Through the Cihelna Gate and a few paces into the grounds, the city noise all but disappeared. Further on, open galleries stretched to our right and left, bordered by low wrought-iron fences, vaulted roofs supported by graceful pillars. There were enough flowers and brilliant colours to prompt visions of Mediterranean gardens.

They were tombs.

And the green space ahead was the state cemetery.

As a first-trip-to-Prague destination, it may seem odd, perhaps macabre. Though in a city whose sobering Jewish Quarter cemetery draws thousands every year, visiting this one seems hardly noteworthy—but it is. The long arcades with their mournful life-sized statuary, elaborate mosaic walls, and painted ceilings seem fit for royalty. In the graveyard itself, the memorials and carved headstones give Prague’s national cemetery more the air of a quiet outdoor art exhibit—albeit an exhibit of what one website calls the ‘funerary’ arts. There is no sensation of being some grim voyeur, or a groupie on an Anne Rice field trip.

Designated the state cemetery in the late 1800s, the Vyšehrad is the resting place of beloved Czech figures such as the composers Smetana and Dvorak, and the artist Mucha. More than fifty are named on a massive monument known as the Slavín. Its rooftop angel and ground-level figures lend grace to its imposing form. But after suitable admiration, we turned back to the rest of the grounds, filled with simple, carved headstones; modern, phoenix-like angels; anonymous mounds of tufted soil, and every memorial style between. The jabbering hordes of tourists we’d met almost everywhere else were absent. The people were largely Czech, strolling quietly or tending family gravesites, ignoring any photo-taking visitors.

Next to the cemetery is the Vyšehrad’s largest structure, the Church of Saints Peter and Paul. Its present form is merely the latest incarnation on a site that’s been in continuous use for centuries. Though its mosaic-crowned doors were gorgeously inviting, we were, at first, hesitant to go in—there comes a point in almost any extended European tour when one starts to think, “Another church? How different can it be?”

As different as this, we discovered.

Influenced by the blooming Art Nouveau movement in Prague and elsewhere, craftsmen (and one craftswoman) in the late nineteenth century covered the church’s interior with trailing vines, curling flowers, and serene figures in flowing clothes. From the stained glass windows to the lofty ceiling, the walls and even the supporting pillars, almost every available inch is meticulously decorated in earth tones and gilt. For a moment, it seemed odd to have such stylistic artwork throughout an old church—but that feeling quickly faded. Amid the modern design, numerous ancient treasures remain, in modest niches or bold frames, blending well enough to be pleasant surprises when discovered. Here, as in the cemetery outside, old and new shine together in harmony.

From its battlements, high above river and city, the Vyšehrad offers spectacular views. To the north, the Charles Bridge, the Palace, and a miles-wide pincushion of church spires. To the south, family homes and office buildings, a jumble of red roof tile and glass. Just below the western wall is the Baths of Libuše: the crumbling remains of an ancient watchhouse, perched precariously on an outcrop of rock above the river. Many its tall narrow windows are still intact. It must have been strategically useful, but a chilly, desolate post. No wonder the spot is wrapped in legend: here, it is said, the Princess Libuše disposed of her lovers. Here, it is also said, the Bohemian lion appears yearly to roar a challenge. If none is returned, it vanishes without waking the sleeping warriors within the hill.

Since admission to the grounds of the Vyšehrad is free, many come, not to admire the buildings, cemetery, exhibits, or casement tours—we were entirely ignorant of such tours our first visit—but merely to appreciate the park-like grounds. Inside these walls, one seems far removed from the activity of the city. There are extensive lawns with shady trees. There are ambling footpaths and inviting benches. It’s a popular spot for local families and businesspeople on their lunch breaks, looking for quiet time snug within the fortifications. Try finding that on the cobblestones inside the Presidential Palace grounds.

I’ll hasten to add that the Presidential Palace is a treasure in its own right. Among its delights are the soaring St. Vitus’ Cathedral and the famed Golden Lane, tiny craftsmen’s houses with ties to Franz Kafka. Playwright Václev Havel’s ascension to presidency at the fall of the Iron Curtain adds fresh spice to the centuries of history. For much of the city’s life the Palace has been the military and political centre of the city—thinking, planning and often struggling for survival.

The Vyšehrad, once built, was almost immediately abandoned by its princes in favour of the Palace. Since then it has almost always been bringing up the rear, sometimes favoured, sometimes used for storage. But if the Palace is the brain of the city, the Vyšehrad is the heart. The Palace has written history; the Vyšehrad has beloved myth.
Let the Palace have the tourists. The Vyšehrad reflects the everyday lives—and deaths—of the citizens of Prague.