Early autumn sunrise in Lviv, Western Ukraine

Tuesday, 9th September 2008
A fun start to the day was had as our train rolled in to Lviv station bang on time at 6.32am, but our transfer driver couldn’t be bothered to drag his scraggy carcase out of bed to deliver us to the Hotel Dnister. Forty minutes of waiting around in the chill morning air in just shorts and t-shirts was enough to prompt us to the decision of procuring a taxi and despatching ourselves to our lodgings under our own steam.

With a less than satisfactory start to the morning already under our belt, not being able to check in to the Dnister until 12 noon simply compounded the problem, and these events conspired with our tiredness to imbue the day with a disagreeable cast that proved irksome to shake. Wandering around in the cold morning light like homeless urchins was doing little to improve our humour, so we retreated once again to the hotel to sustain ourselves with a 60 hryvnia breakfast. We managed to spin this out for an hour, and then attacked the city again with renewed vigour and warmer sunshine.

Beautiful as Lviv is (some call it the Florence of the east) it seemed hard to put any kind of itinerary together that would suit us; it may just have been the awkward mood exhaustion had put us in, of course. We did take the 409 steps up to the top of the town hall tower, which afforded us spectacular views over the domes and spires of the city, and then spent the morning wandering the ancient streets, taking in the essence of this quintessentially medieval old town which feels less Soviet than any other we had visited in the Russian Federation, barring, of course, St Petersburg itself.
A high point was our stop off at ‘Fresh Cava’, a unique little ‘haunted’ coffee house, where we sampled a ‘fresh white chocolate’ - “only in Lviv” - which was a heavenly cup of melted white chocolate with a liberal scattering of chopped almonds; delicious! A lunch of chicken with cheese was taken at Hors, further into the city centre, which was washed down with a perfectly acceptable Ukrainian red – Inkerman medium-dry.
A number two tram did its level best to return us to base (the journey itself providing spiritual sustenance as we were serenaded by a small choir of Ukrainian elders imparting a beautifully sung hymnal in their mother tongue) but, as is our wont, we decided to take a short cut from the tram stop back to the hotel, arriving in reception some fifty minutes later, feet like charred stumps. A message was waiting for us from our humbly apologetic Ukraine administrator, Dialog: they were terribly sorry our driver had not collected us that morning – there had been a mix-up over timings. Just as we thought – he hadn’t got up in time. By way of recompense, they promised they would collect us from the Dnister on Wednesday “at 7pm sharp”. Oh dear, if they didn’t show again it would leave us very little time to organise our own taxi to get us to the train station in time for our 7.45 departure. All Russian Federation trains, despite being slow, are frighteningly prompt; something we Brits, of course, are just not used to. I suppose we could give them until five past, but their previous record (apparently, according to Regent, they had done exactly the same thing to a couple the day before, at the same station) didn’t instil us with confidence. We’d have to wait and see.
An hour on the bed enlivened us sufficiently to enjoy gin and tonics on the 9th floor Panorama Bar, watching the golden glow of the sunset over the city’s elegant architecture, before heading for the restaurant and some delicious borsch, salad and more red wine. Aah, “time for bed,” said Zebedee.

Wednesday, 10th September 2008
After breakfasting on the balcony in the warm autumn sunshine, we headed into the city to explore the ‘High Castle Hill’ which, after much toing and froing, we found ourselves at by midday. It was hardly a castle, but did provide a superb viewing-point for photos. There were padlocks fastened to the railing around the summit, reminiscent of those in Vilnius, deposited by newlyweds in the superstitious hope that this would bring luck in the years to come. Opportunistic locals gathered also, in the hope of renting you a pair of binoculars or selling you a souvenir of Lviv. I purchased a set of twelve pen and ink sketches of the city for the princely sum of 25 hryvnia (£2.97) which were actually quite charming.

A lunch of Ukrainian salads at the restaurant at the base of Castle Hill sustained us for a journey to Lychakivsky Cemetery in the afternoon. The number 7 tram that should have taken us there in just five stops from the city centre was not running, so we eventually joined forces with fellow Brits Nathan and Ruth, whom we met at the tram stop. Clubbing together for the 20 hryvnia taxi journey proved a satisfying way to tick this one off our list. The cemetery itself was a truly amazing experience, the vast expanse of it proving a touch daunting.
A gothic hour was brought to a close with a short walk and a number 2 tram ride back to striking distance of the Dnister, where a rest, a few drinks in the Panorama bar and a dinner of solyanka soup and veal burgers, washed down with a Ukrainian red, brought a superb day to a close.

Thursday, 11th September 2008

Awoke after a fairly restless night, and breakfasted on the balcony in the autumn sunshine. After packing ready for check-out, we headed into the city for the final time, managing at last to track down the book shops where I purchased a couple of volumes on Lviv.
After a leisurely morning enjoying beers at our local by the town hall square, we wandered around photographing the amazing Lviv architecture before settling to a bitter orange hot chocolate at ‘Fresh Cava’; sublime!
More photography of the city’s amazing churches  was a prelude to a delicious lunch of borsch soup and ‘Budapest’ salad at one of Lviv’s more superior eateries, washed down with a more than palatable bottle of Moldavian merlot, which whiled away a couple of our last few hours. As we dined, Ukranian storm clouds rolled in and we found ourselves in the middle of an autumn downpour, which all seemed to add to the atmosphere.
After the late lunch, we wandered around in the rain, visiting and photographing the Dominican church and monastery, before walking back to the Hotel Dnister ready for our transfer. The driver, armed with a bottle of Odessa ‘Champagne’ by way of apology, did turn up, and we found ourselves at Lviv station in time for a beer, and the chance to purchase some light refreshments for the train journey ahead. Odessa here we come!

Deserted bumper cars at Pripyat fairground, Chernobyl

I’m not really sure what I expected of my trip to Chernobyl. I’d read plenty about the subject for many months before my eventual arrival in the Ukrainian capitol Kiev, weighed up time and again the moral and safety issues and ultimately decided to take the plunge. The world’s worst nuclear disaster was, ironically, the result of a completely unnecessary safety test. It was the night of 25th April, 1986, and reactor number 4 at the electricity-producing Chernobyl power plant in northern Ukraine was scheduled to be shut down for routine maintenance. The workers made the fatal decision to see if, in the event of a shut down, enough electricity would remain in the grid to power the cooling system for the reactor core; they thus turned off the emergency cooling system.

The carnage that ensued was the result of a culmination of factors, including a design flaw in the type of RBMK reactor at Chernobyl, operational errors and safety procedures which were at best not adhered to and at worst totally ignored. What resulted was a power surge, which in turn led to a massive escape of steam triggering a full-blown nuclear explosion. At 1:26 on the morning of 26th April, 1986, the reactor’s 500-tonne top was breached by a huge fireball discharging nine tonnes of radioactive material into the atmosphere, more than ninety times the amount released in the Hiroshima bomb. The deadly radiation cloud, rich in Cesium-137 and strontium-90, was blown north and west over the next few days, falling patchily over Kiev, but mainly Belarus. In typical Soviet style, the problem was not reported and May Day celebrations continued on the streets of the Ukrainian capital and, terrifyingly, in the impossibly dangerous Chernobyl area, in particular the Soviet model town of Pripyat, within spitting distance of the stricken reactor. It was only when the poisonous radiation clouds were detected as far north as Scandinavia that Swedish scientists alerted the world and the USSR had to come clean.

Monument to the 29 brave firemen who gave their lives putting out the blaze at Chernobyl's reactor number 4

For too many, by this time it was too late; two people had been killed in the accident itself, but 29 brave firemen were sent in to extinguish the blaze and had neither knowledge of or protection from what they were dealing with. Each had perished horribly and agonisingly within six weeks. Some 135,000 souls were evacuated ‘temporarily’ from Pripyat without any belongings; they have never been able to return.

