Escapism in England

Escapism in England

Northumberland, England

The stresses and strains of day-to-day University life are often too much to bear, especially in my final year of study.  Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in the North East of England is brimming with students and workers alike, all running around like headless chickens with whatever tasks they have to deal with.  On one miserable, grey, February Friday morning, the ceaseless pressures of work all became too much and I stormed out of Uni and stropped all the way home in complete refusal to do anything more.  I curled into the womb of my bed and whilst safe in the snuggling comfort of my duvet I sank into my own little world, my own place where no one could tell me what to do.  It was just me and my own thoughts.  I thought of how when moving away from my family home I was expecting to feel so much more free and independent, of how I would have control over my own life and of how excited I was at the prospect of my unknown future. But now when it came to the crunch I felt more trapped than ever, and scared about looming decisions that needed to be made, and right then I realised that I was growing up.  Thankfully, I had the relief of my mother visiting as of Saturday, which may not sound like a relief to some people, but unlike with other visitors there was no need to play the host, to constantly please and entertain, I could just take the time to be myself.

Escapism is a mental diversion to relieve depression or stress by means of entertainment or recreation.  Northumberland was the perfect destination, an anonymous environment to escape to, a place where I had no connection with past or present trials and tribulations.  When my mother arrived in the morning I received a long awaited hug and felt a strong sense of comfort, love and familiarity, and I realised how much I had missed her.  We drove north up the coast for some time away from reality and the carnage of the city.  We decided to spend the night in Alnmouth; a small, quiet and peaceful coastal country town – the perfect escape.  It consisted of a single street, lined with quaint black and white Old English houses, two wooden-beamed pubs, a pastel coloured gift shop and an all-organic, all-free-range style convenience store.  With the shop owner’s suggestion we found an invitingly warm and friendly B&B for the night.  With a room, enormous double bed, television and tea set each and our own bathroom for only £50 for the night we were delighted with our cosy find. 

Alnmouth High Street

Desperate for some sea air we left the car in Seahouses and got a bus to an estuary near Holy Island.  With sand beneath our shoes and the sea breeze fiercely rattling our cagoules we were content and made our way back down the shoreline.  To our left the estuary seemed to swirl in every direction, the tide eerily drawing in not with the crash of a wave but with a steady rise in water level.  It made me feel uneasy and I became hypnotised by the suspicious whirl-pooling of the deepening liquid.  On exiting the estuary we noticed the aggressive pounding of the waves that crashed onto the shore, the wind causing the foam to fleck into the air and the crashing water to spray into fountains of white above the dancing waves.  In the distance Holy Island stood in solitude amongst the excitable waters and we trod amongst broken shells, sticky seaweed and dank driftwood, and scrambled over slimy rocks and sweeping sand dunes.  It felt so refreshing to get back to nature and to the sea, somewhere I always felt I belonged, my troubles whipping away with every seabird that swept across the sky.

Halfway through our walk we came to Bamburgh, whose famous towering castle perched naturally on the landscape, a part of the coastline itself.  The sheer rocky edges of the mount hold the fortress high and proud, fascinating and impressive.  We delighted in watching wetsuit-clad surfers scampering from their Volkswagen campervans into the rushing seas, catching a wave and then falling back into the abyss again.  I could picture the pleasure in owning a mobile home, travelling wherever the wind goes, free from commitments and the world at my feet.  The centre of Bamburgh itself is a quintessential English village, dwarfed by the crow-circled turrets of the castle.  It felt medieval and exciting, like no where else I had been and the sense of pleasure in coming across somewhere so charming and mysterious was both relaxing and intriguing, it was good for the soul.  We found a tea room in which we delved into hot beef, onion and gravy baguettes and scones to our hearts’ delight.  We drank countless pots of tea all of course served on top of white doyleys in floral tea cups.

Bamburgh Castle

With satisfied stomachs and a new lease of energy we continued the latter part of the walk.  I relished in this quality time spent with someone so close, who I had spent my whole life going on walks with, this release, this return to innocence felt very special.  With the tide closing in and the sky darkening, we made haste as the water was closing in on the headlands and walkers scurried across the bays so as not to get cut off.  The Farne Islands in the distance watched us and the momentary flashes from the lighthouse reminded us that it was getting late.  Arriving back into Seahouses the sea seemed enchanted with the golden shimmer of the sunset.  We walked through the small harbour where a seal bobbed at the water’s surface, calm and tranquil in contrast to the tumbling waves beyond.  Fishing trawlers and tourist boats were receiving new licks of red and aqua for the upcoming spring and summer seasons.  I loved this spot.  Fishing nets and cages were casually strewn about the pier, buoys and rescue rings decorated this benched quarter and the humble rumble from a boat’s engine provided an ideal anticlimax after the seven mile walk.  The nautical theme continued when we went into The Ship Inn.  This pub contained a roaring log fire and actually seemed like a ship itself, entering it is like stepping into the lower decks, with a plethora of nautical antiques and replicas adorning the walls and hanging from the ceilings.  These include brass telescopes, murky lanterns, wooden barrels, gleaming underwater helmets, heavy lead anchors and even a ship’s steering wheel, and on none of which lay a speck of dust.

