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It’s not often that you see a pub sign in a museum and assume, incorrectly, that it was designed last Thursday for a high-end florist with delusions of grandeur. Actually, seeing pub signs in museums outside of the UK isn’t something that I really see much of at all, especially when the sign is over 300 years old. But this one, the Golden Rose Inn sign, looks I think unnervingly modern (well, with a retro tinge of course) for something that dates from 1719. I might have even believed someone who told me it was a logo proposal for a craft beer bar in Shoreditch, although typing that has made me sad about the disappearance of Goose Island from the area. But I won’t digress.

The pub sign is made from hammered iron, copper and bronze, and it once swung proudly over a pub on what’s now Jesenského Street in Bratislava, but which for a while was called Golden Rose street after the venue. The pub, of course, is long gone, but the sign has survived, improbably, through war, empire, revolution, regime change and, perhaps most dangerously, the temptation of being melted down during a metal shortage. That it’s still here at all feels a minor miracle, or at least the result of one very determined preservationist who didn’t want it ending up as part of a drainpipe.

Pub signs themselves are a particularly enduring form of public communication, visual anchors in towns where literacy was never guaranteed but drinking always was. From Roman taverns with their bunches of grapes to medieval English inns hung with animals, crowns and celestial saints, these signs were never just decorative. They were wayfinders, storytellers and social cues, an invitation to step inside and forget the weather, taxes or whatever royal war was being waged that week.

There’s something comforting in the idea that local residents in Bratislava would have walked under this sign and known exactly what it meant, namely warmth, rest, a drink, and probably the same gossip repeated for the fifth time that day (not that I associate pubs with gossip of course). And if nothing else, it proves that even in 1719, someone knew that branding mattered, as well as the need for a drink. I liked this sign because of what it represented, all really rather lovely.

This elegant wooden disc is a Schützenscheibe, which as my two loyal blog readers will now know, is a form of painted target used in traditional shooting competitions, a sort of festive invitation to take aim at a bit of imperial portraiture. In this case, the honour falls to Maria Ludovika (1787-1816) of Austria-Este, Queen of Hungary and Holy Roman Empress, depicted here in all her finery and dated May 1808. Nothing says “we love our monarch” like painting her onto a large wooden circle and then taking potshots at her from 30 paces.

Maria Ludovika, for those not up to date on their early 19th-century Habsburg power players (and I’ve have had to faff about on Google as it’s not my strong point either), was the third wife of Emperor Francis II (later Francis I of Austria — same man, different empire). She was known for her political influence, strong anti-Napoleonic stance and, evidently, her ability to be immortalised on birchwood under a decorative ribbon and a hopeful branch of olive. The inscription rather helpfully proclaims her “the pride of Hungary” and “our greatest joy” which is precisely the kind of thing you say about someone you’re about to fire at respectfully with a musket.

As some sort of claim to fame, she was the hostess of the Congress of Vienna in 1815, following Napoleon’s final defeat. Her health, however, had been deteriorating from 1809 due to tuberculosis. She died in Verona, Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia on 7 April 1816 at the age of just 28. She is buried in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna and Maria Ludovika and Emperor Francis I had no children, but as he was married four times, he had successors ready and waiting.

I rather liked the theatrical composition of it all and there are names of the good citizens responsible for commissioning at the bottom. This particular disc has survived remarkably well, with only a few signs of wear, suggesting either excellent preservation or slightly hesitant shooters. Another interesting little snapshot of what I would call the Germanic traditions of the early nineteenth century.

This rather bold bit of decorative violence is a Schützenscheibe, a painted shooting target, and this blog might be featuring a fair few of these. This one features Ferdinand V (1793-1875), King of Hungary, looking thoroughly regal while charging into battle atop a very well-behaved horse. The date is 1830, when he was crowned in Bratislava (or Pressburg, depending on how much imperial nostalgia you’re feeling), and this object captures the solemn majesty of that moment, shortly before someone presumably tried to shoot it in the face. I was quite engaging with these targets, although that will likely become obvious to my two loyal blog readers when they see how many more there are.

The Schützenscheibe tradition was a peculiar mix of patriotic enthusiasm and marksmanship, whereby people celebrated important figures or events by painting them onto wooden discs and then proceeding to fire projectiles at them. It’s not quite a state portrait, more of a royal rendering with optional bullet holes, but as ever, I rather liked it. Ferdinand V is doing his best “imperial grandeur” pose here and he’s wearing the Hungarian Crown of St. Stephen, because nothing says “shoot me here” like a giant jewel-encrusted hat. The whole thing is painted with surprising finesse, especially considering its fate involved standing at the end of a rifle range.

There aren’t many holes in this one, so perhaps it was either just not used or the shooters were a bit inept. Ferdinand V, not content with being the King of Hungary, also became the Emperor of Austria in 1835. He abdicated from the Austrian throne in 1848, but he remained the King of Hungary as there was no way of abdicating from that. As a leader he was well-meaning and hopeless (I simplify things there quite a lot) but he’s an interesting character.

