Late February in Szeged always feels like a tug‑of‑war between winter and spring. The sun tries its best, the wind disagrees, and somewhere in the middle of it all… a witch appears. The winter witch (kiszebáb).
Not the broom‑flying, spell‑casting kind — our winter witch is more playful than that. She slips into town a few days before the big “chase away winter” celebration, popping up in unexpected corners like she’s daring you to find her. And when you do, you’re invited to pin a message to her clothes. A wish, a joke, a secret, a complaint about the cold — anything goes.
I found the winter witch, standing quietly as if she’d been waiting for me.
She isn’t the kind of witch who hides in forests or stirs cauldrons under the moon. Szeged’s winter witch is far more theatrical than that — a little dramatic, a little cheeky, and absolutely delighted by the attention she gets every February. She arrives just when winter feels endless, when the cold has overstayed its welcome and everyone is desperate for a sign that spring is on its way. And then suddenly… there she is.
She slips into the city like a rumour at first — and before long the whole town is buzzing. She’s wrapped in layers of mismatched fabrics, her face carved from old stories. She never speaks, but she doesn’t need to. Her presence alone feels like a dare: Come find me. Come tell me what you want winter to take with it.
That’s the heart of her magic. She’s not here to curse or frighten; she’s here to collect. Wishes, jokes, frustrations, tiny secrets, hopes for warmer days — all pinned to her clothes like a patchwork of the city’s mood. Every scrap of paper becomes part of her outfit, and by the time the celebration arrives, she’s wearing the emotional weather of Szeged itself.
There’s something wonderfully mischievous about her. She stands perfectly still, letting people approach her one by one, as if she’s pretending not to notice the giggles, the shy glances, the bold declarations. She’s a winter spirit with a sense of humour — a witch who knows she’s being hunted and enjoys every second of it.
A little folklore, a little theatre, a little community mischief wrapped in scarves and pinned notes.
Finding the winter witch is only half the fun. The real magic begins when you step close enough to see what she’s wearing — not just scarves and scraps of fabric, but dozens of handwritten notes fluttering in the wind. Wishes for spring. Complaints about the cold. Little jokes. Secret hopes. Burdens people wish to leave behind. Tiny confessions. Every slip of paper becomes part of her patchwork dress, and by the end, she looks like she’s wearing the whole city’s mood.
There’s something wonderfully intimate about it. You approach her quietly, almost like you’re sharing a secret with someone who won’t repeat it. She stands perfectly still, letting you decide what you want winter to carry away. And because she never speaks, the moment feels strangely safe — like she’s a keeper of small truths.
I walked up with that spark of mischief already buzzing in my chest, knowing exactly what I wanted to do. I pinned my note — voetjek — a word that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone else in Szeged. And that was the joy of it. A tiny piece of home, tucked into a Hungarian tradition, like a private joke between the witch and me.
The celebration begins on a Saturday in February at 9 a.m. with the opening of the handicraft market, followed by a festive fanfare performed by brass students from the University of Szeged. Throughout the day, children can join interactive games, workshops, and performances scattered around the square.
The highlight arrives around 5:30 p.m., when the musical winter farewell parade sets off from Dugonics Square and winds its way toward Szent István Square. The procession features traditional Busó performers, a folk dance group, and live musicians who lead the crowd through the city.
The parade ends at around 6 p.m. with the ceremonial burning of the winter witch together with the notes we pinned to her clothes. With live music playing, participants dance in a circle to symbolically chase away winter and welcome the lighter season ahead. Goodbye, winter witch. Goodbye winter. It’s time for warmer days. It’s time for new beginnings.
By the time the last note fades and the winter witch is reduced to ashes, Szeged feels lighter — as if the whole city has shared a secret wink. Winter has been properly chased, teased, and laughed out of town, and spring suddenly feels a little braver about showing up.
There’s this delicious sense that you’ve slipped your own little message into the ritual, joined the mischief, played along with the city’s seasonal theatre. And the best part? The witch is in on it. She knows exactly what she’s doing — stirring up just enough chaos to make everyone feel alive again.
It’s a small tradition with lots of superstition woven through it, but it leaves me with that warm, conspiratorial feeling that I’m part of something local and a little bit magical. A shared joke between me, the city, and a witch who only appears when winter needs a gentle shove out the door.
If this winter witch made you smile, you’ll love exploring more Hungarian superstitions and the quirky rituals.
