Adršpach Rock City is a labyrinth of sandstone towers near the Polish border in northern Czechia, and people were visiting it before it was visible. Curious travellers from Silesia had been finding their way in since about 1700, and Goethe walked in in 1790, when the towers still stood buried in thick forest. What they came to see was a wood. Then in 1824 a forest fire burned the trees off the slopes and the labyrinth stood exposed for the first time: hundreds of pillars cut out of a sandstone plateau by streams working down its cracks. The open stone maze people photograph today is younger than the tourism itself. Nobody stood on top of any of it until 1923, when a German climbing club worked out how to get up the crumbling rock. Climbers still work these walls, and you usually hear them before you see them.
The circuit runs one way on boardwalks and stairways that push between walls so close the sky shrinks to a bright strip, and at the Mouse Hole the gap narrows to fifty centimetres. Stepping down into a gorge, you feel the temperature drop with you. Cold air pools on these floors and barely stirs, the sharpest such inversion of any Czech rock city. Snow in the narrowest passages can last into summer, and mountain spruce grows down here while pine dries on the rims above. The towers stand close enough to read one by one: the Lovers, at 81.4 metres the tallest, and the Sugarloaf, wider across the top than at its base. Near the entrance a flooded pit, dug for sand until 1971 and filled by groundwater, shows its stone shelves through the water. Deeper in, a small lake is wedged between the walls, and a wooden punt carries a handful of people over it, the same crossing visitors have been making for more than 150 years. That lake is the waterfall's supply as well. The Great Waterfall does not run on its own: it is held behind a sluice, and when that opens the water drops sixteen metres into the gorge in one burst.