Author Archives: Mick

Otradnoye Kaliningrad – a little gem on the Baltic Coast

Otradnoye is one of those places you cannot have enough of

31 May 2025: Otradnoye Kaliningrad – a little gem on the Baltic Coast

In my previous post, I wrote about an evening spent in the Villa Gretchin, a guest house of which I cannot speak highly enough; its interior, accented with East Prussian Baroque influences, makes it a thoroughly immersive base for exploring Otradnoye’s history and enjoying its beautiful beach.

Otradnoye, which before the end of the Second World War was known as Georgenswolde, is a small coastal settlement founded east of Svetlogorsk on the Sambia Peninsula.

Svetlogorsk, the larger of the two resorts and therefore the more popular, developed and commercialised, is serviced by umpteen bars and restaurants and by stalls and shops specialising in the sale of one of the region’s most precious commodities, amber. It is also home to a futuristic multifunctional cultural centre, the Amber Hall Variety Theatre, otherwise known as Yantar Hall, and is currently undergoing a major mixed-use, residential, pier-side construction programme which runs 1.5 kilometres along the length of its Baltic seafront.

In comparison, Otradnoye has a café, a handful of hotels/guesthouses and a small hut overlooking the beach selling beer and light refreshments. Although this difference is a striking one, obviously making Otradnoye the smaller of the two resorts, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Otradnoye is steeped in solitude. On the contrary, an unpretentious swathe of white sandy beach, set against, on one side, steep forested banks and, on the other, the foaming blue Baltic, acts as a seductive magnet to folk addicted to sun, sea and sand. Come late autumn, however, and throughout the winter months, visitors naturally fall away, turning the less-developed Otradnoye into the much-prefered destination for those whose tastes excel in out-of-season beach resorts.

Otradnoye Kaliningrad with Victor Ryabinin 2005

^^ The winter of 2004/05 was extremely wet, and the banks along Otradoyne on the Baltic Coast were landsliding chaotically beachward. That’s Olga Hart with her umbrella and handbag and Victor Ryabinin with an umbrella and briefcase. The photo is by me, unseen here with my umbrella and bowler hat. We were all well-prepared for the weather and terrain.

Indeed, my own, personal introduction to this atmospheric seaside village took place in the winter months. It was January 2005. Under the knowledgeable instruction of our late, lamented friend, Victor Ryabinin, an expert on Kaliningrad history, including that of its region, and a well-known local artist, we paused for a while at Otradnoye. We were en route to somewhere else, whose destination I cannot recall and which we never reached – but that’s another story. However, I do clearly remember rendezvousing before we set off to Otradnoye in a café somewhere on Svetlogorsk’s outskirts: Victor with his map of the local area, and I with Olga and a friend called Barry.

It was during this first visit that I made the acquaintance of the German sculptor Brachert and toured his former house and gardens, now the Brachert Museum. It was also on this occasion that I learnt firsthand (or should that be foot?) that the woodland descent to Otradnoye beach was unforgivingly precipitous and that the return journey by the concrete road laid in Soviet times was, far from being less precipitous, if anything considerably more arduous.

Hermann Brachert House Museum, Otardnoye, Kaliningrad

^^ The Hermann Brachert House Museum in Otradnoye

Nowadays, walking from the beach to the upper reaches of Otradnoye is a marginally less daunting prospect, thanks to a series of well-planned paths that zig-zag their way across and through the tree-dense, sloping land and which have at various stages seats on which to park yourself should a labouring constitution importune an advisable rest.

At beach level, there is lots of sea and sand, but what conspicuously isn’t there are swish hotels, swanky restaurants, specialist boutique shops or any other tourist bolt-ons – at least not for the present!

^^ Otradnoye Beach, c. September 2022

A single hut presides, raised on a small grassed promontory, fronted by a seating area of simple appearance and modest proportions, yet availing patrons of the myriad sights and delights typically associated with summer beach activity and maintaining a year-on-year monopoly as the only outlet for snacks and drinks other than those which the thrifty and, simultaneously, practical may have prepared and carried with them inside their bags or rucksacks.

Svetlogorsk, being not that far away, indeed right there on one’s visual doorstep, throws down a provocative gauntlet, suggesting a leisurely beachside walk, but before the challenge is taken up, one would do well to remember that sand is no immediate friend to the calves or upper legs, neither of which may thank you later for any decision made in haste. So before giving in to that little, that shrill, that insistent voice, which is so insouciantly urging you to throw caution to the wind, “Go on!” it is goading. “A walk on the sand will do you good!” You might want to pause for a moment, long enough for a second thought to give credence to the consequences.

The other way to flit on foot between the two resorts is to take the woodland route, using the proper hard-surface paths which in recent years have been laid for this purpose. This option is a rewarding one, as not only does it combine the health-promoting qualities that walking is said to bestow with an appreciation of the natural habitat, but by passing around the perimeter of a former Soviet Young Pioneer camp, long ago abandoned and now in a state of overgrown memory, for people lured by social history, of which, I confess, I am one, if you forgot to bring that flask and sandwiches, there could yet be sustenance in food for thought.

Soviet Young Pioneer camp, Otradnoye, Kaliningrad

^^ Remains of a Soviet Young Pioneer camp between Otradnoye and Svetlogorsk

For those among you whose footwork is strictly limited to the sensible practice of getting on and off buses, it won’t, I am certain, hurt you to know that public transport visits both Otradnoye and its alter-ego Svetlogorsk frequently and in both directions.

The road that these buses tootle along is a reasonably busy throughfare and is pictured in my mind, which may or may not be accurate, as a band that dissects Otradnoye village into two distinct and separate parts.

The area that lies immediately above the seafront descent, the location of the Brachert Museum, contains very little by way of amenities, ordinary or otherwise; almost nothing, to be exact, should one somehow commit the grave injustice of overlooking the Georgenswalde, a tall and stately hotel with a likeness in its character reminiscent of Art Nouveau. My impression when I stayed there, possibly now a little more than four years ago, was that in general appearance and overall style of service it rang a Soviet bell; particularly, I recall, its breakfast-room experience, which, me being typically me, I typically enjoyed without regret or reservation, rather more than not, I would say, had it been anything different.

The Georgenswalde Hotel in Otradnoye Kaliningrad

^^ The Georgeswalde overlooking the Brachert House Museum in Otradnoye (c. 2022)

Up the hill aways, a short but not entirely effortless stroll from where the Georgenswalde is situated, a walk which takes in magnificent villas, ancient and modern, gentle and loud, there stands on the right-hand side a large but unassuming guesthouse appropriately entitled Vysokij Bereg (English translation: High Bank), ‘appropriately’ entitled because the bank on which it stands is indeed a very high one, providing its owners, guests and customers with a commanding view of the Baltic Sea, which could only be more commanding if the bank from which it claims its title were not so liberally fringed with trees. Vysokij Bereg’s café welcomes resident guests and non-guests alike and is held in high regard by some within our exclusive circle for the excellent pizzas it purveys as part of its wider meal selections.

The entrance to the café occurs at the back of the guesthouse, where a hard-surface terrace is just the job for dining outside and peeping through the trees at the Baltic’s expanse beyond. This particular view is no less properly available should the weather and/or the time of year nudge you gently or propel you keenly towards the café’s sheltered interior, but on clement and sunny days, the option to sit at a patio table or lounge in a canopy swing out on the grass, whilst the smaller ones among you enjoy the children’s playground, is for those of us who believe we are normal a choice too logical to just pass up.

Mick Hart has a pint at Otradnoye's High Bank guest house

^^ Mick Hart doing something different for a change at High Bank guesthouse in Otradnoye

On Otradnoye’s opposite side, the one across ‘the road’, the intrepid explorer is guaranteed to stumble upon a gathering of other cafés and restaurants, including in the mix, one or two shops of a specialist nature and an assortment of handy convenience stores, good for all sorts of groceries, including snacks and drinks for picnics.

German Villa in Otradnoye waiting for restoration

^^ German villa in Otradnoye awaiting restoration

Both sides of Otradnoye are united architecturally, each one offering commentary and teasingly tempting glimpses into the region’s pre-war history. If you like your domestic buildings large and gothically asymmetrical with lots of interesting, imaginative features both in wood and masonry, inspirational houses which take on a fairytale essence when tucked away in woodland glades or built surprisingly yet sympathetically into the pine and silver birch landscape, then the sights Otradnoye lays before you will either have you wishing that you could live in a house like this or whisper to you that perhaps you once did.

Whilst many of these abodes have over time regained their individual, one-family, exclusive villa status, and some rub broader shoulders with overpowering contemporary mansions, others, those which in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War were hurriedly converted into three- or four-family homes or communal family units when the Soviet population replaced the region’s German populace, are hived off to this day but in the manner of flats.

In this respect, Otradnoye is no different from almost anywhere else in the Kaliningrad region; the sight of early-twentieth-century grandeur sharing relative space with the conspicuously lavish, sitting next door to a Soviet conversion and, next door to that, a more recent block of flats becomes less and less incongruous the more that it is witnessed, and the same can be said for those wonderful homes and gardens, again within the mix, which are as rustic as rustic can be. The build variations on any one street can be really quite astonishing, and though you may take a liking to one particular type, you cannot help but like the other also and experience a certain fondness for something much the same as you do, comparatively speaking, when it is something just the opposite.

^^ Rusticity meets character in Otradnoye

Among the various interesting buildings asserting architectural and historic merit dotted around Otradnoye, I recommend you take time out to hunt down the former railway station. Dilapidated currently and waiting on conservation, it is yet impressive for what it once was, for what it is now, for what imagination working on its behalf lends aspiration to what it may be, and for what, if correctly restored, it may in time amount to.

Abandoned railway station in Otradnoye with boarded windows behind a blue-and-white construction fence.

Dilapidated red-brick railway station with a steep, damaged roof and boarded windows, surrounded by a blue and white construction fence.

^^ Ye olde railway station in Otradnoye

Another intriguing landmark deserving a trip to Otradnoye, with or without a packed lunch, is architect K. Fischer’s red-brick Gothic water tower. The Kaliningrad region contains a number of such towers, each conforming in its own right to the Gothic revivalist style but equally invested with its own distinguishing characteristics, of which Mr Fischer’s is no exception.

Six tiers and square in formation, Fischer’s Tower towers at an approximate height of 147.6 feet. It is proudly endowed with distinctive attributes conformational to its undisputed place in Gothic architecture. When built, it was also equipped with hot and cold water tanks and a bath room at ground level. I am not sure whether the bathroom has withstood the test of time, but just in case it is still in situ, don’t forget to include in your travelling pack a bar of soap and your favourite loofah.

A novel and accurate impression of Fischer’s tower can be enjoyed here as a 3D model: https://sketchfab.com/3d-models/watertower-georgenswalde-6037c0f5c8ce43c7af57241fcdee01b4

To find this emblematic structure, asking the way won’t come amiss, for, as far as I can remember, and as tall as the tower is, we were granted access to it via someone’s garden, from which we could see its triangular roof thrusting up out of the trees. The natural seclusion in which the tower quietly reposes makes the first approach to it all the more novel and fascinating.

