С большой грустью сообщаю, что наш дорогой друг Стас (Станислав Коновалов) скончался от послеоперационных осложнений во время лечения в больнице. Мы с женой Ольгой познакомились со Стасом в январе 2019 года. Нас познакомил с ним наш общий друг, художник Виктор Рябинин. Позже Стас рассказывал мне, что Виктор сказал ему: «В Калининград переезжает англичанин. Тебе следует с ним встретиться. Он интересный человек, и я думаю, вы найдете общий язык ». Я не совсем уверен, что заслуживаю быть названным «интересный», но мы нашли общий язык в нашей любви к истории в целом и в частности к истории Кенигсберга- Калининграда и его окрестностей. Важным элементом нашего общего языка было вдохновение, которое мы оба получили от нашего друга и наставника Виктора Рябинина. Вскоре после смерти Виктора Рябинина в июле 2019 года я сказал Стасу, что нашел две картины Виктора среди своих вещей в Англии. Он ответил с присущей ему скромностью, что, хотя у него нет картин Виктора Рябинина с его автографами, ему достаточно того, что у него есть «тайная гордость», заключающаяся в том, что он был «близок к этому великому человеку». «Я был его учеником много лет, – сказал он. Когда я рискнул предположить, что Виктор был его другом, Стас ответил, опять с присущей ему скромностью: «Виктор знал очень многих людей, но он, вероятно, не считал их всех своими друзьями. . Могу сказать, что я был его учеником, что я восхищался им и был счастлив в его обществе… »Затем он сделал паузу, прежде чем сказать:« Но я хотел бы думать, что он считал меня своим другом ». Стас был скромным человеком. Он скромно относился ко всем своим достижениям, даже тогда когда было совершенно очевидно, что у него было столько же, если не больше, прав их превозносить. В знак признания его достижений, я попросил Стаса написать краткий биографический отчет о его работе и жизни, в том числе о его отношениях с Виктором Рябининым, и поместил его очерк, вместе со ссылками на его практику экскурсовода на страницах своего постоянного блога под рубрикой “Виктор Рябинин Кенигсберг”. “Стас Калининград Кенигсберг Путеводитель”https://expatkaliningrad.com/personal-tour-guide-kaliningrad/ Стас очень много работал над своими проектами гида, оттачивая и совершенствуя их, снимая несколько видеороликов на YouTube и всегда спрашивая: «Что ты думаешь об этом аспекте?» “Все в порядке?” «Есть ли в сценарии видеоролика что-нибудь, что, по твоему мнению, требует пояснения?». Как и смерть Виктора Рябинина до него, смерть Стаса лишила Кенигсберг-Калининград еще одного его великого посла. Но нас его смерть лишила гораздо большего. Стас был человеком прямолинейным, открытым, искренним. Он был добрым человеком, всегда готовым помочь, он был сердцем хорошей компании. Вместе, мы делили общий язык прошлого, а я через него – общий, но очень важный язык – человеческий. В общем, Стас был самым ценным арсеналом – он был незаменимым другом, которого мы не могли себе позволить потерять.
It is with great sadness that I report that our dear friend Stas (Stanislav Konovalov) passed away recently from post-operative complications whilst undergoing hospital treatment.
My wife, Olga, and I met Stas in January 2019. We were introduced to him by a mutual friend, Victor Ryabinin the artist. Stas told me later that Victor had said to him, “There is an Englishman moving to Kaliningrad. You should meet him. He is an interesting man, and I think you will find a common language.”
I am not altogether certain that I deserve the appellation ‘interesting’, but we did find a common language in our love of history generally and specifically for Königsberg-Kaliningrad and the surrounding region.
An important element in that common language was the inspiration we both received from our friend and mentor Victor Ryabinin.
A short while after Victor Ryabinin’s death in July 2019, I told Stas that I had found two paintings by Victor among my possessions in England. He replied, with characteristic modesty, that whilst he did not have a signed painting by Victor Ryabinin the artist, it was enough that he had a “secret pride”, which was that he had been “close to this great man”. “I was his student for many years,” he said.
When I ventured to suggest that Victor had also been his friend, he replied, once again with characteristic modesty, “Victor knew a great many people and associated with a great many people, but he probably would not have considered them all to be his friends. I can say that I was his student, that I admired him and enjoyed his company …” He then paused, before saying, “But I would like to think that he thought of me as his friend.”
Stas was a modest man. He was modest about all of his achievements, when it was quite obvious that he had as much right, if not more, to blow his own trumpet with the ‘best’ of them.
Stas worked extremely hard on his tour guide projects, honing and perfecting them, making several YouTube videos and always asking, “What did you think of this aspect?” “Was that alright?” “Is there anything in my tour guide script that you think needs clarification?”.