The long term effects of the disaster are still being evaluated. The most obvious impact has been a massive increase in cases of thyroid cancer in young children, mainly due to the fact that their cells are still dividing and, as they grow, their bodies absorb radioctive substances which mimic essential calcium. The number of extra cases is thought to be around 2,000. Of the 600,000 ‘liquidators’ sent in to clean up, more than 4,000 have died from exposure to radiation, and a further 170,000 have developed other fatal diseases.

The crumbling sarcophagus over Chernobyl's infamous reactor number 4

Furthermore, some 35,000 square kilometres of forest have been contaminated, leading to unacceptably high radiation levels in meat, milk, vegetables and fruit. The most dangerous foodstuffs are berries and mushrooms. Silt carried down the Dnipro river is highly radioactive, although it’s almost impossible to measure constant levels precisely. Birth defects, suicides and deaths from heart disease and alcoholism are exceptionally high, and by 2015 it is estimated the ‘accident’ will have cost the economy in excess of $200 billion.

The Chernobyl Interinform

It was as late as the year 2000 that the last working reactor at Chernobyl, number 3, was finally decommissioned and shut down. Number 4 is still a deep, dark, threatening ghost, ‘a monster which is always near’ according to one of the 8,000 scientific staff and monitors who travel to the site on a daily basis from the new town of Slavutych. In the months that followed the explosion, the destroyed reactor and over 180 tonnes of radioactive chunks were hastily covered over with a concrete and steel sarcophagus.

A deserted restaurant in the Chernobyl town of Pripyat

In the intervening years, some 350 ardent locals have moved back into the zone, preferring to take their chances with the silent, unseen spectre of radiation than face life in the crowded tenements they had relocated to. They grow and eat contaminated food in contaminated land, and drink contaminated water, yet they not only survive but thrive. It is almost as much of a phenomenon as the flourishing wildlife inhabiting this unlikely natural haven, almost completely reclaimed by mother nature.

Our visit to this abandoned land wasn’t the easiest trip in the world to organise, but we finally got things arranged through CAM travel company, but it was necessary to arrange an international transfer of the funds in US dollars. We nearly lost our booking, however, when CAM had to pay $48 in fees to their receiving bank and therefore didn’t reserve our places because “the money was not enough”. Given that we’d already sent across almost $700, this was more than a little irritating; all they had to do was ask. But, fortunately, we are clairvoyant and did send that last minute email the week before the tour, just to make sure everything was alright. A little knowledge is a wonderful thing.

The twisted wreckage of a fairground never used at Pripyat

The day arrived, and Sergei our driver arrived in his rather battered white volkswagen minibus nice and prompt at only twenty minutes late. This vehicle had certainly seen better days; maybe it wasn’t worth sending anything any newer on repeated trips into the exclusion zones. We were joined on our adventure by four amiable Polish lads and, without further ado, embarked upon our 50 kilometre journey north towards Chernobyl.

A few minutes prior to the first checkpoint, we collected Dennis, our guide for the day. A fairly laid-back chap in his late twenties, he was well used to the daily grind of life in the exclusion zones; he makes the trip around sixteen times a month, getting a thorough health check every June: “so far, so good,” he told us.

The towering, skeletal ferris wheel at Pripyat fairground

Before long we were having our passports examined by the officials at that first checkpoint. This was it then – we were inside the 30 kilometre exclusion zone; no going back now. First stop was the Chernobyl Interinform for a history lesson and a briefing. These are the official offices for research and management of the area and, although fairly utilitarian in look and feel, provide an invaluable base for scientists and officials alike. There is something quietly disconcerting about being asked to sign a disclaimer, promising not only that you’ll abide by all the rules (don’t step where you shouldn’t or do anything you’re told not to) but also that you’ll have no claim against the authorities should ‘your health deteriorate following your visit’ - not quite ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’ but along the same kind of lines.

Once on the road again, a surprise stop was at the Chernobyl village store. “We don’t stop for lunch until 2.30,” Dennis advised, “so buy your water and beer now.” And that set the tone for what turned out to be very much a lads’ day out; there was much beer drinking (even by the driver, rather worryingly) and a good measure of gallows humour, none of which detracted for one second from the seriousness either of what had happened here twenty-two years earlier, or what we were ourselves undertaking. A brief stop at the firemen’s memorial a little further down the road was a poignant reminder of the tragic consequences of this monumental accident; these men were cast forever in the ore that immortalised them; they were real heroes.

Powerful grafitti adorns the walls of the abandoned Pripyat Kindergarten

After a brief stop at the ‘ghost village’ - the only one razed completely to the ground in an experiment to stop the spread of radiation – it was onward to the infamous reactor itself, complete with decaying concrete sarcophagus desperately hanging on to its belly full of lethal radioactive left-overs until the new steel structure can be built alongside it and slid into place in 2009. This time it’s supposed to last a minimum of 100 years and a maximum of 300; this is a problem that will never go away.

Unstable it may be, but this sarcophagus is still worth its weight in gold to the surrounding regions. A pause on the way afforded us the opportunity to throw chunks of bread to the two metre catfish, thriving happily in the reactor’s cooling pond; the plethora of flora and fauna which abound throughout all three exclusions zones provide testimony to the fact that this apocalyptic nuclear disaster was not universally cataclysmic in its effect. It’s an ill wind…

Taken from the rooftop of a Pripyat apartment block, showing its proximity to reactor number 4

Leaving the destroyed reactor in our wake, we next fetched up at the deserted town of Pripyat. Built in 1970, this settlement was created purely for population by the Chernobyl work force and their families. How achingly tragic it feels to wander through the dilapidated apartments, restaurant, supermarket and kindergarten, with abandoned signs of life apparent throughout – a shoe here, a doll’s head there, but nothing prepares you for the devastated fair ground. How hard it is to imagine that these bumper cars, the swings, the huge ferris wheel, were never actually ridden upon; this fun fair was set to open just five days after the accident. Now it lies empty, rotting, desolate, the big wheel stretching skywards like a huge mechanical cobweb – a timely reminder that this was once a thriving community with a future. Regular readings from Dennis’s dosimeter ranged from 700 microroentgens to a whopping 2,000 in places; permitted background radiation for Kiev is no more than fifty.

Forlorn dolls sit abandoned in the Pripyat Kindergarten, never to be played with again

One more stop gave us a glimpse of the boat graveyard, littered with vessels far too radioactive to serve, languishing away in their rusty, skeletal state. These were boats that would never sail again.

An eerie doll's head languishes on the kindergarten window sill

After a delicious four course lunch at the Chernobyl Interinform, it was back on the road again, through both checkpoints and on to the decontamination chamber, a unit specifically set up to read our radiation levels before leaving the zone. Cleared by officials, all that remained was the ninety minute journey back to Kiev. What a way to spend a Sunday.

The Chernobyl decontamination chamber

Autumn sunrise over Kiev

Friday, 5th September, 2008
I suppose today could be considered the start of our planned trip across the Ukraine. I had wanted to take in Kiev, Chernobyl, Lviv, Odessa and the Crimea, all within a two week period. My original planning took flight on the same confident wings that had taken us from St Petersburg to Moscow the previous year. However, planning any kind of travel throughout the former USSR can be a daunting task, with language and a touch of former Soviet stubbornness being the main barriers. Help was enlisted from the saintly Andrea Godfrey of Regent Holidays, who sorted everything to the finest detail, even down to booking “es vay” rail travel, ensuring we had a twin berth to ourselves; so that’s where we’d gone wrong in Russia!
We left Fleetwood on a blustery autumn day and arrived at Manchester for our BA shuttle flight to Gatwick. We then spent a wonderful evening at the Arora Hotel in Crawley, which provided the perfect prelude to our adventure, with a superb meal in the restaurant followed by a particularly good Shiraz in the bar.