Old German House in Otradnoye with early twentieth century water tower protruding through the trees.

^^Old re-roofed German house in Otradnoye, with Fischer’s water tower peeping over the treeline

Of the two seaside towns mentioned in this brief essay, Svetlogorsk is the place to go if what it is you are after is an historically attractive coastal resort whose town has been brought up to spec with every conceivable modern convenience. Otradnoye, on the other hand, is the destination of choice for those who hold with the maxim that as ‘less is often more’, those who seek will surely find. Beachside, during the height of the season, Svetlogorsk becomes a bustling hub for Russia’s domestic tourist trade, while down the beach a little, Otradnoye bristles with Kaliningrad locals, but whether on the seafront or away from it, if what you want is quieter, less is more in Otradnoye.

Mick Hart sitting on the rock armour contesting the sea in Otradnoye, winter 2025

^^ Mick Hart sitting on ‘rock armour’, Otradnoye beach, winter 2025

Getting to and from Otradnoye from Kaliningrad by bus

Bus No. 116 departs from Kaliningrad Central Bus Station 6 to 8 times daily and, likewise, from the Otradnoye bus stop. The journey takes about 1.5 hours, and the fare is 70–120 roubles, as determined by route and departure point.

Buses No. 118 and No. 125 run more frequently, about every 20 minutes, between Kaliningrad and Svetlogorsk. Walk, take a taxi or catch a bus from the Oytradnoye stop into Svetlogorsk and use connecting services there. The fare from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk and vice versa costs between 155 and 180 roubles depending on the route taken and place of embarkation.

The official Kaliningrad Bus Terminal portal for regional travel is avl39.ru

Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye – what you need to know

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What I didn’t know I soon did, and I liked it very much

20 May 2026 – Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye – what you need to know

We arrived in the small seaside town of Otradnoye (formerly Georgenswalde) in an area with which I am not acquainted. It was one of those hotch-potchers, consisting of large, two-storey Soviet concrete buildings, most likely houses of culture or sanatoriums; post-Soviet residential flat complexes; and small, by comparison, and dotted here and there, detached family dwellings, once the abodes of native East Prussians.

The guest house, Villa Gretchen, which was our destination, had been donated for the evening to Mr Chileekin and his party by Mr Chileekin’s friend, who was, in fact, the owner of the property.

Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye – what you need to know

From the outside, the front of the guest house looked little different from any other ordinary pan-tiled classic German house, but from the side street into which we and our vehicle had pulled, it was plain to see by the modern but architecturally in-keeping porch, the nearby brick-built grill cabin – let’s go Scandinavian and call it a ‘grillkota’, and the smart and well-kept service buildings that, if you had missed the guest house sign as I had successfully done, you might go all Miss Marple, deducing not incorrectly that there is more to this place than meets the eye, as the visual introduction was less than it appeared to be.

Olga Hart outside the Villa Gretchen, Otradnoye, Kaliningrad region

Once across the threshold, the impression changed immediately, and what an impression it made!

“It’s your sort of place,” Olga remarked, observing my observation.

She hadn’t got that wrong. The entire building had been restored; convincingly decked out in a successful attempt to capture the Gothic-Baroque German style that at one time had reigned supreme in this former Prussian territory. The impact was surprising and instantaneous.

There was nothing on the outside to prepare one for this change of scenery. The porch through which we had passed had led to a dark and heavy door with an inset, bulbous, smoked-glass window. On the other side of this door, the entrance hall was small but large in first impressions. On one wall hung a sizeable mirror in an elaborately carved and moulded frame, and on the other, small and neat, a dark wood hat and coat rack belonging to a distant era, together with two framed sepia photographs of couples in their middle age, who, had they been alive today, would be getting ready to celebrate their 156th birthdays.

As the door to the adjoining room was open, or possibly just an open aperture, the centrepiece of the house, as seen from where I stood, could easily be identified as the two-tier, ceramic-tiled, traditional German stove, but whilst this indeed was a strong contender, it was the staircase in its mid-blue livery artfully distressed by hand, which, striding up behind us and turning sharply through ninety degrees, stole the stove’s immediate thunder.

Stairway to Heaven

The staircase was constructed of good, solid planks of wood. It had shaped apron embellishments and panels lining the stairwell walls, patterned with scrolling mouldings. The ‘worn’ cobalt blue colour encompassed rails, steps and panelling, creating a simple yet effective visual and atmospheric bridge to a highly credible living past. This masterpiece of time engineering was assisted in its effect by archivolt inclusions and by the stylised manner of the wooden framework, which, extending from floor to ceiling where the steps led down to the basement, blended complementary elements of rustic, fairytale and Art Nouveau.

Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye: distressed stairs

Simplicity and intricacy were happily co-existent, sometimes restrained and sober and at other times quite flamboyant. For example, the bold, organic cutaway shape of the wooden ceiling spandrel formed a quaint freehand feature at the juncture where the third flight of steps, those leading to the attic, disappeared from view. This third level of steps, continuing the theme of cobalt blue, rises above and away from the landing, concluding at its summit in a series of supporting spindles surmounted by a handrail. From the first step in the hall to the last step into the roof, design and decor continuity contribute to the time inflection as the 21st century falls away and a sovereign past takes over.

Olga Hart at the Villa Gretchen: a damsel on a distressed staircase

Standing on the landing, just beneath the attic stairs, a graduated stack of archaic leather travelling cases seemed to say, ‘Hello. Remember me? ”. In type and in arrangement they reminded me of their useful ubiquity when requisitioned as props for stage and TV period dramas and in real life for the part they play in adding nostalgic credibility to photographic backdrops, especially when the photoshoot, be it for personal or professional reasons, chooses as its venue quaint Victorian railway stations, often well-preserved thanks to the efforts of steam enthusiasts. Graduated travelling cases form a tried and trusted staple in the creation of the obsolescence we freely equate with the past and of which we are particularly fond when used with a certain exactitude in living history dioramas at England’s 1940s’ events.

Sharing space on the same landing as the Villa Gretchen’s travelling cases was a small, polished rectangular table playing host to an old-fashioned telephone. It was a phone quite different to the obsession we have today – that nasty little rectangular thing that hitches a ride in our bag and pocket like an insistent, chattering parasite to which we are habituated to honour and obey.

The telephone on the small, rectangular table was big and bold and bulky, deliberately made not to be mobile, made of metal with a Bakelite handset and delightfully surmounted by two brassy conical gongs. Whilst its consummate authenticity demanded the kind of closer attention I was not prepared to indulge in today – it was already long past beer time – the switchboard of poetic licence connected me to the reflective thought that no matter what its actual age, it and its suitcase mates did what they were supposed to be doing, and doing it rather well.

From the landing, sharing the phone and suitcases, a corridor ensued, giving access right and left and, at its farthermost end, to a total of four guest bedrooms.

Olga immediately seized on one containing an imposing double wardrobe and a broad, open swathe of shelves that had been imaginatively positioned beneath beams of some antiquity, cleverly recessed into the folds of the building’s natural contours, and which ran the entire length of one wall. For a moment it seemed as if we had arrived and we were settled, but indecision being what it is – I suppose you could say it is indecisive – temptingly raised its not-untypical head when, on opening the door of a second room, which, though nominally smaller than the first, was even more atmospheric. So enchantingly struck we both were by the enticing old-world beauty of a bed whose head- and footboards were richly and lavishly carved and opposite by a wardrobe in sumptious high-flown, full-blown Baroque that we felt obliged to run, two or three times at least, back and forth between the two rooms in order to get the flavour of each. Needless to say, the final decision of which of the rooms we should take was delayed for a good ten minutes or more by the tedious repetition of “Take a photo of me!” – the compromise to which became “Take a photo of me as well”. I imagine you need no introduction to that adage for all ages: ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ‘em!’

Carved Baroque bed at Villa Gretchen, Otradnoye

Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye. A baroque-style linen press

Bedroom at Villa Gretchen on the Baltic Coast

Villa Gretchen’s owners had spared no small deliberation and, with it, I would say, expense, pursuant to their quest to reconstruct, as far as they were able, an atmospheric and convincing facsimile of how a German residence may have looked in the early years of the 20th century. Even the crest rail on the bedstead’s headboard and the adjacent linen press pediment conformed in style to one another. I couldn’t have felt more at home than if I had landed here by TARDIS.

Meanwhile, downstairs, for that’s where we would eventually be when we had ceased singing songs of praise, it had not been possible to pass insouciantly from the decade-deeming entrance hall into the wooden-beamed and leather-chaired lounge without pausing en route to admire the scene-stealing presence bestowed by that chunky, German stove, to which I alluded earlier, or, as it is called in German, a Kachelöfen.

These glossy or matte-tiled monoliths are unlike anything ordinarily found in any 19th-century or early 20th-century English residence, but in Königsberg and its provinces and throughout traditional German homes, their functionality at that time would have been considered as indispensable as they are highly prized today, and just as their look and composition attracted attention then, they are equally, if not more so by dint of age and curiosity, desirable objects to have and to own in one’s home today.

It needs to be remarked upon that way back when in the days of yore, those Germans had a certain knack; they knew a thing or two, as the construction and effectiveness, not forgetting visual appeal, of the Kachelöfen bears witness to. They might, to the novice, incite trepidation, but all it takes to operate this particular brand of dinosaur is a small but intense wood fire, hot enough to propel a steady stream of heat into a complex network of brick cavities, saturating the internal masonry beneath the Kachelöfen’s heavy tiles, and the whole caboodle is thus transformed from a showcase ceramic stack into a giant storage radiator, capable of releasing constant and uniform warmth for, depending on the size of the stove and its consequent built-in efficiency, a time of no-mean duration, extending from 12 to 24 hours, long after, in most cases, the fire itself has turned to dust. I think we can safely say, especially with regard to Britain, a country in which we cannot afford either gas or electric heating, where we are sitting on tonnes of coal but not allowed to mine it, that every home should have one; the only problem is that we cannot afford to burn wood either. Now, where on earth did I put them? Those low-cost handy hot water bottles?

Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye – what you need to know

Had I not been rushing to get into the social hub of things and open a bottle of beer, I might have tarried long enough to take photographs of the magnificent stove, but, as noted on the landing page, this blog is not intended to be anything like a typical travelogue, so until I do acquire photographs I shall leave the latter to germinate in the well-manured soil of your fertile visual imaginations.

From the comfortable lounge I haven’t described in detail, in spite of it containing a nice settee and chairs in leather and disporting on the wall the most remarkable mural depicting the city of Königsberg, we sallied through the kitchen, emerging thereunto to take our place inside a sizeable room fashioned for all intents and purposes like a mediaeval banqueting hall, although you could just as well describe it as a congregational chapel. This public hospitality space lent itself most admirably to gatherings such as ours, which, as previously not divulged, was Mr Chileekin’s birthday bash.