Like Victor Ryabinin before him, Stas’ death has robbed Königsberg -Kaliningrad of yet another great ambassador.
It has robbed us of so much more.
Stas was a straight-talking, open, sincere individual. He was a kind man, always ready to help and good company.
Together, we shared the common language of the past, and I, through him, the common but all-important language of humanity.
In summation, Stas was that most precious of all commodities ~ he was the indispensable friend that we could ill afford to lose.
A sunny afternoon with Stas Konovalov, ‘Stas’, [right of picture] Kaliningrad Königsberg Guide
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.
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.
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.
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!’
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.
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!
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
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’.
^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.
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?
^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!]
As sanguine and sagacious as you are, you would not, I am perfectly sure, have jumped to the conclusion that our esteemed Headmaster, Sir Keir Starmer, had completely dropped his marbles when he allowed the loony left, a motley ragbag of Labour MPs, cabbage-looking Greens and limp-wristed Liberal Democrats, to railroad him into disallowing UK airbases to be used for the deployment of US aircraft required for service in the Middle East. If Sir K knows nothing else, he sure does know his onions when it comes to choosing strategically between the preservation of the centuries-old US ‘special relationship’ and running the risk of riots, which, had he not capitulated, the anarchistic left and its unholy migrant confederates would have no doubt unleashed upon the streets of Britain..
Rampant riots on Britain’s streets, with their concomitant rape of the already endangered public purse, cost a third-world ransom and are, moreover, when televised for all the world to see, an embarrassing indictment of failed political leadership unless brought swiftly under control with the sort of robust measures that Britain never employs; the only exception being when those that protest are white, whereupon rest assured that every last man jack of them, as distinct from last man Ali, irrespective of sex or age, can expect their impudence to be met with the ‘full force of the law’. Another downside to be had from riots is that they are bad for happy endings as written at the ballot box; indeed, they incur the unfortunate consequence of lingering in the collective memory and then later, in wild abandon, leaping out in the voting booths as ‘Xs’ in rival MPs’ boxes.
Bearing this conjunctively in mind with the volatile state of Britain and the clear and present danger of nationwide civil unrest, even the most vehement of Starmer opponents would probably have to agree that in refusing ‘bad-ass’ Trump’s request for U.S. planes to land on British concrete was the better part of valour, as also was, it might be opined, his subsequent refusal to send one of His Majesty’s rowing boats to assist with the tricky political task of de-mining the Hormuz Straits.
Now, the less charitable among you, ie those who refuse to read The Guardian on the grounds that it might incriminate their reputation and common sense, might be inclined to paraphrase my diplomatic articulation in preference for words less minced and state with convincing clarity that the Starmer way on this occasion, and indeed on many others, had less to do with standing up to Trump than it had with appeasing the migrant masses of whom he is, to borrow freely from Northamptonshire’s vernacular, most possibly rather ‘frit’, although we should ameliorate by admitting not without reason. But then what can one expect if one continues to fill the country day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and forever until it’s goodbye to us with hordes of people who just don’t fit and from countries wherein is found Britain’s most implacable enemies? I wonder how much room there is behind the settee at Number 10 and if nationally it is large enough to accommodate us all when Elon Musk’s prediction of something akin to a civil war kicks off across our imperilled nation from ‘Hoots mon’ to Cornish pasties.
Much is made in parliament and in the eager-beaver media about the looming threat from historic adversaries, Viking-like would-be aggressors romping in from abroad (you notice I mention no names). There is so much bandied hype about a conventional country-on-country attack upon our sceptred isle, which, although it is not impossible, remains, at least for the moment on the bright side of improbable – let us take as our chosen analogy that it is not entirely impossible that one day ousted Prince Harry might actually wake up and also grow up, but that there is nothing so far in his behaviour to suggest that this possibility will ever transcend improbability.
Nursery rhyme heard from an open window of the Primary School for Blatant Publicity…
Prince Harry went to Ukraine He isn’t a prince just an exported shame And after he came home again (Although he hasn’t got one.) Nothing was changed; all was the same The news of him of which we are sick Make him, for the many, look like a dick.
Perhaps he should change his name to Prince Richard Head.
Life in the UK – it’s all so peculiar
Like the many that preceded them since the end of World War II, this Labour government, which you went and elected – alack a day and fie! – has no plans, no strategy and no backbone, absolutely no political will and, one keenly suspects, no real executive power to halt the migrant invasion from France or to send the buggers already here back to whence they came. As Elon Musk’s, we must conclude, credible prediction, that civil war is on its way takes root in the nation’s consciousness, all that the present government does is continue, as the Tories did before them, to apply to the vicious gaping wound the ointment of capitulation and the accommodating sticking plaster whilst casually sticking two fingers up at the concerns and ultimate welfare of the indigenous population.
