Good ice cream needn't be complicated. But it must be honest.

One morning Budimír set off deep into the forest beneath Říp Mountain. The rain had just passed, and drops of dew still clung among the ferns. The woods smelled of moss, wood and damp earth. As he walked past an old footpath, he noticed something curious. Hidden among the green leaves were tiny blue berries, one beside the other. Budimír picked one and tasted it. First came a gentle sweetness, then a light freshness of the forest. A little further off, a girl in a blue headscarf stood among the trees. “Are you looking for them?” Budimír asked. The girl shook her head. “No. They find me.” Budimír frowned. “And who are you, then?” The girl only smiled, turned and went on along the path. Before she vanished among the trees, she called back: “The Wanderer. I come when they ripen.”

Budimír gathered several handfuls of blueberries. He crushed them, added a little water and honey, and began to whisk the mixture with a wooden whisk until it became a fine, smooth and light delicacy. He set it to rest in the cool of the stone cave beneath Říp Mountain. The next day he tasted it. It was cold, velvety, sweet, and it smelled of a summer forest. Budimír looked towards the woods and said: “Now I understand why they call you the Wanderer. You never stay anywhere for long. Like a secret of the forest, ripening deep among the trees.” From then on, people came to Říp Mountain to look for the little blue fruit. But they never knew exactly where they would find it. Sometimes the bushes were full of it. Other times there were only a few berries among the ferns. And it was said that if, while picking, you caught a glimpse of a blue headscarf disappearing among the trees, the blueberries that year would be the sweetest of all.

On an autumn morning, a small wooden cart appeared beneath Říp Mountain. Its wheels were caked with mud from a long road, and shreds of dust hung from its canvas. It had come from the south, from places the people beneath Říp knew only by name. The carter was weary and spoke in a strange dialect. When he opened his load, people expected wine, spices or cloth. Instead they saw yellow fruit. It was smooth and heavy, and it smelled so strange that the children came running from all around. Budimír took one in his hand. “What is it?” The carter smiled. “Sunshine.” Budimír laughed. “Sunshine does not grow on trees.” The carter cut the fruit open. The scent spread across the whole marketplace. Budimír cut off a piece and put it in his mouth. At once he winced. “This sun bites!” He thought about it for a long time. Then he took several lemons, squeezed out the juice, added water and honey, and began to whisk slowly with a wooden whisk. He tasted it. It was fresh, sharp and still far too sour. He added a little more honey. He tasted again. “Now it no longer bites. Now it awakens.” He poured the mixture into a stone vessel and carried it to the cool cave beneath Říp Mountain. The next day the people tasted it. It was icy cold, smooth and brilliantly fresh. After a long winter, after heavy meals and sweet honey, it felt like the first breath of spring. The carter took a spoonful and said: “Where I come from, in the south, we say that the lemon does not bring the summer. It brings a memory of it into the winter.”

Before leaving, he gave Budimír a few lemon seeds. Budimír planted them in the soil beneath Říp Mountain. Nothing grew. Not the next year either. The lemon tree never took root in Czech soil. But its flavour did.

In an old smithy beneath Říp Mountain lived a smith whom nobody called anything but the Black Blacksmith. Not because he was wicked. His hands were black with soot, his apron too, and his face was smudged with smoke. Yet he was a master of his craft. From plain iron he could forge a horseshoe, a knife or a lock.

One day Budimír came to see him. “Black Blacksmith,” he said, “if you can make something beautiful from plain iron, can you do the same with something sweet?”

The smith laughed. “Sweet things are not forged, Budimír.” But Budimír laid milk, cream and a handful of dark cocoa beans from faraway lands on the table. The smith broke one open, sniffed it and tasted it. He frowned. “Bitter.” Even so, he set a cauldron over the fire, added the milk, the cream and a little honey, and began to warm the mixture slowly. He stirred it as steadily as his hammer fell upon the anvil. Then he let it cool and set to work. He rolled it, turned it and whisked it again with a wooden whisk until it was smooth and velvety. “Like iron,” he muttered, “this too needs the right time and the right work.” In the end they set the vessel in the cool cave beneath Říp Mountain.