Kiev's vul Khreshchatyk, still throng in early autumn

Saturday, 6th September 2008
Without a horrendously early start, we took breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, and transferred back to Gatwick, where after a chaotic check-in, we boarded our Ukraine International flight to Kiev. The flight was excellent, and afforded me the opportunity to meet Allan Wright, who had spent some years working, living and travelling in the Ukraine, and was able to give me some useful tips.

Kiev's fantastic party culture invites all

After landing, we managed to get through the cumbersome immigration system, forced to join the queue other than that for Ukrainian nationals. None of the officials here were in anything approaching a hurry, but the bonus was that, by the time we had completed this irksome process, our bags were gleefully waltzing around the luggage conveyor unaccompanied, minxes that they were.

Vul Khreshchatyk, Kiev's bustling main high street

Transfer to the Ukraina Hotel took about twenty minutes, and it was delightfully placed in Independence Square right in the heart of things. Wow! With its closed off streets, 28 degree sunshine and superb atmosphere, Kiev had thrown a massive party to which we were most definitely invited.
Having overcome the panic of a global ATM crash when, for a miserably long hour we thought neither of our debit cards would work in the Ukraine, we basked in the fun and games upon which evening placed no curfew. All that remained was to grab a quick McDonald’s supper and head off to bed, content in the knowledge that we already loved Kiev (or, to grant the city its correct name, Kyiv) deeply, and tomorrow we would get that rare chance to visit the site of the world’s worst ever nuclear ‘accident’.

Sunday, 7th September 2008
The day of our much planned trip to Chernobyl had finally arrived, and Sergey our driver arrived in his rather battered white volkswagen minibus nice and prompt at only twenty minutes late. This vehicle had certainly seen better days; maybe it wasn’t worth sending anything any newer on repeated trips into the exclusion zones. We were joined on our adventure by four amiable Polish lads and, without further ado, embarked upon our 50 kilometre journey north towards Chernobyl.

Dennis, our superb guide around Chernobyl and Pripyat

A few minutes prior to the first checkpoint, we collected Dennis, our guide for the day. A fairly laid-back chap in his late twenties, he was well used to the daily grind of life in the exclusion zones; he makes the trip around sixteen times a month, getting a thorough health check every June: “so far, so good,” he told us.
Before long we were having our passports examined by the officials at that first checkpoint. This was it then – we were inside the 30 kilometre exclusion zone; no going back now. First stop was the Chernobyl Interinform for a history lesson and a briefing. These are the official offices for research and management of the area and, although fairly utilitarian in look and feel, provide an invaluable base for scientists and officials alike. There is something quietly disconcerting about being asked to sign a disclaimer, promising not only that you’ll abide by all the rules (don’t step where you shouldn’t or do anything you’re told not to) but also that you’ll have no claim against the authorities should ‘your health deteriorate following your visit’ - not quite ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’ but along the same kind of lines.

Abandoned apartments in Pripyat, Chernobyl

Once on the road again, a surprise stop was at the Chernobyl village store. “We don’t stop for lunch until 2.30,” Dennis advised, “so buy your water and beer now.” And that set the tone for what turned out to be very much a lads’ day out; there was much beer drinking (even by the driver, rather worryingly) and a good measure of gallows humour, none of which detracted for one second from the seriousness either of what had happened here twenty-two years earlier, or what we were ourselves undertaking. A brief stop at the firemen’s memorial a little further down the road was a poignant reminder of the tragic consequences of this monumental accident; these men were cast forever in the ore that immortalised them. In real life, each was dead within six weeks of extinguishing that devastating blaze at reactor number four: not one knew the serious risk he was taking in the performing of his duty; these men were real heroes.
After a brief stop at the ‘ghost village’ - the only one razed completely to the ground in an experiment to stop the spread of radiation – it was onward to the infamous reactor itself, complete with decaying concrete sarcophagus desperately hanging on to its belly full of lethal radioactive left-overs until the new steel structure can be built alongside it and slid into place in 2009. Unstable it may be, but this sarcophagus is still worth its weight in gold to the surrounding regions. A pause on the way afforded us the opportunity to throw chunks of bread to the two metre catfish, thriving happily in the reactor’s cooling pond; the plethora of flora and fauna which abound throughout all three exclusions zones provide testimony to the fact that this apocalyptic nuclear disaster was not universally cataclysmic in its effect. It’s an ill wind…

Pripyat's Culture Palace, now abandoned and in ruins

Leaving the destroyed reactor in our wake, we next fetched up at the deserted town of Pripyat. Built in 1970, this settlement was created purely for population by the Chernobyl work force and their families. How achingly tragic it feels to wander through the dilapidated apartments, restaurant, supermarket and kindergarten, with abandoned signs of life apparent throughout – a shoe here, a doll’s head there, but nothing prepares you for the devastated fair ground. How hard it is to imagine that these bumper cars, the swings, the huge ferris wheel, were never actually ridden upon; this fun fair was set to open just five days after the accident. Now it lies empty, rotting, desolate, the big wheel stretching skywards like a huge mechanical cobweb – a timely reminder that this was once a thriving community with a future. Regular readings from Dennis’s dosimeter ranged from 700 microroentgens to a whopping 2,000 in places; permitted background radiation for Kiev is no more than fifty.

Children's toys, left behind long ago in Pripyat's deserted kindergarten

One more stop gave us a glimpse of the boat graveyard, littered with vessels far too radioactive to serve, languishing away in their rusty, skeletal state. These were boats that would never sail again.
After a delicious four course lunch at the Chernobyl Interinform, it was back on the road again, through both checkpoints and on to the decontamination chamber, a unit specifically set up to read our radiation levels before leaving the zone. Cleared by officials, all that remained was the ninety minute journey back to Kiev. What a way to spend a Sunday.

Our evening was spent leisurely strolling around this wonderful city, soaking its electrifying after-dark atmosphere, taking a few photos and eventually settling into the Ukraina restaurant for an authentic – and delicious – chicken Kiev, washed down with a tolerably good cabernet sauvignon at just over a tenner. We’d struggled to find a bar that would sell a bottle of wine for anything under thirty quid, settling instead for a pint of ‘Newcy brown’ at the trendy underground Dockers ABC bar. After purchasing a second bottle which was intended for the third floor bar of our hotel, we were forced to retire to our room to enjoy it (”you can’t drink here – we close at eleven!” It was twenty-five past ten). Off to the room and bed, then – it would be our only proper day to explore Kiev tomorrow.

Monday, 8th September 2008
After a fairly late 9am start, we took a breakfast of cold meats and cheese in the Ukraina restaurant before embarking on our own style whistle-stop tour of the city. We were never going to be able to do anywhere near as much as we wanted, so we had to pick a sensible, achievable agenda. After performing a minor miracle with our luggage, meaning we only had to take the essentials (camera, lenses, money) around with us for the day, we secured our suitcases in the hotel’s luggage room.

The monument at the heart of Kiev's Independence Square

Two stops on the metro took us to our first priority – the Chernobyl Museum. Now it might sound a bit like overkill, but it was the perfect supplement to yesterday’s visit. There were no English guides available, which merited a partial refund on the admission price, but none was necessary; the haunting images and tableaux spoke for themselves.

Kiev's beautiful St Sofia's Cathedral

After a couple of white beers (’Chernigivskiy Bile’) in the ninety degree sunshine and a spot of lunch, we made our way to St Sofia’s Cathedral, originally built in the eleventh century with eighteenth century baroque additions of gold domes and a wedding cake bell tower. This stunning piece of architecture is truly breathtaking in its hues of gold and green, its ancient heritage providing a stark contrast to St Michael’s Monastery just up the road. You’d never believe it, but this beautiful blue and white structure, again with glistening domes of gold, is actually a modern replica of the medieval baroque style original of 1108, torn down by the Soviets in 1936 and painstakingly reconstructed to open in 2001.

