Published: 10 June 2022 ~ Victor Ryabinin Pushes Boat Out with Bronze Aged Fisherman
At last, on Saturday 4th June 2022, the memorial plaque that we commissioned in 2021 linking Victor Ryabinin, friend and Königsberg artist, to our physical representation of his famous painting ‘Boat with Flowers’, which occupies pride of place next to the Soviet fisherman statue, was given a home. The reason it never got attached last year was that we could not make up our minds where the plaque should go. The original plan was to include it within the boat and statue ensemble, possibly secured to a large flat-surfaced rock, screwed to the side of the boat or mounted on some plinth or other. I was easy with any of these three options, but Olga opined that the plaque would be hidden, which would rather defeat the object.
Thus, the location of the plaque was put to the vote, resulting in the unanimous decision to secure it to the side of the house, beside the garden gate. Our friend with the drill and bolts, Mr Chilikin, performed his side of the operation, whilst I, having just returned from the shop with two bottles of beer, provided inestimable assistance by holding the plaque in place.
Victor Ryabinin
When you lose someone as dear and as vital as Victor, time has a perplexing way of flying and standing still at the same time. This July will see the third anniversary of Victor’s death. It seems like only yesterday, ten thousand days or more.
I am not ashamed to say that once the plaque had been placed, I did shed a few tears, but being a real Englishman, not a cheap British counterfeit, in order to maintain the myth of the stiff upper lip, I managed this in private.
Of course, once the plaque had been ‘unveiled’ a toast ensued involving vodka, after which an intuitive silence fell on those of us present, the shared but unspoken thought being that had Death not exercised its non negotiable right to inopportune subtraction, doubtlessly Victor would have been with us today, and no plaque would have been necessary, just another glass. Life goes on, as they say, though never quite in the same old way.
This year our boat is not looking anywhere near as well-stocked and verdant as the one in Victor’s painting, so project two is to rectify that discrepancy as soon as humanly possible.
Before getting down to the serious task of celebrating what was without argument the most glorious summer day this year, Mr Chilikin also made good his promise to turn our fisherman bronze. You may remember that last year’s restorative work on Captain Codpiece, our statue, had garnered criticism from a certain outspoken babushka, to wit that his new coat of paint appeared to be designed to make the feeble minded do something remarkably silly, like go down on one knee. Hence, there was nothing for it: either we had to delete one letter in the ‘Codpiece’ name and add two more in its place or pursue the original plan, which was to make him bronze.
The latter option being the best in good taste all round, though the former was chucklingly good, Mr Chilikin got to woke, I mean work, and with the catalysing infusion of a couple of homemade vodkas gave Codpiece a new look that would make any alchemist jealous.
In the 1960s, the fisherman had been silvered, but that was long ago. The Soviet era passed, the silver wore away and the fisherman’s concrete superstructure began seriously deteriorating. We repaired him, coated the concrete in a special sealant and weather-proof solution and painted him in a dark matte ground with hints and highlights of bronze. Finally, succumbing to the criticism that he was as dark as a midnight mushroom, we turned up the bronze, although some might say that relative to the new beginning he is fullfilling an act of destiny and turning into gold.
“Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.” ― Oscar Wilde
Published: 6 June 2022 ~ Word War III the Latest Media Plandemic
So, do you do it and, if the answer is yes, do you do a lot of it? I do ~ musing, I mean.
And isn’t there just so much to muse on?
Let’s take Ukraine, for example. When I say take, I don’t mean as in takeaway ~ which, someone suggested, is what the Poles want to do ~ I use the term figuratively, as in example1.
I am sure you will agree that it is an excellent example, as it is virtually impossible these days whenever the need for musing arises not to have a muse or two about what it is the West is up to out there in Ukraine.
The one place where you won’t find that out is in the British media, because Britland’s media is far too busy making (you could say ‘manufacturing’) news than reporting it. They did it to you with Brexit; they did it through the Plandemic; and now they are doing it to you again with Ukraine. Why does the British government and its media lackies want to scare you shitless?
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The simple answer, but not the whole story, is to get you to buy newspapers and to click on their websites, thereby enabling them to fleece gullible advertisers. Terror sells ~ but there is more to it than that.
It is ironic don’t you think (well, do you think?) that UK media is obsessed with speculation as to whether the crisis in Ukraine will result in World War III (it has certainly resulted in Word War III), which, incidentally, should it happen would make it hard to find the UK on the global map (not trying to frighten you, or anything), but continues to support UK government policy to pump shipment after shipment of arms to Ukraine, thus bringing the threat of Armageddon closer. Such irresponsible profligacy costs the British taxpayer dearly for something that to all accounts gets itself blown up soon after it arrives on foreign soil2.
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If the Labour Party was not so riddled with woke, someone ~ someone who is not scared to be called misogynist ~ could come right out with it and tell the foreign secretary ‘Liz don’t Trusst her’ that she is not fit for purpose and that perhaps it would be better for everyone if she just went home where she could try to do something useful like whip up a batch of scones. That something from the Labour party could then add that the money the UK is throwing away on its latest imperialist misadventure could be put to better use, such as donated to its favourite political hobby-horse the NHS, if only to finance the extra burden that will soon devolve to this commendable institution from the influx of merry migrants that keep grinning their way on boats to Dover. The logic is elementary but fundamental: more people in an over-populated country means less NHS to go round.
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I know that there are an awful lot of Brits musing on the immigration fiasco, most of whom will never go beyond musing as they are afraid to voice their opinions, and I fully understand why. It is all so tiresome, is it not, having to prefix every honest syllable you utter with, “I’m not racist, but …” And after all, why should you bother? It is obvious that Britain’s political elite don’t or else the little overcrowded boats would not keep bobbing in. But then the difference between Britain’s political elites and you is that when the sh!t hits the fan, which it will (look at Sweden!) the elite will be going the other way and you’ll be left in the line of fire.