The normalisation of policies that contradict, confound and confuse the actions expected of government in pursuit, one would ardently hope, of an outcome that favours the country’s health in all its myriad forms – and these not by a long chalk from Starmer’s lacklustre lot alone but as a legacy laid down by a series of not-fit-for-purpose governments stretching back to the end of the Second World War – is red-carpeting the migrant march to the accommodation tune of a tidy eight million pounds a day, costing the British nation dearly, not only in misspent ackers but in the loss of the cultural sense of who we are, the bewilderment of what we are becoming and the fear of what will become of us. as personal and national security are compromised like never before.
Eight million pounds a day is an awful lot of money – an awful lot to spend on people whom we neither need nor want and could very well do without.Think of all the positive things that could be done with all that money. Think of the potholes in Britain’s roads that long to be repaired, of homeless Britons on British streets deserving a roof over their heads, of a most inadequate military, underfunded and demoralised; of new hospitals, new schools, funding for the NHS, real investment in real renewable energy (if you feel that you must think of this) and a thousand other etceteras, etceteras, along with so-ons and so-forth.
The British media is a spilt piss pot, an overflow of alarm stories bent on dunking us into the slops of the country’s parlous economy, rancid with predictions of an economic slowdown and a terminally stagnating GDP. And yet, with all this talk of the United Kidthem heading for the skids and becoming ever more potless, hardly a mention is made, you could say not surprisingly, of the exorbitant and unholy drain on the country’s faltering economy by the perpetual and perpetuated infinite migrant invasion. Bookmark how much it costs to house these delightful darlings: it’s £8,000,000 a day*! And this expenditure in a country where many of its inhabitants cannot afford, in the depths of winter, to switch the domestic heating on. Let me repeat that figure again for the liberal hard-of-hearing: £8,000,000 a day! (*These figures are taken from an assessment made in 2023, which equate to a total annual cost exceeding £3 billion.)
The rocketing cost of home energy bills Over the past five years, the annual surge in costs of domestic gas and electric bills has been successively and neatly blamed on a jamboree of circumstances ranging from coronavirus to Ukraine and now the war with Iran. I, personally, am glad about this because I have long distrusted my suspicions that the energy crisis is all to do with greed and that everything used to talk it up is nothing but excuses. The sticking point for me is that as each and every crisis that forms the basis for the hikes subsides or, as in the case of coronavirus, vanishes overnight, the higher cost of energy never returns to what it was before the crisis was invented.
There are among our energy companies, who seem to be raking-it-in, some who seek to explain away these sudden precipitous peaks by recourse to pious allusions to the investment they are making in the nicely named renewable energy, but I think we all know by now, or if we don’t, we certainly should, that the imposition of net zero, paying 30 pence at the supermarket whenever we need a shopping bag, and all those other touchy-feely save-the-planet schemes are hand-in-glove with another suspect cause, the humanitarian industry, that global ideological racket belying the altruistic motives of philanthropic billionaires (so-called), hidden-agenda NGOs and need-to-be-scrutinised charities. We’ll just stop short of coining the phrase ‘ideological gangsterism’.
Mass building projects, new towns, associated infrastructure and net zero defined
If you want to know what topsy-turvy means in its relationship to net zero and all the other save-the-planet rackets, just head off into Cambridgeshire and take a look at Peterborough – a sprawling conurbation of the most utterly reprehensible kind.
The same urban sprawl is possibly being masterminded for the rural area of North Bedfordshire. South Bedfordshire has already become a save-the-planet farce: a rotten, unsightly mess of sprawling Lego-type house developments and noisy traffic-spewed roads that crisscross and run in fume-ridden, thundering parallel across a blighted and shattered landscape. This kind of urbanised vandalism is a thin-end-of-the-wedge scenario that is about to be driven like a stake through the heart of North Bedfordshire’s slumbering countryside.
Already, thousands of wonderful new homes are poised to be built on the outskirts of Sharnbrook next to the A6, turning a small, grey stone village with centuries of rural history into yet another example of the corrosive link between profit motive, white flight and overpopulation.
A fleet of ‘War of the ‘World’-type excavators are already tearing up rural Bedfordshire.