Seahouses Harbour

We returned to Alnmouth to relax in our softly furnished rooms, choosing what we would like for breakfast and delving into the unimaginable comfort of the memory foam beds, completely exhausted and drifting into dreams of lighthouses and seagulls.  The next day we packed our bodies to the rafters with a traditional English breakfast then headed west for our second walk.  We arrived at Hadrian’s Wall and clambered up and down its grassy, rocky ruins, imagining the marching Roman military on one side and the Barbarian Scots on the other. The views were sensational; rolling countryside spread to the horizon, and odd glimmers of sunshine fused with the drizzle to cast rainbows that seemed to shoot up from the ground, then disappear just as quickly.  The walk varied through fields to forests, by reservoirs and soggy paths, all with the wall stretching majestically in endless direction.  When we stopped to rest I noticed how quiet it was despite the strong wind and the sheer volume of life.  Numerous types of birds nestled amongst the grass and whooped in the air, and the cattle and the sheep all lived in perfect harmony, happy and unafraid.  The sheep had such clean and fluffy coats, they looked healthy and I shared in their contentment of this sweet country space, wondering if all who get the chance to visit here feel the same sense of release in being somewhere else.

Hadrian's Wall

To conclude our Northumbrian mother-daughter weekend we visited Hexham before I got dropped off back into the real world.  This attractive town with a park at its centre and beautiful architecture did however show signs of city life re-emerging, with an increase in people and in size, and a sly Wetherspoons that had crept into the old cinema building.  A sigh and a goodbye to the weekend and the comfort of my mother’s company delivered me back into Newcastle, and the week-beginning Monday morning rituals hung over the both of us.  All was not lost though, this weekend had given me a chance to take a step back, to take a deep breath and recover, to remember the strong and able person that I am and to take a small journey back into childhood, a safe place without worries, a place where someone else looks after you.  The chance to escape to somewhere completely different, somewhere not even that far away is available to anyone who is willing to explore.  It’s amazing what you can discover just outside your doorstep.

A Sense of Home

A Sense of Home

Montpellier, France

‘The nature of ‘home’ [...] from which we are constantly displaced, but which we constantly try to re-place.’

Travellers’ Tales: Narratives of Home and Displacement 1998

When travelling alone, I often find myself viewing the experience as a lesser form of displacement.  Even though I have willingly chosen to exile myself, and even though I know I’ll return to my true home eventually - this self-banishment requires the constant search not only for a bed for the night, but for those incredible places which make such a journey worthwhile.  Places that can make you feel at home when thousands of miles away, a place like Montpellier.  One may ask why I might have such an outlook, when I specifically leave home to seek satisfaction elsewhere.  I believe that internally, a part of every traveller wants not to find somewhere like home, but to find places where they feel ­at home.  The excitement of somewhere new makes our yearning for discovery, learning and understanding of that place all the greater. We have a need to get to know our surroundings, a want to feel welcomed.  A release in escaping to somewhere new can yield warmth in managing to feel a refreshingly new sense of place and belonging in such a short period of time.  We mentally interpret each new place onto a scale of a sense of home by physically going there, so let me take you...

Having booked flights at opposite ends of Europe in the summer of 2008 with three weeks in-between, I had thoroughly planned my route.  So when the only available reservation on a train from Paris to Marseille was a mere three days later than my schedule allowed, panic began to set in.  Feeling naive and damning myself for not booking a seat earlier, I was on the verge of tears and after contemplating every possible destination and route, a stroke of luck settled my nerves - there was one last space on the train to Montpellier that same day.  Thankful that I could escape the hectic fumes of Paris, and head to a more relaxed town in the South of France, I took it. 

I had originally planned to go from Marseille, to Nimes, to Barcelona.  So after I had unsuccessfully queried about a reservation to go to Nimes instead of Marseille, I was puzzled when discovering that the Montpellier train stopped there anyway.  Timidly, I teetered onto the impressively imposing double-decker train, recollecting that forgotten feeling of being an anxious young school girl, getting a bus alone for the first time. I had ‘The Fear’ – a phenomenon common amongst travellers, which can only be described as sheer nervous terror when not having booked a place to spend the night.  I caved in and frantically called my mother.  Once she had found out that the only hostel in Nimes looked ‘a bit dodgy’, and once a couple of men sitting opposite had advised that there was not much to do there, it felt like a safe decision to remain on the train until Montpellier.  We cruised smoothly past the distant snow-capped Alps and the green fields of France, and the journey was actually a gorgeous and comfortable one despite ‘The Fear’.  When the train shuffled past Nimes it looked barren and dull.  The men chatted enthusiastically and delighted in informing me of Montpellier, describing it as vibrant, with great bars and nightlife and full of young people (‘like me’) due to the town’s 70,000 University students.