This tragedy is no longer one which is waiting to happen. It is already underway. But let’s not muse on that. Our current muse turns on the question: Is the British establishment placing the lives of every citizen in the UK at risk by openly suppling weapons to Ukraine, by its bellicosity towards Russia and by playing lapdog to the United States?
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When nuclear war was first mentioned, which, in case you didn’t know was by the West and by the Brits, Sergey Lavrov, Russia’s Foreign Minister, had this to say:
“I would like to draw your attention to the fact that the thought of nuclear war is constantly running through the minds of Western politicians but not the minds of Russians.”3
Since then, however, the unthinkable, which also used to be the unspeakable, makes guest appearances on a regular basis throughout the UK media, so much so that if it wasn’t for Britain’s endemic violence and the UK’s cops losing the fight against street crime, the possibility of nuclear war would even eclipse these subjects.
Given the extent of the media-led psychosis and the paranoia it has imbued, it is hardly surprising that there are people in the Russian Federation who have begun to respond in kind4.
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Time, do you think (well, do you think?) for British people to stand up for themselves, to instruct their ‘democratically elected government’ and its malignant media that enough is really enough.
There are, however, other ‘atomic bombs’ that haven’t gone off as planned, for example sanctions.
I sometimes get the impression that I am the only one that the West has sanctioned! Recently, someone sent me some money from the UK, and it arrived in Russia worth half as much as it was before the liberal globalists set out to cripple Russia’s economy! Am I missing something here ~ apart from half my cash? Did the West unleash sanctions deliberately to make the rouble stronger? Last month, the pounds weakness in relation to the rouble meant that I could only buy half the amount of beer that I would normally buy? Now, that is serious! Meanwhile, according to my family and friends in Britland, the cost of living is soaring and the standard of living collapsing. Ahh, but I hear you say, there is madness in our government’s method.
5
We all know by now, or should know, that the sanctions have been successful, at least in punishing every Tom, Uncle Tom, Dick and Leroy in the US and UK, but not, it would appear, in Russia. The civil unrest hoped for and orchestrated with the assistance of a certain ‘philanthropic billionaire’ has not materialised, and Russia’s special military operation appears to be going as planned. Political analysts opine that whilst the West may delay Russia’s progress in Ukraine, it will not stop it from achieving its goals5.
The extent of the West’s frustration is encapsulated in the ever-self-explosive rhetoric embarrassingly evacuating from the oratory orifice of the Polish prime minister, who appears to have ordained himself as the Archbishop of Anti-Russian Hysteria. Notwithstanding his ‘personal shame’ ~ ‘the personal shame of the Polish Prime Minister’6 ~ at least he looks good with his 1960s’ hairstyle and specs, but even those have not proved sufficient to dissuade neither US nor British governments from continuing to spend billions on military equipment bound for Ukraine, where off it goes to get blown up. Someone commenting on a media site waggishly asked, wouldn’t it just be a lot less trouble and considerably less expensive to blow these shipments up before they leave the US and the UK, thus saving the price of the postage?
4
Every crisis known to man {LGBTs, Its and Others} ~ or should that be ever manufactured by man? ~ has been a godsend for profiteering of one kind or another.
Evidence suggests that the UK establishment is profiting from the conflict in Ukraine by using it as a cover for the miss-management of its economy7: terror and hysteria make superb attention conductors. The strategy is not new. It’s merely a resuscitation of the old Theresa May ploy, “It’s ‘highly likely’ the Russians have done it!” Move along, please, nothing to see (or believe in) here.
But even exploitation, or so it would seem, is not what it used to be. I must say I am rather surprised that someone in high office has not yet implemented Plan A as a means of reassuring Brits that should the UK government over play its hand in Ukraine, thus sparking a global disaster, surviving a nuclear holocaust may yet be possible providing that mandatory lockdowns, mask-wearing, compulsory vaccinations ~ and WHO knows what ~ are rigorously adhered to.
3
I am convinced, however, that the endless stream of third-world migrants pouring into Dover is a crucial component of the UK’s defence strategy, guaranteed, I imagine, if not to act as a shield against incoming missiles to effectively deter any kind of invasion other than the migrant one, which the UK establishment appears to support. For surely nobody in their right mind would want to take possession of a country ravaged by migrant unrest and migrant-related violence, plagued by woke, cancel culture and, buggered if I know what else, ahh that reminds me, gay parades.
2
I’m not suggesting that lockdowns, mask-wearing and mandatory vaccinations would be any less effective than they have proved to be for anything else, but better the devil you know than the ones that make work for idle minds.
Published: 29 May 2022 ~ How to make a film based in Königsberg
Lead actress, Elena Borovzova – a lady in red – in Yury Grozmani’s Last Tango in Königsberg
THE LAST DAY OF FILMING as far as we were concerned for Yury Grozmani’s Last Tango in Königsberg (a film made with the support of the Presidential Foundation for Cultural Initiatives)took place today on 26 May at Ivan Zverev’s atmospheric museum in Nizovie.
I was fighting a private battle with a decaying wisdom tooth. “You’re such a hero,” my good lady wife never said, “for ignoring your pain and going ahead with the film.”
How to make a film based in Königsberg
Arthur Eagle, the film’s production enforcer, promised that the filming wouldn’t take long. If I remember rightly, I believe he said ten minutes. Of course, he was rather economical with the truth, and we were there all day, sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the rain but mostly in the wind and cold. It was one of those days that managed to fit all four seasons into one afternoon.
Mick Hart playing a role in Yury Grozmani’s film at Nizovie Museum, Kaliningrad, Russia
My scene came first. It was done in a couple of takes; that’s professional for you! But thereafter came lots of hanging about. My wife, Olga, had agreed to take a part in the production, and unbeknown to us the scene in which she had been cast would not take place until a good while later.
Aleksandr Kostenko, commandant, with Olga Hart and Inara Eagle in Yury Grozmani’sLast Tango in Königsberg
As stated in my previous post, famous and even not so famous actors performing for the large or not so large screen are no strangers to hanging around. After a short induction it quickly becomes something of a skill, kicking your heels whilst each scene is repeated umpteen times; first filmed this way, then filmed that way, a camera angle from here, a camera angle from there, a close up followed by a closer close up; and all this without including numerous takes and retakes and the repetition of parts of scenes for homing in on and improving sound quality.
