We arrived in Prague and checked into the Kampa Gardens Hotel, which is technically on an island — a very exclusive-sounding detail until you realise it’s just over the bridge and sandwiched between the river and a quiet park. It’s also a two-minute walk from Charles Bridge, which is ideal for both tourists and those who enjoy being gently jostled by strangers holding selfie sticks.

We chose this hotel primarily for the lack of traffic noise. There is a road, but it ends in a park, and unless you’re driving an official vehicle or a rogue Segway, that’s as far as you’re going. The quiet made for a peaceful stay, and the occasional embassy next door added a touch of accidental glamour, like we were staying in the UN’s overflow hotel.

We’d gone for a slightly upgraded room — which, in hindsight, we didn’t need, given we barely spent any time in it. That said, it was clean, comfortable, and had a balcony overlooking the river, which made us feel very civilised, even while eating crisps. The staff were professional and friendly and spoke English better than most Brits at Gatwick.

With our luggage dropped off, we set off for a wander around Kampa Park — a leafy green space that seems to appear out of nowhere just past the hotel. The Vltava River was in full dramatic flow, looking like it was trying to escape the city entirely, and before long, we stumbled upon a line of bright yellow penguin sculptures standing guard along the riverbank.

These cheerful sentinels — officially called Žlutí tučňáci na Vltavě — are part of an environmental installation by the Cracking Art Group, which sounds more like a dodgy 90s rave act than an artistic collective. We arrived at the same time as a French school group, most of whom looked deeply unimpressed, probably expecting TikTok-worthy sights rather than a penguin picket line.

Rounding the corner near the rather grandly named Café Restaurant Museum Kampa, we came face-to-face (well, face-to-back) with a series of huge crawling baby sculptures known as Miminka — a strange and slightly unsettling piece by Czech artist David Černý. They have no facial features, just weird barcode-like indentations where a face should be, and they look like they’re mid-mission in some sort of dystopian baby army drill.

For some reason, they triggered a deep memory of Tokyo Plastic — that wonderfully bizarre Flash animation site from the early 2000s that nobody else ever seems to remember. These sculptures would have fitted in perfectly with their glitchy genius.

After that surreal little detour, we decided it was time for caffeine. I’d read about a place called the Arctic Bakery, apparently just ten minutes away. So off we went — across the park, up a cobbled road, and out onto a busier street. We spotted the bakery just beyond a tram stop, looking inviting enough to justify the slight hike.

Next stop: Arctic Bakery — one of the highest-rated baked-good destinations in Prague, according to Google and several extremely enthusiastic reviewers. Thankfully, it lived up to the hype.

Some corners of Prague still wear their Soviet-era Brutalist heritage with a kind of grey, cracked pride, often enhanced by what looks like leftover East German graffiti and a general sense that time slowed down in 1984. The Arctic Bakery, by contrast, felt like it had been airlifted in from a Scandi design magazine. Its spotless white frontage was a beacon of calm minimalism — even the door handle was so stylish it made me question all my previous door handle choices. It screamed quiet class. Or at least politely hummed it.

Inside, the bakery was immaculate. Think warm lighting, smart wood furnishings, and baked goods displayed with the reverence of fine jewellery. The staff were efficient, friendly, and importantly, spoke excellent English — which meant when I ordered a cappuccino and hot chocolate, I actually got a cappuccino and hot chocolate. A flawless victory.

I couldn’t resist one of the enormous almond croissants while also admiring the loaf names — one of which was, brilliantly, “Old Bastard.” Honestly, any bakery that sells a product called Old Bastard has my full respect.

We left satisfied: hot drinks in hand, pastry-based loot in our paper bags, and our first proper encounter with Czech hospitality feeling like a success.

We kicked off the day with another glorious round of continental chaos at the Kampa Gardens Hotel breakfast buffet. Now, I’m a firm believer in the Premier Inn English breakfast — proper sausages, baked beans, and a self-service toaster that somehow incinerates one side of your bread while leaving the other side untouched.

By contrast, the Kampa spread seemed determined to cater to every breakfast culture simultaneously. There were cold meats, yoghurts, actual chocolate cakes, waffles, and various bread-adjacent items, some of which I still can’t identify. On the plus side, there were bacon, eggs, and a mysteriously fried sausage that looked like it had been designed in a lab but tasted perfectly decent. I left well fed and slightly bewildered.

The morning was overcast and chilly, but the forecast promised improvement, so we layered up and headed out. The plan: tackle Prague Castle — or, more accurately, the large and slightly vague complex that includes the castle, the palace, the cathedral, several cafes, a few embassies, and possibly a small city council.

We crossed a short stretch of Charles Bridge, then made our way into Malostranská, the more touristy part of town. Just by the tram stop, we discovered the Lesser Town Market — Malostranské trhy — a small but characterful collection of stalls.

What stopped me in my tracks was a display of handmade cards, each crafted from folded paper strips into intricate, almost sculptural designs. And right in the centre: a magnificent fox — imagine Firefox, but elevated to deity status. I had to have it. No hesitation.

A friendly Chinese woman tried to explain how she made them, using a small wooden pin and paper filigree, but I wasn’t listening — I was too busy trying to hand her my money as quickly as possible, before someone else swooped in.

Lesson learned in Prague: never come back later for something you like. It will be gone.

This did mean heading back to the hotel to drop it off. No way was I risking damage to my fox god in a paper bag. I’d have ordered one online, but she didn’t have a website, which only made it feel more rare and vital. Worth the detour.

Once safely returned and regrouped, we discussed taking the tram up to the castle. It was a tempting option — less walking, more sitting — but we didn’t quite trust ourselves not to end up in a depot or possibly Austria. So we set off on foot, with the idea that walking up would give us views and credibility, and worst case, we’d tram or taxi back down later, clutching our knees like tragic mountaineers who brought no supplies.

More coming soon…