Vibrant Montpellier at night

 I arrived in Montpellier three and a half hours after I left Paris, a sudden wave of balmy late-afternoon heat embraced me and delivered that Mediterranean air of France I was lusting for after the smoggy hustle and bustle of the capital.  It began to get dark and I was struggling to locate a hostel, worrying that by this time there must be no vacancies left. Appearing misplaced and fruitless, a kind French boy named Eric offered to show me the way.  My desperation dramatically subsided and ‘The Fear’ was left to another day, as another stroke of luck meant that I boasted a bed in Hostel Montpellier for the next two nights.  Relieved and overjoyed, I accepted Eric’s offer of showing me around.   I felt excitement fizzing and smugness brewing in my stomach when I saw that Montpellier is in fact beautiful.  The early evening so vivacious, so alive and luminous with countless courtyards plumped with outdoor seating for limitless bars and restaurants.  Dreamy live music played in the cobbled thoroughfares, complementing the incandescent lighting of the cafes, selling home-made ice cream and maple-syrup waffles long into the night.  Eric and I shared deliciously fruity cocktails, and through a massive language barrier, our opinions of his applications for University both here and in Paris.  Paris is of course abundant in charming qualities, such as the cosy Montmartre area, and the dancing electric blue lights of the Eiffel Tower at night, but it also has the chock-a-block, impersonal vigour of a big city. When sat here, in a warmer climate and surrounded by such friendly energy and sparkle, I saw no competition.

Montpellier's Opera House

 By night and day the fine 19^th century Opera House and the trickling fountain are the Place de la Comédie (the main square)’s focal points. With map in hand I had to drag myself away from the fashionably quirky boutiques and craft shops that linked and decorated every street.  Outside the centre, Montpellier expands beyond expectation.  Beyond the Arc de Triomphe and heading for the Roman ruins at the north-western end of town, I found myself meandering on a gravelly path through a quiet and leafy arcade, at the other side of which lives the famous Les Arceaux Aqueduct, astonishing in size and degree of preservation. Exploring further still I happened upon Montpellier’s Botanical Garden, free of entry yet completely empty and unlimited in winding paths, it felt like I had stumbled upon Montpellier’s very own secret garden.  A quick flash of rain sprang the scent of every exquisite flower, shrubbery and grass blade haphazardly into the air, and I was drawn towards an elegant lily pond where I sat to procrastinate with the terrapins that clipped the pond weeds, and the carp that bubbled at the water’s surface.  I mused over the amount of water in Montpellier.  Every square has a fountain perfect for toe-dipping on a hot day; every small park has a pond at its centre. Perhaps this is to compensate or distract from the fact that the coast is roughly another half an hour’s train journey away.  In my opinion, it works.  The splashing water seems to cool the hot mid-summer air, and when sat underneath a willow tree in one of those parks, watching four ducklings testing the water and then flop in after their mother, I felt completely content.  Music can stimulate a certain memory or feeling; it can take you back to a time or place.  I am reminded of this moment when listening to ‘Crooked Teeth’ by Death Cab For Cutie;

‘It was one hundred degrees as we sat beneath the willow tree.’

Of course, in this situation, there was no ‘we’.  The loneliness of travelling alone gives you time to yourself.  It gives you time to get to know a place, at your own pace, and at this point in time: I felt truly at one with Montpellier.

Les Arceaux Aqueduct

 The fact that I was spending a chunky part of my travels in France when unable to speak a word of French meant that there would always be some form of isolation. Yet being a lone traveller I encouraged myself to talk to others, whether they could understand me or not.  So when on my second evening I met three other lone English student travellers back at the hostel, I was delighted and in the thrill of full communication we agreed to go out together and instantly bonded.  There was Hazel – the intelligent writer, Fran – the bubbly curly-haired good-time girl, Matt – your typical masculine man, and me – the excitable blonde.  We went into a bar which showcased France’s number one beat-boxer, in our glee at this hilarious turn of events we drank the cheap punch that was on offer, and nicknamed ourselves ‘The Pelly Crew’.  On returning to an outdoor courtyard we drank lager from an enormous tubular decanter, uncontrollably slipping into ‘Brits on tour’ mode, yet as far as we noticed no one seemed to mind as the place was full of young, bouncy people like ourselves.  A fair few drinks later and back at the hostel we decided that the night was still young.  On the roof terrace we smoked, talked rubbish and laughed until the rain meant that we had to go inside to cause some mischief instead.  We sneaked around, knocked on doors and ran away, got told off and huddled under duvets in the corridors, all because we didn’t want to go to sleep or want the day to end.  The next morning we met for breakfast, exchanged details then went our separate ways.  It felt like we had known each other for so much longer. 

Once I personally felt settled, these people were the icing on my Montpellier cake.  I felt so satisfied at how everything had turned out, at how what initially seemed like horrendous bad-luck had developed into good, securing a reservation, avoiding Nimes, availability at the hostel, the coincidence that I fell in love with Montpellier, and the friends I made.  It wasn’t only the English speakers and the familiarity with home-culture that completed the feeling of being at home, it was the people themselves; it was friendship, which is essential wherever you are in the world.  When you feel at home, you feel like yourself.  So perhaps, finding a sense of home somewhere has just as much to do with the people you meet as well as the place itself.  Get them both right, and you’re onto a winner.