Kiev's St Michael's Monastery, rebuilt in 2001

The funicular railway at the back of the monastery took us down to the banks of the river Dnipro, site of an amazing statue paying tribute to Ukrainian naval heroes of the second World War, before our tube took us back the one stop to vulytsya Khreshchatyk (the main street) and more beer.

Kiev's impressive memorial to World War II

All that remained was for us to buy provisions (red wine, crisps, sandwiches and chocolate) in preparation for our overnight train journey to Lviv. It is in our little first class, two-berth cabin that I sit now as I write this entry, sipping elegantly on a plastic cup of wine.

Kiev, Ukraine's beautiful capital, shortly after sunset

A frozen River Neva in St Petersburg

My decision to visit Russia was made in the Gellert baths in Budapest during the summer of 2006. The whole trip to Hungary that year had been borne out of my desire to see more of Eastern Europe, a quest which had begun with a short stay in Cracow, Poland, to celebrate my birthday the previous March. And there, in the 39 degree sunshine, waiting for the wave machine to kick in like a couple of ten year olds, my partner Jamie and I decided that, the following year, we would take the plunge and do ‘the big one’ – Russia itself.

Of course, ‘doing Russia’ sounds a bit like many of our stateside cousins claiming they’ve ‘done Europe’ in five days when, in reality, they may have scratched the surface of a handful of European capitals. But hey, you have to start somewhere, and the next decision was where to base ourselves. I suppose as a kid, I always thought of Russia as, essentially, Moscow but, having discussed it between pool, sauna and cold-plunge, we fixed upon St Petersburg as our city of choice. We were pretty determined to visit Moscow too, having read about the possibility of an overnight train, all of which sounded like a great adventure in the warm waters of the June afternoon. A great adventure it certainly turned out to be, but with more than a fleeting reminder that great adventures aren’t always so easy to have. Well worth it in retrospect, but more than a little crazy – sometimes even frightening – at the time.

St Isaac's Cathedral by night, St Petersburg

The first taste of the work and attention to detail required to plan such a trip surfaced quite quickly. We chose the following March as a good time to go, and decided we would plan the whole operation ourselves, rather than subscribe to an official tour. Oh yes, we were going to ‘rough it’ and show ourselves – to more than an odd raised eyebrow from friends and family – that we were more than capable of putting together a little holiday in the former Soviet Union. And time constraints for other trips meant we had to bring it all in in seven days. Piece of cake! Now, where to start? Ok, we needed visas – should be straight-forward enough. But wait: to get a visa, we had to have an invitation from somebody already resident in Russia. We didn’t know any Russians. A little digging around revealed that the hotel could easily do this, and a brief telephone conversation with the staff at the Petro Palace Hotel proved this to be merely a formality and something which they had attended to by email within a couple of hours. Applying for the visa was easy enough, but it can take up to three months and, Russia being Russia, there is absolutely no flexibility on this (unless, unbelievably, you’re a football fan and there’s a match you just can’t miss in Moscow). Mind you, it does look pretty cool in your passport when you do eventually get it.

We flew to St Petersburg with our carrier of choice, British Airways. It had to be via London, but there wasn’t much waiting around and we had a pretty seamless, trouble-free journey. Once through the slightly daunting passport control at the other end (Russian airport officials just do not smile, and you’re always wondering what’s going to go wrong, even when you know you’ve done everything to the letter) we took a cab to the Petro Palace and met those lovely English-speaking reception staff who had been so helpful all along.

The Kunstkammer, Peter the Great's collection of grotesqueries

The Petro, situated on Malaya Morskaya, was an amazing hotel, far exceeding our expectations. It was spotlessly clean, well appointed, roomy and furnished to a standard approaching sheer luxury. And every single member of staff went out of his or her way to make our stay perfect and – dare I say it – always with a huge, beaming smile. Once settled into our gorgeous room, we nipped out to do a little exploring. The weather was a little grey and a trifle cold, but the atmosphere around the city was exciting and vibrant. A little cautious in our first hours, we ventured into an ‘English bar’ a few streets from the hotel. It was the most Russian English bar I had ever seen, but did afford us our first taste of Baltika, a most refreshing, extremely palatable local beer.

The hotel’s Baron Restaurant, too, was something else. We had heard that Moscow was the most expensive city in the world to live or stay in, so we figured St Petersburg wouldn’t be so far behind. We were absolutely right (a meal for two with a bottle of red coming in at around £90 to £100) but the menu, and the way it was cooked and presented, we absolutely exceptional. When I’m abroad, I very much like to partake of local food and drink, and the Baron serves up Russian cuisine at its very best; dinner rapidly became something we really looked forward too. Expensive it was, but then what’s Amex for?

It was as we ascended to our seventh floor luxury apartment (I hesitate to call it just a room) that we discovered what turned out to be one of the real highlights of the Petro Palace: adjacent to the lift was the incredible Sky bar. This ultra trendy yet oh so relaxing bar was open each evening (until the wee small hours) and was literally a stunning window on the bustling world below, affording superb views of St Isaac’s Cathedral, The Hermitage and beyond. Small bar stools in the main window allowed us to relax over a Russian Standard and dreamily pass a very pleasant hour or two watching the world go by, while more comfortable sofas adorned the main floor area, and were perfect for intimate little gatherings. We retired at about 1am, exhausted but content; sleep beckoned, but we had accomplished the first part of our journey with aplomb. Let’s see what tomorrow would bring.

Sunset over the River Neva, St Petersburg

Sunday dawned, and we breakfasted amply in the morning room. Ready for our first real day of adventure, we packed the camera bag, wrapped up warm in hats, coats, scarves and gloves and bravely set forth into the city. We had read in our ‘Rough Guide’ that we should carry our passports with us at all times in case we were challenged by some figure of authority, so these we secreted away in a secure pocket of the bag. We were soon glad we had, as not one hundred yards down the road we were about to be challenged by a couple of men in uniform. We must have looked every inch guilty criminals as they walked directly toward us and then, at the last minute, changed course and crossed the road. Phew, that was close; this was going to be nerve-racking.

As we headed toward the city centre, and generally in the direction of the Winter Palace, we stumbled upon an expanse of parkland, which proudly boasted a bust of Lenin at its centre. “I must take some pictures of that,” I said, reaching for the camera. We both made for the clearing, and I was happily snapping away when Jamie nervously tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to a fine looking building on the far street. Oh bugger. Here were some more of those uniformed men, and this time, without a shadow of a doubt, they were heading directly for us. “Obviously we shouldn’t be taking pictures of the statue,” I said rather hysterically, almost as if it were Jamie’s fault. “They’re going to confiscate the camera… we’re going to have to go to the police station and explain ourselves; they might lock us up! Then what will we do?”
Jamie just froze on the spot, and we looked anywhere but at the men, trying to brazen it out. But, just as before, when they got within a few yards of us they simply carried on talking to one another and went about their business; we might as well not have been there.

We discovered, later that day, that these menacing men in uniform were, in fact, just lads from the nautical college. They obviously couldn’t give a bugger who we were, what we were photographing or where we went. It was almost an anticlimax! Mind you, it did bring a welcome air of calm to the rest of our stay in St Petersburg.

The next few days settled into a spirit of relaxed adventure, as we discovered the highways and byways of this imperial city. Outside of our hotel, the spoken English was something of a rarity, making life more than a little interesting at times, but in the main we got by with next to no trouble. It was probably by about late Monday afternoon that I realised my slightly irritating sore throat was down to the appalling air quality in the city, and, once aware of it, there were times when you could actually taste the smoggy fumes as an endless stream of traffic trudged by. To compound the problem, the perpetual lanes of cars, lorries and buses were regularly punctuated with older Ladas, Moskviches and Trabants - cars which were all outlawed in the UK due to unacceptable emissions. Satra Motors, the importer of Ladas to the United Kingdom, abandoned the marque in the early nineties, Moskvich ceased trading in 2002 (although the huge factory still remains, albeit dormant, in the possession of the company. A small part is now being used in a joint venture between Moscow and French car giant Renault) but was last imported to British roads in the mid seventies. The Trabant, that iconic little car which to this day still symbolises the freeing of East Germany with the collapse of the Berlin wall in 1989, never actually saw the light of day on our islands. In all probability, this was due more to its particularly utilitarian approach to motoring in the slow lane than the meagre emissions from its enfeebled little two-stroke power pack. Fantastic as it was for mobilising the dictatorship masses, it was deemed that even the most cost-conscious western Europeans would draw the line at this cute little sewing machine with a chassis.