The A6, which at the best of times is already overburdened with heavy traffic, will, thanks to those lovely new homes and the masses due to occupy them, fall foul to a glutting influx of cars, the majority of which, with one or two exceptions in the shape of those funny whining things powered by electric that most of us don’t understand and more significantly cannot afford, will soon be belching CO₂ in ever-increasing volumes across the choking, stricken landscape. As the victim’s health deteriorates, a frustrating and clogged A-Sick will compel the rabbits in the new-build hutches, for which they have paid most handsomely, to seek out alternative roads on which to boldly go to get them into Bedford and beyond. Towards this competitive end, they will be rat-running their daily way through every local country lane in droves, forever in search of the Golden Fleece, the illusory traffic-free thoroughfare.
This same area of North Bedfordshire is also earmarked as the unlucky recipient of acre upon acre of environmentally unfriendly, ugly, intrusive solar panels; so many of them, in fact, that they will literally gobble up not only some of the county’s best and richest arable land but also turn what is today a truly beautiful example of English countryside at its most precious into a hideous plastic eyesore. Once the topsoil has been removed from century-old fields and meadows, it won’t be long before the relatively useless solar panels are pronounced dead and buried, like the arable land they’ve deprived us of, whereupon, hey presto, like a magician’s rabbit pulled out of a hat, all that sacrificed verdant land will turn, by a smoke-and-mirrors strategy, into a massive brownfield site, and before we can shed a validatory tear, up will sprout thousands of houses where wheat and barley used to be, like an overnight rash of toadstools.
This scheme, and the scheming behind it, though it may look topsy-turvy to some, discounting, of course, the duped disciples of the environmental racket, is as plain as the nose on Pinocchio’s face.It could literally pave the way for those hundreds of thousands more houses which Labour so rejoices in, transfiguring, in this case, a magnificent part of rural Bedfordshire, as so many shires are being disfigured, into that deadly urban sprawl that once was the noted cathedral city of Peterborough.
Standing on the crest of the valley overlooking tranquil Bedfordshire, the question might enter your head, ‘Why would they want to bury such splendiferous natural beauty under piles of bricks and slabs of concrete?’ And the answer might come back to you, quietly but convincingly, carried on the melodious sweetness of freely given bird song and suggested to you in the whispering breeze, ‘To pave the way for white flight, as the UK’s major towns and cities devolve to third-world ghettos, the rich therein behind gated compounds and murder incorporated out on the streets. Is this England I’m describing or am I confusing it with South Africa? Perhaps, as E.A. Poe would say, ‘It’s all but a dream within a dream.’ Meanwhile, at the carnival, you pay your money and you make your choice!
Crime matters
Yonder, about 12 months hence (my, but doesn’t time fly – ay up, think of the planet. I wonder how many of them do when they are up there in the sky), I was standing at the checkout in Bedford’s wonderful Wilko’s when a skanky individual – there are a lot of them about – looking like one of Kenneth Grahame’s weasels, went strolling out of the shop, his arms laden with unpaid items. Like the conscientious citizen that I am, and also to test what I had been told, I drew the attention of a store attendant to the undeniable fact that Wilko’s had just been robbed. Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling in a manner that suggested he would rather I had kept this to myself, he nevertheless pursued the thief and came back on this occasion with full retrieval of the loot. As for the robber, he went scot-free.
The new deal in the UK is that shop assistants and shop security can watch but cannot touch: shoplifting in effect has become a kind of spectator sport or retail-sanctioned voyeurism. Shop staff and security are corporately disempowered from apprehending shoplifters for fear the company may be prosecuted for violating the criminal’s human rights. Moreover, the unverified story goes that should you ring the Old Bill and report the crime of shoplifting, you’d simply be wasting your time as well as the cost of a phone call, as they, the UK police, rarely, if ever, respond to such incidents, unveiling the reason, at a guess, why Britain is currently overwhelmed by a shoplifting epidemic and suggesting to the intelligent that this in part explains why good-old Wilko’s Bedford branch closed down.
Understandably, as a customer, the daily scourge of shoplifting may not be as high on your list of concerns as it would be if you owned a shop, but crime in all its variations, particularly crime to the person and serious crime at that, has reached an all-time UK high, suspiciously coinciding with profound cultural changes in the nation’s composition, with disproportional representation in certain ethnic groups and by conflicting, hostile creeds.
To be chatful of it, you could say that crime in Britain is ‘rife’, and yet it’s a funny thing, I’ll have you know, and you may think so also, how Britain’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office, known as the FCO, is altogether exceptionally good at passing judgement on other countries, warning us not to go there for fear of falling victim to crime at street and also state level, but never tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth, in fact any truth it would seem at all, about the dangers of visiting and living in Britain, especially when that living and visiting pertains to the city of London, which as every honest fellow knows, grows more dangerous every day.
‘Edith Binstock has lived in Golders Green for more than 70 years and says when she was young it “was the most amazing place to live in”.’