The next day a dark, thick and fragrant delicacy was waiting for them. The smith took the first spoonful, tasted it and was silent for a long while. Then he smiled. “So something sweet can be forged after all.” Budimír laughed. And from that day on, the darkest and boldest ice cream beneath Říp Mountain was called the Black Blacksmith.

When summer came to the land beneath Říp Mountain, the first strawberries began to ripen along the field boundaries and in the gardens. They were small and red, and so fragrant that their scent lingered in the air long after sunset.

In a cottage beneath the hill lived a girl whom nobody called anything but Krajanka, “the girl of the countryside”. Every morning she set out with a wicker basket to pick strawberries. The whole region knew her. Wherever she went, there was merriment, and wherever she set down her basket, children soon came running.

One hot day she met Budimír by the roadside. “Krajanka,” he called to her, “what will you do with so many strawberries?” She smiled, handed him one of the reddest and said: “What one does with the very best things. I share them.”

Budimír tasted it. It was sweet and juicy, and it smelled of summer. And because that day was so hot that even the water in the well seemed warm, Budimír had an idea he had never tried before. He crushed the strawberries and added a little water and honey. With a wooden whisk he beat the mixture for a long time until it turned fine and light. Then he set it in the icy chill of the cave beneath Říp Mountain.

When he tasted it that evening, it was cold and pink and smelled of fresh strawberries. “This,” said Budimír, “is just like our Krajanka.” And people began to link her name with the loveliest flavour of the Czech summer.

The Red Krajanka. Red as the first strawberries to ripen in the sun, sweet as summer, and honest as the people who always share what is best.

In the old days, when the people beneath Říp Mountain still walked dusty roads and ice cream was kept cold with ice brought in from the winter, a strange white fruit one day found its way to Budimír.

A traveller returning from faraway lands had brought it to him. “This does not grow here,” said Budimír, taking the fruit in his hands. It was round and hard, and inside it hid white flesh and a sweet fragrance. The traveller smiled. “It grows where summer lasts so long that winter has almost forgotten about it.”

Budimír cracked the coconut open and tasted its white flesh. “It is gentle,” he said at last. “And yet there is something unusual in it.” He grated the flesh, added milk, cream and a little honey sweetness, put everything into a copper cauldron and began to stir slowly. The scent of coconut soon spread through the whole cottage. When the mixture was ready, Budimír let it cool and carried it down to the underground cave. He set the cauldron among the ice and went on slowly whisking with a wooden whisk until it turned into a smooth, white and creamy ice cream.

He took the first spoonful and tasted it. For a moment he closed his eyes. It reminded him of faraway lands, warm air and the scent of a summer that had never known a Czech winter. “A flavour from the other end of the world… and yet it will thrive beneath Říp Mountain.”

At the edge of the forest beneath Říp Mountain stood an old wooden gate. It led to a path that vanished among tall spruces, and beside it grew thick raspberry bushes. At first glance they did not look welcoming at all. They had sharp thorns and branches so tightly tangled that a hand could hardly pass through. So people preferred to go another way.

One day Budimír made his way to the gate. He had heard a tale of a man who was said to guard the forest there every summer. And indeed. Beneath an old oak sat a tall man in a red cloak. He had a wooden basket on his back and a long staff in his hand. “What do you guard?” asked Budimír. The man looked at the raspberry bushes. “What people take without giving thanks.” Budimír smiled. “And why are the raspberries so hard to reach?” “Because the best things must be earned.” Budimír reached carefully in among the thorns. He felt a scratch on his fingers, but beneath the branches he found a raspberry so red that it looked like a drop of summer sun. He tasted it. It was sweet and juicy, and it smelled of the whole forest. He gathered several handfuls, crushed them, added a little water and honey, and began to whisk slowly. Then he set the mixture in the cool of the cave beneath Říp Mountain. When he tasted it the next day, it was icy cold, smooth and full of the scent of fresh raspberries. Budimír thanked the forest and brought a little to the guardian too. The man tasted it. “You see? Even what is protected by thorns may hide something soft inside.” From that day on, people stopped avoiding the raspberry bushes. They learned to enter gently, to take only as much as they needed and to give thanks for every handful. And the old guardian? Nobody ever saw him again.