A person might seek to experience somewhere new, a place they feel at home.  This is often teamed with their need to escape from the very place they come from.  To feel comfortable elsewhere but to get away from the mundane things you see and do everyday is surely the perfect escape, whether it is in another country, or your own...

The Spirit of Wandering & Love of Novelty

The Spirit of Wandering & Love of Novelty

Ljubljana, Slovenia

The incandescent rays of dawn and retiring shadows from the night before flickered across my eyelids as I awkwardly dozed on the train from Split to Slovenia.  The sun seemed to rise suddenly, and it revealed a brand new panoramic morning to five squinted travellers.  With picturesque green and golden mountains undulating nonchalantly alongside the carriage window, I became hypnotised and began to think back on this experience which was soon coming to a close.  The map of Europe scrunched in my bag looked like a dot-to-dot puzzle, and we were the tiny pencil pinpricks that sketched the lines between, and joined the dots along our planned and plotted route.  Like so many others who had travelled before us, we had all done the same thing, and we all resembled each other.

It certainly takes a lot more than two and a half weeks of inter-railing to become an experienced traveller, as we realised when arriving at the wrong hostel at the opposite end of Ljubljana.  We soon discovered that there are three Alibi hostels, and ours was of course the one 1km out of town.  However, every mistake can be a benefit in another way, and this one showed us the blue-green twinkle of the Ljubljanica River that sleepily drifts through the heart of the Old Town, its reflection dazzling and enriching the lustre of this fresh September day.  The river is also known as The River of Seven Names; before it reaches Ljubljana it disappears under the ground and springs up again a number of times, each time with a different title.  Along the river’s banks sweeping willow trees dip their leafy ends curiously into the foreign thrill of the water, just like any young traveller experiencing someplace new, approaching with fresh eyes and a yearning for the electricity of first impressions, for the excitement of the unknown.

The view from Ljubljana Castle

Riverside restaurants and bars root the tall Baroque, Habsburg, Roman and medieval buildings that wall the bright and cheery afternoon air of this part of town, reconstructed after the earthquake of 1895. Plonked right in the centre is Castle Hill, an out-of-place mound at the top of which sits Ljubljana Castle.  This very odd sort of castle is semi-modernised beyond recognition with an exquisite-looking cafe and courtyard, and semi-medieval with crumbling stone and spectacular views of distant Alpine mountains.  The walk back down is a casual one through leafy pathways spotted with sunshine, which glared through the flourishing canopies above; a cool autumn breeze would soon strip this scene.

The view from Llubljana Castle

In my eyes the beauty of ‘holiday’ lies in the scenery, the atmosphere, the company, the weather, and most of all the freedom to spend your time as you please.  Having now visited countless European hotspots, we had somewhat lost interest in seeing every guidebook-recommended museum or cathedral. My initial enthusiasm to do so ran out quickly as I realised that visiting such attractions didn’t seem to deliver a true sense of that place for me, or any form of novelty or individuality when most museums or cathedrals look the same as the last.  I found much more visual and spiritual satisfaction in wandering and walking, taking the time to relax, to enjoy the changing sceneries, the new atmospheres, the company and the weather.  We wanted to let Ljubljana life come to us, and what better way of doing so than by sitting outside, watching the world and Slovenian Morris-like dancers go by, with five big bottles of Zlatorogs on our table and the lazy early-evening haze merging with our own increasingly fuzzy vision.

Zlatorogs in Llubljana

We woke up early the next day for our trip to Lake Bled, something I had been looking forward to enormously since seeing this vast tarn embellished on a peeling post card.  Bled is an easy train ride away from Ljubljana and on arrival a nippy bus took us to the lake. This place has been the location of many a film set; including the 2008 film ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian’ which used the surrounding valleys as the backdrop for the film.  The water gleamed and emitted a bright electric blue in the blazing sunshine, its vibrancy contradicting its smooth, unnaturally calm disposition.  I could picture the movie trailer now, panning through dark, thick fog until reaching the serene, mysterious island that lies in the middle of the lake.  From the island a bell tower chimes and the echo hollowly reverberates off the sloping and jagged mountains that guard this landscape on all sides.  Covered in lush green trees and cascading waterfalls, these sentries were crowned with white halos.  This really felt like a ‘Sound of Music’ scene.  The thermal waters of the lake are fed into the swimming pools of surrounding hotels and are thought to have curative qualities, relieving stress-related illnesses and age-related fatigue.  However it is difficult to imagine feeling stressed or tired in this breathtaking, tranquil and satisfying place.  This was unique, this was the real Slovenia, and I fell in love instantly.

Lake Bled

We sat on a grassy spot to eat our delicious salami, tomato and mozzarella ciabatta sandwiches, watching rowing boats skim across the water and escaping the odd greedy wasp that buzzed after our lunch.  We then spent the rest of our day rowing a boat forwards instead of backwards, zigzagging in all directions towards the island, breathing in the sunshine, drinking in the lush surroundings, enjoying the light silky breeze and the cool and clear fresh water at our fingertips.  We tied up our ramshackle boat on the island’s small wooden pier and treaded on the stony path beneath the shade of the trees, until we reached the chiming tower.  The three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views were so astonishing that we hadn’t noticed our boat slyly floating away, only to be saved by the island’s café owner.  Safely back on the mainland we came across a short wooden pier that stretched out into the lake we sat and dipped our hot, needy feet into the water, like the branches of a willow tree.  We fed the ducks and basked in the novelty and the breathtaking beauty of Lake Bled. 