‘” I don’t know how it’s got to such a state… I don’t know when it’s going to get better. I doubt it.”’
I hope the left are listening …
In daylight, UK towns and cities look exactly what they are, but when night descends on Gotham, it’s best to scurry home, and once inside what used to be but isn’t any longer the revered and impregnable Englishman’s castle, quickly bolt and bar the doors. The real, fictional Gotham City had one distinct advantage: when the dregs seeped upwards to the surface, it could always call on Batman, whereas in Britain we think ourselves lucky if we see a copper from one week to the next, and when we do catch a glimpse of them, they are roaring rapidly past in their cars. What the eye don’t see, the report don’t mention.
But whilst visible policing may be a thing of the past and there’s no solution to crime, two things that we do have are a glut of fatuous politicians and a disingenuous media making blatant false assurances that there is no such thing as ‘no-go areas’ in our major cities. Of this they may be right. Take Londinstan, for example: here you can go wherever you like, just don’t expect to always come back, or always come back in one piece.
Where’s that policeman when you need one?
Life in the UK – it’s all so peculiar
No write-up on the topsy-turvy fragile state of Britain would be worth its weight in Asian barber shops without a word or several on the behaviour of Britain’s yoof, and in this respect I will not disappoint.
A couple of weeks ago, I had the ‘pleasure’ of spending an evening in a large Bedford pub, which shall here remain unnamed, although I know that my secret will not stop you guessing which one it is I am talking about.
The night it was a Saturday, and yoof were out in force.
This particular boozer, which is renowned for beer that is sensibly priced and grub that is affordable, acts on Friday and Saturday evenings as a meeting place and springboard from which, following an alcohol primer or seven and having strutted their stuff – their very noisy and raucous stuff – the country’s dubious future spills out of the frenzied pub onto Bedford’s bedighted streets like a carnival of zombies. The next stop for Hysteria isn’t exactly the Twilight Zone, but it’s as near as damn it is to swearing. They are heading off, one and all, and in all sorts of bold undress, to abandonedly disport themselves at one or other of Bedford town’s overpriced and over-rated cattle markets, which some, those we must assume deprived of the good fortune to have ever been, or have ever been taken, to anywhere half decent, like to refer to as nightclubs.
Does my arse look big in this mermaid costume
In observing this unruly and indescribable disembarkation, I asked myself the searching question, has anything really changed since the 1990s? The decade that tried to redefine woman.
Sporting hilarious bouffant hairstyles, massively square and padded shoulders and parroting to anyone awake enough to listen that their careers were all they lived for – even having children was a bind! But occasionally, if it had to happen, they would take time off to do it, providing they were back in the boardroom at 9am the following day – these larger-than-daft career women symbolised the prototype model for the upwardly shafted female; she who had been deliberately conned into giving up her home life for sitting in an office. Led to believe herself empowered, all she had really achieved was emancipation from common sense. Now she would face the grim task of juggling home and working life, while creating feral latchkey kids, stressing it out wage-slave fashion and giving it all to the taxman.
It was during this time, or shortly after, that perfectly innocent programmes, like the comedy On the Buses and the long-running Benny Hill Show, came under the feminist cosh. Indeed, poor old saucy Benny, after years of treating us and our fathers to a feast of tits and bums, was driven out of business by the ‘It’s far too sexist!’ Stasi.
New Woman, especially feminists, wanted it to be known that they were volcanic hairstyles and padded shoulders above the leering of mucky old men’ (although the old but rich and ‘toy boys’ appeared to be exempt). Sexual jokes and innuendoes were no longer to be brooked; the Italian pinch or pat on the bum became strictly a bridge too far, and as for those cheeky construction workers bound by tradition to wolf whistle whenever they clocked the cheeks of, or cast their eyes across, the various assorted feminine goods purposefully displayed to them, their interest in the freely on offer was ordered to cease forthwith; the whistling had to stop, although the setting out of the carnal stall continued unabated.
Now, I have no idea what goes through your mind when you first clap eyes on or meet a woman, but I’d hazard a layman’s guess that it has little to do with her credentials as a hot-shot exec female or whether she can or cannot hold an in-depth conversation on the philosophical works of Kant (Careful with that spell checker!) or has practical skills in woodwork. But the real question is, and has been since the 1990s, when PC first appeared, if, as we are led to believe, UK women regard themselves generically, that’s wholesale, as distant cousins to sexuality, demanding to be identified by their labour skills and brains, then why do so many still in this age of Ms equality, professional or otherwise, dress in what is defined traditionally as outfits worn by tarts (apologies to jam and biscuits)? Like charity that begins at home, sexual objectification begins primarily with the object itself, not, as alleged, the objectifying.