One summer a stranger appeared beneath Říp Mountain, a man nobody in the region knew. He came along the old road at dawn. He had no coat of arms, no armour and not even a horse. He carried only a heavy canvas sack over his shoulder. People whispered about where he might have come from. When Budimír saw him, he asked: “Traveller, what are you carrying?”

The stranger opened the sack. Inside lay golden fruit such as nobody beneath Říp Mountain had ever seen. “They come from a land where the sun shines all year round,” said the stranger. Budimír cut one open. The golden flesh smelled so strongly that people began to gather round. He tasted it. It was sweet and juicy, and quite unlike any fruit he had known until then.

Budimír had an idea. He pressed out the flesh, added a little water and began to stir the mixture briskly with a wooden whisk until it came together into a fine, lightly airy mass. Then he poured it into a clay vessel and left it to chill in the stone cave beneath Říp Mountain. When he tasted it the next day, it was cold, smooth and refreshing. The stranger smiled. “Now you know what I brought you.” Budimír looked at the golden sorbet and answered: “You brought a piece of your sun.”

The stranger left that very same day, and nobody ever saw him again. Only his golden fruit remained in the land. And because it had come from afar and nobody knew who had brought it, people began to call it the Golden Stranger.

A great feast was being prepared beneath Říp Mountain. From a nearby monastery the monks brought an old wooden chest, which, according to legend, had once been given to a Czech prince by a traveller from distant Persia. Besides embroidered cloths and rare spices, it held a few dried apricot stones. One of the old monks showed them to Budimír. “They say that in faraway lands a dish was made from this fruit that could refresh even travellers worn out by the desert.” Budimír pondered. “And what if we do not need to cross a desert to learn its secret?”

The monk brought him several ripe apricots, grown in the monastery garden beneath the south wall. Budimír crushed their flesh, added a little honey and a few drops of water. Then he added ice he had kept since the last winter. He put the mixture into a metal bowl, packed it round with ice and began to stir it slowly with a wooden spoon until it turned into a fine, cooling delicacy. When he tasted it, he was surprised by the sweetness of the apricots joined with a refreshing chill. The monk smiled. “A secret like this is not kept in a chest. It is kept in patience.” Budimír looked at the golden mixture and replied: “And in a summer we are able to keep.” From then on it was told that Budimír had discovered the secret of the apricot thanks to an ancient gift from distant lands.

It was autumn, and the forests beneath Říp Mountain were beginning to turn gold. Budimír, the first ice cream maker, went into the woods in search of a new flavour. Along the way he noticed a hazel bush laden with nuts. He picked a few, cracked them open and tasted them. “A little nut,” he murmured, “and so much flavour.”

At home he spread the nuts on a hot pan. He roasted them slowly until a scent rose from their shells that filled the whole cottage. Budimír knew he had found something worth trying. He ground the nuts into a fine flour and added milk, cream and bee honey. He poured it all into a copper cauldron and set it over a gentle fire. He stirred long and slowly. “The nut must give the ice cream everything it has,” he told himself.

When the mixture was ready, Budimír let it cool and then carried it deep into the cave beneath Říp Mountain. That was where he kept his store of ice, which he gathered every winter from the frozen river and laid deep underground, where it lasted until summer. He set the cauldron among the great blocks of ice and began to stir slowly. He stirred until it began to thicken. Then again. And again. Until the liquid mixture became a smooth, velvety ice cream. Budimír took the first spoonful and tasted it. He could taste the scent of roasted nuts, the gentleness of cream and the sweetness of milk. He smiled.

“Now this is no ordinary nut.” From that day on he called it the Hazel Tree.

Long ago, the villages beneath Říp Mountain told of a knight who appeared whenever some great event was drawing near. Nobody knew his true name. He wore a green cloak and a green plume on his helmet, and on his shield he bore the arms of no lord. Only a small emblem of a strange green nut. So people simply began to call him the Green Knight.

One summer he rode up to Budimír's cottage. He dismounted, took off his gloves and drew a small pouch from his saddlebag. “What have you got in there?” asked Budimír. The knight opened it. Inside were small green kernels such as Budimír had never seen before.

“I brought them from faraway lands,” the knight replied. “They say that whoever learns their taste never forgets it.”