Another common sight on Russian roads is the ever-popular Volga, a strictly-Soviet automobile which was, it would seem, mainly available in black or navy blue. This huge, relatively ugly vehicle looks like the type of car you would be bundled into the boot of, your rotting corpse then left to languish at the bottom of a frozen River Neva, the obligatory concrete block tethered securely round your middle. Oh dear, I’m getting stuck in a forties Hollywood movie again, although life in St Petersburg does sometimes feel as if it’s in black and white with an occasional flash of red; little did I know what Moscow would bring.

Over the coming days, we made sure we visited as many of the city’s highlights as we could, including the fabulously beautiful Winter Palace, stunning St Isaac’s Cathedral, the Church of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood, The Hermitage, the incredible Kunstkammer - Peter the Great’s collection of grotesqueries, and the sumptuous apartments of the Yusupov Palace. We were thwarted at the latter, as we missed entry to the waxworks tableau of Rasputin’s murder in the cellar where it actually happened. You were only allowed in daily at 1pm, and it was already ten past. So that was that.

Consultation with our ‘Rough Guide’ informed us that March was possibly the worst time of year to visit the country: having missed the twinkling beauty of the frozen winter, we were not yet in the full throws of spring, so could expect everything to be a thawing mush. Wonder how we managed not to spot that during our pre-trip research! In reality, things were quite different. The rivers and canals were still fairly solid blocks of ice, and the early spring sunshine afforded us some warm days and breath taking sunsets across the Neva. Closer inspection of the river revealed vast quantities of litter frozen menacingly into its icy bulk, a contributory factor in the water being almost unfit for human consumption. St Petersburg tap water comes directly from the polluted Neva, and its antiquated filtration plants are unable to deliver it free of the parasitic bacteria Giardia lamblia. The locals seem largely immune to this, but if ingested it can cause acute diarrhoea. If you’re using tap water, it must be boiled for at least fifteen minutes, but we found it much safer and more convenient to stick to bottled water which is readily available throughout the city. It’s not even worth risking the tap water for cleaning your teeth.

Late afternoon in Moscow

Determined to take our midnight train to Moscow, we ventured out to Moskovskiy vokzal (Moscow Station) situated on the famous Nevskiy prospekt, the main shopping and commerce street in St Petersburg. The station is at ploshchad Vosstaniya (Uprising Square), a vast, traffic-clogged intersection. Our initial enquiries seemed fruitful, and before we knew it we’d purchased overnight train tickets for Wednesday’s train, meaning we’d fetch up in Moscow at 8 o’clock Thursday morning. As I handed over my visa card to complete the transaction, I felt a wave of slightly anxious excitement at the prospect of this great journey; we were going to achieve our goal of making this a two-centre trip.

The remaining days leading up to our midnight assignation were spent exploring as much of St Petersburg as we could. This was made even more pleasurable by the discovery of a superb ‘local’, the Chaika Restaurant, nestling quietly on Griboyedova channel embankment, just off the main hustle and bustle of Nevskiy prospekt itself. The ‘Seagull’, complete with its predominantly nautical theme, proved to be a first rate hostelry, refreshing our palate regularly with authentic blinis and the like, all washed down with a glass or two of Baltika or the equally delicious Stary melnik. On the wall in the main lounge can be found a huge sheet of paper, on which patrons are encouraged to leave ‘clean’ graffiti. Having left our own mark, both Jamie and I spent a pleasant half hour reading these small records of social history; hard to believe our own contributions will soon be two years old.

Wednesday evening came around soon enough, and the concierge at the Petro Palace had organised a car to take us to Moskovskiy vokzal in time for our witching hour train. The washed and uniformed chauffeur turned up in his leather-trimmed Saab turbo, and conveyed us to the station in great style. Our adventure had begun.

On arrival at the station, we soon identified our train and handed over the tickets. Our berth was basic but adequate, and we took turns taking pictures of one another as we posed in what was to be our ‘room’ for the night. We were just settling in when, to our horror, the cabin door was flung wide and we were joined by another traveller, who grunted ‘good evening’ in his native, Russian tongue, and proceeded to undress. As the full impact of the situation hit us, I muttered to Jamie “I think you’re sitting on his bed.” Minutes later, another passenger joined us too; we were in a four-berthed cabin, and would have to share with these two strangers who spoke no more English than we spoke Russian. In an attempt to prevent sheer panic turning to blind terror, we readied ourselves for bed and climbed into our bunks. We might well be murdered in our beds, but at least we’d wind up in Moscow by morning. Clearly more comfortable with this ‘everyday’ situation, our fellow-travellers were soon fast asleep, untroubled by similar thoughts of perishing at the hands of clearly homicidal foreign cabin mates. The night passed slowly, as wariness and heat conspired to keep us awake, but eventually the conductor was heard banging on the door; it was our six-thirty alarm call after which we were offered tea. Still mindful of the possibility of a gut-full of lamblia, we politely declined and joined the queue for the bathroom, although I think I was slightly cleaner before I went in. We did, however, get to enjoy the final forty-five minutes of our journey watching our approach to Moscow from the train windows.

Moscow's famous Red Square

As we disembarked the train at Leningradskiy vokzal, we decided it would be a good idea to buy our return tickets straight away. It’s a very good job we did, as securing these tickets, and indeed our passage back to St Petersburg was the devil’s own job. Nobody - not one operative - in the whole of St Petersburg station spoke a word of English. Extracting information about train times was like pulling teeth, and the whole experience made the Moskovites appear difficult and unfriendly. It took a very panicky one hour and twenty minutes to make ourselves understood and actually find someone willing to sell us our tickets, only to discover that they wouldn’t take any form of credit or debit card; it had to be cash or nothing. Bollocks. So a further fifteen minutes was spent running around outside the station to find an ATM and, you guessed it, when we returned, the only saving grace of a kiosk that was offering us any kind of lifeline had shut up shop and nice girly had disappeared. I think attitude and perseverance alone allowed us to finally procure our tickets, which were for the 10pm train that evening. Phew! What a thoroughly Soviet experience.

Fighting off the cold rain and black skies with a more than welcome bottle of red stood us in acceptable stead to explore the Kremlin, Red Square, St Basil’s Cathedral and all the other delights which this incredible city has to offer, and we were actually just getting settled when the time came to catch our train back to St Petersburg (again sharing with two unknown Russian counterparts).

St Basil's Cathedral, Moscow

Upon arrival at Moscow station in St Petersburg, we were approached by a rather unkempt looking Russian gentleman determined to give us a taxi ride. In no state to complain or fight back, we reluctantly accepted, and soon found ourselves in his dark green Lada, fast in the back courtesy of child locks, expecting to be robbed, murdered or otherwise dispatched, our used corpses being flung into the freezing Neva at any moment. In fact, he simply took us to our hotel, pointing out landmarks on the way (we hadn’t the heart to tell him we’d already spent the best part of a week here) and demanding the same fare we’d paid our lovely Saab chauffeur the day before. At that point, who cared? Being fleeced for a few rubles was the least of our worries; I just needed to go to bed for a few hours before enjoying our last day in this beautiful city.

