There are some truths that can be said about me. I like travel. A lot. In particular, I like cities. Hence with very little provocation, I will head off to nose around some European capital. Each to their own addiction. Furthermore, I'm the sort of guy that will somehow feel some connection to a place that I plan to go to. There will be some monument, some person or just something that will draw me on a small pilgrimage towards a place. Hence, attractions that would, say, lead me to the business district of North Paris are not particularly uncommon. I will find something that ties me with some area of interest, usually theological, mathematical, scientific or historical. I suppose whatever takes my fancy...
Well, I've just got back from Prague, which was a lovely city, but dragged up a pilgrimage that has thus far been unrealised - one of particular musical interest. Now, this has a lot to do with the complete lack of things required to be musical, things like talent, an ear for music or much of a degree of arsty-ness (there is good reason I studied Engineering...), but I have been training myself very slowly to appreciate music, and in this regard, a certain Czech composer has a strong grip on me.
That composer is Betrich Smetana, composer of Má Vlast. When I was younger, I heard a part of that symphony called Die Moldau, which I then found out was a tone poem describing the River Vltava in Prague, and it became the first piece of music I ever connected to, that I felt I understood, I could see the river as I listened to orchestra playing. It felt very special, and has remained a favourite piece of mine ever since. So to actually see the Vltava for myself, almost to see if the picture painted for me by Smetana was true, was a wonderful feeling, as I stood in the ramparts of Vysehrad in the South of the city looking down the river. The music was flowing through my head the whole time I was there.
Additionally, while I was at Vysehrad, there is a cemetery there that holds a number of famous Czechs, probably the most famous of them being another composer, Antoine Dvorak, whose remains lie under a rather noticeable tombstone, complete with bust and crowd of tourists around him. A little further round the corner though lies a simple monument, with the words B. Smetana engraved on them. I had the excuse myself from the others barging past, but there lay the man responsible, 150 years on, of inspiring my interest in music. And the world moves on.
