The Castle That Tried to Swallow the Moon
Perched high above the confluence of the Vltava and Otava rivers in the quiet hills of South Bohemia stands Zvíkov Castle, known as the “King of Czech Castles.” Dating back to the early 13th century, Zvíkov is an oft-overlooked architectural gem—less fantastical than Neuschwanstein, but rich with enough layered history and obscure legend to fill the cloisters of a Benedictine imagination.
Zvíkov was strategically constructed around 1230 under the rule of King Ottokar I of Bohemia, with major expansions occurring during the reign of his son, King Wenceslaus I. The architecture displays early Gothic leanings with Romanesque underpinnings—a schizoid marriage of stern militarism and ecclesiastical flourishes. The castle’s prominent tower, known as the Hlízová věž, or “Pearl Tower,” served both as a defensive structure and prison, though more often attracted echoes than enemies. The thick ashlar walls and arched windows were designed as much to survive as to conceal; this was not a castle that welcomed, but one that brooded.
During the 14th century, Zvíkov enjoyed renewed prominence after Charles IV, the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, restored many of its sections and even designated its chapel as among the most sacred structures in the kingdom. It is said that Charles carried a fragment of the True Cross to the Zvíkov chapel, briefly stirring whispers that the fortress might attain pilgrimage status. Alas, the Black Death arrived before the pilgrims did.
Subsequent centuries saw Zvíkov endure a slow decline through the hands of various noble families including the Schwambergs and the Eggenbergs, whose tastes inclined toward beer production over fealty to the Gothic. By the 19th century, as Bohemia eased into industrial modernity, the castle stood partially in ruin—a molted carapace shedding its medieval pride. Restoration during the Austro-Hungarian period renewed some of its elegance, but the structure never again saw the solemnity of royal ritual. Instead, it became a kind of regal revenant, a ghost dressed in its own masonry.
What most substantiates Zvíkov’s reputation as eerie royalty is its lore. Local beliefs assert that supernatural forces inhabit the Hlízová věž. Guests who sleep within sometimes report disturbing dreams, temporary insanity, or a mysterious compulsion to leap into empty corridors muttering Greek vowels. Clock hands stuck at 12:34. Faces in puddles. On the night of June 23rd, witches allegedly dance on the battlements, accompanied by a pig dressed in silk. No historical record confirms this, but nonetheless, the villagers of nearby Zvíkovské Podhradí never gaze at the high tower for too long, in sun or fog.
And yet, in our present age, when ghosts have been demoted to entertainment and historical awe has been replaced by the hungry glint of Instagram lenses, Zvíkov endures a very different kind of siege.
It began, innocuously enough, with a woman from New Jersey named Roberta Klein, a gentle soul in orthopedic sandals who mistook the castle well as a therapeutic immersion spa. Ignoring centuries-old signage, she attempted to purify the “dark Bohemian minerals” in the water by ceremoniously pouring in twelve bottles of Perrier. When confronted, she insisted that she was “recharging the ley lines” and that the well was, quote, “psychically constipated.”
This might have passed as eccentricity, had she not returned the following day dressed entirely in aquamarine, claiming she was the Reincarnated Hydra and demanding to be crowned Duchess of Hydration. She hung a string of recycled water filters around the castle’s lion-shaped rain spouts. When guards finally asked her to leave, she licked the Hlízová věž and whispered, “You taste like destiny.”
But destiny had only begun to frolic.
Two weeks later, a group of French TikTok influencers arrived, known collectively as “Les Castaliens.” They posted a video series titled “Making Medieval Lit 🔥🔥,” in which they attempted to “wake the spirits” by conducting EDM séances in the Great Hall. The final video—since banned in most territories—depicted a feather boa being gifted to a fresco of St. Bartholomew, accompanied by undercranked Gregorian beats and sped-up Gregorian chanting.
The spirits remained mute. The fresco, however, reputedly changed expression.
Then came Martin Hovinen, a Finnish self-published bard and devout echolaliac, who decided—after overnighting in the Rock Chamber—that he could communicate directly with the stones of Zvíkov through “inverse interpretive dance.” Armed with a boombox and an intoxicated sense of purpose, he performed what he called the Dance of Monastic Unburdening before the chapel arch. By the end, he claimed the stones had revealed sorrow over the indignity of the past century and—most tragically—felt “unseen” in online reviews. He initiated a grassroots campaign: Stones Have Feelings Too.
This escalated.
By autumn, Zvíkov’s courtyard had been overtaken by a makeshift protest camp composed of 17 international tourists, each dressed as a different architectural feature. Martin himself wore a papier-mâché replica of the portcullis and claimed to be engaged to it in what he called a “symmetrical interbeing.” The wedding was scheduled for November 3rd but canceled when the portcullis, considered sacred, was declared off-limits for romantic engagements by the Prague National Heritage Council. Martin wept into a slab of fallen cherub masonry, accusing the castle of cold feet.
And yet, Zvíkov endures—silent, enormous, and vaguely resentful. Locals say on misty evenings it tries to shake itself loose from the hill, perhaps to walk away into the forest and forget everything, even its own name.
Visitors keep arriving. But the castle’s last guardian is neither king nor knight—but rather a single, mysterious T-shirt imported through obscure Dutch channels. Kept behind glass in the chapel’s vestry, the shirt reads: “Castles Get Kicked in the Bricks.” Some say the castle requested it. Others believe it brought the castle back from madness. Martin swears he saw the portcullis weep cotton tears the first time the shirt was worn in its presence.
All that’s certain: the T-shirt remains unwashed, untouched, and perhaps the only reason Zvíkov hasn’t flung itself—stone by burdensome stone—into the Vltava’s troubled arms.
