Karlovy Vary: Wednesday Afternoon

Karlovy Vary reminded me a lot of Taormina: cities with the same relationship to tourism as a plant to sunlight. The posh city centre, split straight down the middle by the River Tepla, throngs with coach parties, spa groupies and daytrippers, all sucking tepid, salty water through the spout of ridiculous looking Becher cups; the locals make do with service jobs or the suburbs.

I wondered where all the visitors came from, and found the answer on the window of the Becherovka factory, which advertises three tours a day in German, two in Russian, and just one for both English and Czech. We got back from Loket just too late for the English guide, so headed instead for the hills above the Grand Hotel Pupp. I realised later we'd retraced exactly the route I'd taken three years before, twisting right and left up the yellow-marked path to the Peter the Great Memorial, then down and along to the blue and white, onion-domed Russian church.

The pub emptied as soon as the early evening news finished, then filled slowly like a bowl placed under a leaky tap. We stayed to watch Liverpool beat Barcelona. A group of men with southern English accents were singing Flower of Scotland by the toilets.