Anyway, getting back to this certain pub in a certain part of Bedford. Bedford isn’t Bedlam, and neither is this pub – on a Saturday night it is worse! You might want to call it a clusterf*ck! Liberals would describe it as a hip and vibrant venue, a popular haunt for the dynamic young – ‘inclusive’ and ‘diverse’, they would quoth – a lively, relaxed and fun-loving crowd just wanting to let off steam. And in this respect, indeed, they were. Some sights, I must confess, were steaming up my glasses, testing my resolve to define women in the new-age light as prescribed by liberal doctrine, but steel myself as I might to ignore what my eyes beheld and its impact upon my reprobation (Forgive me, Lord! For I am male!), I could not altogether resist Aphrodite’s timeless charms and the wish she would have me entertain to become, and instantly, younger – by about 100 years, I’d say.
Other ‘ladies’ there were who were steaming in a different fashion, and yet, although they were out to get the same thing as their nimble counterparts, as they lumbered around like steamrollers with huge, tree-trunk, cellulite legs clad in bum-hugging skirts or shorts that were much to short for them into which they had awkwardly squeezed, and sometimes squeezed far too tightly, making them look like sausage meat overstuffed in skins, I wondered if they would ever get what it was they were after or remain for the rest of their days in a limbo state of disappointment. It’s exactly times like these that I’m glad I’m vegetarian. Had Stan, Jack and Benny been here, they would have had a field day! And here’s the topsy-turvy of it, for in spite of all we’ve been led to believe about modern British women, I think I can honestly say that I’ve never seen so many females embracing objectification since I worked on the local pig farm. Ah, so that’s what it reminded me of: that terrible shrieking din of youngsters and the letting off of their clouds of steam!
The contention of to what degree, if any, women ought to be obliged to take responsibility for the manner in which they dress and behave in public, if not merely for their own safety, then out of common respect for Modesty, is an issue framed in the larger debate of whether a rights-obsessed society should encourage every member of it, from politicians to media moguls to the happy-go-lucky migrants to women out on the town, to adopt the type of double standards that circumvent and short-circuit moral codes of responsibility, shaping the world’s wise opinion of the kind of society that Britain wasn’t but now, sadly, has become.
And if the answer is ‘no’, then where should such standards trickle from if not from the highest office in the land? Should the backdoor to double standards be left off its Yale lock here, then the thief that covets morality will perceive the right to go amongst us, sacking and plundering without redress and mugging us at will.
From turning your back on an ally, to turning the other cheek, as Labour’s Rochdale councillors did as cheeks were being turned; to letting the boats come flooding in; to ignoring the rising tide of crime; to an attitude of ‘sod their morrows’ by endorsing Sodom and Gomorrah; to paying perpetual homage to the one-way god of rights – this, then, is the topsy-turvy life, a life of confusing contradictions, that we live in the UK today. Thus verily unto you I say, and I am sure you will agree, that in pausing to examine it, it is all so peculiar.
Revised 19 April 2026 ~ Russia Kaliningrad Visa Information
Airspace Closures
Russia has closed its airspace to airlines from multiple countries in direct response to airspace closures effecting its airlines, which were introduced by western governments opposing Russia’s military operation to ‘demilitarise and de-Natzify’ Ukraine. Airlines on the banned list are prohibited from landing in or flying over Russian territory. As a result, air travel disruptions are widespread. If you intend to travel in the immediate future, you should contact your airline or travel agent for further information. Links to Airport/Airlines websites can be found at the end of this guide
To visit Kaliningrad, you will need to apply for and have been issued with a Russian visa. For those of you who are not sure what one of these is, it is an official document that permits you to legally enter a foreign country, in this case the Russian Federation. The visa is valid for a specific duration of time. It contains the date of entry to the country and the date of exit, as well as your name, travel document (passport) details and the purpose for which you are travelling.
There are various types of visa depending upon the nature of your visit, but, for the sake of this blog, let’s assume that you are visiting Kaliningrad as a tourist.
Russia Kaliningrad Tourist Information: Tourist Visa
A tourist visa will allow you to enter Kaliningrad and leave within a specified time frame of 30 days. This means that the maximum length of stay in Kaliningrad is 30 days and no more. It is important that you leave the country before or on the date of exit.
Before a tourist visa can be issued, you will need to have confirmation of where you will be staying throughout the duration of your visit. Two documents are required, commonly referred to as ‘visa support documents’, and they consist of (1) a voucher and (2) a booking confirmation.
If you are staying in a hotel, you will need to ask the hotel to send you a hotel voucher and confirmation of tourist acceptance. Once you have received these, you are then ready to make your application.