As is usually the case anywhere, our last day and a half in St Petersburg flew by. We revisited old favourite haunts, not least Chaika and our beloved Sky bar, before readying ourselves for the journey home. And you know, despite the difficulties, trials and tribulations, we loved our first experience of Russia. It was certainly a country we wanted to explore a great deal more. Sure, it was tough at times, but then, as I’ve already said, great adventures are not always easy to have.

The iconic image of the BBC production of M R James's classic ghost story 'A Warning to the Curious'

If, like me, you’re a fan of the good old English ghost story, then you’ve probably read at least one by M R James. My favourite, I must confess, is ‘A Warning to the Curious’, but this is due largely to the iconic BBC adaptation of the short story which was made in 1972. Directed by Lawrence Gordon Clark, and starring Peter Vaughan and Clive Swift, with a memorable performance by John Kearney, this classic little chiller can still send a shudder up many a spine today. Being frightened out of my wits by this film as a child is what started my interest in the story and, undoubtedly but thankfully, led me to the many ‘anxious’ hours I have subsequently spent in the deliciously dark company of England’s master of the traditional ghost story, Montague Rhodes James.

The attractive beach at Aldeburgh, Suffolk, which is the true location for Seaburgh in M R James's classic story

Tracking down the locations in the story can be a tricky business and, if you’re trying to do it in one trip, it’s probably best to choose either the film or the text, as one will point you to Norfolk and the other to Suffolk.

So let’s deal with the original source material first. James’s chilling little number is set in the fictional seaside town of Seaburgh, which is simply sited as being ‘on the east coast’. In a prologue to his ‘Collected Ghost Stories’ the author states clearly that his inspiration for Seaburgh was the sleepy little resort of Aldeburgh, nestling quaintly but quietly on the Suffolk coast. Although born in Goodnestone Parsonage in Kent in 1862, James had a lifelong affinity with the seaside town, visiting it often for holidays. He describes it thus:

The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider is Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south, recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse, inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells. How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle at the south end of the town, and yet others on higher ground to the north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs… but why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with the word-painting business yet.

Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left (you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top, with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it, that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills, red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello tower on the south.

Slaughden Mill, now devoid of sails, looms eerily over the beach at Aldeburgh

Once James as narrator has evoked the setting of the story, he allows his friend to take over, who goes on to tell us of a stay in an inn called ‘The Bear’ at Seaburgh, where he came across a very nervous-seeming young man who was afraid to be alone. This young man, Paxton by name, then tells his story of having learned from the local rector of a legend of three Anglian crowns buried along the coast as protection from foreign invaders. One crown, according to the legend, had been discovered and melted down, and the second had been washed into the sea by coastal erosion. The third crown, the last remaining defence, was still buried along the coast but protected through generations by the men of the Ager family. When Paxton discovers that the last of the Agers has just died, his curiosity is piqued. When he ascertains from another local the possible location of the buried crown, he is compelled to unearth it. Having done so, however, he finds himself constantly followed by a mysterious presence. He is desperate to put the crown back where he found it, but it may be too late. It is for this task he enlists the help of the other two main protagonists of the tale.

The White Lion hotel on Aldeburgh sea front, inspiration for the fictional 'The Bear' in the story

Apart from the total loss of the old battery and settlement of Slaughden to the ravaging sea, Aldeburgh is pretty much today as the author described it. Many of the landmarks featured in the story can easily be tracked down, and the footsteps of the characters can be followed with little difficulty. A good base is The White Lion, a Best Western hotel which, although now considerably altered and devoid of ‘sitting rooms’, was actually ‘The Bear’ in James’s narrative. If you’re looking for more modest accommodation and don’t want to pay almost a fiver for the smallest glass of red, you could try the excellent ‘Toll House’ situated on Victoria Road, just off the main roundabout as you enter Aldeburgh. You’ll find no bar here (although the lively and convivial ‘Railway’ pub is literally just across the way) and you certainly won’t have a sea view, but this clean and friendly establishment is well run by Richard and Isobel, and is no more than five minutes walk from the town centre. And they do serve up a mean full English, packed with delicious local produce cooked to perfection; just the ticket to set you up for a day’s ghost hunting.

Aldeburgh's Church of St Peter and St Paul, featured briefly in the story, and also the burial place of Benjamin Britten

The short walk to the beach will take you past the Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul. Although only featured briefly in the story itself as young Paxton, accompanied by the narrator and his friend, Henry Long, attempts to return the crown, it’s worth a brief sojourn here to visit the graves of Suffolk composer Benjamin Britten and his lover Peter Pears. Much is made of Britten’s connection with Aldeburgh, which by contrast seems to highlight the fact that absolutely nothing can be found relating to M R James or ‘A Warning to the Curious’. Even the ‘literary expert’ to whom we were pointed at one of the town’s main book shops, could only manage a cursory, dismissive grunt as she thrust a copy of Wilkie Collins’ ‘No Name’ at us without really listening to our question. “M R Who..?” she barked eventually, “No. There’s nothing,” and then, without further ado, promptly turned her back on us to strike fear into the heart of the next customer patiently waiting for her contentious wisdom.

John Piper's stunning 'Benjamin Britten window' can be found in Aldeburgh's Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul

Also worth examining at the Peter and Paul Church is the stunning Britten window by John Piper, before meandering your way through the graveyard to the claustrophobic ‘narrow path with close, high hedges’ - the route taken by the three men on their way to return the misappropriated treasure.

These secluded paths lead down to the beach itself, which is exactly as described:

There was a choice of ways: past the houses on the sea-front, or along the sand at the bottom of the beach, which, the tide being now out, was fairly broad. Or of course we might keep along the shingle between these two tracks and have some view of both of them; only that was heavy going. We chose the sand, for that was the loneliest, and someone might come to harm there without being seen from the public path.

The martello tower can be found at the southern end of Aldeburgh beach

The eerily claustrophobic passageway leading from the church graveyard to the beach

From the sea front, you can walk southwards towards, first, the only remaining windmill of the several James describes, now sadly without sails, and second the martello tower. The latter now belongs to the Landmark Trust and is probably in far better condition than it ever was. At the north end of the beach lies the timber framed Moot Hall, which has the dual function of museum and town hall, and has one or two interesting exhibits to complete the story well worth the modest one pound entrance fee. An 1860s print clearly shows the old gun battery just north of the martello tower intact. The second half of the nineteenth century must have seen a great deal of damage; by the turn of the century the battery was a crumbling ruin. This whole coast has suffered from the inroads of the sea. In the sixteenth century there were three whole streets to seaward of the current front, and the Moot Hall itself, now practically on the beach, was well inland. You’ll also find a picture painted around 1900 depicting the railway (which fell victim to Dr Beeching in the sixties), the ridge of firs where the crown was supposedly buried, and, in the far distance, the north sea. The trees were much more sparse then, but the picture gives you a good idea of the scene as it was in the story.

Friston Church, Suffolk; could this be the inspiration for James's church at fictional Froston?

The church at Froston, whose porch houses the coat of arms depicting the ‘three Anglian crowns’ which initially fuel Paxton’s interest in his folly, is not so easy to place. It could be at nearby Friston, where there is indeed a church, but the absence of both the heraldic clue over its porch or any other intelligence bequeathed by James himself, leaves this open to some conjecture.

The elegant, timber framed Moot Hall on Aldeburgh's sea front doubles as museum and town hall

Now, as I’ve already intimated, this is all very well if you’re following James’s actual text. However, if you are a devotee of the film and not the literature, you will have come completely unstuck as soon as you set foot in Aldeburgh. Trying to uncover the actual locations for filming can frequently be frustrating, as what meagre sources of information there are can be at best sketchy and at worst conflicting. What’s absolutely clear is that no filming was done either in or around Aldeburgh or, indeed, anywhere in Suffolk.