Budimír crushed a few pistachios, added milk, cream and a little honey, and mixed it all together. Then he set the mixture in the cool. When he tasted it later, he looked at the knight in surprise. It was gentle and creamy, and it had the colour of the knight's cloak.

“This is not a flavour of our land,” said Budimír. The knight smiled. “No. But from this day on it belongs to it.”

By the next morning he was gone. All that remained was a green leaf and an empty pistachio pouch. Ever since, it has been said that when the slopes beneath Říp Mountain turn green in spring, somewhere far away along the old road the Green Knight may be riding once more.

In a small village beneath Říp Mountain, at the edge of the forest, stood a wooden cottage. A woman lived there of whom people spoke only in whispers. Nobody knew her true name. They called her the Black Widow. She wore dark clothes, and behind her cottage she grew strange bushes laden with berries black as night. Nobody knew where she had come from. Some claimed she understood herbs, others that she knew the secrets of forest fruit. One hot summer Budimír wandered to her cottage. The woman was just then harvesting the dark berries.

“What fruit is this?” he asked. She handed him a handful. “Taste it and you will know.” Budimír bit into a berry. First he felt a gentle sweetness, but right behind it came a sharp sourness. The Black Widow smiled. “You see? Not everything that is black must be wicked.” Budimír had an idea. He crushed the berries, added a little water and honey, and whisked it all into a smooth mass. He poured the mixture into a vessel, sealed it and carried it to the cool cave beneath Říp Mountain.

The next day he found a dark, cold and refreshing delicacy. Gentle and bold at the same time. “This is not for the faint of heart,” he laughed.

People began to come back for it and asked who had thought up such a strange flavour. Budimír always answered: “A mysterious woman from a garden behind the forest.” And because nobody knew her true name, she remained the Black Widow for ever. Her cottage vanished long ago and the garden grew wild. But blackcurrant, it is said, still grows beneath Říp Mountain to this day. And with it the memory of the woman who showed Budimír that even in the darkest flavour something beautiful may be hidden.

It was autumn, and the forests beneath Říp Mountain were beginning to turn gold. Budimír, who had for some time been turning milk, cream and fruit into unheard-of treats, set out this time to find a flavour that nobody before him had ever tucked into ice cream. He knew the forest held all sorts of treasures. He just did not suspect that the most fragrant of them would be found beneath an ordinary hazel tree.

One day his path led him to a small white cottage. A farmwife stood there, and beside her her greatest treasure: a beautiful white cow named Bělka, “Whitey”. “She gives the best milk in the whole region,” the farmwife boasted. Budimír tasted the milk. It was fresh, gentle and naturally sweet. “And what do you make of it?” he asked. “Cream,” the farmwife answered. “But the best of it I keep for myself.” Budimír smiled. “And what if we tried making something from it that nobody here has ever tasted?”

The farmwife brought fresh milk and thick cream that she had skimmed that morning from Bělka's milk. Budimír poured it all into his cauldron, added a little honey and began to stir slowly. No cocoa. No spices. Only milk, cream, honey and Budimír's hands. He let the mixture cool in the deep cave, then began to whisk it slowly and set it back among the blocks of ice. When it was done, he took the first spoonful. “Do you know what is so strange about it? That we really added nothing strange at all.” The farmwife smiled. “Because the best was already in it.”

It is said that in ancient times, when people beneath Říp Mountain still walked dusty roads and evenings were lit only by the fire in the cottages, a White Lady would appear in the countryside. She always showed herself towards evening, dressed in a long white gown, and vanished before dawn broke over the land. People whispered among themselves that she came from the old rocks and knew secrets an ordinary person should not learn.

One sultry summer Budimír saw her too. She sat in the shade of an old tree with a small wooden bowl before her. Budimír drew near and caught a strange scent: gentle, sweet and unfamiliar.

“What have you got there?” he asked. The White Lady looked at him and said: “It is a flavour that recalls summer, even when winter comes.”

Budimír tasted it. It was white as her gown, gentle as cream, and it smelled of vanilla. “And what is it called?” he asked. The White Lady only smiled. “That you must think up yourself.” Before he could say anything, a wind rose. The White Lady vanished among the trees, and moments later there was not a trace of her.

