Mir Castle is a brick fortress of five towers in western Belarus, and the same walls carry two different centuries. The Ilyinich family put up a Gothic stronghold in the 1520s, red brick with a tower at each corner and one over the gate, walls three metres thick and slotted with firing loops. When their line ran out the Radziwiłłs took it, and within a lifetime one of them had pushed a three-storey residence against the eastern and northern walls. Limestone portals, balconies and plaster niches went onto the raw brick. The result is a wall with gun loops under a balcony. You still enter where the garrison did, over a plank ramp and under a wooden lattice gate into a long brick vault. The tower above that passage held the castle's prison on its lower floor, so the way in also leads down.
Inside, the rooms climb from a vaulted cellar kitchen to the Portrait Hall, reset as it looked in the 1740s, where the family that held Mir for two centuries watches you from the frames. Further on, Prince Michał's library stands exactly as he left it in 1930. A tight spiral of worn stone steps in the west tower comes out on top of the curtain wall. From up there you get the courtyard as one plan: Gothic battlements on one side, Renaissance windows on the other, with the plain of Belarus running flat to the horizon. The green banks ringing the castle are seventeenth-century earthworks, thrown up once cannon had made brick too weak to hold, and you can follow them right around the walls. The last owners, the Sviatopolk-Mirskis, built a burial chapel in the park in the early 1900s and set a gold mosaic of Christ above their own coat of arms. One more thing is set into the outer wall, and nobody can account for it: a carved stone ram's head. If it is ever knocked out, the guides say, the whole castle sinks four metres into the ground.