I almost didn't book Prague. I'd been eyeing up Croatia for weeks, pinning beaches and waterfalls and convincing myself I deserved something with a coastline. But then Ryanair dropped a return from Stansted for forty-three quid and I thought, alright, Prague. You win.
Four days. Thursday to Sunday. Enough time to fall for a place without overstaying.
I landed just after noon and took the 119 bus from the airport to Nádraží Veleslavín, then the metro into town. The whole thing cost me about thirty crowns. The metro smelled like warm dust and metal and everyone had that end-of-lunch look about them, slightly glazed, slightly tired. I liked it already.
I'd booked a bed at The Roadhouse, a small hostel tucked down a quiet street about a hundred and fifty metres from Charles Bridge. I'd read that it was more chilled than the party hostels, no pub crawls being screamed about in the lobby, and that's exactly what I wanted. Eight-bed dorm. Privacy curtains on every bunk. A charge point and a reading light that actually worked. The whole place felt like someone's very well-organised flat, which is the highest compliment I can give a hostel.
I dumped my bag, changed out of my plane clothes into a linen top and my good sandals, and went out to find coffee.
There's a café on Nerudova, I can't remember the name, something Czech I couldn't pronounce, where I had the best flat white of the trip for about sixty crowns. The street climbs steeply towards the castle and every other building is painted a different shade of pastel. Mint green, faded terracotta, the kind of dusty yellow that looks like it's been baking in the sun since 1740. Probably has. I sat outside on a wobbly metal chair and watched tourists trudge uphill and come back down looking spiritually rearranged.
I didn't go up to the castle that day. I know that's against the rules or whatever, but I wasn't in the mood for queues and guided tours. Instead I crossed back over the river and walked along the east bank, past the National Theatre, past the Dancing House (which, for the record, is much smaller than you think it's going to be) and eventually ended up on Náplavka, the stretch of embankment along Rašínovo nábřeží where the Saturday farmers' market happens. It was Thursday so there was no market, but the moored boats along the river were open and serving drinks and there were people everywhere, just sitting on the stone walls with their legs dangling over the water.
I bought a beer from one of the boats for about forty-five crowns, that's roughly £1.50, which is criminal, and sat on the embankment wall with my legs swinging, the Vltava moving slowly underneath me, thick and green and catching the light. On the opposite bank, someone was playing an accordion. Not well, but enthusiastically.
Back at the hostel that evening, I did the thing I always do when I'm travelling alone. I forced myself to sit in the common area instead of hiding in my bunk with my Kindle. It's harder than it sounds. Every time I walk into a room full of strangers my brain says go back, you don't need this, your book is right there. But I've learned to override that voice because it's almost always wrong.
The Roadhouse had this nice lounge-kitchen setup, a big sofa, a shared table, Netflix on the TV that nobody was watching. I sat down with my journal and within about ten minutes a girl called Maren from Hamburg came and sat opposite me and asked what I was writing.
We clicked immediately. She had that very German thing of saying exactly what she meant with absolutely no filter, and I found it brilliant. Within the hour, two more people had drifted over. A Canadian guy called Ethan who was halfway through three months of interrailing, and a girl from Melbourne named Jess who was studying in Edinburgh and using the summer break to explore Europe.
The four of us went out that night to a place Ethan had found on some Reddit thread, a tiny pub in Žižkov with no sign outside and beer for thirty crowns a glass. I still don't know the name. There were old men playing chess in the corner and a dog asleep under one of the tables and we sat there until midnight talking about everything: travel, jobs we hated, relationships we'd left behind, the specific trauma of budget airline boarding. We walked back to the hostel slightly drunk, laughing too loudly for a residential street at 1am, and I climbed into my bunk feeling that specific happiness that solo travel gives you, the one where you went out alone and came back with friends.
Friday. I woke up at six because my body hadn't caught up with the plan to relax. I lay in my bunk listening to seven other people breathing in different rhythms and then gave up and went outside.
Prague at 6am in July is something else. The light is soft and gold and the streets are empty in a way that feels almost eerie. I walked across Charles Bridge with maybe ten other people on it. No crowds, no selfie sticks, no one selling caricatures. Just the statues and the river and the city waking up on both sides. I stood there for a long time watching the mist burn off the Vltava and I thought: this is why I get up early. Not because I'm disciplined. Because empty cities are the most honest version of themselves.
I walked up to Prague Castle after that, before the tour groups arrived. You can wander the grounds and courtyards for free and the views back across the river are absurd. The spires and the red rooftops and the bridges lined up in a row. I paid to go inside St. Vitus Cathedral, which I'd normally skip because I'm not big on churches, but this one earned it. The stained glass is extraordinary. There's one window by Alphonse Mucha that caught the morning light and threw colour across the stone floor and I stood there like an absolute tourist with my mouth open.
I spent the rest of the morning wandering Malá Strana, which is the neighbourhood below the castle. Cobblestoned, quieter than Old Town, full of little galleries and hidden courtyards. I had lunch at a small place where they did a set menu for about 130 crowns: goulash with bread dumplings and a small beer. The goulash was rich and thick and the dumplings were dense and starchy in the best way. I sat alone at a wooden table by the window and wrote in my journal and felt completely, perfectly content.
Saturday was the day.
I'd mentioned to Maren the night before that I wanted to go on the pedal boats on the river, and she'd immediately said "yes, we're doing that." Ethan and Jess were in too. So the four of us set off late morning, after stopping at the Náplavka farmers' market because it was Saturday and I'd been told you couldn't miss it.