To complete your visa application, you will need the following:
1. An original passport, valid for more than 6 months, containing at least 2 blank pages for your visa and entry/exit stamps
2. An application form
3. One valid passport-type photograph
4. Payment for application
Note: The Russian Service Centre (the Russian National Tourist Office) can assist you with all stages of your application, including visa support documents. You can contact them by telephone on 0207 985 1195 and/or visit this page on their website: https://www.visitrussia.org.uk/visas/getting-a-russian-visa/
Their location and postal address is:
Russian Service Centre Russian National Tourist Office 202 Kensington Church Street London W8 4DP
However, you will still be required to go in person to the Russian Tourist Office at 202 Kensington Church St, London W8 4DP, for biometric scanning. This sounds worse than it is. Biometric scanning means that you need to supply your fingerprints.
Russian Tourist Offices (also referred to as Russian Visa Application Centres) are also located in Manchester and Edinburgh. However, the Manchester office has been closed for some time now, so that leaves you with the choice of London or Edinburgh. The address of the Edinburgh office is 64 Albion Rd, Edinburgh EH7 5QZ. Tel: 0131 661 7279. Visa applications operate by appointment.
The time it takes for you to receive your Russian visa depends on which service you pay for. Visas can be received within two days of the completion of the application procedure.
Electronic Visa (E-visa)
Yes, Russia does implement an electronic visa (e-visa) system for entering the Russian Federation. The citizens of sixty-four countries are eligible to apply using this fast-track system, but, unfortunately, as Britain is officially designated an ‘Unfriendly Country’ by Russia, those holding a British passport are excluded from this list. Visa applicants from the UK are thus requested to apply, using the old-fashioned paper route, via Russian Visa Application Centres in London, Manchester or Edinburgh.
Russia Kaliningrad Visa Information: Professional visa support company
To make things easier for you, there are various visa-support companies that you can contact, which will take you through the entire process. My support company of choice is Stress Free Visas, if only because if you do get stressed whilst using them, you can have a good laugh at your own expense! Their website address is www.stressfreevisas.co.uk.
When using their service, you will be asked to fill out an application form online. It is as well to know what to expect before you start, since when they start asking you questions, such as ‘What is your inside leg measurement?’, it will be difficult to do so unless you have a tape measure already at hand. OK, it’s not that bad, not quite, but there is information that you will need that you might inconceivably not have thought of.
To this end, please see the following:
Q: Who is paying for your trip to Russia? A: [If it is you, put ‘independently’]
####
You will be asked ‘information about your financial
situation’. You will need to enter your ‘overall monthly income from all
sources’ and various other financial details.
####
You will need to include your National Insurance number
####
You will be asked to enter ‘place of birth’ and ‘date
and place of birth’ of your spouse
####
You will be asked to provide the following details
about your parents:
Name Date, country & place of birth Nationality If deceased, date & place of death
####
You will be asked to provide the name of the hotel you
will be staying at, plus address and telephone number
####
And that, as Bruce Forsyth used to say, “is all there
is to it!”
To assist you in all visa-related matters, here again is the web address for Stress Free Visas: www.stressfreevisas.co.uk
Russia Kaliningrad Visa Information (Useful links)
Note: The London centre offers couriers or mail-based applications as well as in-person visits. The Edinburgh Centre operates an in-person system only. All in-person visits must be booked in advance.
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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… Read more: Vote Green for Migrant Detention Centres Near You!
The topsy-turvy world of life in the UK From the dress code and behaviour of Britain’s young ‘ladies’ to the conflict in the Muddle East, post-civilised Britain is a mass of contradictions. 30 April 2023 – Life in the UK – it’s all so peculiar [This post appears in the ‘Meanwhile in the UK‘ category]… Read more: Life in the UK – it’s all so peculiar
Obtaining a Visa for Kaliningrad, Russia Revised 19 April 2026 ~ Russia Kaliningrad Visa Information Airspace Closures Russia has closed its airspace to airlines from multiple countries in direct response to airspace closures effecting its airlines, which were introduced by western governments opposing Russia’s military operation to ‘demilitarise and de-Natzify’ Ukraine. Airlines on the banned… Read more: Russia Kaliningrad Visa Information
A little of what you fancy does you good – and so does a little more of it. With an essay prefacing the status of ales versus victuals and what a restaurant means to some when a bar can be seen by others. 10 April 2026: Art Depot Kaliningrad – beer for a one-track mind… Read more: Art Depot Kaliningrad – beer for a one-track mind
A little of what you fancy does you good – and so does a little more of it. With an essay prefacing the status of ales versus victuals and what a restaurant means to some when a bar can be seen by others.