In addition to infusions of an intoxicating nature, there was a lot to absorb in here, such as the long refectory table, bygone furniture from various periods, a marvellous oversized red-brick fireplace and many other choicely curated bits and bobs and curios intended, as they did, to divert, distract and delight.

Mick Hart, Vladimir Chileekin and Olga Hart at the Villa Gretchen in Otradnoye

Potential enjoyment might also be gained from the maestro tinkling of a parlour piano, an instrument much loved and, for my liking, too often attended by the wilful fingers of enthusing children, which hammered away relentlessly on the ebony and ivory keys, greatly to the detriment of unamused adult ears, not to mention their delicate dispositions; and over there, behind me, covering one entire wall, was another source of enjoyment, but one which would never jangle one’s nerves. It was the most elaborate painted mural, which I think you can just about see peeping out from over my shoulder in the photograph below. You know, I really think it is high time I got myself a photographer!

Mick Hart, Vladimir Chileekin and one other, drinking cognac in a guest house in Otradnoye

Our sojourn at Villa Gretchen took place in the deep midwinter, which is to say, it was cold. But this did not deter us from wandering out at midnight and making use of the brick gazebo.

It was dark, and my eyes were bleary – I have no idea why – but they still retained sufficient sense to discern in the feeble lamplight the astounding extent to which the patrons of this fine building had enclosed a fireplace within a wall whose red-brick arches and bowed crenellation would not have looked out of place had they once occupied a great hall belonging to Königsberg Castle.

The open sides of this wine-and-dine palace were protected by polythene sheets of the heavy-duty variety, which are perfect for making walls which don’t object to the light coming in. It also contained a barbecue fire, which helped stave off a modicum of the crisp December air on the eve of our patronisation. A construction such as this must be a boon in summer, with the plastic sides rolled all the way up and the sun granted full permission to join the throng inside.

Throng or no throng this evening, I eventually reached a stage when I knew it would be wrong of me to succumb to another drink, so I only had one more, a quick snifter, so to speak, and then, like Captain Sensible (almost), made my autopilot way to where I could hear my baroque bed calling. I even remembered where this bed was; oh, there to lie in Gothic style and there to dream of Camelot (I think I’ve got that right?), with its winsome damsels in distress, which is where, on this cognac- and beer-full night, I decided I would leave them – bold Good Knight, this night, good night.

Useful Information

Villa Gretchen, Sanatornaya Ulitsa 4, Otradnoye, Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia, 238563

Tel: +7 (4012) 37-57-36 (Local Central Booking)

About the Villa Gretchen: Villa Gretchen in the village of Otradnoye | LLC “Anyuta”

Vote Green for Migrant Detention Centres Near You!

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Farage’s enrichment gift to the Greens: “You get what you vote for!”

10 May 2026 – Vote Green for Migrant Detention Centres Near You!

First off, congratulations to Nigel Farage and Reform UK for his and his party’s ground-shifting performance in the May 7th local elections. I’m not sure that I can agree with him that it is the end of the traditional division between politics on the left and right, but it is certainly the beginning of the end for the liberal left. The Labour party, along with the woke it sponsors, has taken a dramatic not-before-time tumble since the ‘new kid on the block’ arrived on Britain’s political scene, riding in triumphantly like George on his bold white charger come to slay the leftist dragon.

Better even than these glad tidings, the thrashing that Reform gave to Labour at the polls, was the spirit-inspiring news that the pro-migrant, ghastly greens had bet their all on the wrong horses, with ‘Open Borders’ a non-starter and ‘Fill the Country with Migrant Hordes’ falling at the first post. Now, hopefully, the ‘Polish Pretender’ and his grubby band of Greens will be thrown swiftly where they belong onto the compost heap of history.

Despite the best efforts of the leftist media to talk up the electoral wins of the Greens, the ‘Green Wave’ that Polanski predicted (you know, he really should have stuck to making fictional vampire films rather than trying to suck the lifeblood out of our ailing country) when given full analysis resembles more of a trickle and looks less like the sickly green wave predicted to ruin Rule Britannia than something pale the colour of straw wrongly directed when standing downwind.

Vote Green for Migrant Detention Centres Near You!

It may not be entirely coincidental that the Greens turned decidedly stale shortly after it was announced that Mr Farage had a novel plan to counteract the Green’s chief cucumber threatening to swamp our nation, already mired with migrants, with millions more of the crusty blighters in the hope, I should imagine, that one day they’ll all vote Green, by which time our sinking country (I said ‘sinking’, incidentally) will have turned a nasty muddy brown, as such is the nature of swamps.

Does Mr Polanski, I hear you ask, have shares in rubber dinghies? Or is he merely as green as his crazy concepts are cabbage-looking? Someone ought to point out to him that the UK’s beautiful garden is choked enough already with weeds without turning it into a bra patch. Oops, sorry Mr Polanski. I was mesmerised there for a moment; I meant, of course, to say ‘briar patch’.

Vote Green for Migrant detention centres near you! Green cabbages and a pair of large breasts, the symbols of Zack Polanski.

^All Green constituencies to be honoured with migrant detention centres – and large hypnotic breasts^

In contrast to Mr Polanski’s greenwash, Nigel’s recent announcement that those who vote for migrants will get the migrants they voted for is both logical and fair. Well done, Mr Farage, and, furthermore, well-timed.

“A Reform government will not put any migrant detention centres in any constituency with a Reform MP. We will not put them where Reform controls the council. We will prioritise Green parliamentary constituencies and Green-controlled councils to put those migrant detention centres.” – Reform’s UK Home Affairs Spokesman Zia Yusuf

What could be fairer than that? Those who want migrants get them, and those who don’t don’t. The fact that this suggestion sent the predominantly leftist UK media into a hand-wringing, bedwetting meltdown clearly demonstrates two positions: either you put your money where your mouth is or keep your trap firmly shut. It also helps to underscore just how mealy-mouthed the left can be when it comes to leading by example.

Vote Green for Migrant Influx Like Never Before!

I, personally, know (although I’m ashamed to admit it) a number of ‘progressives’ who constantly and still, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, parrot the Blairite mantra that we have never had it so good since he endorsed the migrant invasion. And yet none of these migrant advocates appear to live, to my knowledge, in the flyblown black holes of Calcutta, those changed-beyond-recognition sinks wherein Britain’s poor towns and cities enrichment is so keenly felt and so visibly deplorable.

By the same token that the left conveniently confuses and conflates realist with racist, these lush-living liberal lefties tend to be found – we’re all right, Jack – in expensive, salubrious, middle-class neighbourhoods, which, would you Adam and Eve it, are almost always exclusively white.

Life in the UK - It's all so peculiar. The map of the UK on its head.

Life in the UK – it’s all so peculiar!
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Leaving them there to stew in the comfort of their discomforting hypocrisy, we will now take a brief pause to reflect upon another hypocrisy (though both spew indistinguishably from the same polluted source): the hypocrisy that so terribly blights Britain’s garden of truth when tended by the green, but exceptionally poisonous, fingers of a forever sensationalist-seeking, not-fit-for-purpose media.

Though competition was rife, of all the sensationalist headlines ignited by Reform’s beneficence to gift-wrap migrant detention centres and give them to the Greens, the award for shooting oneself in the foot goes resoundingly to the Daily Mirror. That old socialist dinosaur really pushed the boat out rather than inviting them in, when making reference to ‘Nigel Farage’s… detention centres plan’ it failed to use the left’s migrant-related word of choice, ‘enriched’, the gold standard of woke duplicity – or should that be the Green standard? – and with a dissimulation greater than the ‘chilling’ mystery that surrounds Robert Maxwell’s demise, chose to call Farage’s gift a ‘chilling’ detention centres plan. Now what in the world is so ‘chilling’ about thousands of lovely third-world migrants parked in your back garden? If it is so terribly ‘chilling’, then surely the Greens would never propose green-lighting them as they do, and Green voters should think it an honour to have their constituencies filled with them.

“Nigel Farage’s Chilling Detention Centres Plan as Reform ‘sinks to new low’” – Daily Mirror.

There’s nothing ‘low’ about it; in fact Farage’s response is highly amusing and, more than that, highly appropriate.

You want migrants, you get migrants. What could be fairer than that?

Vote Green for Migrant increase in UK population

^The Express airs an article that warns rather than celebrates. It states that the “Green migrant plan would add millions to UK population”, but it doesn’t specifically say millions of what!

I, personally, am of the opinion that Mr Farage’s dispersion plan did not go far enough.

All those in favour of mass migration should be forced to accommodate at least one migrant, taking them gladly into their homes, while those with larger houses, ie the lush-living liberal lefties, should expect to share their homes with, at the very least, one migrant family.

And if this enrichment is not enough, when the migrant family’s extended family washes up on Britain’s shores, ie their grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, half-brothers – in multiples thereof – and old Uncle Tom Ali and all, then these, too, should be taken in by those who voted for them, for, pay attention Greens, where were you taught that charity doth begin? It begins at home – correct!

And as for those who vote Reform, the Best of British to us!

The following two remarks are quoted from the ‘comments’ section of the Daily Mirror’s ‘Chilling’ article:

scar84: The only vile ghastly politicians are the radical left. The biggest danger to Britain is a far-left coalition of Labour, the Greens, the SNP and the Lib Dems propping them up. Thankfully, on current polling, they won’t win enough seats between them to form anything.

[Comment: If such a nightmarish coalition did come to pass, then sedgley58’s predictions (see below) will need to be brought forward by 95 years!]

sedgley58: In about 100 years’ time, Dover will be full of young Brits trying to cross the channel in dinghies to get to mainland Europe.

[Comment: I think sedgley58 is only wrong in his choice of timespan. With a Farage victory at the next general election, the course of history for the UK may well be shunted back on track, but without this redeeming triumph, those ‘young Brits’ to which he refers will be queuing on Dover’s beaches before the next decade is out – even sooner if the nightmare envisaged by scar84 was to take material shape. Mercifully, however, everything would seem to indicate that the left are on their way out. Hooray!]

Image attribution
UK patriotic map: https://www.needpix.com/photo/1420206/
Cabbages: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Cabbage/44523.html
Building silhouette: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Building-vector-silhouette/82904.html
Large breasts Cleavage: Dune911, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:LargeBreastCleavage.png
Cabbage drawing [Piotr Siedlecki]: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/view-image.php?image=118460&picture=cabbage-drawing

Kant’s Tomb at Königsberg Cathedral in Kaliningrad

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If you like thinking, Kant’s tomb is a good place to do it

26 March 2026 – Kant’s Tomb at Königsberg Cathedral in Kaliningrad

A visit to Königsberg’s Cathedral and/or the Kant Museum, which it contains, would hardly be complete without stopping off to pause philosophically next to Kant’s tomb, which, as every trip-advising website will tell you, is located at the cathedral’s northeast corner. If, like me, however, you haven’t got a compass either in your head or in your shoe, such directional information may not be a whole lot of use to you, so we’ll say that the tomb is located at the back of the cathedral opposite the river. It is easy to navigate from Honey Bridge. Cross that and turn immediately right. Conversely, if you are approaching the cathedral from the front, walk around the back.

