THE WINNER

Fine old time

George turns his back on the biting March wind and leans on his stick. He is probably wondering if our internet bargain of four nights in Hotel Fortuna City, in a suburb of Prague, was the right choice for a pair of unsteady pensioners.

This is our first day. The hotel is comfortable and conveniently close to the tram stop. Helpful reception staff have provided us with three-day passes and a route map. Our plan is to sightsee through tram windows, riding the full length of the whole network.

The number 11 murmurs to a halt, its boarding step is at platform-height. Now we notice something. There is no platform. George is reaching gamely for the hand rail when two teenagers jump off and heave him up by his buttocks. A young woman immediately vacates a seat for him. Our confidence rises.

In the city centre, we change to a number 22 – this scenic route deserves more than a number. Ignoring twinges of arthritis, my head is on a swivel. The river Vltava, too old to be impressed by a mere thousand years or so of palaces and cathedrals, sweeps under Charles Bridge while I take in the piped meringue gables of the New Town Hall (1377) and the three-horse chariot plunging across the roof of the National Theatre (1868).

Snowflakes begin to settle on the turrets and cathedral spires of Prague Castle, the city's centuries-old guardian. The windows steam up so we make portholes. Eventually there is nothing left to see except the bleak turning circle that is Bílá Hora terminus. The driver asks, through mime, whether we are going back and allows us to wait on board while he takes his break.

We are rattling homeward on the number 11 when George spots a bar and hits the bell like a game show contestant.

As we enter, a cloud of cigarette smoke rushes out. We discover our favourite black lager (cerny, pronounced chair-knee) on one of the pumps. The room is packed with men watching football. We work out which team they are supporting and they adopt us into their camaraderie of ecstasy and anguish as goals are scored and missed.

The match ends (our side lost) and we are elderly tourists again, thinking about our tea. The barman brings a menu written in Czech and jabs his finger enthusiastically at one particular item. It takes two-thirds of our entire vocabulary to order it: dva prosím, two please. Our other word is pivo, beer.

A steaming bowl of peppery goulash arrives with side dishes of pickled cabbage and thick slices of dumpling. The silky black beer is perfect with it, and the tram stop has a platform, so we settle back for a few more.

Later, in the snugness of bed, we hear the whine of the number 11. George switches on his light and reaches for the route map.

Kay lives in Leyland, Lancashire

The judge: Mat Osman, editor of LeCool.com, said: "This has everything I want from a travel piece: evocative, useful and charming, while still coming at a familiar city from an unexpected angle."

The prize: A trip to Hong Kong for two people courtesy of Discover Hong Kong (discoverhongKong.com), including flights from Heathrow and five nights in a central hotel.

RUNNERS-UP

The other Bruges

"You can't sleep here."

I awoke to the ghostly apparition of a Belgian car-park attendant peering down at me with an expression of outrage clouding his countenance. "There's no sleeping in the car here."

"Uh, sorry," I muttered in reply, and wondered where my trousers had gone since I was wearing nothing but a pair of H&M briefs, size small.

"Also, you need to take your clothes off the roof."

I grinned sheepishly at the attendant and opened the door to retrieve my trousers and shirt.

Driving from London to Bruges is a short trip. We had arrived in the almost perfectly picturesque Belgian city around noon after leaving London at dawn. This allowed a long afternoon wandering through the medieval streets, remarking to one another on the differences between our idyllic surroundings (chocolate-box architecture interspersed with cobblestone bridges, ringed by the calming waters of a great canal) and the streets of Hackney that we had left.

A sense of enchantment pervades the whole city: it exudes charm, character and a sense of history. But when night fell, we found it's also a place of madmen and dawn parties. And so it was that after rescuing a lone Canadian from the fists of an inebriated, furious Irishman, we stumbled on a music festival that had taken over the centre of town.

We danced to what seemed to be Latino-swing-jazz-drum-and-bass-fusion then, following some girls, wandered into a tiny bar full of young and fashionably dressed natives. This was not the Bruges of tourist fairytale. Here, the beer was €1.50; the music was loud, brash and played by a topless man on an Apple Mac, who would run into the packed crowd to dance at intervals. People spoke above the noise, in perfect English and at length, to us three out-of-towners about travel, the world economy, life choices, music … whatever. The party went on all night.

We left at 5am, with an idea that there is a duality to the city that the picture-perfect image hides. We had also missed the curfew for our hostel, and it was raining. Twenty-four hours after leaving east London, soaked through with clothes drying on the roof, we fell asleep in the car.

Ross Gibson, London

Kraków: love in a cold climate

Jo and I are colleagues at a Liverpool backpackers hostel and had been in a "sort of" on/off relationship conceived on a mutual distaste for life as arts graduates in a recession, and a taste for £3 Chilean red wine.

I've had relationships suited to sunnier climes, but Jo and I were in an eastern European kind-of thing. Cheap flights to Kraków in the Ryanair lottery seemed fitting. A foot of brown snow lined the streets as we arrived. A sea of gloriously indifferent expressions offered directions punctuated by angular arm thrusts.

"I think I'm starting to understand the odd word," I said.

"You are not."

This trip had coincided with one of our off periods but, predictably, all became blurry as we hit the bars – and Jo and I were holding hands as we taxied home.

We visited the grand old cathedrals, castles and the mounds, but the real allure of Krakow was walking the streets and getting that sense of place: morning bagels from the elderly bread vendors; the surprisingly refreshing and unashamed lack of customer service.

Eight months later and Jo and I are still sort-of on/off, so I suppose we should start flicking through Eastern Europe travel brochures. I've heard Tallinn is beautiful this time of year.

Mark Booth, Liverpool

Manhattan revisited

After walking around the bra department wondering how to carry out the act, we went down a floor on the old wooden escalator and in a quiet corner poured ashes into our hands. We returned upstairs and left a discrete trail on the carpet. Job done!

This was not a strange perversion but revisiting one of my late wife Nessa's New York shopping trips. The US is shopping mecca for big women; Nessa was statuesque and loved shopping. A supply of double D-cups at Macy's made it a favourite and Nessa, myself and our stateside friend Sherry once paraded around the East Village wearing the bras over our T-shirts.

So when I emailed Sherry about bringing Nessa's ashes to New York, she said: "It's gotta be Macy's brassiere department." Which made us laugh, and would have made Nessa laugh, too.

Nessa is also in Central Park, and in the garden of her favourite restaurant, the River Cafe under Brooklyn Bridge, and in Sherry's back yard upstate. David Oldershaw, Leicester