Cameraman at work on Yury Grozmani’s WWII film. Location: NIzovie Museum, Russia
I was not too perturbed about playing the waiting game as Nizovie museum is my kind of place: an old building, imaginatively restored and with the additional bonus of being extremely full of antique and obsolete items ~ including my wisdom tooth (“And the rest!” ~ who said that?).
Mick Hart with actor & Hanomag owner Michail GvozdenkoOlga Hart with Hanomag on the film set of Yury Grozmanl’s Last Tango in Königsberg
Another plus of waiting was that later in the day the last scene to be shot outside would feature the 1927 Cadillac, a Soviet Gaz-67 and also the Hanomag, the car that had a starring role in the film noir, Agnes, recently shown at Waldau Castle.
Gaz-67 and Hanomag
As the weather travelled through its yearly cycle in under six hours, Olga and I took refuge in the Hanomag, where we were able to furnish ourselves with some rather nice photographs of a vintage car so thoroughly German that I could almost feel the Gestapo breathing down my neck. In fact, it was Yury Grozmani, the writer and producer of the film, urging me to take part in a scene for which I had not been scheduled. And so it came to pass.
Coaching for this scene took place behind Mr Zverev’s car. It occurred to me that there was every possibility that this was the first time that I had stood behind a 1927 Cadillac wearing a 1940s’ trilby with a Russian gent waiting to cue me for a film sequence. Before going on he said to me, “Try to look tragic.” What else, I thought.
Mick Hart with Ivan Zverev’s 1927 Cadillac
The last scene of the day was filmed outside on the forecourt and upon the steps leading to the museum. A gale force wind had blown in from somewhere with a rather nasty edge to it, but it was worth getting your wisdom tooth cold for just to see the combination of all three vehicles in close proximity and in the conjoining presence of uniformed Soviet actors.
There are still quite a few scenes left to be shot before the film is in the can, but my bit is complete. My next act, which will take considerably more skill to master, is trying to look brave at the dentists!
*The film is made with the support of the Presidential Foundation for Cultural Initiatives
Waldau Castle and film noir go so well together, as actor Michail Gvozdenko demonstrates, that not being seen dead there would probably never occur to you.
Published: 24 May 2022 ~ Waldau Castle and film noir make a perfect partnership
On our last visit to Waldau Castle we had the pleasure of watching a 30-minute film noir, Agnes, set in 1940s’ Königsberg. Shot in the grounds of Königsberg Cathedral, in the East Prussian countryside and at Waldau castle, whilst the mood of the film and its retrospective authenticity owes a lot to the imaginative screenplay and the cinematographic convention of producing it in black and white, good casting throughout ensures that this silent intertitle movie delivers impact and holds one’s attention from the opening scenes to the end credits.
The plot goes something like this: Whilst walking, a young woman, Agnes, (actress Ekaterina Zuravleva) accidently drops a postcard informing her friend that she is content living with her rich aunt. A young chap picks the card up and reads it. Realising that the young woman comes from a rich family he returns the card to her, flirts and hands her his business card. He visits the castle several times where Agnes lives, but her austere aunt sees through the deception; she realises that the man’s intentions are not honourable; he is not in love but is after their money. Agnes, however, refuses to heed her aunt’s advice to stay away from the man. Driven to breaking point by her aunt’s controlling nature, a violent altercation occurs following which Agnes kills her aunt, takes her money and her jewellery and flees from the castle in the company of the man about whose perfidy she has been warned. On the way to the ‘promised land,’ the man kills her. He gives her a long red scarf to wear, which flows from the open car window and wraps itself around one of the wheels (an allusion to the death of Isadora Duncan, the 1920s’ American dancer). He places her body on the side of the road, is met by a female accomplice and they drive off together gloating over their ill-gotten gains. As they do so, they appear to be planning another hoax, which may be why there is talk of a possible sequel.
Waldau Castle and film noir make a perfect partnership
Not unlike the male lead, the scheming opportunist who wheedles his way into the life of the young woman, I, seeing an opportunity to have my photograph taken with Michail Gvozdenko, the lead male actor, was happy to pose with him next to a film publicity poster. You might infer that I would have been a lot happier had I been standing next to the actresses in real life, but if horses were wishes beggars would ride. As it was, I was pleased to ‘get in on the act’: any man who can wear a trilby in such a way that he would pass unnoticed on a 1940s’ street is someone whom we should all stand next to, at least once in our modern and sadly less elegant lives.
Michail Gvozdenko did an excellent job of convincing us, in or out of trilby, that have Hanomag will seduce. Whether this is true or not you will have to ask the actor, as the Hanomag car that features in the film, which, incidentally, has original Königsberg credentials, is owned by the actor himself. Of course, it does help if you are smooth, suave and sophisticated and always carry a business card!
Some of the costumes and props used in the film are on display at Waldau Castle, together with the medieval-style wall bed in which the deluded and cheated Agnes bumps off her aunt before being heartlessly despatched herself. That’s no way to treat an antique wall bed even less so an ailing aunt, regardless of her readily purloinable fortune. As for the death of Agnes (sigh!), as Leonard Cohen would say, “I came so far for beauty, I left so much behind”.
Published: 20 May 2022 ~ Waldau Castle Revisited and the Case of Asparagus Soup
The grass verges on either side of the drive leading to the entrance of Waldau Castle were awash with cars and on the other side of the striped checkpoint-style gate, the type much-loved in spy thrillers, twenty or thirty more people across a broad age spectrum were swarming about the grounds busy digging, sweeping, carrying and wheeling things. The place was a hive of activity.
Looking down from an air balloon or, if you prefer, a magic carpet, you might conceive that you had inadvertently dropped something and, in the process, disturbed an ant’s nest, but back on terra firma disturbance played no part. Waldau Castle has a way, a mystical way, of gently absorbing everything, even a milling crowd, into the matrix of its historical presence and making it indistinguishable from the permeating status quo.
