci troops in Upper Hungary (present-day Slovakia).
These bratříci were former Hussite fighters, operating as independent units, from 1445 to 1467, not only in today’s Slovakia but in its neighbouring regions.
After that, Aksamit’s army controlled what is now eastern Slovakia and north-eastern Hungary, with a castle at Plaveč (renovated and partially rebuilt in 2014).
It seems that Aksamit’s name came from the fact that he was partial to expensive clothing – aksamit translates as ‘velour’.
However, in January 1458, Matthias Corvinus (Czech: Matyáš Korvín; Hungarian: Hunyadi Mátyás) became King of both Hungary and Croatia, and decided it was time to restore royal power.
In a battle at Sárospatak in present-day Hungary, on 21 May of that year, Aksamit was killed and his forces were defeated.
If you want to know what to call that forest, you’re kind of spoiled for choice: you can call it Kunratický les (colloquially: Kunraťák), Krčský les (colloquially: Krčák) or, in its northwest, Michelský les.
As we’ll be going through Krč, Michle and Kunratice eventually in this series, there will surely be some forest-related stories then.
His feats included the liberation of Košice (1441) and capturing the Hungarian town of Eger in 1442. However, he was subsequently captured and imprisoned for six months, promptly returning to military action upon his release.
In 1445, Talafús became hetman of Chmeľov Castle and, in 1448, of Rychnava. In 1451, he helped Jiskra defeat 20,000 Hungarians at the battle Lučenec.
In 1457, the newly crowned Matthias Corvinus decided it was time to get rid of the Hussite forces. Talafús – at times allied with Jiskra, at times not – continued to fight, but lost more than he won.
Talafús is last mentioned in writing in 1475. Well, that’s the last non-fiction reference during his lifetime: the street is named after him because of the Alois Jirásek trilogy Bratrstvo (The Brotherhood; 1900 to 1909), which is set in Slovakia and where Jiskra and Talafús are the main characters.
Completely irrelevant to the story, but, as Eger has been mentioned, I have to point out that I went there last year and visited Egri Road, a frankly incredible museum dedicated to the Beatles. I could share photos of it all day.
Anybody who’s ever taken the Prague Metro will know that ‘výstup’ is one of the two things that you have to complete when the doors are closing (or, ideally, slightly before), the other one being ‘nástup’.
Anybody who’s ever taken public transport to or from Braník will also know that we are nowhere near a metro station.
As well as the process of getting off a train, ‘výstup’ can be translated as ‘climb’, or ‘ascent’, and ascend is exactly what this street does.
Braník isn’t going to have a metro line running through it when the D Line is finally opened, either, although a fair chunk of it will go through nearby Krč, so that’s something.
What's in a Prague street name 