Kant’s Tomb at Königsberg Cathedral in Kaliningrad

Initially, Kant was interred inside the cathedral, but his remains were exhumed in 1880 and reinterred beneath a neo-Gothic chapel, which stood on the site of the present-day mausoleum.

Prominent German architect Friedrich Lahrs designed the replacement to the dilapidated Gothic structure in a neoclassical ‘monumental’ style, constructed in 1924 as an open-hall, colonnaded chapel. The design is simplistic but effective, and I am quite convinced that Kant would not have disapproved.

The sepulchre contains a stone sarcophagus, beneath which the philosopher’s remains are buried.

It is particularly atmospheric on a dark night, when the tomb’s illumination, reflecting from its red granite surface, bathes the whole in a warm glow, casting angled shadows in stark relief across the imposing Gothic structure to which it is appended.

Kant’s Tomb at Königsberg Cathedral — **I know, it’s not red and warm as it sometimes is; it’s turquoise. Either way, it’s illuminating.**

The tomb is accessible to visitors all year round and is an integral part of the cathedral’s tours, which take in the cathedral, the Kant Museum, Kant’s grave, Kneiphof (Kant Island) and the history of Königsberg.

Visitors Information

Location of Kant’s tomb: Kanta Street, 1, Kaliningrad, Russia 236039

Guided tour details of Königsberg Cathedral, the Kant Museum, Kant’s Tomb and Kneiphof Island are available from https://sobor39.ru/en/events/excursions/

Königsberg Cathedral Organ pulls out all the stops!

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Königsberg Cathedral organ is a musical landmark

19 March 2026 – Königsberg Cathedral Organ pulls out all the stops!

Konigsberg Cathedral, reconstructed from the ashes of the Second World War, is a culturally nostalgic landmark, all that remains of Kneiphof Island, and a fascinating historic and architectural monument of the first order. It is also a centre of musical excellence, a legacy that stretches back even before the cathedral had been completed in 1380, thanks to the use of a portable organ.

In 1380, with the last cathedral stone in place, the art of organ transportation gave way to a large stationary version, which, over a period of years, underwent enlargement and improvement in sound quality.

A new organ, based on the lines of the original, which superseded the latter in 1567, was endowed with no less than 10 bellows and 60 voices.

Cathedral related >>>>> Kant Museum, Kaliningrad

Towards the close of the 16th century, ornate carving, sumptuous painting and gold-plated adornments added a striking visual dimension to the organ’s musical talent, which by this time had become the largest organ in Prussia.

Not satisfied with this achievement, which was already spectacular of its kind, a new organ was commissioned in the first quarter of the 18th century, the work to be undertaken by craftsman Johann Mosengel. Completed in 1721, both the organ and its sound met with high acclaim.

It was also celebrated for having been finished in a grand baroque style, beautified with angel figurines, artisan carving and magnificent gilding, and later would be made famous for helping the writer ETA Hoffmann to master the basics of music.

By the time this organ was up and playing, the cathedral could boast of its own orchestra, which added greatly to its musical repertoire and induced a greater attraction.

The cathedral’s high-humidity environment, which was also subject to erratic temperature fluctuations, required the organ to undergo frequent repair and maintenance, and by the onset of the 20th century, major restoration was rendered unavoidable along with the need for musical tuning.

Königsberg Cathedral Organ pulls out all the stops!

In 1928, Königsberg Cathedral was blessed with a new organ. The Hannover firm that built and supplied it meticulously observed the baroque influences that inspired its decoration, making it all the more tragic when, on the evenings of the 28th and 29th of August, 1944, a bombing raid by the RAF, which gutted the cathedral, added the beautiful organ to its list of fatal casualties.

Today’s Königsberg Cathedral is equipped with two fibre-optic-connected organs, making it the largest piped organ complex in Russia and one of the largest in Europe. The two instruments, the grand three-storey organ and the smaller choir organ, were installed by Alexander Schuke Potsdam Orgelbau, Germany.

Combined, the organs are served by more than 8,500 pipes (6,301 in the larger organ, 2,224 in the choir) and 122 registers. One organist can play both organs from one or the other console, or the organs can be played separately.

Baroque facade of Königsberg Cathedral organ

As with the cathedral’s earlier organs, stylistically the baroque format has been faithfully followed, the gilded façade featuring impressive carvings, including the Virgin Mary and putti that move with the music. The Phoenix carving is said to symbolise the rebirth of the cathedral.

Angels surmounting the organ in Königsberg Cathedral

The splendour of the loft-mounted baroque organ in Königsberg Cathedral

The cathedral hosts organ concerts on a regular basis. The smaller ‘mini concerts’, as they are called, are augmented by visiting musicians of world fame. These larger performances incorporate the best in orchestras and choral groups. More information, ticket prices and booking are available from https://sobor39.ru/en/events/concerts/.

Kant Museum Kaliningrad – all you need to know

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Meet Kant and shake hands with the history of Königsberg

14 March 2026 – Kant Museum Kaliningrad – all you need to know

Those who have a passion for everything Kant could not do better than direct themselves towards one of Kaliningrad’s most multifunctional cultural centres, the major surviving landmark of the former city of Königsberg, Königsberg Cathedral.

The museum is located in the cathedral’s towers. It occupies three floors, accessible by a series of steep and challenging staircases, the first being stone and spiral.

The museum, as the name suggests, is principally dedicated to the celebrated 18th-century German philosopher Immanuel Kant but also embraces the concomitant history of the cathedral, Kneiphof Island, as Kant Island was formerly called, Königsberg itself, and the Albertina University, which, before the arrival of the RAF in 1944, was so conveniently situated at the cathedral’s eastern side that the adoption of the latter as the university’s church could not have been more fortuitous.

Kant Museum Kaliningrad – all you need to know

The three floors that constitute the museum have distinct areas of interest: the first is a historical tribute to Kneiphof (Kant Island); the second contains an authentic reconstruction of the Wallenrodt Library; and the third is a shrine to Kant.

The Kniephof exhibition is a must-see for anyone interested in the juxtaposition of prewar Königsberg with its Soviet and modern-day successors. Kant, who lived and worked in Königsberg all of his life, knew Kneiphof in the 18th century as one of the city’s four central districts. Over time, Kneiphof Island became overbuilt, assuming the character of a highly concentrated urban environment. The wartime visit by the RAF abruptly changed all that, laying waste to Kneiphof as it did to the best part of Königsberg. In more recent years, this lamentable space has evolved with some careful landscape coaxing into a gentle, relaxing retreat, thoughtfully planted with shrubs and trees and intersected throughout with meandering hard-surface walkways.

Kant Museum Kaliningrad - all you need to know

Kant: small in stature but large in history

Relics from the Albertina University in the Kant Museum, Kaliningrad

Exhibits in the Kant Museum at Königsberg Cathedral in Kaliningrad include historic artefacts and images relevant to the Albertina University.

The Kniephof exhibition contains a number of maps, images and artefacts, illuminating the island’s history, including vintage items and ephemera connected with the Albertina University. But the jewel in its crown is undoubtedly the detailed scale model of Königsberg, which clearly shows not only Kneiphof in its 1930s heyday but also the layout of the city of which it was comprised, which seven years from the time depicted would abruptly cease to exist.

The Wallenrodt Library on the museum’s second floor is named after its founder, the Prussian Chancellor Martin von Wallenrodt, whose private collection of ancient books and manuscripts became the first secular public library to be hosted by a religious establishment. The library was donated to the cathedral in 1650 by Wallenrodt’s son, and its contents increased year on year until, just before the cathedral was bombed in 1944, some 10,000 written works had been sedulously amassed and carefully curated for the edification of the general public.

Fortunately, both before the war and during the time it raged, much of the library’s invaluable contents were transferred elsewhere for safety, but for those volumes that did remain, fate showed a less lenient face than the one that had partly smiled upon the cathedral’s tenuous destiny, for the library and its remaining contents suffered to be obliterated.

The library’s reincarnation is largely acknowledged to be a faithful replica of its former self in all its relative dimensions and an accurate aesthetic and atmospheric facsimile of its 17th-century origin. The Baroque appearance and scholarly ambience echo throughout the sumptuous mahogany woodwork, particularly in the carved detail that overlays the library shelves. If ever a place was intended by God for learned study and quiet reflection, then here, I feel, is a better place than most – allowing, of course, for its constant stream of visitors.

Kant Museum Kaliningrad – all you need to know

The third floor of the cathedral’s museum is a paean to philosopher Kant, where personal artefacts, sketches, portraits, busts and documents of various kinds consort with digital technology to introduce the visitor to the life of the man and philosopher, locating him in the history of the world in which he lived and worked.

Saying hello digitally to Kant. Technology in the Kant Museum.

Hello, Mr Kant!

An adjoining room demonstrates Kant’s adherence to the dining etiquette advocated by Philip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield, whose considered opinion was that dinner parties should never consist of fewer than three persons and never more than nine, this number including the host. Exemplifying rigid rituals typically Kant in nature and, indeed, no less in practice, this prescription was one which the philosopher, so it is said, adopted in order to equalise his solitary existence with structured social interaction sufficient enough to divert and enjoy whilst informing his lifelong pursuit of the moral and intellectual stimulants his calling held so necessary.

In reflecting this sense of order, the room is symbolically staged according to the principles Kant accepted and of which he approved; the table and chairs are laid out as prescribed to accommodate guests conforming to the strict limits of a propitious number, the host, of course, included, and are presented then to visitors against a dynamic, colourful tapestry, the lively content of which depicts a typical evening at home with Kant. Who would have thought that a man so widely considered to be intractably pedantic could demonstrate his critique of reason through such perfect hospitality!

In contrast to this merry scene, but quite in keeping with life itself, this room also contains two Kantian exhibits which some of a sensitive disposition might consider macabre. The first, staring blindly from the cushioned base of the glass case in which it resides, is a copy of the philosopher’s death mask, about which it is probably true to say he fails to look his best; the second is a framed painting hanging on the wall, which captures the haunting moment of the exhumation of Kant’s body, in which one man is depicted standing inside the open grave, passing Kant’s skull to a colleague, whilst the rest of the congregation look on with expressions of awe and wonder, morbid fascination or an irresistible inclination to surrender to all three.

Exhuming Kant's remains. A picture in the Kant Museum, Kaliningrad

Kant’s remains were removed from where his body had been buried inside the cathedral’s walls and reinterred in a mausoleum constructed in his honour annexed to the cathedral, which is where they are today, though no longer in the original bespoke structure, whose character had been Gothic, but in a remodelled modernist setting designed in the 1920s by the German architect Friedrich Lahrs, about which, no doubt, we will have something to say in a later post at a later date.