A day of impressions at Waldau Castle
I looked up at the castle windows, at the old and the new. Since we were last here, Mr Sorokin had been busy replacing, renovating and making good the neglect of years. The windows looked down back at me, the protective polythene sheets where glazing was waiting to be installed moving slowly back and forth in the breeze, emitting little sighs, not of impatience but studied contentment.
Later, over a large cup of delicious asparagus soup and a plate of hot potatoes, Arthur Eagle would say, as he observed the Waldau edifice thoughtfully, that there was enough work to do here to keep the Sorokin family occupied for the rest of their natural lives. He paused, before adding quietly, “And beyond …”
Although I had only been inside Waldau Castle once before, the act of returning was like embracing an old friend. Inside the hall and main room (I gather that there once would have been a dividing wall to the left.), I had a feeling ~ not the admission to a museum feeling, but the warmth of being genuinely welcomed into someone’s home.
Perhaps the answer to the phenomenon lies in the 1972 Christmas ghost story The Stone Tape, which explores the theory that hard objects, such as stones and rocks, are capable of storing sensory information that can be intuitively retrieved and played back by those who are predisposed mentally and emotionally to metaphysical energies, except that in the case of Waldau Castle the reciprocity is resoundingly positive.
Waldau Castle has been around for 750 years and in the duration of its existence the castle’s physical structure has undergone changes too multitudinous and too far-reaching for precise computation, but stand alone in any one of its atmospheric rooms, its long concealed back corridor or upon the steps of its well-trodden and foot-worn staircase and place your hand upon the gnarled but solid brickwork and, should you be that way inclined, you will feel the lives of the people that dwelt within these walls and those like us who have passed this way.
On our previous visit, we were limited to the three main rooms that form the order of the front of the castle, but today we could stray without let or hinderance through and under the carved wooden screen into the long, wide, servants corridor that runs the length of the building and which would at one time presumably have contained interconnecting doors to each of the three main chambers.
Extremely spacious in all dimensions and with windows looking out upon, over and across the meadows that fall away at the back of the castle, windows that replicate those at the front, their deep horizontal V-shaped openings cut into sturdy walls two metres or more in depth, this secluded, secreted once functional passage had in its resting life become an avenue of thought.
Against its back walls stood two ancient window frames, pitched Gothic with pierced tracery, thoroughly weathered and eaten away in places by wood parasites and mould spores, but for all that in remarkable shape and solid for their age.
Besides them, nearby, a modern facsimile of these venerable frames, craftsman carved and assembled to form a replica so exact that only age could tell the difference, invoked the question was this the flexible and tailored handiwork of Mr Sorokin, the head of the resident household of Waldau Castle’s curators and conserverationists? I also wondered if it had been his hand to which the refectory table on the second floor owed its incarnation.
The intricately woven mediaeval tapestries that hang within the corridor as they do in the castle’s front-facing rooms have not been sewn together by Mr Sorokin, they are bought in; but they are made to order to Sorokin specifications, made in the 21st century until they enter Waldau Castle whereupon they assume a sense of belonging as old and as accommodating as the fabric of the building itself.
These exquisitely fashioned and illustrated tapestries complement the suits of armour, heraldic devices, Baroque cabinets, heavy Renaissance revivalist furniture and stylised bass-relief plaques, regaling one’s senses with impressions of the past and resurrecting an exotic world lost to us in time in which people of wealth and influence lived out their privileged lives in envied baronial splendour. A lot of imaginative thought lends itself to cultivation when standing almost solitarily inside the walls of a castle’s passageway.
Waldau Castle Revisited and the Case of Asparagus Soup
It is from this passageway that access to the castle’s second floor presents itself. The staircase is enclosed behind a set of double doors, but these were open today revealing what in bygone times would undoubtedly have been a stairway and stairwell of most imposing character.
You rang m’lud, or is that Bela Lugosi?
The broad steps worn and contorted by the mechanics of innumerable shoes and the feet of those no longer with us require some contemplation; they are potent symbols left behind by the people of the past who will never walk these stairs again, at least in mortal form, and are reminders to us all, all who are able to see them, of the immortality each of us lack. Is this vanishing so unutterably sad or a continual source of wonder?
The first landing, before the stairs turns back upon itself, sits on a level some 30 feet or more below the ceiling. There is no stair rail, just a solid wall of brick, capped, where it has survived, with a coping stone of triangular profile. The second-floor landing, which is effectively part of the upper passageway retracing the one below, provides a better impression of the commodious dimensions and the roomy spaciousness which they bestow. It also gives visual ease to consideration of the gothic window inset high above the stairs, along whose base lies a small yet not unremarkable fragment of intricate relief work.
Somebody asked me if I thought that the cannon, strategically placed to the left at the top of the stairs, was an original, working implement of war. Let’s just say that on no account would I rush to put it to the test by attempting to fire a projectile from it!
The room at the end of the second-floor corridor, which is capaciousness enough to hold 40 people, or thereabouts, has, from the ceiling pendants to the dark wooden tables, been perfectly baronialised. This room would appear to function as a gathering place for groups in which to hold discussions, listen to talks or even watch a film, which is what we did today.
The 30-minute programme was the first part of a historic drama set in 1930s’ Königsberg, some scenes of which were filmed at Waldau Castle (more about this in the following post). As you will see from my photograph, with the lights down and candles lit, the room in question assumes an atmospheric quintessence. It is the sort of place where folk less cautious than myself might well be tempted to hold a séance. What an inducive but uneasy thought!
Waldau Castle Revisited and the Case of Asparagus Soup
It is now time to take a break from architectural pleasures and musings of a preternatural kind and reveal the link between Waldau Castle and the not so strange case of asparagus.
To us there was no abstruseness, in fact the connection was as clear as soup ~ asparagus soup to be precise ~ along with a plate of pizza and boiled potatoes. You see, as well as being the physical and spiritual saviours of Waldau Castle, the Sorokin family also do a nice line in home-grown asparagus, which was on the menu today free in the form of soup for the legion of willing helpers and to visitors such as ourselves. It was also on sale in the wholesome character of natural, freshly picked produce.