And bloody hell, they were right. The market runs along the riverside embankment at Rašínovo nábřeží, right below street level, with stalls packed in along the water. There were people everywhere, not tourists, mostly locals, with reusable bags and dogs and children eating pastries. The stalls were selling smoked meats, fresh bread, jars of honey and pickled things, homemade lemonade, cheese that smelled incredible. There was live music, some guy with a guitar doing Czech folk songs, and the whole thing had this gorgeous, lazy Saturday morning energy.
I bought a koláč, a kind of Czech pastry with sweet cheese and fruit, and a cup of coffee from a stall run by a woman who didn't speak any English but smiled when I tried to say děkuji and sounded like I was having a stroke. Jess bought about eight jars of things she couldn't identify. Ethan bought two beers before 11am and looked extremely pleased with himself.
After the market, we walked along the embankment to Slovanský ostrov (Slavic Island), which is this little island in the middle of the Vltava, right next to the National Theatre. This is where the pedal boat rentals are. There are a few companies there, we went with Slovanka, which seemed to be the most popular.
You need to show ID to rent a boat, and they take a deposit for the glass if you buy a beer to take with you (obviously we did). The boats are basic: two sets of pedals, a little bench in the middle, room for about four people. They gave us a quick rundown of the rules: stay between the yellow markers, don't go near the weirs, give way to the big tour boats.
And then we were on the river.
I don't know how to describe this without sounding like a tourism advert, but genuinely, pedalling a boat down the Vltava on a hot Saturday afternoon with three people you met two days ago and cold Czech beer and Prague Castle rising up on one side and the red rooftops crowding the banks... it's one of the best things I've ever done. I mean that.
Maren and I were on the pedals first and we were absolutely useless. The boat went in circles for about five minutes while Ethan and Jess sat in the middle crying with laughter. Neither of us could find a rhythm and we kept stopping and starting and overcorrecting. At one point a big tour boat came past and the driver looked at us with such profound disappointment that we all lost it completely.
We eventually figured it out and pedalled around Střelecký ostrov (Shooters Island), which is another small island you can circle. The views from the water are ridiculous. You can see the Charles Bridge from below, and Prague Castle above the treeline, and the coloured buildings along the riverside reflected in the water. A swan glided past us looking extremely unbothered. I took about forty photos and none of them captured it properly because some things are just for your eyes.
We swapped halfway through. Ethan took over my pedals and I sat in the middle with Jess, trailing my hand in the water, which was cold and surprisingly clean-looking. We drank our beers. The sun was directly overhead and I could feel my shoulders burning and I didn't care. A group of Czech lads on another boat started a splashing war with us using their oars. Maren got competitive about it immediately. I just sat there laughing with my face turned up to the sun, thinking: I nearly went to Croatia.
We stayed on the water for about an hour and a half. When we brought the boat back and returned our glasses for the deposit, my legs were jelly and my face hurt from smiling.
That evening we went to Riegrovy Sady, which is this park in Vinohrady, about a fifteen-minute walk from Old Town, up a hill, into a neighbourhood that felt immediately less touristy. Vinohrady is all tree-lined streets and Art Nouveau buildings and cool little wine bars. The park itself is big and green and on the western edge there's a slope with the most incredible view of Prague Castle and the Old Town skyline.
There's a beer garden in the park, a Pilsner Urquell place with long wooden benches and screens showing sport and a kiosk selling grilled sausages and chips. You pay a deposit for your glass and then just keep refilling. The beer was about forty-five crowns for a half-litre. That's less than two quid. For Pilsner Urquell. I'm sorry but London can absolutely do one.
We got our beers and walked past the beer garden to the grassy slope where everyone was sitting. Locals, backpackers, couples, groups of friends, people with dogs, people with guitars. No fences, no barriers, just grass and the view and the sky going pink and orange over the castle.
I sat between Maren and Jess with a beer in one hand and a grilled klobása in the other and watched the sun set behind Prague Castle and I swear I have never felt more alive and more at peace at the same time. The light went from gold to amber to deep pink and the castle turned into a silhouette and someone nearby was playing the ukulele badly and I thought: this is what I save for. This exact moment.
We stayed until the sky was dark and the city was lit up below us. Then we walked down through Vinohrady to a place Maren had found, a wine bar on a side street where they did Czech wine by the glass for eighty crowns and the bartender was a guy from Sheffield who'd moved to Prague six years ago and never left. I understood why.
Sunday. Last day.
I woke up early and went out alone again. Walked through Old Town Square before the crowds arrived. The Astronomical Clock was there doing its thing, beautiful but smaller than you expect, which seems to be a theme with famous landmarks. The square itself is gorgeous: the twin Gothic spires of the Church of Our Lady before Týn rising up like something from a fairy tale, the pastel facades of the buildings, the cobblestones worn smooth.
I had breakfast at a bakery near the square, a rogalík, which is like a Czech croissant but denser, with a coffee. Then I walked south through Nové Město towards Vyšehrad, the old fortress on the hill overlooking the river. It's further out than most tourists bother going and it was almost empty. The views from the ramparts are different from the ones you get in Old Town. Wider, quieter, with the river curving away below you and the city stretched out in every direction. I sat on a bench and wrote for nearly an hour.
I went back to the hostel, packed up, said goodbye to Maren and Jess who were both staying a few more days. Exchanged Instagrams. Made promises to visit each other that we might actually keep.
Prague cost me almost nothing and gave me almost everything.
Four days. Forty-three quid return flight. About fifteen quid a night for the hostel. Beer for less than two pounds. The best goulash of my life for a fiver. Pedal boats and sunsets and a farmers' market on the river and three people I'll probably never forget.
I scribbled a final note on the plane home, somewhere over Germany, while the Ryanair cabin crew tried to sell me a scratch card:
"Some cities make you feel like you need to earn them. Prague just hands itself over, no questions asked, for the price of a bus ticket and a cheap pint."
I'll be back. I already know I'll be back.