You might very well find this useful …

The Kant Museum is located in Königsberg Cathedral:
Ulitsa Kanta, 1, Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Oblast, 236039

Tel: 8 (401) 263-17-00

Information about the museum: https://sobor39.ru/about/museum/
Details of excursions: https://sobor39.ru/events/excursions/

Opening times
Every day from 10am to 7pm

Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing

15 May 1996

On recounting some of my experiences of working in the publishing industry, some wag asked, back in the 90s, “So, what are you going to do when you leave school?”

1 March 2026 – Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing

The following diary extract is taken from my time as managing editor at a now-defunct travel-trade publishing house, which we shall here refer to as Shackelton Press.

Shackelton Press for me represented the last post in a long line of desperately bizarre, tumultuously chaotic, and unbelievably high-octane-stressed advertising-based publishing houses, each one stocked with larger-than-life, weird and wonderful characters.

Let’s do a bit of time travelling:

Preface

These little insights, or snippets of madness, are taken from my 1996 diary. The setting is London. The names of both the publishing house and the actors in it have been changed to protect the reputations of the not-so-innocent. If you know who you are, God bless you. I trust that you all came through the experience mentally and emotionally unscathed. They were, as John Lennon lyricised, “Strange days, indeed!”

Cast of Characters:
Editorial Director: Byron Quill (Quilly)

Managing Editor: Mick Hart (or, ‘managing badly’, as Sebastian used to say, or ‘managing just’, as Mr Ormolu was wont to quip)

Production Department Staff
Sebastian Forrester (subeditor/researcher/writer – part-time actor)

Margaret Clark: (researcher/subeditor)

Matt Ormolu: (editor)

Grant: (graphic design and page layout)

Arthur: (freelance editor – South African) nickname ‘Slice’

Suit & Tie: (researcher/subeditor) – female

Publishing house: Shackleton Press

########################################

Introduction

Is it the same today? In my days, people were always leaving publishing house editorial/production departments, either because they couldn’t stand the pace any longer and wanted to get their life back or were, or so they said, moving on to richer pastures. Such is the land we occupy, known as Wishful Thinking.

On this day, Friday 15 May 1996, someone – yet another someone – was about to make the great escape. She was a northern lass, who we will refer to here as Margaret Clark.

In connection with this event, I had been directed by my director (after all, that’s what directors are for, directing) to sally forth, in my own time, of course, or manage someone else to do the same (that’s what managing is all about, delegating) in the interests of procuring for the aforesaid Margaret a communal card and leaving present.

To avoid the boredom of it, I delegated the role to the one chap in our department whom I knew would turn a routine task into something more diverting. No one was better suited to this task, I thought, than Sebastian Forrester, the irascible budding actor, whose aspirations of high culture and whose self-regard for sophistication presented numerous opportunities whilst preparing for the lunchtime trip to, how do we say it, ‘take the piss’.

Friday 15 May 1996 – as it happened

Sebastian, who was extremely excited by the responsibility conferred on him, entertained, with my help, the whole department. He set up his affectatious cultural airs as if they were skittles and my debasing of them the balls that would knock them down.

Margaret Clark, the girl who was leaving today, reminded me of a stick of rock; she had ‘Northern Girl’ stamped right through her. As such, she would most likely have been happy with a pair of clogs, a flat hat and a bowl of mushy peas, heavy on the mint sauce, for a leaving present, but Sebastian, true to form, had his mind set on something she would like because it was something he would like. He seriously had no idea if she had any interest in, or appreciation of, art, and neither did I. But once Sebastian had latched onto something, it was like a dog’s teeth in arse. (This analogy has some baring, sorry, bearing, on the eventual choice of gift, or, of course, I would not have employed it.)

So, we were off to Covent Garden to buy Margaret, who was leaving, a book on art that she might not want, would not like and would never read. It sounded to me like the perfect present for a person quitting a job that she did not want, did not like and was pleased to close the covers on.

Sebastian, just before we left the office, was commenting vociferously on the remarks of one of his colleagues, whose projected view on everything he considered rather crass: “Oh yes, Michael, there’s old Ormolu, his usual helpful and refined self, ‘I think some novelty items are in order, Sebastian,’ he said. Novelty items, indeed. And we all know what he means by that!”

What Sebastian did not know was that Matt Ormolu and I had already discussed the type of present that we were going to buy dear Margaret, and novelty items were top of the list.

“Oh no, Michael!” protested Sebastian, his nose curling and sensibilities clearly offended. “I’m not under any circumstances going into Nutz Novelty shop!”

“Sebastian I barked (Sebastian was the son of an army officer, and sons of army officers, I have found, respond instinctively to the old sergeant major treatment). “Sebastian!”

“Yes, Michael!”

“We are going in!”

“Right, Michael!”

“Oh my God!” That was Sebastian, genuinely shocked by the risqué greeting cards greeting him in Nutz Novelty.

Naturally, being a thespian by aspiration, buying anything of such a crass, crude nature was theatrically beneath him.

Officially, we only had our lunch hour in which to buy a present, and the clock was ticking. In Nutz Novelty, the hands and the pendulum bore an intended resemblance to male genitalia.

“Pity we can’t afford that,” I thought.

Sebastian’s dithering was impinging upon our schedule, so I had to make a managerial decision. So, much to his dismay, I grabbed the nearest greeting card. On its cover was a naked man, who was looking rather gay. Then, before Sebastian could faint, I added to my basket a jumping clockwork bum and a packet of luminous condoms.They were always experiencing power cuts up North, so Margaret should find some practical use for them.

Sebastian was so appalled that, in the interests of balance and resuscitation, I accepted his need to restore the culture he’d lost by looking for it in Dillons bookshop.

In Dillons, we haggle over two potential publications: Works of Art of the Past Century or 100 Years of Playboy. I’ll leave you to decide which one of us advocated which book.

To placate Sebastian, Works of Art of the Past Century it is. A good manager always manages to make concessions when they are faced with a member of staff who looks as though he’s about to stage a tantrum.

With the esteemed book in his mitt, Sebastian proceeds to checkout, putting the book on one side of the counter and resting the Nutz Novelty nude-man card on the other.

The shop assistant rings up the book and then, glancing at the gay card, with its picture of a compromised nude man on the front, asks Sebastian, “Is this yours?”

Sebastian panicking, “Good heavens, no! He bought it from Nutz Novelty!”

But ‘he’, meaning me, was nowhere to be found. I had expeditiously removed myself and was studiously and demonstratively preoccupied with Post-modernist Works of Art.

“We sell them here,” the assistant said, referring to the card.

“Do you!” exclaimed Sebastian. “Well, I’m shocked!”

Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing

We were already late back from lunch, two hours late to be exact.

“It wil be a ground-to-air arse-seeking boot for us, Mr Hart!” was Sebastian’s prediction.

We were rattling along on the tube, with Sebastian imitating what he expected Director Quill to say about our lengthy expedition,” Huh! Did it take two of you!”

“To which the reply will be, Sebastian: ‘Yes, one to go into the arty-farty shop and one to buy the bouncing bum.’”

Mr Quilly never commented on our combined late return, but he did say, “I can’t have my managing editor buying condoms, bouncing bums and false breasts in Nutz Novelty Shop.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Q.” I contritely replied. “It won’t happen again.”

Leaving his office, I thought, “Where did he get the false breasts from?”

As I approached the editorial department, I could hear actor Sebastian hamming it up in no uncertain terms: “… and whilst I was in Dillons looking for a decent present, there’s old Mick,” I could hear him sneering, “dithering about in Nutz Novelty shop, undecided about whether he should buy the fart spray or the masturbatory glove?”

“False breasts? Masturbatory glove?” Perhaps Quill and Sebastian were more frequent visitors to Nutz Novelty than we gave them credit for. Perhaps they are given credit? Perhaps they had a joint account!

When I entered the department, I was greeted with: “We thought you were never going to come back. It’s 5pm!”

“Sebastian’s fault,” I replied. “He’s such an old woman when it comes to buying presents.”

No fear of reprisals for that comparison. The one thing I never did was employ feminists.

Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing

We were late back, so late that we barely had time to wrap the presents and get the card with the bare gay man on the front signed.

South African Arthur, regarding the nude picture on the front of the card, asked: “Why is there a picture of Quilly on the front? More to the point, who took it?”

Grant, from the production department, asked, referring to the photo, “Is this a still out of Sebastian’s latest film?”

After everyone in the production department had signed the card, I ferried it, with half the department behind me, to Mr Quilly’s office. Through the window in the door, we can see him smiling as he signs the card.

Matt Ormolu: “Quilly’s smiling. Perhaps people should leave more often.”

Even Mr Quilly himself had a comment to make: “I’ll have to be more careful about who photographs me as I’m scrubbing my right knee!”

It was almost time to leave for the leaving party, which was taking place at a venue in the Angel. There was an air of school days’ excitement in the office. We were going to be really naughty and leave fifteen minutes early. Even old Suit and Tie, one of the female editorial staff, was coming with us tonight. She usually went straight home to darn her socks or something.

Outside on the street, most of those people accompanying me waited patiently for a cab; all, that is, but Sebastian.

“Typical Harty situation,” he scoffed, referring to me, and then directed at me: “Haven’t you heard of that simple and convenient mode of transport known as the tube?”

“Indeed I have, Sebastian, but you being an actor and all, I wouldn’t dream of casting you in the role of a commoner. Besides, on the tube you’d most likely be deprived of a speaking part, whereas in the cab your oratory will be rewarded with a standing ovation.”

“You’d have a job standing …” but his derision was cut short by our chariot arriving.

The cab got us to where we wanted to be, door to door, in half the time it would have taken by tube.

“I know, Sebastian, there is no need to congratulate me. We are here much quicker than if we had taken the tube; that’s why I’m the manager, here to manage.”

Sebastian’s book, A 100 Years of Art, came in handy. Margaret used it as a platform for the jumping bum, and everyone, except for Sebastian, was enraptured by it. “Good choice, Sebastian,” Ormolu glowed – and so did the condoms.

Whilst Ormolu and the condoms glowed, Sebastian glowered; he was leaning in close – too close, I thought – to two of the female editors for which he had a lascivious liking, chastising me for all he was worth: “You should have seen him, old Hart, standing there in Nutz Novelty, unable to make up his mind whether to buy the fart spray or the masturbatory glove!”

I steered clear of this conversation but wondered how Sebastian would deal with certain questions the female staff now were putting to him regarding the glove to which he had alluded, of which, like Quilly’s female breasts, I had not the slightest knowledge.

All things considered, the party went well, which was something of a letdown by publishing standards. Nobody got paralytic and disgraced themselves by fondling bottoms, except for the clockwork one, or by slagging off the production director to his face; nobody threw up, got into a fight or bonked one another in the gentlemen’s lavs and the stench of Ganja was conspicuously absent. It all could have been so very different, if I had only invited the sales staff.