This Slovenian visit seemed to be over so swiftly yet we had seen and wandered so much, and we had done it at our own pace.  Basking in the relaxed novelty of Ljubljana and Lake Bled, it felt like our travels were winding down.  However our journey was not over yet, for tomorrow we would carry on to our final destination, and the Viennese dot would be joined.  In this constant transitory existence we seemed unnoticed and insignificant to anyone but ourselves, as travellers come and go they are soon to be forgotten by the places they have been to, but they are never to be forgotten by us.

A Transitory Existence (Part III)

A Transitory Existence (Part III)

 Split, Croatia

After two nights in Sarajevo we checked out and got a tram to the bus station.  Thus far we had travelled by plane and train.  It was nice to have a change and the six hour coach journey to Split in Croatia was the most intensely beautiful yet.  Cascading mountains stood firm at all sides of the road and tremendous cliff edges hung over bottle green lagoons, their shadows impressing upon the water’s indifferent reflection.  The coach winded between these peaks and lakes through all the scrumptious shades of green.  When the sun began to set, flames of scarlet red and whips of orange expanded across the sky.  The sheer mixture and combination of colours felt unique to this time, to this place and to me.

‘Perception is always self-reflection; as the traveller looks at a landscape, he or she is always looking at him or herself looking as well.’

Shelley’s Eye, Benjamin Colbert 2005.

Across the border the sun’s embers burned down into a deep blue sky and the stars confirmed a clear night, our rainy cloud had finally given up on us.

We arrived in Split at ten o’clock.  The unexpected instant increase in temperature excited our senses, our skin relished the warmth and I felt a glow rise to my cheeks as we got picked up from the station.  A girl of about the same age took us to an apartment let out by her family.  The apartment was enormous and plush, we had somehow secured for five pounds a night.  With air conditioning and three bedrooms, two of which contained double beds, this was an amazing prospect after the last hostel we had stayed in.

Scrambling across the pebbly beach that night we watched Tribu Club’s lights dance on the rippling sea water.  This was our first coastal visit, and the pleasant heat that balanced with the crisp novelty of the air made this evening just what the doctor ordered.  Team that with some very strong cocktails and cheesy music and we had ourselves a very fun drunken night.

Promenade in Split

We planned to stay in each place for two nights apart from here in Split, where we spent three.  With more time we took each day at a slower pace, and spent them sleeping in as it was too hot to venture out in the mornings anyway.  We spent most of our time sunbathing on the beach, swimming in the cool, caressing water amongst the furry rocks and curious sea plants, and strolling up and down the lengthy promenade and harbours, which contained various impressive yachts and boats.  Between the refreshing dips and tanning sessions I often went on ahead of the others to find a quiet sunny spot, to sit and write my diary with only myself and the delicately pretty calm blue waters, the hot sunshine and glistening views for company.  Conspicuous silver mountains rose straight out from the seabed to my left.  The coast reminded me of Italy, but an Italy with stony pebbles and fewer tourists.  Just across the Adriatic was a parallel yet totally different story.  My mind also strayed to the Cornish coast, a place I have always loved.  I couldn’t help but compare these pebbles to its sand, the solitude of this shore to the companionship of my friends and family there.  I felt a sudden jolt of missing, but this sun was blinding and the temperature delirious and I soon snapped out of my hypnotised state with an ocean’s splash from Tash.

Beach in Split

By night we graced the bars in the centre of town, wandering through the quiet Old Town past the crumbling Roman ruins to find courtyards brimming with life.  We found a pleasant venue whose occupants littered the steps leading from it, sitting on cushions and chairs.  A little community surrounded the bar and we drank Mojitos out in the mild evening air to our heart’s delight.

Mojitos in Split

On our last day in Split, September 11^th, we went to look around the fashionable clothes shops and hippy-chic jewellery stalls.  With everyone rendered happy with their purchases and the spending of their last few coins, we sat on the rocky wooden decking of the marina sea front and dipped our feet into the cool ocean liquid.  We laughed at the countless bronzed sailors proudly wandering around in their tight white and navy uniforms and hats.  Split is at the heart of romance and youth, the sun glowed then went behind the horizon, and with the end of another day it was time to catch another train.  With a couple of hours to kill we went to buy wine and chocolate for the night train to Ljubljana.