To follow the location of Clark’s masterpiece, you’ll have to migrate to Norfolk, to the even sleepier Wells-next-the-Sea on the north coast. A modest trip eastwards will have you fetch up at Happisburgh, where you’ll definitely locate the church featured in the film, together with the red and white stripy lighthouse to which Vaughan’s older Paxton cycles. The full details of the film, together with a study of its locations, will be featured in a future article later in the year.

Copenhagen Harbour - the romantic waterside

If you’re thinking of travelling to Denmark, Copehagen is a pretty good place to start, but it won’t give you a typical flavour of the rest of this great country. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - the expansion of the EU, whilst greatly beneficial to new members in so many ways, is slowly but surely diluting the character of those countries belonging to it. The huge cultural differences between east and west are diminishing as we head ever closer to a much more uniform state of Europe.

That said, Copenhagen has many charms and - despite its northern latitude - is host to a plethora of alfresco eating and drinking opportunities. When it gets a bit chilly, they just switch on the patio heaters and hand you a blanket - it all makes us look really nesh in the UK, as we dive under cover as soon as the temperature drops below 70 (other temperature scales are available).

As you wander the sprawling streets of this ancient city, you can soak up its charms fairly easily on foot, but a canal cruise is highly recommended. It’ll set you back about £7, and you’ll pay almost as much for a beer which will be offered on a tray prior to leaving the harbour (there’s neither a bar nor toilet on board), but it’s a great way to spend an hour and a half.

A good time to travel weather wise is July or August, when you’ve got more chance of sunshine. Scandanavian Airlines run a very efficient, reliable service from Manchester on their workhorse MD 87s (don’t listen to the safety grounding rumours - pilots love these planes, and the grounding of American Airlines’ MD 80 fleet seems more political than anything).

There’s no denying that Copenhagen is an expensive city. Eating out will demand a fairly significant budget, but good value can be found in establishments off the main pedestrianised streets. Expect to pay well over a fiver for a beer (usually Carlsberg or Tuborg) and anything up to twenty quid for a bottle of house wine. Most main courses are around the £15 mark, so by the time you’ve added a starter, a sweet and drinks, you’re looking at a bill which you’d expect from some of the more exclusive restaurants in the UK.

Smørrebrød - the delicious Danish open sandwich

Hotels are generally of a good standard. We stayed at the Ibsens Hotel, about a ten minute walk from Strøget (the longest pedestrianised shopping street in the world) and just five minutes from the train station at Nørreport. Note that breakfast is not usually included in your tariff, but offered as an optional extra for about £8 per person per day. We found it great to skip breakfast, not having to get up to a timetable and drag your scraggy carcase down to feed with a lot of other bleary-eyed (or annoying bright-eyed and bushy-tailed) residents. We would then amble out for the day in our own time, and enjoy a smørrebrød (traditional Danish open sandwich - highly recommended) or an authentic Danish pastry (obligatory) - a far cry from the ones we’re used to at home.

If you like to do the ‘unmissable’ sites when you visit a place, you might want to drop in on the twice beheaded ‘Little Mermaid‘, but be aware she really is quite tiny, and not so easily accessible from the main drag. On a nice day you can walk, but if the weather is not so clement, she’s just one train stop away from Nørreport.

Kronborg Castle at Helsingør, Hamlet's Elsinore

A little further afield, but well worth the trip, is Helsingør - home to Kronborg Castle, inspiration for Shakespeare’s Elsinore. It’s a mere 45 minutes on the train, and the cheapest way to get there is with a 24-hour ticket (about £12) - whatever you do, don’t forget to validate the ticket at your first journey; escaping the wrath of the Danish ticket inspectors is highly recommended.

A visit to Tivoli Gardens is also a must - even if you’re not really a theme-park rider. These delightful grounds are home to some twenty-odd rides (only three or four can be classed as anything approaching white knuckle), landscaped gardens and a host of eating and drinking establishments. You can quite easily lose a day here simply absorbing the atmosphere.

And if you can possibly manage it, do squeeze in the Hans Christian Andersen experience. It’s of the ilk of Bowness’s Beatrix Potter Experience in the UK’s Lake District, and offers a charming blend of Andersen’s life story and the bringing to life of his most famous fairy tales. It’s around £7 to get in, and you can complete it satisfactorily within half an hour, but it really is quite magical.

Well, that’s my brief overview, but do have a look at the other Denmark posts for more details on eating, drinking and entertainment.

Kavos' famous strip - holiday destination for Brit clubbers

“Do you fancy a break before the season starts properly?” a pal asked me a few weeks ago. “Somewhere nice, warm and relaxing,” he added.

Having worked particularly hard throughout the winter, and with the promising early spring sunshine back into hiding, I thought it seemed like a good idea. “Where do you fancy?” I inquired.

“Oh, I’m not really bothered – how about a nice Greek island?”

Normally, this would have been my idea of paradise. I have for many years been a devotee of Greek Island holidays, finding the Greeks helpful and friendly, the food excellent and the wine – well, perfectly drinkable and sometimes quite good. Accommodation has always scored on the low side for me, but I suppose if you weigh up the good against the rudimentary, two weeks basking in the sunshine on a beautiful island is worth the price of meagre beds, a hand-held shower and inadequate plumbing (not so bad if your cleaner empties the ‘little bin’ once a day).

But I had heard some mixed reports about Greece last year: high prices, falling standards and poor weather. It had been rumoured that Brits were deserting the country in their droves, favouring more exotic locations which, years ago, would have been well out of budget. Thinking it might be fun to put it to the test, I gave it little more consideration and acquiesced.

A trip to our local travel agency later that week procured a two-week stay in Kavos on the Ionian island of Corfu, situated just west of the mainland and north of the beautiful islands of Paxos and Antipaxos. “It’s a bit on the lively side,” the girl in the shop had warned, “but there’s a long, sandy beach.” It didn’t sound quite like the Greek holidays I preferred, but having stayed at various Greek islands over the past twenty years I knew that – even in a lively resort – you could take or leave the club scene. And at a snip of £203 each, including supplements, courtesy of Olympic Holidays, who could complain?

We arrived in resort at about eight in the morning after a nightmare of a journey. Well, in truth, it probably wasn’t that bad (what do you expect from a night flight?) but the catalogue of complaints from our fellow travelling companions made it seem much worse. “This has ruined my holiday already,” one chap told his exhausted wife and sleeping daughter after spending “the worst hour and a half” of his life at the baggage reclaim. Makes you wonder what kind of charmed lives people like this must lead ordinarily. The worst part of the whole voyage was, without doubt, the last three-and-half minutes, during which we had to scale a mountain with our luggage. Later reconnaissances revealed that it was, in fact, a fairly mild incline, but taken after twenty-four hours without sleep and carrying what felt like two steamer trunks it seemed much more sinister.

I needed sleep, so managed to get my head down for two or three hours, before being woken at midday by an especially violent clap of thunder, the prelude to an incredible storm and Niagara-like downpour. It didn’t last that long, and we were soon trundling down our little hill for a delicious salad lunch at the ‘Jolly Chef’ taverna – so good, in fact that we lunched there most days. As usual, we were surrounded by Brits tucking into the ‘full English breakfast’ – what I want to know is, who ever eats this at home? Haven’t we become a Nation of muesli and ‘health-bars with red berries’ fanatics? And have people still not got the message that a passionately prepared salad is so much healthier? (Well, it is if you scrape off most of that luscious mayonnaise.)

The rest of the afternoon was spent lazing on the beach, surrounded by young, beautiful things that made me feel every inch my age. The young and beautiful stage seemed to pass me by, but there must have been something equivalent in my day. Perhaps I was too busy trying to be young and beautiful to notice it.

It’s true, Kavos is a clubbers’ paradise – for a moment I thought I’d turned up on Ibiza and was expecting to run into Boy George or Fatboy Slim, and it is designed around that clientele accordingly. I’ve never felt so old; previously I hadn’t thought I was doing too badly for my thirty-nine years, my pal certainly wasn’t for a retired sixty-two year old. Yet here was a new challenge: carve out a holiday that would suit our more sedentary tastes among all this youthful extravagance without becoming ‘old fuddy duddies’. We were both up for it.