Dear Diary … 2025 – that was the year that was / How to grow old graciously

Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful

Snowbody knows if it’s snowdrops next

24 February 2026 – Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful

No sooner had I posted Snow in Kaliningrad than the first signs of a thaw occurred. At 4.30am on the morning of the 22nd February 2026, my long-term insomnia allowed me to listen with immeasurable clarity to the roar of glaciers leaving our rooftop and the commensurable and sporadic sounds of smaller pieces of ice, mimicking handfuls of gravel, sliding and rattling stridently off terracotta and metal surfaces as they literally lost their grip.

Fate’s forceful intervention, either betraying the promise of a snowbound world or working with Nature to release water from frozen petrification, are interpretations only to be mediated by your personal understanding of the benign and malignant forces that constitute our natural/unnatural world. Are postulations of a beautiful Nature all that they are cracked up to be, or is Nature merely an aberration, a mistake, which, including us, is nothing more than a virus more invasive to planet Earth than a dinghy full of migrants powered by liberal-leftism on its way to England? In the stillness of 4:30, it all seems so peculiar.

Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful

Snow may have brought the Old West quick draw to Kaliningradians armed with shovels and across its frozen tundra made otherwise manly men mince, but the flip side to the challenge is, or has been, many a pretty and picturesque scene, with white landscapes, crystalline trees, a wonderland playground for children, including for those that have never grown up, and, once you’ve contended with frozen toes and mastered the art of your balancing act, an all-pervading magical atmosphere.

Herewith is a handful of images from the cards that winter has so far dealt us. The cards for March are yet to be played; thus, all bets for a no-snow spring are off for a few days more.

It looks cold, and it is!

Back of Königsberg Cathedral on a cold and snowy evening

Olga Hart with Königsberg Cathedral in winter 2026

Königsberg Cathedral: a winter rooftop scene

If you haven’t the foggiest where the following photos were taken, then you evidently haven’t read my post on Königsberg Cathedral. The down-to-earth views are photographed on a very cold, snowy evening from the side of Honey Moon Bridge, which is the bridge that connects Kneiphof (Königsberg) with Kant Island (Kaliningrad) to the Fishing Village. The other snapshots offer a grandstand view out and over the sublime expanse of the cathedral’s rooftop, with its distinctive decorative cupola-shaped knop and skyline-commanding mast.

The streets of Kaliningrad

Winter in Kaliningrad with street full of snow

Self-explanatory really: street scenes of snowbound Kaliningrad. If you’ve never clapped eyes before on a photo-posing historic fire hydrant, you have now. If it could operate a smartphone, I’m sure it would take a selfie – or perhaps it has too much pride.

Youth Park snowed under

Mick Hart and young lady in Kaliningrad Youth Park

Mick Hart in Youth Park under the icicles

Kaliningrad’s Youth Park is usually teeming with life, but a few days ago, when these photos were taken, it was a snow-inhabited ghost town. Apart from snow-shovelling men, nothing else was working. The indoor skating rink was open. A great place to be on a cold and icy day!

Sledging (or should that be doughnutting) in Central Park, Kaliningrad

Just before the big thaw set in, we set off to Kaliningrad’s Central Park, which at first sight may appear flat, but at the furthermost end, that’s the one where you don’t come in through the main gate, is characterised by a pronounced declivity – let’s say ‘slope’.

The Marilyn Monroe of curves, the landscape’s flattering figure makes it the perfect place to position yourself and slide off into the stream below – if, of course, you are not too careful. We were.

I stationed myself at the base of the sledge-run and arrested the first descent in such a way that it almost took my arm off. This taught me that the best method of halting the sledge was to stoop down with hands outstretched as if I were a wicket keeper, which I rarely was, because second to football, I hated cricket; yet, had I been more compliant, I might have been correctly informed that a decrease in speed could be best effected by the pilot of the speeding snowcraft using their heels as brakes. These modern doughnut-shaped things are mighty fast on snow, albeit a little less dignified than their more conventional counterparts.

Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful

In winter, much of Central Park, like the trees that occupy it, lies dormant. But after a game of snowballs and lying in the snow, you really need something to pep you up. I have generally found that in winter at least one of Central Park’s refreshment kiosks debunks shutdown and that snacks, teas, coffees and even ice creams are still available for the cold and brave.

Catering for those whose resuscitation requirements are rather more sophisticated, I was pleased to learn that on the day in question – the question being, whatever was I doing standing around in the snow? – The winter-friendly kiosk was adult enough to provide mulled wine.

At four quid a pop, you don’t get pop, but you do get a very tasty, very warming and satisfactorily large helping of a put-colour-back-in-your-cheeks beverage. Just the job for a man with frozen feet and his doughnut-stopping, beer-raising arm having narrowly escaped dislocation.

Essential survival garments for cold weather in Kaliningrad

Mick Hart wears Babushka style socks for cold Kaliningrad winters

Snow in Kaliningrad: Great Shovels and Icicles!

Getting yourself into a scrape by I Cicle

21 Feb 2026 – Snow in Kaliningrad: Great Shovels and Icicles!

Brrr! That’s something that we all understand in England. At 14 degrees above outside, it’s brrr in most English houses, not simply because we are not used to the cold, but from the shiver that passes down our spines and out through the toots of our toes when we have, in the last resort, to switch on the central heating: Better the shiver we know and must live with than the aaargh that comes with the gas bill.

Fortunately for the UK, however, whilst we really should open the coal mines and pile that lovely black stuff into our stoves and onto our fires without a thought of tomorrow, global warming has come to our rescue. Temperatures in England – not the ones that are rising under every true-born Englishman’s collar, owing to the government’s sponsored migrant invasion – are typically, if not perversely, generally low in summer (you’d think that would drive the blighters away, would you not?) but not so low in winter.

Passing over pointless places of which the UK is composed, and, focusing solely on the one and only UK country that counts, that being obviously England, we will state in connection with our winters that it’s just as well that things are as they are; for given the slightest touch of ice and the most meagre sprinkle of snow, the government and the media go immediately into national crisis overdrive – ‘Help, there is snow on the road!’ – when all we should be concerned about at any time of the year are migrants, muggers and terrorists and with signing up to reasonable campaigns such as banning the hoody from our streets along with the types that wear them. Not yet put your name to this? Then do so straightaway!

Snow in Kaliningrad: Great Shovels and Icicles!

It pleases me to confirm that in Kaliningrad this year, we have experienced, and are experiencing, what I would call a real winter. For several weeks at least, temperatures have been hovering between -9 and -14, dropping sometimes dramatically to -24.

A snowy street in Kaliningrad, January 2026

There are certain sounds associated with real Kaliningrad winters, which are alien to their unreal England counterparts, and of this we can honestly say vice versa. For example, mild winters in England are apt to bring forth incredulous cries of, “What the f…?! I can’t believe this gas bill can be right! ”, whereas in Kaliningrad, and I imagine most everywhere else in Russia, when the temperature rises slightly, one is wont to hear, especially in one’s attic, a terrifying and mighty roar, like the tortured grate of metal on metal, which could easily be mistaken for the frightening din of Casey Jones’ train hurtling out of control down the MF of railway gradients (A conversation in Islington: “Mummy, who the [beep] is Casey Jones?” “Hush, now, dear, put out the light and try to go to sleep. Don’t read that terrible stuff; it is the workings of the fetid mind of one of those naughty men The Guardinistan calls a populist; besides, even with the help of daddy’s child support benefit and contributions from your many uncles, and with I working every hour that the tax god sends, we cannot pay the electric bill, so please don’t give me cause to wonder why I am blessed with being a mother, particularly at this stressful time, and put that light out, now!”), or, for those, like the child in Islington, who have never heard of Casey or his Cannonball Express or owned a pair of stoker’s gauntlets, a substantially different comparison, but one I am sure you will all agree lacks no less of the colourful, is that of the sandpaper sound emitted by a big fat woman hauled along on a sledge, albeit not very gracefully, over freshly gritted ice or across a piece of pavement where the snow has mischievously melted.

Thankfully, this ginormous roar emanates not from either one of these two most obvious sources or even, as might be supposed, from the jaws of a passing lion. They are broadcast by the peremptory movement of prodigious drifts of snow and underlying sheets of ice taking their leave from sloping rooftops. This is why, as you saunter around Kaliningrad, you will observe on many an apex roof protrusive wire frames put there for the strategic purpose of cunningly arresting the wanton and wayward slip of snow, the ultimate objective being to prevent its rapid downward motion so as to mitigate the risk of it plummeting onto your head and doing to you, as a result, without recourse to expletives, what your maiden aunt might coyly describe as ‘a right old mischief, make no mistake!’.

We desperately need something like this – wire frames, not aunties – positioned just a little below the surface of the water and preferably fitted with very sharp spikes, invisibly laid length and breadth across the English Channel. Apart from the entertainment value accruing from the implementation of such a delightful and curious contraption, it would, methinks, provide some budding entrepreneur with the opportunity of making a killing (language of the stock market) on the crowded shores of France, before the inevitable killings are made (language on the streets) in England, by selling to the former country’s lucrative and ever-expanding inflatable dinghy industry thousands of puncture repair outfits, which much of Britain would surely sponsor, as the last thing that its people want is to stop the boats rolling in and prove Elon Musk’s predictions wrong that in them, along with the migrants, a civil war is coming.

The other tell-tale sound of winter heard with fascinating regularity in the attic of your former Königsberg house is the one that goes scrape, scrape, scrape, wafting upwards in the chill of the night from the snow-challenged ground below. This is the winter serenade of many plastic-bladed snow shovels, wielded by men in thick woolly hats, shovelling snow off paths, both in private gardens and on public streets, as though should their husbands fail to do it when they are expected to, then their wives might form the opinion that there is something seasonally wrong with them.

Snow in Kaliningrad is a shoveller’s paradise

Shovelling snow in Kaliningrad is rather more than just a must-do occupation during the winter months; it is, most vitally, when push comes to shove, an intensely competitive sport intended to determine who can do it more frequently and with the most success.

Hailing from a country that is largely less white than it should be, by which, of course, I mean snowless England, where all you have to do is sneeze from any part of the body and the little snow that there is gets blown away, I confess that I am not, by culture and also by lack of experience, particularly good at shovelling, and being rather competitive, or so I have been told and more often than not accused, I tend to subscribe to the mantra of letting sleeping snow lie, preferring rather to trudge across it, even should it cover my knees, than spend a proverbial month of Sundays digging away at snowdrifts as if they never have any intention of disappearing on their own accord.

However, like so many things in life, once bitten, forever smitten. Public Health Warning: Shovelling snow can prove addictive!

A word to the wise, therefore! Before you take to your shovel, it is as well to glance at the nearest rooftop to ascertain the amount of snow and estimate its adherence, prefacing this wise precaution with yet another you may not have thought of, which is that before you start to wield your shovel, stick a tin helmet on your head, or alternatively a Russian castroola (that’s saucepan in your lingo). Once you get beyond the question, “What am I doing this shovelling for?”, which is quickly followed by “Is it necessary?”, and which runs to the conclusion that “I suppose I must. I’ve bought a snow shovel”, you really can get into it, both the saucepan and the shovelling; and, after a while, its all systems go and, dare I say it, really quite fun.