With the piping hot asparagus soup reaching the parts today that the sun, though bright and beautiful, had neglected, we were confluently treated to a demonstration of traditional Prussian dancing by a troupe of ladies dressed in Prussian costume.
Under this spell and the promise of the makings of a nutritional meal, once the soup and dancing was over, we filed one by one into the Sorokin house to purchase some of this lovely grub to take home with us.
As we walked back to the Volga, me with the sprig of asparagus in my hand, I thought I caught a glimpse of something, a shadow perhaps, or otherwise, momentarily flicker across the dusty kitchen windows of the ever-watchful Waldau Castle, but when I looked again there was no one and nothing there. This may have been cause for concern had not the sun at that deliberate moment deigned to appear from behind a cloud. Like a spotlight it shone on my garden vegetables, and it was this, I later reasoned, that accounted for the warmth in my heart with which I had come away. Farewell goodly Waldau Castle, until we meet again!
A carved plaque dedicated to, or even a coat of arms representing, Waldau Castle and the Sorokin family
Food for thought: It is food for thought to note that whilst Europe is busy plunging itself into the dark ages of genocidal witch hunts against Russian nationals everywhere, here in the Kaliningrad region no such prejudice and hatred proliferates. In humbling contrast to the devastation and destruction of monuments, bullying, intimidation, acts of violence to Russian citizens, expulsion of the creative and the cultured and the march to rewrite history to suit the figments of the West, Russians are going about their business, quietly and with exemplary composure, restoring, renovating and honouring Kaliningrad’s German and East Prussian past. Something for the West to watch and hopefully to learn from.
Furniture at Waldau Castle
Once a dealer in vintage and antiques, never more less so, which is beyond a reasonable doubt why wherever I go a-visiting, old stuff, including furniture, always catches my eye.
Not surprisingly, as Kaliningrad was once Königsberg, the capital city of East Prussia, real antique furniture and its reproduction equivalent reveals a regional market trend predominantly focused on German Baroque and Renaissance revival items. So, if you like your furniture heavy, dark and Gothic, with lots of rich carving, intricate mouldings, bold armorial and heraldic symbols then you will like what you will find.
You will also discover examples of original 1930s’ continental Art Deco, such as this buffet/tallboy or kitchen servery with its tell-tale Lucite handles.
Celebrating Victory Day across the Kaliningrad region
Published: 15 May 2022 ~ Triumph and Trips on the 9th of May Kaliningrad
The weather was so gorgeous on this year’s 9th of May morning and there was so much of it, that I thought it must have been something the West had sanctioned.
The sun was shining like a bright new stable rouble and the sky so blue that had it not been for the exculpatory fact that everyone was as happy as Larry, it could have been mistaken for the Polish Prime Minister’s temperament (Well, he never felt more like singing the blues, did he!).
As it wasn’t ~ the sky as blue as the Polish Prime Minister I mean ~ and before Arthur Eagle realised that he was standing in sabaka gavnor (that’s dog’s s!!t to you), planted on the verge no doubt by an expelled Polish diplomat (they can be very temperamental, those Poles), there was nothing for it than first to be thankful that we were not all standing where Arthur was ~ I called it in the West ~ and then to drink to Russia’s Victory and, of course, to Victory Day.
As I wrote in my previous post Victory Day Russia 2022 Brings Record Turnout, our first victory today was finding a square foot of space among the crowds where people weren’t, and then, once we were in it, moving with the multitude onto and into Victory Park. The last time I saw this many people crammed into one place it was on a Royal Navy ship trafficking migrants to Dover. The atmosphere was different, of course; it was not the jubilation of grabbing all that you can get, like a free-for-all in a jumble sale, but a moral imperative fuelled by gratitude and patriotism, which, as you should know dear reader, is a rich resource in Russia and which, like gas and oil, and it would seem most other things, is a sanction-proofed commodity.
Whilst this sincere demonstration of social cohesiveness and high regard for cultural integrity could not be anything else but a source of complete frustration for Soros and Co, that infamous firm of migrant movers and embargoists, it did cause a minor inconvenience for us, as Arthur had to park the Volga some way away. But with the usual dexterity of Russians to turn a potential handicap into advantage, we found our route on foot taking us over the vertical lift bridge, a grand old double-decker design with its roots firmly planted in the industrial age.
This meant photographs, and even an arty farty one (well, almost) shot through the steel and rivetted girders of the bridge, framing two distinctly different periods of architecture and juxtaposing the old and the new both in terms of design principles and the materials employed. If you look closely at the photo below at the inset panel, you will see, in the foreground behind the weather ship, the recently completed World Ocean Museum globe and peeping out behind it to the right the time-honoured turret of Königsberg Cathedral.
The other advantage of Arthur’s parking was that he had found a quiet street where those of us who were not behind the wheel could partake of another quick snifter of delicious homemade vodka ~ vodka distilled with a twist of lemon. It was also a nice street for Arthur’s shoes, as there seemed to be nothing NATO-like for them to accidently stand in.
Triumph and Trips on the 9th of May Kaliningrad
Having made everyone jealous with our improvised boot fare, we then ‘classic-car-d it’ to Mr Zverev’s museum in Nizovie, where, in keeping with the tenor of the occasion, the frontage and grounds to the back of his fine old german building had been requisitioned by the Soviet era.
Out front, a Soviet Capitan was keeping watch. He was wearing the khaki uniform of the Red Army, consisting of an officer’s visor cap; a Gimnasterka ~ loose fitting thick cotton shirt; Harovari, ‘elephant ear’ cavalry-style britches; and thick canvas and leather Sapogi (boots). Around his waist he has a broad leather star-buckled officer’s belt. The gun he is carrying is a ppsh sub-machine gun with drum magazine.
