A journey without maps

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I must admit I am somewhat in two minds about my girlfriend’s Christmas present to herself: a global positioning system device. It is not that I can find too much fault with the device itself, although on a recent trip to the site of a former Baťa factory in England it did tell us to steer straight ahead when there was only a brick wall in front. I learnt later that the system is only accurate to about 10 metres and gets a bit confused when it comes down to more detailed instructions.

No, the real concern is that the device threatens to put me out of a job. After a series of rows when I took the wheel and my girlfriend navigated, and vice versa, an unspoken agreement resulted that I would read the maps and she would do the driving. While cautious, my driving is flawed by a failing to read or understand all the road signs and an inability to see well in the dark.

I also like maps and in the past scoured Czech bazaars and junk shops to lay my hands on choice specimens that reflected the changing historical landscape. On the face of it, such fascination might appear to be misplaced. Generally, the shape of the Czech Republic has been pretty consistent over the last few hundred years.

I would point out, however, the subtle changes that these paper treasures conveyed: the creation of Czechoslovakia in the first place, Munich and the dismemberment and annexation that followed, Czechoslovakia back on the map after WWII —albeit without sub-Carpathian Russia gifted to Stalin— the disappearance of German place names following their expulsion and the later addition of the “Socialist” adjective and disappearance of villages along the Cold War border. I could continue.

It was the disappearance of those German names that probably perversely sparked some deeper interest in maps of the Czech lands a few decades ago. I remember history books at university referring to some significant event or place using the German name which I then desperately tried to find in a modern atlas. Surprise, surprise, these only carried the Czech replacement name. This was long before the Internet did away with such painstaking problems.

Prince Metternich the Habsburg foreign minister who stamped his mark on Europe after the battle of Waterloo was one criminal in this respect. His family seat at Lázně Kynžvart in western Bohemia was usually described under its German name Bad Königswart. The place cropped up frequently in the history books. This was because Metternich’s love of his country estate meant he was often out of the loop when historical events were taking place on the continent and his services were quickly required in Vienna to clog up a liquid situation.

There is another factor as well. Apparently those interwar Czechoslovak maps were world beaters when it came to accuracy. That news came from a team of latter day map makers who were charting the country near my country home one winter. After planting lots of red tipped sticks in the frozen ground they came knocking on the door to ask if they could buy a midday meal because there was nothing else nearby. My girlfriend happily emptied the cupboards and a meal for six was soon on the table.

These latter day map makers admitted they do not usually get such a welcome. Indeed, they are often spurned and seen as trouble makers. Their measurements often mean that boundaries have to be redrawn and neighbour is set against neighbour in their wake.

Meanwhile, my own maps, some of them those state of the art versions, are still stacked up and have not been married to the picture frames bought in the same bazaars that were supposed to display them. Perhaps I should look on the bright side, while front seat navigators look like they have been made redundant at least the physical maps themselves look like they are becoming real collectibles.