Snow in Kaliningrad paves the way for new experiences

I find that the pleasure of shovelling snow is intensified considerably if, by using the imagination that God saw fit to give you, you trundle forcefully through the snow, making a brr, brr, brr sound as you go. Since it is so cold, so very cold, at -24, you will probably find these sounds occur in the absence of conscious effort, but rattling teeth and knocking knees, though they add tremendously to the experience, are never nearly quite so satisfying as going ‘brr, brr, brr’, when the object of the exercise is to pretend you are a snow plough cutting along the highways and byways in blizzard-blown Siberia.

Adopting this clever fantasy (clever because it stops you asking, ‘What am I doing this for?’) inspired the efforts of a certain man, who uncannily looked a little like me, to such a devoted extent that he found it hard to stop, which in hindsight was rather unfortunate, because having shovelled a surfeit of snow from the pavement outside on the street, quite by accident or malevolent fate, overnight the temperature rose, causing some of the snow to melt and that which was travelling down to earth from an inconsiderate universe to turn whilst on its long descent partially into icy water before coming to rest on terra firma, thus threatening to transform his (this man who looked a little like me) nice, neat, snow-clean path into a local skating rink.

This unforeseen development had the effect of persuading me, I thought not injudiciously, to desist from looking out of the window through which the altruist’s handy work was so demonstrably evident. There were other windows that one could look out of without incurring a sense of guilt, advocating remorse or entertaining rum predictions of unspeakable turns of events, but possibly not with so much success of not inviting jealousy, as from the window I had chosen I could only admire and gasp out loud at how big the neighbour’s had become. Sagely, I said to myself, against the lamentable backdrop of someone vigorously shovelling, ‘Should Kaliningrad hold a competition to see whose is the biggest, it would have to be our neighbour’s.’ I mean, just look at the size of that one! What a beauty! What a monster! What a magnificent icicle to behold!

Whopping big icicle in Kaliningrad, February 2026

It saddened me to think that when soon the shovelling shall be heard no more, this prize-winning shard of ice will melt and shrivel away no different to us and to nothing, and all that will be left of winter, as with every seasonal change in life, will be an echo of the past, marked by the eerie silence of redundant snowmen’s shovels, since disbanded in garden sheds, their handles and blades covered in cobwebs, and in their forced retirement singing, humming and sighing gently of shovelling feats and duty done.

But take heart, those that do, compared to those that don’t or rather petulantly won’t! Spring is not as distant as the snow would have you believe. No sooner will your magic shovels be sadly stashed away than the long green grass will rise on your lawns, over which you will feel the duty-bound need to wave and waggle your strimmers.

And to think that there are philosophers out there who waste their entire existence deliberating and discoursing on the purpose and meaning of life. Give them a shovel, I say, and put them to something needfully useful!

Königsberg Cathedral, Kaliningrad: a story of survival

A blog post for those who delight in quests for meaning with some compensatory tilts towards coincidence and the intervention of luck

12 February 2026 – Königsberg Cathedral, Kaliningrad: a story of survival

It did not dawn upon me until recently, although it had been percolating around and around in my subconscious for yonks, that here am I dwelling in old Königsberg and to date have failed to write a post devoted to its wonderful cathedral, which only happens to be Kaliningrad’s most visited and popular tourist attraction and the last remaining marker of what is often described historically as Königsberg’s spiritual and cultural centre. I suppose that you will tut that I have been too busy taking potshots at the antics of the liberal left and writing curated highbrow on such topics as tin buckets and badgers dressed in underpants, but I confess that my penance is overdue, and so it is with humbled contriteness that I take you by the hand and lead you to the one and only Königsberg Cathedral.

If you wish, you can Go to:
Königsberg Cathedral Organ
Königsberg Cathedral Museum
Wallenrodt Library at Königsberg Cathedral
The Tomb of Immanuel Kant
Sculpture Park on Kant Island (formerly Kneiphof Island)

Königsberg Cathedral, Kaliningrad: a story of survival

The most profound, iconic and spectacular testimony to Kaliningrad once being Königsberg is the continued presence of Königsberg Cathedral. Contrary to appearances, the cathedral’s spiritual connections did not throw a shield around it during WWII. It was not singled out by divine intervention for survivalist dispensation. Although, the fact that it was gutted and that its outer walls remained intact, thus preserving a shell of its former self, could be offered up as evidence of how wrong I am in this assumption. For had the walls not remained, it is doubtful, if not impossible, that later, much later in fact, the remainder of this poignant tribute to the glory that was Königsberg would have become its advocate for conservation and regeneration.

Königsberg Cathedral front facade c.2023

I haven’t the vaguest idea whether you are asking how and why the cathedral escaped demolition from the postwar Soviet dictate to eradicate all things German. But just in case you are, the answer to such a hypothetical question is that Königsberg Cathedral owes a debt for its salvation to a coalition of culturally minded people and indulgent local history groups, felicitously supported by Moscow’s Ministry of Culture.

It is said that in the drive to expunge all things German, Kaliningrad’s local authorities actively sought to demolish the cathedral, as indeed became the fate of Königsberg Castle, but that a handful of heritage-conscious historians, emphasising the building’s historical value, countered with the argument that the building was worthy of reprieve. There can be no doubt at all that the Ministry of Culture’s backing must have applied crucial leverage for the preservationist’s cause. But help was also forthcoming from the most unlikely of sources, that of the city’s most famous inhabitant the German philosopher Kant, whose tomb, like the cathedral to which it is attached, had survived the aerial bombing and Soviet siege of Königsberg.

Ironically Kant, who was a lifelong resident of Königsberg, who hardly ever left the city that he loved, but who, in later life, it is said, tended to visit the cathedral less and less, played an indispensable part in saving the stricken building from the swoop of the demolition ball and alteration by dynamite.

Kant to the rescue

During the Soviet era, particularly in the immediate aftermath of WWII, all distinguished and distinguishing German buildings which in Königsberg had survived destruction were looked upon as offending symbols of a militaristic nature and objectionable reminders of Fascistic ideology.

However, to have laid waste to Königsberg Cathedral would have entailed the simultaneous destruction of Kant’s tomb, which was and still is located at the cathedral’s northeast corner. Fortunately for both, Soviet ideology regarded Kant a progressive thinker whose work had greatly influenced the philosophical tenets of Soviet-approved Hegel and Marx.

The preservation-destruction debate continued unabated, but before a decision could be taken, Sovietism collapsed, ushering in a bold new era. Perestroika had arrived: It wasa time of possibilities for what before may have seemed impossible. And it was during this transitionary period, in the early 1990s, that the green light was finally given and restorative work commenced on raising the wounded cathedral out from under its wartime ruins.

Konigsberg Cathedral, Kaliningrad: a story of survival

Harking from England, whenever I think ‘cathedrals’, I visualise, from experience, massive, conspicuous structures predominantly constructed of carved grey stone. The red-brick Gothic style, the category in which Königsberg Cathedral fits, is incongruous with this vision. Such buildings are predominantly Germanic and also Baltic in origin, erected in red brick rather than in stone due to a regional lack of the latter for use as a source of building material.

Historic buildings of note, particularly those initiated to fulfil religious purposes, are virtually never not preceded by an earlier version, and Königsberg Cathedral is no exception to this rule.

The forerunner to the red-brick building with which today we are familiar was smaller than its successor. It was made of wood and served the Catholic Church. This comparatively modest place of worship took shape at the end of the thirteenth century and beginning of the fourteenth. In 1322, Johann Clare, the Bishop of Samland, obtained the eastern quarter of Kneiphof Island from the Teutonic Knights. Here, development of the new cathedral is thought to have begun in 1330, with the first cathedral demolished in unison and parts of it removed for incorporation within the newbuild.

The bombing of the cathedral in August 1944 can be viewed as the apotheosis of a long line of setbacks and serious structural mishaps that plagued the building’s construction and threatened its existence from the moment of its debut on Kneiphof Island.

From the very outset, the island’s silt and mud ground presented a contradiction to the successful erection of a structure of the cathedral’s considerable size and weight. Soil had to be brought in from elsewhere and hundreds of poles driven into the earth to stabilise the foundation bed.

Mindful of past Prussian and Lithuanian conflicts, the cathedral, with Johann Clare’s blessing, began to take a formidable shape, with walls constructed in some places up to 3 metres thick. When the Master of the Teutonic Order, Luther von Braunschweig, got wind of this, it quite unsurprisingly fair put the wind up him. Instantly, he halted all construction whilst he attempted to ascertain what it was that Clare was erecting, a cathedral or a fortress, bearing in mind, of course, that the whereabouts of the structure placed it slap bang in the middle of the Teutonic Order’s domain.

For work on the cathedral to recommence, Clare had to sign a document confirming that all defensive elements pertaining to the cathedral’s spec would be dropped forthwith and also guarantee that certain walls of the building would be assembled within parameters that made their defensive role less credible.

It is doubtful that the cathedral would have gone ahead had these concessions not been made, but the making of them introduced serious inherent weakness into some parts of the cathedral’s structure, requiring buttresses and other remedial mechanisms to compensate for the heavy loads imposed by the arches and vaulted ceilings. Although these engineering features eventually lent the cathedral a distinctive look all of its own, they would later prove insufficient in preventing some of the walls from sinking and listing to the south by as much as 50cm.

Bricked-up windows in Königsberg Cathedral

Due to the unstable nature of the substrate on which the cathedral rested and the inadequate foundation base, by the turn of the seventeenth century cracks had begun to appear in various walls, particularly in relation to the placing of the towers. It was initially believed that the fault lay in the walls themselves, which explains why at the front of the building almost every window has been bricked up.

It took the complete collapse of the arch within the northern nave for the extent of the problem to be realised.

A worse fate awaited the cathedral in 1544. Up until this time, the cathedral’s front elevation possessed a symmetrical grandeur, with towers of equal style and proportion positioned on either side. In the conflagration of 1544, both towers were destroyed. Only one tower was replaced, where its facsimile stands today, on the southern flank of the entrance. Instead of replacing the northern tower, a gable roof was added, with one of a smaller but similar nature in the intervening space where the twin towers once had stood.

Königsberg Cathedral view across the river, side elevation

Königsberg Cathedral clock tower and spire assymetrical

Fast forward now to January 1817, the year of a ferocious hurricane, which promptly, impudently, and with blatant disregard for acts amounting to sacrilege, whipped away the cathedral’s roof.

The cathedral’s checkered structural history pursued it through the nineteenth century, during the second half of which substantial soil erosion caused parts of its walls to collapse and associated damage to wreak havoc with other build elements. Enter Richard Dethlefsen, a German architect and monument conservator, who, during the first decade of the 20th century, directed a major engineering project, which included shoring up the cathedral with foundation beams of concrete, stabilised and reinforced with metal tension cables.

