Polka, Dumplings, Becherovka!

A loud rumble wakes me from sweet dreams of streets where Sliwowitz and honey flow. The noise interrupts my well-deserved afternoon nap, stirred by a fierce wind vortex that finally breaks the calm before the storm.

The rest stop by the fishing pond offers plenty of shade, and a gentle breeze makes the heat somewhat bearable. Unfortunately, the water doesn’t look very inviting. Like almost all bodies of water we’ve encountered on our Czech journey, it appears heavily fertilized and shimmers green-brown. But the plums fall into our lap and taste wonderful, and we have plenty of peace.

At some point, Grandpa Hundred Years Old roars into the place with his red racer and strolls past us with his young dog. I am glad that 'deutsch' in Czech is quite similar to Russian, making it easy for me to remember the word. So I point to both of us and say 'Němec'.

Grandpa happily chats away: 'I am ninety-six years old and I drive a car!' He points to his red sled and the dog he trains, something he did even under socialism. Then he tells us a lot in his language about Kamaradski, which we don’t understand. Still, we are greatly impressed and share in his joy.

Then he gets back into the Škoda and zooms along the pond's shore for another two hundred meters, ignoring the no entry sign, to send the dog into the warm, green water. But first, he warns us insistently about the approaching storm.

The journey here has taken us from the Giant Mountains to the source of the Oder River. This is located in the middle of a military restricted area, and access is actually only allowed on weekends. We disregard the clearly visible prohibition signs and demonstratively do not understand their meaning. We haven’t driven almost eight hundred kilometers just to turn back empty-handed on a Monday.

Moreover, I get the impression that nobody is really interested, as long as all barriers are open and no live ammunition is being fired. Like in the rest of the country, signs seem to consist mostly of suggestions.

So we hike in the heat of the day under brilliant sunshine along well-maintained military paths through the Oder Mountains, and we find it at 634 meters.

A boardwalk leads to a shelter that has an impressive fountain dedicated to the source. The water itself trickles out from a hole behind it and doesn't form a stream until it flows a few kilometers over the military training ground. Somehow unremarkable.

But my travel goal is achieved. I wash the sweat off my forehead with the water, and then we make our way back in the heat.

Unfortunately, much of the Oder Mountains is a military restricted zone, and the area does not offer many other exciting sites, so we continue our tour through the country toward the west.

Now we stand at the fishing pond, and the wind vortex of an impressive storm front shakes the tall poplars that rise around the den of thieves. I was awakened by the roaring creaking and cracking of a massive branch that crashed to the pavement next to the car with a loud thud.

Not only Grandpa Hundred Years Old, but also the weather app has been warning us for days about lightning, thunder, storms, and torrential rain. So we prepared in time and set up rain and wind protection. Now we look at the bending poplars, and I am a bit worried and hope that they won't give in to the storm right now and fall over in droves.

Today, we won't be moving forward anymore, and I calmly pour myself a glass of wine. Just as I want to savor the good drink, a blinding bright, glaring lightning suddenly illuminates the evening, followed immediately by a deafening, earth-shattering crash incredibly close by. Wow!

I nearly drop my glass in shock. We look at each other and are very much aware now that the storm is occurring right above our heads. The lightning must have struck a huge tree right next to us. The rain hasn’t reached us yet, and the hero dares to venture out into the storm once more to see if he can perhaps spot the strike site.

I don’t want to let him go, but he won’t be stopped and heads into the apocalypse.

Very worried, I have to watch from the shelter of the tarp as the downpour begins. Tennis ball-sized raindrops beat down loudly on our mobile shelter, threatening to tear monstrous holes. I imagine the worst scenarios where the hero can't return to me through the torrents, is whipped away by the storm, and the carp pond is devoured mercilessly, relentlessly, and uncompromisingly by a tsunami of monstrous waves.

But at the last moment, just before the now saucer-sized drops threaten to rip our shelter apart, Monsieur breathlessly returns to me.
At the same moment, another brilliantly bright lightning splits the darkness, and a deafening, shrill crack of unprecedented loudness nearby makes me shudder and flee into the strong arms of my protector. Around us, primal forces rage, and we are at their mercy. In this hell, only the Faraday cage helps! We quickly climb into the protective Kangoo, where I shiver and shake while waiting for the end of this disaster.

Soon, the lightning and thunder move on, and the rain drums us to sleep. The next morning, the sky is blue-washed, and the sun beams down on us from pure, fresh air.

The wind has blown the delicious yellow plums from the tree, their tasty tartness reminiscent of lemons. We collect a few for the road; the rest is left for homemade Sliwowitz.

Now we set out to search for the Bohemian villages.