Budimír returned home and thought for a long time about what to call such a flavour. At last he said: “Why, of course… the White Lady.”

And ever since, it is said in the region that whoever tastes this gentle vanilla ice cream may, for a moment, catch the scent of the summer the White Lady once brought beneath Říp Mountain.

In the year of our Lord 1092, something happened beneath Říp Mountain that the old folk remembered for a long time. One night a fog so thick rose over the land that you could not see the neighbouring cottage. Only the moon above Říp Mountain shone a strange orange. People whispered that it foretold misfortune. Budimír, however, set out for the nearby market, where, according to reports, a merchant from the southern lands was staying. On his cart he was said to carry fruit that smelled like a garden in bloom.

When Budimír arrived, he found the merchant sitting beside a broken crate. Round orange fruits were rolling about on the ground. “Oranges,” the merchant sighed. “They travelled over seas and mountains, but some did not survive the journey.” Budimír cut one open and tasted it. The juice ran down his fingers. “This is no moon,” he laughed, “this is a sun that has learned to hide in the dark.” He pressed the ripe fruit, mixed the juice with a little honey and water, and began to whisk it with a wooden whisk. Then he carried the mixture to the cool cave beneath Říp Mountain. By morning there was a brilliant orange, icy fresh sorbet, in which sweetness met a pleasant sharpness. The merchant tasted it and looked around in surprise. The fog had meanwhile vanished, and the sun was rising over the land.

From that day on it was told that the orange moon had been no sign of misfortune. It had merely been the herald of a fruit that Budimír turned into a cooling treasure.

In the year of our Lord 1084, the autumn honey harvest market was held beneath Říp Mountain. Beekeepers brought clay pots full of honey, and among them was an old beekeeper who claimed that honey has a second face, one that can be known only through fire. People laughed at him. They had known honey since childhood. But Budimír Línař pricked up his ears.

The beekeeper set a copper cauldron over the hearth and poured in thick honey. He heated it until it began to darken and its scent recalled freshly baked bread and roasted nuts. He added a little sea salt. “Now it is no longer the honey you know,” said the beekeeper. Budimír tasted a small drop. The sweetness was deeper, almost smoky, and a faint saltiness lingered on the tongue. “What have you done to it?” he asked. The beekeeper answered: “I let it tell its story.”

Budimír carried some of the dark honey home to his cottage. He stirred it into milk and cream and left the mixture to chill. When he tasted it, he knew a flavour he had never known: gentle, salty and creamy, with a hint of dark honey that recalled the warmth of the hearth on long autumn evenings.

The next day the beekeeper set off on his way, and nobody in the region ever saw him again. All that remained of him was the scent of honey that had passed through fire. And from then on Budimír would say: “Not every sweetness comes from flowers. Some is born only when it has passed through fire.”

In ancient times, when stories were still told beneath Říp Mountain by a crackling fire and every unfamiliar thing stirred curiosity, a strange pilgrim arrived in the land. Nobody knew where he came from or where he was bound. But people noticed that a peculiar, sweet scent sometimes drifted from his bag.

One evening the pilgrim stopped at Budimír's cottage. “Good man,” he said, “I have heard that you can make from plain milk and cream such delicacies as the world has never seen. I have brought you something that does not grow beneath Říp Mountain.” He opened his bag and drew out several long yellow fruits. Budimír examined them with curiosity. “What are they?” he asked. “Bananas,” replied the pilgrim. “They grow in distant warm lands where the sun shines most of the year. They are sweet and gentle, and their scent recalls a summer that visits you for only a few months.” Budimír peeled a banana, tasted a piece and fell to thinking. Its sweetness was neither sharp nor excessive. It was soft, full and pleasant. He prepared fresh milk, thick cream and ripe bananas. He combined it all with care and stirred slowly until the separate flavours merged into a smooth cream. Then he set the mixture in the cool and let it rest, as honest craft demands. When he took the first spoonful the next day, his eyes lit up. The ice cream was gentle and creamy, and it smelled of ripe bananas. “This is the taste of a sun that has found its way all the way to us beneath Říp Mountain,” he exclaimed.