Behold Točník Castle, perched upon Zámecký Hill, a relic of old Bohemia's storied past, where the wind doth whisper tales of valor and despair. There it stands, its stones weathered and worn, yet proud, defying the ravages of time. The village below, bearing the same name, lies in the shadow of this ancient fortress, like a humble servant beneath the gaze of a once-great lord. 'Twas in the waning years of the fourteenth century that King Wenceslas IV, weary of the trials of kingship, did decree this castle’s rise. "Here," quoth he, "shall I find respite from the turmoil of my realm, and solace in the embrace of these high walls." And so Točník was born, a fortress strong and steadfast, where the king might lay his heavy head, far from the cares that burdened him. But time, that relentless thief, did set its sights upon Točník, and with each passing year, the castle’s glory did begin to fade. The Hussite Wars, like a tempest fierce and unyielding, besieged these walls, yet they held firm, a testament to the strength of their making. And after, the castle passed through the hands of noble families—the Kolovrats, the Gutštejns, and the Vartenberks—who each in turn sought to preserve its majesty. Yet, for all their efforts, they could not stay the hand of decay, which slowly crept upon the stones, turning strength to weakness and grandeur to ruin. By the seventeenth century, Točník, once a symbol of might and kingship, was but a shadow of its former self. The Thirty Years’ War, a cruel and unforgiving tide, hastened the decline, and the castle, abandoned and forlorn, was left to crumble beneath the weight of neglect. Yet even in its decline, the castle retained a certain majesty, a lingering memory of its days of glory, when kings walked its halls and the fires of feasts lit the night. Today, Točník stands open to the world, a monument to the past, where the curious might wander its ruins and imagine the tales that its walls could tell. The moat, once a formidable barrier against foes, now serves a gentler purpose, housing two bears, Martin and Agáta, who roam where knights once tread. It is a strange twist of fate, but one that speaks to the enduring spirit of this place, where life continues, even as the past fades into memory. An Ancient Tale Unearthed In the year 1999, scholars and diggers, with spade and trowel, did uncover the bones of those who dwelt upon Zámecký Hill long before Wenceslas cast his eye upon it. The hill, it seems, had been a place of power and significance since the days of the Hallstatt folk, who made their home here when the world was young. Wenceslas, with the wisdom of a king, knew that this was the place to build his refuge, and so Točník rose, a fortress both ancient and new, its foundations rooted in the earth’s deep past. Wenceslas, with a king’s pride and a builder’s eye, began the work in the twilight of the fourteenth century, after fire had claimed his older fortress at Žebrák. He sought to create a stronghold where he might escape the trials of kingship, a place of safety and serenity. By 1398, the castle was half-complete, and Wenceslas himself took residence within its walls, guiding the work as it progressed. But with the passing of the king, Točník began its slow descent. The Kolovrats, who inherited the castle, maintained it as best they could, but they could not recapture the spirit that had once filled its halls. The fire that had burned so brightly began to flicker and fade, as time, ever patient, took its toll. The Final Curtain Falls The seventeenth century brought Točník to its knees. The Thirty Years’ War, that brutal conflict of sword and cannon, battered the fortress, and what little remained of its former strength was ground to dust. The castle, once a beacon of royal power, was reduced to a shell, its walls hollow and empty. The burghers of Žebrák, indifferent to its storied past, used the castle as a place of refuse, casting their waste where once kings had walked. By 1648, the last of the soldiers had left, and Točník was abandoned to the mercy of the elements. In the years that followed, the castle passed from hand to hand, each owner less caring than the last. Bethel Henry Strousberg, a man of wealth but little understanding, bought the castle in the nineteenth century, but did little to preserve its legacy. The state, eventually taking ownership, sought to stem the tide of decay, but the task was Herculean, and the years had taken their toll. A Glimmer of Hope Yet even in its twilight, Točník has found a measure of redemption. In 2007, craftsmen and builders, with skill and care, began the work of restoring the Royal Palace’s roof. They employed a wooden crane, an ancient device, to lift the beams into place, a nod to the methods of old. And so, the castle, though battered and broken, endures, its spirit unbroken, a monument to the resilience of the past and the enduring power of history. Točník, though it crumbles, shall not fall. Its walls may be worn, its halls may be empty, but the memory of what it once was—the glory, the strength, the refuge for a weary king—shall live on, as long as there are those who remember, and who care to tell its tale.