We know all this not from research for this blog but because when we lived in England we were, for a while, members of the Red Army’s 2nd Guards Rifle Division, a re-enactment group that attend 1940s’ historical events at locations throughout the UK and where at some they fight it out with the Germans ~ entirely, I hasten to add, in the spirit of reconstruction.
Mr Zerev’s Capitan now no longer a stranger to us, I said my next hello to the star of Yury Grozmani’s film Last Tango in Königsberg. The swish 1927 Cadillac shared the billing today with two Red Army motorcycles (one pictured below) and, just around the corner of the building, a curious armoured vehicle. I never thought to ask if this is a real military vehicle or something cunningly mocked-up for display purposes. See the photos: what do you think?
Olga Hart with mystery military vehicle
It may look like a cuddle but it is actually a comrade’s embrace!
Mick Hart with no ordinary Soviet soldier. Apparently, when not in uniform he is assisting Mr Zverev with the design of his museum.
Triumph and Trips on the 9th of May Kaliningrad
Off the military scene, but no less interesting, was an old orange Soviet tractor. I do appreciate an old tractor. They always trundle me back in my mind to the farming days of my youth: no cabs, cold metal seats, diesel fumes and dust. Once driven, never forgotten! By the way, the seat on this particular tractor, with its high foam and leatherette back rest is not the original. In the days when tractors like this roamed the earth, luxury was no object ~ there wasn’t any. The original tractor seat stood by the museum wall, all hard, bucket-like and bum-and-back unfriendly. The good old days indeed!
What most of us are conveniently inclined to forget when we gaze nostalgically on these old wheeled vehicles is that the probability of breaking down was considerably higher in ‘the good old days’ than it is for modern vehicles. Perhaps this is why a friend’s classic car from the Kaliningrad Retro Club decided to remind us.
Pushing the Moskvich 1500 was great fun, but like the thrill of the bucket toilet deprived by the modern flush, I suppose such entertainment will eventually come to an end once they invent key-turn ignition.
As the sound of patriotic Soviet music belting forth from two giant speakers faded into the distance, I looked forward to a long woodland walk on the outskirts of the village where relatives of our friends live but had to make do instead with fine beers and a comfy settee whilst watching Moscow’s Victory Parade on widescreen TV. After all, as I said to my wife and our friends, they could tell me all about their long walk when they returned. A personal victory for me on Victory Day!
Published: 12 May 2022 ~ Victory Day Russia 2022 brings Record Turnout
This year’s attendance at Russia’s annual 9th May Victory Day celebration of the Soviet Union’s defeat of Nazi Germany in the Great Patriotic War (WWII), which liberated the world, ensured Russia’s preservation and determined its future role on the international stage, was nothing short of spectacular. In Moscow it was reported that more than a million people took part in the annual procession of the ‘Immortal Regiment’, and a friend, contacting us by VK messenger, said that the crowds in St Petersburg were literally overwhelming.
Here, in my hometown, Kaliningrad, the volume of people making the yearly pilgrimage to Victory Park to place flowers of respect and gratitude on the monuments to their Soviet forbears who had risked and layed down their lives by the millions to free the world of Nazism was a truly phenomenal sight. Russian citizens of all ages from the very young to the very old streamed towards the park, proudly holding aloft placard-mounted photograph portraits of grandparents and great grandparents who had fought and died defending their country.
Victory Day Russia 2022 brings Record Turnout
Such was the magnitude of the throng that when we arrived at the edge of the park we found further progress impeded by a redoubtable network of crowd-control barriers. However, with a little effort and ingenuity we gradually joined the vast procession as it slowly made its way towards the Monument to 1200 Guardsmen, the city’s foremost war memorial.
Here, the crowds would pause to say a silent prayer, to reflect on the sacrifice made by previous generations and to lay flowers at the foot of the 26-metre obelisk.
The Monument to 1200 Guardsmen is Kaliningrad’s open church. Its landmark obelisk, eternal flame ~ lit more than fifty years ago ~ and spacious square flanked by two figural sculptures depicting Soviet troops storming the city of Königsberg (renamed ‘Kaliningrad’ after the war) is a living memory embodied in stone and bronze of the fortitude and heroism exemplified by the Soviet people in resisting and vanquishing fascism and in lifting the shadow of the dark forces that it had cast upon the world.
Like the eternal flame of which it is a part, the Monument to 1200 Guardsmen is a holy place of patriotism. The crowd brought more of it with them. In addition to the portraits of their ancestors, many people carried and waved small commemorative flags and some of the more adventurous full-sized Soviet banners. The Georgian ribbon, a one-time component of military decorations but latterly used to honour veterans who fought on the Eastern front, a symbol of glory instantly recognised by its striking combination of contrasting black and orange stripes, was everywhere. And many people, including my wife and our comrades, also donned wartime pilotkas ~ olive-green military side caps complete with Soviet insignia.
Along the approach road to the obelisk and the entrance to Victory Park music of a patriotic and sentimental nature recorded during the wartime era played through the PA system. People brought up with these songs, and later generations who had been taught them by their parents and in history lessons at school, sang along as sentiment directed, sometimes wistfully, then triumphantly but always with great affection.
The shared respect for historical memory by so many people of so many differing ages was uplifting and inspiriting. It is hard to imagine greater devotion stemming from people of a sovereign country to and for that country. The evocation of pride and faith, unity and belonging is one which westerners seldom encounter; indeed, one which modern western youth deprived of would find alien.
For Russians, however, the past remains a part of the living present. It is the foundation of their strength, a triumph of cultural values that has transcended generations and continues to transcend, uniting and sustaining them. It is the dove and poetry of the Russian soul; the stoical spirit of the Russian bear. The people of their past are the people of their present and the children of their present is their future. This then is the march of Russia’s Immortal Regiment! <9th May Victory Day 2022>
Freddie Mercury off the chart in Russia’s Kaliningrad
Published: 6 May 2022 ~ Freddie Mercury Kaliningrad House is one in a million
Were you, or are you, a fan of Freddie Mercury? I cannot say that moustachioed Freddie or his band Queen did very much for me, although they did produce one or two memorable tracks. But something tells me that the owner of this property (see photos), not very inconspicuously tucked away in Russia’s Kaliningrad region’s countryside, has more than a passing admiration for the flamboyant singer songwriter, his unforgettable stage persona and outstanding vocal range.
