Trip to Czechia: the Motherland of Spas

Beautiful paintings depict spa scenes against the background of the ornate 'water temples'

Earlier this month, I visited the West Bohemia Spa Triangle—a trinity of historic spa towns in Czechia that form part of UNESCO’s Great Spa Towns of Europe.

For anyone who hasn’t been, Czechia is incredible. Their attitude toward food and beer is exactly what you’d expect—generous, hearty, and entirely unapologetic (here’s me tucking into some medieval-style feast, which, honestly, meant we didn’t need to eat for a week). But what struck me most wasn’t the beer culture—it was how deeply embedded spa heritage is within the national identity, and more specifically, how these towns have managed to preserve their traditions while embracing modern wellness trends.

There’s something remarkable about wandering through Karlovy Vary, Mariánské Lázně, and Františkovy Lázně, where the spa town tradition still feels alive. Their network of pump rooms, bathhouses, colonnades, promenades, and mineral springs remains intact, not as relics, but as an active part of daily life.

Everywhere I turned, there were ornate drinking taps, elaborate pump houses, exquisite murals and sculptures dedicated to water. These towns treat their springs as something sacred, and you feel it—visceral, immersive, a living connection between nature and culture.

In Karlovy Vary, the largest and most famous of the three, I couldn’t help but think of Harrogate a century ago.

"By quarter to eight, I am down at the Pump Room. Hundreds of people are there already, drinking their glasses of water and strolling up and down the promenades, where a band is playing gaily as if it were high noon."

But the thing is, this excerpt, from 1921, wasn't about Karlovy Vary. This was Harrogate.

A century ago, this was the rhythm of life here too—early morning rituals, people gathering at the wells, musicians filling the air with sound, and visitors engaging in the full sensory experience of a spa town.

Yet, while Harrogate’s spa culture faded, in Karlovy Vary, it’s still happening.

Residents and visitors still come in droves to drink the medicinal springs

Naturally, I had to try the Karlovy Vary waters for myself. Unlike Harrogate’s sulphur-rich springs, which are pungent, almost aggressive, these were chalybeate waters—warm, metallic, slightly salty, tasting unmistakably of iron. Somewhat like drinking blood.

There are dozens of free-flowing fountains dotted around the town, each with its own unique mineral composition, and people come with ceramic spa cups, sipping the waters as they stroll.

It’s not just the act of drinking the waters that intrigued me—it’s the carefully maintained spa atmosphere. There are even spa rules in place:

"You are here not only for the spa treatment, but to soak in the social life, the people around you, admire the architecture, and the impressive scenery that surrounds it."

Imagine that. A town where the entire experience is part of the treatment. Where the setting, the people, and the act of engaging with place are as important as the water itself.

The Hot Springs Colonnade was built in 1975 to house Karlovy Vary's hottest spring

No trip to Karlovy Vary would be complete without a visit to Café Pupp, an institution that clearly rips off Betty's Tea Room, but with a certain unapologetic flair that makes it almost endearing. It was packed, just like Betty's always is, and there’s something to be said for the way these towns curate their spa identity, even in the smallest details.

Then, there was the Hot Springs Colonnade, built between 1969 and 1975—a brutalist structure standing in stark contrast to the classical elegance of the surrounding spa town. Inside, I found what might have been my favourite part of the trip: the Inhalation Chamber, a large glasshouse flooded with sunlight, where people gather to inhale ‘Glauber’ vapour spouting out from the towns hottest iron spring.

This was spa culture in its purest, most experiential form—not just about passive treatments, but about engaging with the environment in a way that feels like healing.

Standing in these towns, watching people embrace their spa heritage as something real, relevant, and essential, one question kept coming back to me:

Why couldn’t this happen in Harrogate?

Sure, we don’t have thermal springs or a complete set of Georgian architecture as Bath does, but what we do have is something just as rare and unique, it not more so—our abundance of mineral springs and subsequence response to that.

I'm reminded of a plaque back in Valley Gardens. It sits quietly, unnoticed by most, but it tells this story—a reminder that Harrogate was once a place where people came to heal, to reconnect, to experience something special.

Could Harrogate reconnect with its natural phenomena?