Marina in Split

A Transitory Existence (Part II)

A Transitory Existence (Part II)

Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

On the morning of September 6^th we left for the twelve-hour day train to Sarajevo in Bosnia and Herzegovina.  Our compartment turned out to be non-existent, and we suspected that this was the doing of the unpleasant woman at the ticket office.  Eventually we secured a carriage next to the same boys who were on our last train to Hungary, meetings like this often occurred between groups of travellers, and we happily chatted and played cards with them for a while.  The journey was a very slow and uncomfortable one, and we all suffered from stiff legs and sore backsides.   The train clattered on at a snail’s pace and stopped at every insignificant station, sometimes waiting for an hour at a time.  In between naps I wrote my diary and thought about our next destination.  The places we had been to so far each had had a definite air and individual vibe about them, yet this time it felt like we were entering into a different sort of Eastern Europe.  Somewhere where culture differs just that fraction more, a place immersed in history where there are still visual signs of suffering and ruin.  I wondered whether we would be welcomed somewhere so rich in misfortune, a place that we ignorantly knew so little about.  The scenery from the carriage was flat and tedious, brown field upon brown field stretched to the horizon to merge with a grey and disinterested sky.  The change was almost immediate, but we embraced this exciting adjustment, the unpredictability of how we would receive and be received by this destination gave a new dimension to the trip.

We finally arrived at about nine that evening.  It was dark now, and the ceaseless cloud of rain had followed us here.  Aching to relieve our painful posteriors we felt a sigh of disappointment with the hostel.  Our room was in the basement of a building slightly out of town, it felt hollow and there was no hot water.  In the room with us were five silly Swedish girls and an irritating Bosnian boy I never bothered to learn the name of, as he constantly insisted on having serious debates about politics and communism.  He had come here to seek some knowledge of the history and society that interested him so much.  Ursula, who was doing a politics and law degree, found him fascinating and took him under her wing, to my complete and utter annoyance.  I had no real reason to dislike him, he would probably be interesting to most people, but I felt tired and hungry and did not appreciate my upmost attention being demanded by a stranger.  Perhaps I displayed the stereotypically rude and selfish nature of the English, and perhaps he showed the engaging and interested nature of Europeans.  Either way, I did not care very much.

This dramatic change in my mood was lightened when we began to notice the kind-hearted nature of the people of Sarajevo.  It was late and we were looking for a place to eat when a man stopped to help, ringing an English-speaking friend to direct us to a small pizza place, which subsequently made the freshest, most delicious stone-baked pizza.  A smooth character named Elvis with slicked back black hair and clad in black leather began chatting to us and conveniently owned the bar next door.  We drank Sarajevsko lager, plum flavoured Bosnian spirit and flaming Sambucca chambers, all impressively whizzed in front of us by the loveable waiter with a sweet smile, who got paid a mere five pounds a week.  We enjoyed the gypsy music and Elvis’ company then rambled on back to our bunk beds, before the Bosnian boy got the chance to give another lecture about something boring or other.

Gravestones overlooking a view of Sarajevo

 The town itself is small for a capital and has an understated genuine sort of charm unlike any of the other cities we had visited.  Pigeon Square certainly holds true to its name.  The market shops are mainly ramshackle crooked wooden huts selling hand-woven rugs, jewellery and all sorts of useless bits and bobs.  My bad spirits returned when the others began to mess around with cashing traveller’s cheques and following the Bosnian boy around, who, to my horror, proposed that we waited for him outside the Post Office whilst he queued to spend £100 on five stamps for his stamp collection.  Of all the things to be doing with my day this was not what I had in mind.  Infuriated with the lack of action and fuss over this stranger who we would never see again, and who I deemed the most boring person I had ever met, I stormed away from the others in a raging temper. With no map I headed towards the Milijacka River which is an unpleasant muddy brown colour, but walking up a hill I was finally rewarded with satisfying views of the town’s red rooftops intermingled with the deep green ferns of the surrounding hills.  I took a deep breath and felt the pressure in my chest subside.  Sarajevo looks refreshingly different.  Unlike the dull landscape of the train journey, it looks healthy and thriving even with a few cracks littered about the pavements, and even with the fields of ageing gravestones.  The war wounds and bullet holes spotted about the older buildings give this place a melancholy depth. Yet these holes, these people and this city seem to be re-healing themselves from the dark days of the German bombing campaign in World War II.

Chess players

 Meanwhile, the town and its people seemed simply delightful; I was particularly beguiled by a group of elderly men playing oversized chess together in a park square.  With my nerves calmed, strop officially over and the boy disposed of I met with the others again.  The friendly and casual atmosphere of Sarajevo rested comfortably in our minds and not once did we get a bad reception for being English.

A Transitory Existence (Part I)

A Transitory Existence

Budapest, Hungary

When long hours need filling and unoccupied minds need stimulating it comes as no surprise that the majority of travel journals are written whilst actually in transit.  With patience it can provide the greatest of entertainment, even whilst awkwardly sat in a stuffy train carriage and logged between the highlights of ticket checks, passport checks and expeditions to the bathroom.  Recent travels need documenting essentially when the senses, smells and tastes of a place are still fresh and ripe.  Even brief notes made in a scrubby notebook can allow for a plethora of description to emerge.  When reading an old travel diary, sprung from the depths of my own subconscious mind, and carved from my own memories were imaginative accounts, the likes of which I had not initially realised existed on these scuffled pages.

