Shiny wet cobblestones are for real

It's the middle of the night in Prague, it's cold and there's a drizzle. If they light up the castle at night, they don't leave it lit this late. It's really something to be walking the crooked alleyways in the dark and hear a chorus of chuchbells ringing the hour from five directions at once.

Had I a notepad, or, better, a mini tape recorder to mutter crazily into, I would regale you with all the trite expressions for the delightful time I'm having, but sadly those thoughts are gone, in Rutger Haur's words, like tears in the rain.

I tried to get into a bar on the way back to the hostel, it was closed. I've a feeling it would have been open had I tried on the first half of my stroll.

Hope I can sleep now.