Freddie Mercury Kaliningrad House
Bright pink with a stencilled silhouette of Freddie strutting his stuff, its not the sort of property that you might expect to find in, well almost anywhere really, but least of all in a small Russian hamlet.
My favourite musician, back ~ way back ~ in the progressive-rock era of my youth, was Frank Zappa and his innovative and rather unconventional band the Mothers of Invention.
Inspired by the Mercury tribute, I am trying to imagine the exterior makeover of our 18th century UK family home had I undertaken it using various artistic devices from some of Zappa’s zany album covers, perhaps a complete rendition of Freak Out! or the imagery used on the soundtrack album of Zappa’s surreal psychedelic and Freudian-infused musical monolith 200 Motels.
I am almost certain had I attempted such a profane project that the planning department of Northants County Council not to mention the parish council would have moved to have me committed, especially if there was a real danger that neither could make any money out of it.
However, in the case of Freddie House, it sort of grows on you, don’t you think?
The other advantage that the owner of this property has over us in Britland is that in the UK we would not be allowed to paint a Union Jack on the side of the house combined with Queen’s Crown motifs, for the very reasonable reason that it might offend minority imports. You have to admit, however, that the red, white and blue cuts a rather dashing figure! I think the Union Jack should be painted on every wall in the UK, particularly every wall in London!
In the Kaliningrad provinces, possibly an embryonic catalyst is at work, subliminally suggesting the constitution of an entire village exterior designed on the principle of tributes to favourite rock artists. Would Zappa have a hand in this, he could well have called it Tinsel Town.
Meanwhile, until that day which never may dawn, here’s looking at you Fred! 😊
Posts devoted to the Kaliningrad region, Russia, recent and not so …
It is also known for the Amber Legend, a novel and attractive restaurant cunningly constructed on a split-level plan.
Built on a fairly steep incline, the pavement entrance to Amber Legend accesses what is effectively the upper ground floor, while the doors at the rear of the building lead to the lower level.
Externally, the building is invested with more than a touch of the neoclassical. It follows a simple but imposing geometrical outline, with dominating rectangular upright supports, a balustrade balcony traversing the width of the building and a matching balustrade parapet. After an introduction of this calibre, anything less internally, both upper and lower level, would be disappointing, but happily this is not the case: aesthetic integrity and continuity are safely, indeed inspiringly, assured.
The question is, however, why did the proprietors of the Amber Legend not call their establishment ‘Blue Flag restaurant’, ‘good clean air’ or ‘split-level neoclassical eatery’? Why the ‘Amber’ and why the ‘Legend’?
There are two possible reasons, one lesser known to some and the other, one trusts, obvious to anyone who has frequented the restaurant in person. The first most conceivably has to do with Yantarny’s massive amber reserves. Approximately 90 per cent of the world’s amber resources are sitting in Yantarny. They are mined upon an industrial scale using the open-quarry method.
The second, inspired by the first, has visible connotations, since both the exterior and interior of the building are lavishly decorated with variegated stones of genuine polished amber. Inside the restaurant the precious ancient resin is taken to another level of artistic meritocracy, as richly inlaid amber panels of many different hues sharing geometrical space with amber art assemblages. (Thanks for the word, Vit!) vie for your attention.
There are amber trims to the seats; amber-studded back rests; inset amber wall plaques; the bar is adorned with amber; and the ceiling-suspended lamp shades, bowls of amber inlay, are interwoven tiffany style.
Of particular note are the broad wooden panels, chain-hoisted close to the ceiling, each containing a window of different coloured amber stones lamp-backed for illumination.
Confoundingly, when we visited the restaurant, it was during the daylight hours, so that although in the room’s darker recesses some of the lamps were lit, the full effect of the interplay between light source and amber creation was lost in the dilution of overpowering, brilliant sunlight. However, the upside to this was in the excuse that it presented, which was as good as any that I could invent, for returning on an evening to witness what most assuredly must be a lighting display of artistic splendour.
Another sphere of artistic splendour, according to my wife, who had dined at Amber Legend before, was lurking in the toilets, and this, she said, was something that I must see.
Amber Legend Yantarny legendary toilet
Now, contrary to what you may have been told, I am not in the habit, not even rarely, of taking a camera into the toilet, but called upon by my wife to do so, strictly on account of the brilliance of the interior décor, I cast caution to the wind, in a manner of speaking, and made an exception on this occasion. The result of this promiscuity is documented here in two revealing photographs, illustrating the continuation of the amber theme, both in the ornamentation surrounding the wash basins and, more spectacularly, in a glass-windowed chamber recessed within the toilet floor, where chunks of amber of novel shapes and some of prodigious proportions turn everyday humble toilet into a veritable natural history museum, even at the inconvenience of others wanting to use the convenience.
You may have liked the loo, but do you like the blue? In my humble opinion, the TARDIS-blue woodwork that repeats itself throughout the restaurant, including the toilet, creates the perfect frame for the amber displays. It is just neutral enough without subsiding into plain and functions as a recall feature of Amber Legend’s personalised style. I call the colour TARDIS blue because recognisably that is what it is, which is why I should imagine we chose this colour for our TARDIS, the one that we built at home. But then, I suppose, it is not that unusual; just the colour of choice for everyone’s TARDIS.
At this point I would normally add a footnote about the food, so why disappoint. But first a caveat. As you probably recall, whilst making allowances for having been called gormless ~ and who wouldn’t want to be, for it is such a lovely word ~ gourmet I am not. Beer needs volume; food needs volume. There is only one winner. But, when we visited Amber Legend I was feeling rather peckish, so I did partake of the pizza, which was pretty good as pizza goes. However, my fellow patrons, who needless to say were more adventurous in their choice of dishes than I, as most normal people appear to be, reliably informed me that their meals were most enjoyable. And I have no reason to doubt their sincerity.