On the evening of September 3^rd, 2007, our party of five nineteen-year-old English girls trawled under beaten raincoats to Krakow’s Dworzec Glowny train station.  Through the sodden streets the heavy bellowing rain bounded at the ground and bounced off the pavement to soak our flip-flopped feet.  So far our stay here had been smothered in speckles of sunshine and sprightly breezes.  This unexpected turn in the weather welcomed the 182.35 mile journey south that Fiona, Tash, Ursula, Catherine and I were about to embark on.  Failing to feel disheartened by the rain and in the hope of escaping the dark grey clouds we dried off on the train, read our wearying novels and enjoyed each other’s company.  The dynamics of a five-girl group frequently became complex or strained with such a high number of people.  All with strong yet entirely different personalities, we wanted to do different things, we disagreed sometimes and the group would often happily split into twos or threes to suit everyone’s needs and tempers.  Other times and particularly when travelling from place to place we became a unit, with the same destination in mind.  On this twelve-hour night train the combination worked, we consumed Tyskie lager and a group of rather cheery, rather giddy Belgian boys in the compartment next to ours invited us in.  They were slightly younger than us, and plentifully poured out plastic cups full of cherry vodka whilst we struggled to hide our amusement at their goofy manners and Belgian accents.

At six the next morning we were woken up by a woman from Tourist Information.  Still an hour away from Budapest we grumpily declined her offer of answering any questions about the city, and then on arrival walked in the completely wrong direction.  In the rain that had followed us from Poland, what we saw of Budapest felt like a combination of a number of contrasting worlds, modern and stylish yet definite and traditional.  Classicalist and gothic architecture contrasts with Art Nouveau and Turkish forming an eclectic mix of styles, and provoking the feeling that Budapest really is at the heart of Europe.  The capital features a mass array of creations from the tranquil manmade lake of Millenar Park to the odd sculptures of the CowParade exhibition; the world’s largest public art event which included rubixcube, zebra and watermelon cow sculpture designs. Budapest is swamped with architectural, artistic and visual variety.

The view from Gellert Hill, Buda

The city itself is divided into Buda and Pest by the Danube River.  We booked two nights at Eleventh Hour Hostel in Pest where I noticed a sign reading ‘I’d rather be a good liver than have one’ and instantly diagnosed this as our sort of place.  The small, dark-haired amiable girl who ran the hostel made us tea, coffee, popcorn and even brought us vodka.  Her upfront friendliness was endearing.  She wanted to be involved in the activity that surrounded us and made a great effort to please her guests.  I felt this rather unlike the prim, boring sort of people I had previously met in these sorts of establishments in England.

Thermal Roman Baths at the Gellert Hotel

The next day the weather was still awful so we got a bus to Buda to the thermal Roman baths at the Gellert Hotel, which perches on the north bank of the Danube.  Gellert Hill boasts vast views of the river and the turquoise Turkish domes of the city; breathtaking despite the drizzle.  The baths are the perfect idea for a rainy day.  The walls and ceilings are lavishly decorated and boldly gold in colour which complements the strong cerulean blue of the pools, a simultaneous air of royalty and communality simmers about this place.  The pools vary from those cool in temperature, to those with bubbles that swell beneath swimmers, to hot ones where both locals and tourists relax with eyes closed at the edges.  The minerals in the water are thick and cloudy causing a floating sensation, going from the cold plunge pool to the hot pools causes the skin to tingle and rejoice in the experience.  Various water fountains, sauna, eucalyptus steam room and massaging power showers complete an invigorating afternoon, and I had never felt so clean.

A Traditional Poland

A Traditional Poland

Krakow, Poland

“Ten przewóz do Warszawy.”A small yet vital piece of information meant that we could have ended up in the wrong Polish city.  The five of us reassembled in the Czech darkness, now on the correct carriage to Krakow I sat and contemplated our destination.    With Poland’s recent economic boost I pondered how different these two cities must be, having visited Warsaw before I knew it as the sky-scraping capital; metallic and dry.  With every building site, construction worker and flourishing business its beauty seems to diminish.  The scales are being tipped towards more Western European ideals and away from the appeal of the Old Town.  I yearned for the real Poland, for the friendly, traditional culture of my family’s rural farms and villages.  On the train the jolly Pole in our compartment chatted and offered us bottle after bottle of beer.  He reminded me of my older male relatives and this familiarity was comforting as the carriages clattered by in rolling slow-motion. As the others snoozed the only light flickered outside the compartment.  Hours elapsed as I squinted to read tales of wizards and wands, rickety train journeys, castles and lakes, of cobbled streets and the snow, and I fell asleep to the excitement of finally exploring a traditional Polish town.

When we woke up a new world had cracked open, and as with a runny egg we were the surplus bits of shell that poured from the station into the town.  Krakow is Poland’s third largest city and former capital, but unlike Warsaw it came out of the Second World War reasonably unharmed, and so today it maintains its medieval architecture.   Krakow’s sheer essence draws in the arrival of hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, and against the peaceful early-morning backdrop of this attractive, historical city we waddled through with backpacks and maps: a common eyesore.  It seems the appeal of a place can sometimes transform its image.  As travellers, other sightseers tend to become loathsome, yet we consider ourselves as dissimilar to them, as having more of a right to visit anywhere we please because we are young and deserve to see the world, and yet even in thinking this we are conforming to typical tourist cognition.