Königsberg Cathedral: the destruction of WWII

After all this sterling remedial work, come 1944, along came the RAF, which, on August 26th and 27th of that year, very nearly succeeded in adding the ancient monument to the greater part of Königsberg, which it systemmatically bombed into almost total oblivion. As it was, however, the incendiary devices the RAF dropped, burned the cathedral out, leaving in their wake a gutted, hollow shell.

It is only by comparing photographs of what remained of the great cathedral after that fateful raid and how long it endured as a burnt-out husk with photographs of its present self, or better still by visiting the monument in person, that one can fully appreciate the dedication, time, effort, professional skill and money that have underpinned its restoration.

Link for photographs of Königsberg Cathedral in the aftermath of the Second World War, plus other depictions of Königsberg in ruins. The photographs are c.1960s. The cathedral remained in this skeletal condition until renovation commenced in 1992: https://thebunget.wordpress.com/2020/05/06/the-ruins-of-konigsberg-20-years-after-the-war/

Königsberg Cathedral rises from the ashes of war

Within six years, the initial, visible transformation of the cathedral’s shattered exterior was complete. In 1994, a new spire was lifted into place by helicopter; in 1995, a new clock, replicating the earlier one, was added, and between 1996 and 1998, the entire cathedral roof was reconstructed. Six years from the start of the project, Königsberg Cathedral had been reborn!

With major reconstruction work to the outside now completed, the focus then was turned to detailed conservation and restoration. The cathedral’s interior is widely accredited with having undergone restoration to a high standard, the veracity of which can be validated by once again comparing photographs of the wreckage of the building wrought by World War Two with the Cathedral as it appears today.

Among the many fine examples of restoration detail is the cathedrals’ baptismal font. Housed in a small room separated from the main hall by a carved wooden screen, this replica of the destroyed original is deceptively authentic. The atmospheric baptistry, the original of which dated to 1595, also contains two ancient plaques. Other plaques of interest displayed on the interior include two on the southern wall: one devoted to Luther von Braunschweig, the Master of the Teutonic Order; the other to Johann Clare, the Bishop of Samland.

The pièce de résistance of the interior restoration, discounting for the moment the omnipotent presence of what is famed to be one of Europe’s largest and most impressive organs, are faithful copies of Königsberg Cathedral’s tablature and mural monuments – wall-mounted memorials to the passed-on ‘great and good’.

The best examples of reconstructed wall tablets are to be found behind the main hall’s stage in what once was the choir. This chamber is also the burial place of the Prussian nobility as well as masters of the Teutonic Order and figures of royal descent. Not surprisingly, therefore, these devotional monuments contain the full ornate regalia befitting the status of those whom they serve to consecrate, complete with intricate scrollwork, chubby cherubs, a portrait bust or two, the family’s coats of arms and the traditional symbols of death, skulls with bone accompaniments – embodiments of both the material-spiritual worlds readily associated in style and execution with the late Renaissance and Baroque periods.

The most ornate and intricate of these epitaphs are devoted to the last master of the Teutonic Order and Albrecht Hohenzollern Ansbach, the first secular duke of Prussia. His first and second wives are buried in the same chamber, causing cynics among you to say, ‘No escape there then!’

The former choir benefits from the illumination of eight stained-glass windows, bearing the coats of arms of the most influential East Prussian families: Oulenburg, Greben, Don and Lendorf.

Königsberg Cathedral stained glass window

Stained glass window in Königsberg Cathedral

Twelve stained glass windows, recreated by Kaliningrad master artists, permit and modulate the ingress of light within the cathedral’s basilica.

Konigsberg Cathedral, Kaliningrad: a story of survival

The cathedral in its modern format plays a multifunctional role. It still serves a liturgical purpose, having two chapels in its west towers, one Lutheran, the other Orthodox, but the main hall of the cathedral is dedicated to organ concerts. Königsberg Cathedral houses one of the largest organs in Europe. The cathedral also contains a museum dedicated to the life and times of one of Königsberg’s most famous residents, the renowned philosopher Immanuel Kant, whose mausoleum, annexed to the cathedral, is an international place of pilgrimage for Kantian academics and for those who wish to savour and collect the historical experience of Kant’s last resting place. The mausoleum was designed by German architect Friedrich Lahrs and completed in 1924 to coincide with the bicentennial year of the philosopher’s birth. Upon his death, Kant was first interred inside the cathedral, within the ‘Professor’s Vault’. In 1880, his remains were exhumed and re-interred in a neo-Gothic chapel, which was later replaced by the present edifice.

History board in Kaliningrad's Sculpture Park showing Kneiphof Island before WWII

At the time of its destruction towards the end of the Second World War, Kneiphof Island was the perfect example of high-density living, a compact network consisting of densely crowded urban buildings and seemingly narrow streets. The cathedral, which today can be clearly and dramatically seen from several approaches and prospects, was, in its pre-war days, resplendent yet partially enclosed, particularly on the east and north sides, where the Albertina University, into whose possession the cathedral came in 1544, formed an L-shaped ‘wall’ along the edge of the Pregolya River, with the roof, the spire and masts of the partly concealed cathedral rising above the quadrangle of which its presence helped contrive.

Albertina University and Königsberg Cathedral

Today, the monument stands alone, the vast sweep of its fantailed roof and unmistakeable spired turret quietly reposed in open and sculpted parkland – a reminder of the ghost of Königsberg, a symbol of deliverance from uncompromising total warfare, an icon of endurance and longevity and the city’s most significant landmark, linking, by its pre-war history and postwar reconstruction, the ancient city of Königsberg with modern-day Kaliningrad. It is the poignant story of two different eras, the unlikely bridge between two different cultures, occupying a destined space reserved by Fate and Fortune.

There isn’t in this respect anything else quite like it. Königsberg Cathedral is unique; and, at the risk of sounding vaguely offensive, perhaps it is just as well.

Königsberg Cathedral Organ

The first purpose-built organ was installed in the cathedral shortly after construction was completed in the 1380s. Henceforth, the organ would grow in size, complexity and power. It would also be elaborately embellished, ornately carved, painted and gold plated, a suitable livery for what was destined to become the largest organ in Prussia. In the first half of the eighteenth century, a new organ was constructed. It was huge and being dressed in the grandeur of the Baroque style, with angel figures, fine carving and sumptuous gilding, commanded a prepossessing and inspiring spectacle. Both the decorative exterior and the instrument itself would undergo maintenance, repair and restoration well into the 20th century.

Obliterated in World War II, the organ, like the cathedral in which it had resided, was brought back to life as part of the 1990s’ reconstruction programme. Like its magnificent predecessors, it, too, is Baroque in style and follows the applauded tradition of its 18th-century forebear, which had the reputation of being the largest organ in Europe; the current organ is recognised as one of Europe’s largest organs and the largest organ in Russia.

A second, smaller, choral organ upholds the cathedral’s legacy as a two-organ music venue. Completed in 2006, the smaller organ conveys in its overall shape and appearance elements Art Nouveau in nature as well as conventional Gothic.

Organ elaborate and ornate: Königsberg Cathedral c.2023

Königsberg Cathedral Museum

The southern and northern towers of the cathedral are given over to a museum dedicated to the life and times of the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant, who lived most of his entire life in Königsberg and whose remains are interred in a mausoleum adjacent to the cathedral. The displays include a life-size model dressed in Kantian clothes, personal memorabilia and interactive digital technology, allowing the user to fraternise with Kant and learn about his life and lifestyle.

The museum extends across several floors situated at different levels. The staircases are precipitous, so take it easy on your way up! The museum also contains historical documentation, artefacts and exhibits relevant to the Teutonic Order, Kneiphof Island (since renamed Kant Island), the Albertina University and the city of Königsberg. It’s well worth visiting for all the reasons mentioned and specifically to see the large and detailed scale model of Königsberg.

Bust of Kant in Königsberg Cathedral's Kant Museum

Wallenrodt Library at Königsberg Cathedral

In 1650, Count Martin von Wallenrodt, the Chancellor of Prussia, created the first secular library in Königsberg Cathedral, a unique collection of ancient books and manuscripts. Much of the library’s exclusive contents were lost during the Second World War, and the library itself gutted along with the rest of the building. It was restored to its former glory, and restocked with antiquarian books, coins, banknotes, seals and plaques as part of the cathedral’s reconstruction in the last quarter of the 20th century and the early years of the 21st, and now is a key element of the cathedral museum’s experience. The Baroque interior, enriched by the highly ornate carved columns and intricate moldings spanning and surmounting the floor-to-ceiling shelving units, creates a scholarly space which is at once intimate, private and studious; in fact, an interior so well replicated that reconciling the subdued grandeur of the 20th century iteration with its 17th-century antecedent is rendered quite unnecessary.

Mick Hart in Wollenrodt Library, Kant Museum, Königsberg Cathedral c.2023

The Tomb of Immanuel Kant

Kant’s tomb, which is situated at the northeast corner of Königsberg Cathedral, is a replacement memorial, originally neo-Gothic in style, restyled in 1924 by the respected architect Friedrich Lahrs to mark the 200th anniversary of Kant’s birth.

The mausoleum is designed in a minimalist, neoclassical, open-colonnade form, which, to all intents and purposes, should be quite at odds with the cathedral’s Gothic character, and yet, oddly enough, it is not.

The columned and canopied hall contains a granite sarcophagus, beneath which Kant’s remains are buried.

A bronze wall plaque denotes the duration of Kant’s life from birth to death, and the monument is inscribed with an oft-quoted quote from his work, Critique of Practical Reason: “Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the more often and perseveringly my thinking engages itself with them: the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.”

Sculpture Park on Kant Island (formerly Kneiphof Island)

Kongsberg Cathedral is located on what today is known as Kant Island, which was Kneiphof Island, and which some people refer to as Sculpture Park.

Occupying almost the entire space of Kneiphof, 12 hectares, the park functions as an open-air art gallery. It contains numerous sculptures dotted about among its landscape garden, with the accent on both historical and contemporary figures, showcased under the title of The Man and the World.

At the front of the cathedral can be seen a bronze model called the Center of Königsberg 1930, a detailed reconstruction in miniature of the centre of Königsberg as it would have looked before WWII.

At the rear of the cathedral sits a monument in bronze to the famous philosopher Immanuel Kant, whose tomb is also located there. The pedestal which supports the monument is said to be the original.

Other monuments include:

A statue of Duke Albrecht of Prussia, the founder of the University of Königsberg (Albertina), and a memorial plaque to Julius Rupp, a German noted for his progressive views (1809-1884), inset into a granite stone.

The latest addition to the park is a large electronic screen on which Kant welcomes visitors and invites them to take selfies of them and him together. He is a clever Kant, for he then transmits the selfies to visitors’ smartphones or sends them by email. He is also a very friendly Kant, who parts company with his visitors by wishing them well and regaling them before they leave with some of his famous quotes.