Točník Castle, man, it’s this gnarly old fortress, hanging on by a thread up on Zámecký Hill in the middle of freaking nowhere—Bohemia, right? This place is all crumbling walls and busted dreams, but it’s got history like you wouldn’t believe, stuffed into every damn crevice. The village below, same name, just kind of lies there like it’s too tired to care anymore, but the castle? It’s got stories, baby, and it’s not letting them go without a fight. King Wenceslas IV, that crazy son of a bitch, put this place together back in the late 14th century when he needed a hideout, somewhere to kick back and shake off the royal bullshit. Točník wasn’t just a castle—it was his personal fortress of solitude, where he could get away from the endless grind of ruling a bunch of ungrateful jerks. So, he had it built high on this hill, with thick-ass walls and all the medieval fixings, because why the hell not? And for a while, it was all good—feasts, hunting, probably some heavy drinking—living the high life, king-style. But time’s a mean bastard, and the Hussite Wars rolled in like a freight train. In 1425, the castle took a hit, but it held its ground. Still, the writing was on the wall. Točník got passed around like a hot potato between the Kolovrats, the Gutštejns, and the Vartenberks—families with names you can barely pronounce but who tried to keep the place from falling apart. They gave it a Gothic twist here, a Renaissance tweak there, but let’s be real—time was chipping away at the old place, and not even those high-born sons of bitches could stop it. Fast forward to the 17th century, and Točník was a shadow of its former self, crumbling like a stale piece of bread left out too long. The Thirty Years’ War? Yeah, that didn’t help. By the time the dust settled, the castle was all but abandoned, left to rot under the Bohemian sun, the walls barely standing, palaces still hanging on by their fingernails—like some old warrior who refuses to lay down and die. Today, Točník’s still kicking, somehow. It’s a tourist spot now, open for all the looky-loos who want to come gawk at what’s left. They even threw some bears—yeah, real live bears—into the moat. Martin and Agáta, like some weird-ass royal pets. What the hell, right? The place is hanging onto its dignity by a thread, but it’s still there, dammit. Digging Up the Bones So, back in 1999, a bunch of archaeologists came poking around, thinking they’d find some ancient crap, and they did—turns out people had been squatting on Zámecký Hill since way back in the Hallstatt days. Wenceslas must’ve known he was onto something when he picked this spot for his little escape pad. He started building Točník in the late 1300s, after his old place, Žebrák, went up in flames. He was looking for something new, something solid, and that’s what he got—for a while, at least. The Kolovrats, the next suckers in line, kept the place in shape, but let’s face it—the castle was already on a slow slide into the abyss. They couldn’t stop the rot, no matter how many nobles took a crack at it. The Final Fling By the time the 17th century rolled around, Točník was in bad shape. The Thirty Years’ War pounded what was left of the place into dust. The locals couldn’t give a damn—they used the castle as a dump, and why not? It was a big, empty shell by then. The last of the soldiers packed up in 1648, leaving Točník to decay in peace. It was a sad, slow death, the kind you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, but that’s how it goes. Some rich guy, Bethel Henry Strousberg, got his hands on the place in the 19th century, but he didn’t do much with it. Then the state stepped in, like a bored janitor trying to clean up the mess. They’ve been trying to keep it together ever since, but it’s a losing battle. Hanging on by a Thread In 2007, some crazy bastard got the idea to fix up the roof of the Royal Palace. They used an old-school wooden crane, like something out of a medieval fever dream, lifting beams and hoping the whole damn thing didn’t collapse. It was a nod to the old ways, a middle finger to time itself, and somehow, they pulled it off. Točník’s still there, man, clinging to the edge of history like it’s got nothing left to lose. The walls might be crumbling, the halls might be empty, but the spirit? That’s still alive and kicking, refusing to fade away into the dust.