The verdict is, therefore, that when visiting this coastal jewel in Kaliningrad region’s amber crown (remember the name, Yantarny) make sure your experience is complete: Discover the Amber Legend!
Essential details
Amber Legend 66A Sovetskaya Ulitsa Yantarny Kaliningrad Olblast Russia
Published: 27 April 2022 ~ By Volga to Yantarny Russian Easter and Beautiful Coast
Whilst the French were masochistically (or should that be Macronistically) condemning themselves to another five years of neoliberal arrogance in which cash is king but people and culture are, according to their president, there to be p_ _ _ _ d on, we, here, in Russia were celebrating one of the most important holidays in the Orthodox Christian Calendar, Easter ~ a time for observing sanctified traditions, passing those traditions on to the next generation and uniting family and friends.
Easter eggs play an essential role within the Christian ethos of this holiday, not the chocolate variety, but actual eggs, hard boiled and dyed typically red using onion skins. I recall one Easter in the UK when my wife Olga and her English class decorated hard-boiled eggs in a variety of elaborate and brightly coloured patterns; a labour of love no doubt but a formidable task no less. Nowadays, modern techniques make it possible to cheat just a little, using decorative highly coloured and often illustrated bands that once applied to the egg wrap themselves tightly around it.
Hand-painted or not, the eggs, which symbolise resurrection and new life, are blessed in the church and presented as gifts to relatives and friends. Other blessed Easter gifts include bought or home-made cakes and fortified Church wine. We received and gave such fare from and to our friends and neighbours.
The blessing of Easter Gifts in Kaliningrad 2022
By Volga to Yantarny Russian Easter and Beautiful Coast
On Easter Sunday, 24th April, our friends, Arthur and Inara, invited us to be driven in style in their 1970s’ Volga to the seaside resort of Yantarny.
Yantarny is much smaller and further away from Kaliningrad than the increasingly popular resorts of Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk. I had not been there since my brother visited Kaliningrad in May 2019.
As then, the weather today was superb ~ a gorgeous and perfect spring day ~ just right for lounging near the sea and taking snapshots.
If you go down to the woods today …
Since I was last in Yantarny, a number of municipal improvements had been made, and in the coastal woodland, a picturesque pre-sea descent, landscape-sensitive work of both a practical and embellishing nature abounded, including more woodland paths, eclectic artworks and non-obtrusive visitor facilities. One among these is the installation of a wooden-decked observatory, enabling unimpeded views across the white, sandy beach and rolling expanse of the Baltic.
Looking out across the Baltic Sea
On the coastline itself a series of attractive and much-needed chalet-style café’s interlinked by wooden platforms, each offering inspiring views of the sea, have been tastefully constructed, and it was in one of these that we would stop a while to take advantage of their hospitality.
Sitting outside beneath the shade of the broad eaves, I was befriended by the cafés’ resident stray. No, not that irritating and passively (if you are lucky) aggressive stereotype that blights the British pub and whom everyone tries to avoid, but an old moth-eared and fur-matted cat, slate-grey and socially promiscuous. He obliged me by sitting on my knee and then, after 10 minutes, possibly dissatisfied that no grub had come his way, decided to bite the hand that hadn’t fed him. Ahh well, I thought, if you can’t be bitten by a curmudgeonly old cat over the Easter weekend when can you be bitten by one?
Bitten or not, I was content. I had good friends, good beer, the gentle sound and sight of the sea and was suffused with such a sense of complete and utter relaxation that it seemed to transcend almost everything, even philosophical thought and the quiet reflection with which it is nurtured. Effort was redundant, and effort, for the moment, had been effortlessly put aside.
We ~ as I perceived a communion among all present not only within our small group ~ remained thus for some time, gazing out across a sea that seemed at peace with its gently rippling self as much as we were with ourselves.
We remained this way for over an hour until the sun, shimmering silver across a broad swathe of sea where the surface seemed nearly smooth, challenging the visibility of my 1940s’ sunglasses, prompted us with the realisation that the afternoon was giving away to evening and that we would have to make a move. Alas, the time had come, as it always does; and for all that we had put it on hold, the ebb and flow of our own tide eventually carried us back into town.
The departure was sweetened, however, by calling in for lunch at Yantarny’s Amber Restaurant. What a remarkable place! I think we’ll give it three exclamation marks ~ !!! If you are curious as to why they call it Amber Restaurant, there’s no perhaps about it, you simply need to visit.
Hopefully, I’ll write a little more about it at a later date. For now, however, let’s just say that if the combination of amber, atmosphere, good food and brilliant beverages is something that appeals to you, the Amber Restaurant is the place!!!! There, I’ve gone and given it four exclamation marks. See > Amber Legend Yantarny
Fed, beerified and tripping up the step as I left ~ I always do that, it’s not because I was squiffy ~ we walked the short distance to the local church.
In German times Yantarny Church was Lutherian. The restored church is now Orthodox, The Church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God, and belongs to the Kaliningrad diocese of the Moscow Patriarchate of the Russian Orthodox Church. Mellow and mesmerising, it is difficult to imagine an environment more conducive to an appreciation of all that is dear ~ your loved ones, friends, the life you have lived and the current life you are living. Yantarny Church is not just for Easter, or any other special date on the religious calendar, it is an open sanctuary for thought and reflection, a quiet, hallowed place in which to take pause from the daily static of our estranging modern existence.
We had spent approximately three hours in Yantarny. It had been nowhere near enough and the need to return was incipient. I could definitely feel a weekend break coming on. But first there was the question of how we would leave today.
On emerging from the church, we discovered that Arthur had left the Volga lights switched on, which wasn’t so good for starting the engine. As ordered, I put my shoulder to the front of the big old car and gave it all that I could. Miraculously ~ you might say ~ the lovely old lump (not Arthur, I mean the car) fired up, and although praised for my efforts, and also praising myself, I was secretly reflecting on the mysterious ways in which things move, are moved and how they move us and the wonderful gift of having spent a perfect Easter day.