Krakow is divided into eighteen districts including the Old Town (Stare Miasto), the Wawel District and Kazimierz (the Jewish quarter).  Particularly when wandering through the Old Town I felt a sense of real Polish ambience; locals and tourists bustle between Polish cuisine eateries, buskers and flower-sellers dot about the tread-ways, tobacco stands prop up every corner and housewives line every street selling homemade bread and cakes.  In the centre of the Rynek Glowny (Market Square) the beautiful arched architecture of the Old Cloth Hall separates this from any other square.  This centre of activity is the city’s meeting place where both young and old come together, the satisfying September sun casually highlighting this scene made it all the more radiant, and all the more unique.

Rynek Glowny Old Cloth Hall

In the Wawel District, Wawel Castle and Cathedral sit on the top of Wawel Hill next to the Vistula River.  The castle’s history dates back to the eleventh century and is a former residence of the Polish kings; the surrounding buildings have Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance features.  The arcaded courtyard is bright and spacious, built in the Renaissance style it glows like a ‘Casanova’ scene.  My imagination ran away with me as I pictured couples parading sweetly together here under the courtyard’s white arches, flooded with romance and curiosity.  In the castle gardens deep and rich purple tulips from the flower beds and leaves from the trees shuffled in and out of sync in the breeze.  With a drawbridge entrance and a view over the river it’s no surprise that this romantic setting is subject to so many weddings.  A set of spiral steps lead to the ‘Dragon’s Den’, according to legend the Wawel dragon lived here until it was defeated by a poor shoemaker.  The underground cave passages are a satisfying exit from the castle and leave a wizardly, medieval impression especially upon those blessed with a child’s imagination.

View of Wawel Castle from the Vistula River

Taking a darker turn, an hour’s bus or train journey away from Krakow is the town of Oswiecim, better known as Auschwitz.  Visitors are taken on a tour around two of Auschwitz’s three camps.  Auschwitz I was the original camp and today various exhibitions depict its history through portrayals of the sufferings of prisoners, and the gruesome gas chambers and crematoriums that they perished in.  A shuttle bus goes to Auschwitz II; Nazi Germany’s largest concentration camp.  The majority of Jews that arrived at Auschwitz’s specially built train station were imprisoned here.  Having been told they were heading for a better life they were brought to their slaughter or enslavement on arrival.  Auschwitz is a very serious, very morbid day but a necessary visit especially for someone with Jewish or Polish roots.  I felt amazed at my Polish grandparents who had suffered and survived through these experiences during the War: without their bravery my family and I wouldn’t be here today.

Auschwitz II

It is easy to spend quite a few days in Krakow as there is so much to do in and around the city.  In the right season days can be spent in Zakopane, a village and popular skiing resort at the foot of the Tatra Mountains.  Failing that the mines at Wieliczka provide a fascinating few hours.  One hundred feet underground the rocks are embraced in salt.  Some of the caved passages are burnt and indigo from numerous candle fires, and reconstructions of horse-drawn machinery display Wieliczka’s 900 year-old mining methods.  Within the mines is St. Kinga’s Chapel where the chandeliers, altar and wall mural of Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ are all completely carved out of salt.

We spent our favourite and least touristy day just out of town.  Deep in a park of fern trees winding paths brought us to sheer cliffs which enveloped an abandoned quarry. Walking around this astonishingly gorgeous dark blue lagoon the slope crumbled and we clambered and jumped by the water’s edge.  The risk was worth the still fresh water slicing at our faces.  It was even worth the rocks bruising our skin and pondweeds licking and playing with our nervy senses.  The cold liquid got darker and deeper the further we swam, but when the sun beamed and the water shimmered we surfaced from the depths and babbled and splashed back to the edge.  The lagoon was transformed from a magnificently dark, exciting, unknown place to a bright, blinding, sundrenched spectacle.

'The Blue Lagoon'

To conclude our stay in Krakow we ate a delicious dinner at Babcha’s restaurant just off the Rynek Glowny.  This endearing little place felt quintessentially Polish, and when stuffing my face with Pierogi I felt that this whole visit had quenched my thirst for an essence of traditional Poland.  Krakow itself does seem to display a pinch of Warsaw’s cosmopolitan influence, yet this is only really present in shops and outlets.  Of course the city of Krakow is not like the rural Polish villages of my childhood memories, but visually and atmospherically this alluring place feels very traditional with its relaxed, old world charm.  Krakow attracts an influx of tourists; this is apparent but it only blemishes the surface.  The appeal of Krakow is far too strong for this to detract from its delights. 

We did the expected touristy things like visit Wawel Castle, Auschwitz and Wieliczka’s salt mines.   We did unexpected non-touristy things such as swimming in the quarry, and simply wandering with no procedure.  The admittance of being one of those puzzle-faced foreigners means that one can learn more about such a wonderful place and its history.  The bottle to explore just that little bit further can lead to glorious encounters never even contemplated.  Combining the two approaches makes Krakow a very memorable experience, and I have never felt so proud to be Polish.