This is a rather decadent old map of Bratislava, or Pressburg, or Pozsony, depending on how many empires you’ve been through and how particular you are about historical cartography. It shows the city sometime in the middle of the 18th century, back when people still called Austria-Hungary a good idea and maps were beautifully hand-drawn works of art rather than something you angrily pinch-zoom on while lost in a car park. It is a thing of beauty and the level of detail in the whole arrangement is high.

What we’ve got here is a proper Grundriss, a ground plan, the sort of thing a Habsburg official would have unfurled dramatically in a candlelit war room while saying things like “we must reinforce the bastion” and “who authorised this delightful fountain?” This large fortified lump on the left is Bratislava Castle, looking satisfyingly blocky and formidable, perched up on its hill like it’s judging the rest of the city for not being quite as symmetrical. But, the history of Bratislava has been for a long time the fortified heart and then the neighbouring castle arrangement.

I’m not suggesting that it’s a map to navigate by today, but the main street layout of the central fortified area hasn’t really changed that much. It’s a beautiful snapshot in time of a medieval walled city, albeit with many later redevelopments, not long before all the city walls were pulled down on the orders of Empress Maria Theresa in 1775. Although it was likely a sensible idea in terms of giving more space to the city and the threat of the Ottomans had somewhat diminished, it’s always just a little sad I think for a city to have lost its walls.

This gloriously odd little machine is a Velorex from 1968, the Czechoslovakian solution to the question no one had asked “What if a car was made out of curtains?” Built from the late 1940s into the 1970s, it’s the vehicular equivalent of a determined shed because who needs crumple zones when you can just unzip your way out? This particular model is a Velorex Oskar 16/350, although the differences between versions were usually marginal and often depended on which bit of canvas hadn’t fallen off yet. The top speed was technically 85 kph with its motorcycle engine, but I suspect only achievable with a tailwind, a steep downhill slope and a complete disregard for mortality.

What I rather liked, though, is how much design effort went into something that has the aerodynamics of a bread bin. The folded roof looks like it was borrowed from a military tent, and the door opens with all the structural confidence of a marquee flap. But I imagine that it works. It’s functional, minimal, and rather decadent in its refusal to pretend it’s anything other than a very determined mobility aid. But yet, a lot of people wanted these and demand outstripped supply for years.

The Velorex was originally aimed at people with disabilities and what’s rather lovely is that this one has survived at all. Many were driven into the ground or abandoned when actual metal-bodied cars became affordable. But someone clearly saw enough charm in this canvas cocoon to wheel it into a museum rather than roll it quietly into a ditch. And rightly so. It’s an honest little thing, unpretentious, slightly ridiculous and all the better for it. It’s not a major exhibit here as it’s sat quietly off to the side, with the kind of modesty that suggests it knows it is playing second fiddle to the museum’s fine collection of Skodas.

The museum seems rather proud to have these four pieces of stained glass which were located in St. Martin’s Cathedral in the city. The stained glass dates from 1667 and it was donated by Johann Glitzer, a master hatter and they were originally located in the second window of the northern wall of the shrine in the Cathedral. However, in the first half of the eighteenth century they were removed as George Rafael Donner was leading a reconstruction of the Chapel of St. John the Almoner in a Baroque style. That meant out went Glitzer’s gift.

This Baroque chapel was in itself fortunate to survive as tastes changed and the whole cathedral was made to look Gothic in the nineteenth century, but they kept the chapel’s decorative features. It’s not a major exhibit in the museum, but the quality of the stained glass is high and I do like that a decision was made to keep it rather than just chuck it in some skip (or whatever the early eighteenth century equivalent was).

This charming red contraption is a Škoda Octavia which has Bluetooth and crumple zones, and it’s not to be confused with the modern Škoda Octavia, which has Bluetooth and crumple zones, this version has neither, but it does have style, presence and just enough horsepower to make it to the end of your street if the wind is kind. Manufactured from 1959 until 1971, this was Škoda’s eighth post-war model, hence the name ‘Octavia’ which they presumably thought sounded rather decadent. And in fairness, for something made in a command economy, it’s rather swish.

Power came from a 1.1 or 1.2 litre engine that produced around 40 horsepower, although that’s ‘horsepower’ in the same loose way that instant coffee is ‘coffee.’ It would get up to about 110 km/h if you were being brave, had a clear road, and said your goodbyes before setting off. The rear-wheel drive setup meant that in the right conditions, by which I primarily mean snow, you could probably get a bit of sideways action, or at least an elegant pirouette into a ditch.

This particular example is in glorious postbox red, nestled confidently between a few other Czechoslovakian classics in the museum. I rather liked it. It has that Cold War chic that’s now swung firmly into the territory of retro-cool. The kind of car you’d drive ironically until you realised you’d accidentally grown fond of it. It doesn’t whisper luxury, it mutters durability and it doesn’t demand attention, it earns it. And unlike most modern cars, it could probably survive a mild nuclear event with only cosmetic damage…..