It was evening before the whole island seemed to turn entirely into a vast nightclub. ‘The Strip’, Kavos’s main street of activity, metamorphosed before our very eyes into a party of coloured neons and sounds, wild, young touts trying to tempt us to get ‘ruined’ and ‘wasted’ with free drinks vouchers. If you plumb for this line of entertainment in the day, incidentally, you’ll be fine as long as you like football or vintage comedy – finding a bar without either the latest match plastered over a wide screen TV, or re-runs of Only Fools and Horses or Friends is nigh-on impossible. We resisted, preferring the calm afforded by a glass or two of Demestica (watch you don’t pick bleach off the shelf by mistake) on our balcony, tenderly lit by the flickering glow of our anti-mozzy candle. As devoted tourists to Greece will know, you can use all the plug-ins, sprays and roll-ons you like, but the mosquito battle is one you will never win. Still, best not to give yourself over to them too early in the holiday – they like you to put up a bit of a fight, and this time I only went home with thirty-six nasty blemishes adorning my otherwise bronzed body. It looked as if I had fallen victim to some strange foreign pestilence; perhaps I had.

It’s true then – Kavos has turned into a playground for the young British tourist, most of whom are well-behaved, but with the occasional fringe louts – two of which decided to smash the apartment next to us up at four o’clock one morning. It seemed their only adjective began with ‘f’ and it shamed us to think they shared our Nationality. Not difficult to see why we Brits come out bottom of the poll when it comes to good behaviour abroad.

But you can still eke out a pleasant holiday if you are prepared to make the best of it. We discovered that we weren’t actually the oldest people in the resort, and all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Tom and Barbara, a couple we met who were both retired, enjoyed complaining about everything from the Greek buses turning up twenty minutes late (have they never heard of GMT – Greek Maybe Time?) to the ‘disgusting lack of facilities in our apartment’ – this is Greece; it’s all part of the fun – get over it and enjoy your holiday. Which they certainly seemed to do, judging by the fun they appeared to be having in some of the livelier pubs later in the evening. “Well, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” Tom had acceded. And it’s still cheap enough to eat out for every meal, even for a family. It’s true that the euro has been used to a degree to inflate prices (just as decimalisation was in the UK in the early seventies) but not criminally. Greek tavernas still offer incredibly good value for money, some off ‘the loop’ – a one-way street just off ‘the strip’ – providing a three course meal for eight-and-a-half euros (although you’ll probably get chips with it); some will even throw in a half litre jug of local wine.

Our little hill did turn out to be a blessing in disguise though, stationing us up and away from the noise of the late, late clubs and bars. Tom and Barbara seemed to think it made it worse for them, (“all this climbing at our age!”) but had obviously not heard the plight of those poor families with young children who could reach across from their balconies and physically touch the wall of an adjoining night club. We saw many of them looking drawn and exhausted during the day after yet another long, sleepless night.

Our senior serenader from Likourgos Taverna

And one night in particular stands out as traditionally Greek. On a beautiful, moonlit night, we ate just by the shore at the ‘Likourgos Taverna’ serenaded by our own seventy-five year old guitar playing minstrel (father-in-law of the proprietor, we were later informed). The cuisine was traditional and superb, and the service attentive and friendly – but then it should have been; sadly we were the only diners. More of this can still be found, as a day trip to the less populated island of Paxos (costing a mere 22 euros) revealed, but not very easily in Kavos.

“We were much busier ten years ago,” the owner told us in lamentation, “even the Germans can’t stand it anymore – but maybe the good times will come back.” We hope so, for his sake and that of Greek islands generally, but we won’t hold our breath – the reluctant traders know that without the current wave of Brit-clubbers, the island of Corfu would be in serious trouble.

First published in 2002.

Favaritx Lighthouse on Menorca’s north east coastline

We Brits still visit Spain by the plane load for our summer holidays, despite the ever broadening geographical horizons demanded by today’s more adventurous and savvy tourist. That said, we are quite set in our ways when it comes to choosing our Hispanic destinations, and particularly so when it comes to the islands. The Canaries are as popular as ever, but when it comes to the Balearics, Majorca and Ibiza still win out for sheer numbers over sleepier Menorca, but that just seems to make this little corner of paradise even more idyllic for those who consider it ‘their island’.

I was won over by Menorca’s many charms quite by accident. I was bound for Turkey in 1999, but was informed at check-out that an earthquake had damaged our hotel, and after many hours spent at Manchester airport, was finally offered either Ibiza or Menorca.

My clubbing days well and truly behind me (oh, okay, I might be seen out in town once every now and then if Belinda Carlisle or Hazel Dean are putting in a comeback appearance, but those are special circumstances) I decided to opt for the latter. After all, I’d never been before and I do love to visit new places.

Mahon (Mao) harbour attracts both the rich and famous

I flew into Mao airport in the late October sunshine and was promptly transferred to my resort of Arenal D’en Castell on the north east coast of the island. Now - despite the fact that I now love Arenal for reasons which are quite idiosyncratic - had this been my only experience of the island, good though it was, I may never have yearned to go back year after year (something I thought only old people did. Oh, wait, I am old now. Well, my great nephews and nieces think so, anyway. My excuse is that I do go to many other much more diverse and exotic places for the rest of the year, so returning to Menorca is both my only indulgence and my only weakness. Apart from the gin and steak pies, that is). But I was fortunate enough to take a tour of the island, and this led me to my perfect little corner - Binibeca, tucked away on the south west coast.

Binibeca beach bar - a stunning little hideaway

Binibeca is stunningly beautiful. Not to be confused with the neighbouring Binibeca Vell - a seventies recreation of a typical Menorcan fishing village - Binibeca (also spelt Binibequer) is a quaint, picturesque and gentle settlement built up around one of the most beautiful bays on the island, complete with Los Bucaneros - its very own beach bar. Binibeca itself doesn’t have much to offer the uninitiated tourist in terms of amenities, but literally next door is Cala Torret, which sports a supermarket and a string of seafront restaurants, the best - in my humble opinion, of course - being DPs. Presided over by genial host John, this sizeable establishment manages to be both intimate and friendly, whilst offering superbly cooked food from its extensive menu. It’s not the cheapest, but is always excellent value for money.

Exploring the island is a must, so I’ve broken the Menorcan experience down into the various highlights in order to do them all justice. Have a look through them, and please do add your own comments.

The beach on Walney Island, looking out to the west

I’d been wanting to visit Piel Island for at least two years, ever since I’d glimpsed the stark, imposing ruin of its castle from the shores of nearby Walney. I remember going on about a two hour wild goose chase at the time, frantically trying to locate this eerily romantic half-structure so that I could photograph it at close quarters in the near-perfect light, before I finally abandoned my inherent maleness and sheepishly resorted to the road atlas in the boot. Oh, so all I had to do was drive round to Rampside and proceed along the causeway at Roa Island, and Piel was just a hop, skip and a jump away by ferry. Easy peasy! Except the ferry wasn’t running, and nobody really had a clue as to when it might be.

From that moment, I knew that one day I just had to visit the island itself and explore those curiously inviting shores. It was a trip that proved to be more elusive than I would’ve liked, but I finally had my reason to visit when it was agreed I would do a feature on the place for this magazine.

Right – the trick here was going to be in the planning. I knew I wanted to spend some time on nearby Walney, so I booked a Friday night stay there at the Castle House Hotel, and then made a reservation at Clarkes Hotel in Rampside for the Saturday. All that remained was to book my ferry trip over to Piel on the Saturday afternoon. “No problem,” assured the local ferryman, “just give me a call about half an hour before you want to go and I’ll meet you at the harbour!” Fabulous, I thought – we’re all sorted.

The lighthouse on South Walney has recently been converted