10 April 2026: Art Depot Kaliningrad – beer for a one-track mind
As a seasoned pub-goer, nay, a patriotic supporter of what is undoubtedly one of the UK’s most important cultural assets, the British pub, qualified to say so from having lived a so-called pub lifestyle from the age of 14 and, during the time I was resident in London, reputed to have required an A to Z knowledge of London pubs, may I say without equivocation – and why not, indeed? – that the quest to boldly go and seek out hitherto unknown drinking venues, whilst as exciting as it is dutiful, does not rule out that there is a lot to be said for returning to the scene of the crime, which many a splendid bar or pub might unfairly be denounced as by stay-at-home abstemious naysayers and those who would rather drink from the bottle whilst sitting in front of the telly.
“Pubs and bars are like women; some are worth a second visit and some most definitely not” –The Sexist’s Guide to Male Dominated Traditions by Lord Wollocks.
When I first landed in Kaliningrad, in the year of our Lord (Wollocks!) 2000, there were so few bars to go around that if it hadn’t been for the Sir Francis Drake and the most exceptional 12 Chairs (R.I.P.), the only way of not returning to drink in them would have been not to go out at all.
Thankfully, in more recent years the situation has moved in the right direction. Kaliningrad is now a city with an eclectic range of bars, all of which would come in useful even if you never used them, which is something I would never do, as I use them whenever I can. ‘Roodly do’ is a phrase that inconveniently comes to mind at this juncture, not because I ‘roodly do’ use bars, but because it was a favourite catchphrase that rose to prominence in the 1980s through my aunt’s repeated use of it.
Thought I: “That expression will come in useful even if I never use it”, and, to prove it, although I have just used it, it has served no use at all.
Art Depot Kaliningrad
Now, some of Kaliningrad’s bars identify themselves as restaurants, which is a taxonomy I can live with, as the food that they serve is hardly limited to a humble packet of crisps bolstered by the insertion of an acquired-taste pickled egg, once standard fare in British pubs when I was too young to be drinking in them, although I always was.
The introduction of ‘pub grub’ was heralded in the UK as a major breakthrough by those who like to take solids with their drink, but its impact on the established consensus of what a pub should traditionally be was, like allowing kids to run riot in pubs, anathema to the old guard, among whose sagacious ranks I proudly claim to number. Indeed, Rolly Smith, a valued friend and respected drinking partner, confided that his father had condemned the arrival of food in pubs as a flagrant assault on the honoured conventions of that most noble of British institutions: “It’s only pigs”, he used to say, “that eat and drink at the same time!” Being a one-time pig farmer and now vegetarian convert disqualifies me from commenting on the veracity of this statement in recognition that a conflict of interests could lead to anything that I say being taken down, twisted round and used in evidence against me.
I can say, however, and should say, however, and therefore I will, that as a devoted beer drinker, food is often off the itinerary when drinking beer in bars and pubs. It is not so terribly difficult for me to apply myself to this golden rule, as food is an unfair competitor in the allocation of volume stakes when it comes to imbibing beer; moreover, whenever temptation may suddenly strike, I am reminded of the words of wisdom conveyed to us by Mr Rowbottom, my primary school headmaster, who sanguinely divided the world into two distinctive camps defined by him as eating compulsion, namely, those ‘who live to eat’ and those ‘who eat to live’, with my allegiance solemnly sworn to the minority sect of the latter. However, posit the question, if you must, ‘Do I live to drink?’ and it is not so easily answered.
The best thing to do with that, therefore, is to leave it gently dangling, turning at last, as you must be growing impatient, thinking, ‘Where is he going with this?’ to apply all that which has gone before to the subject of this post, which, as the title gives away, is Kaliningrad’s Art Depot Restaurant but which, according to my perception of it, is Kaliningrad’s Art Depot Bar.
Art Depot Kaliningrad – bar and restaurant
I am sure, to the vague extent that I can be sure about anything, that, as on my previous visit, I must have dined on something, and I am almost just as certain that whatever that something was, it must have been up to snuff, but the reason for my return was that I was desirous not of the food but of the range of beers that there are on tap and a second chance to soak them up whilst also imbibing the Art Depot atmosphere.
The novelty of having one’s drinks delivered in the rolling stock of a large model train is one of those things that can never grow old and goes exceptionally well with the vaulted cellar ceiling and the detailed dioramas of the railway stations and resident districts of the various Prussian towns to which the train delivers its vital cargo.
Above: Art Depot’s train reversing back into Königsberg/Kaliningrad rail station, ie the bar, to load up with another cargo of beverages. Below: Model architectural, urban and village district scenes lend to the unusual.
The horseshoe-shaped curved banquette booths ensure a plush, cosy, comfortable and intimate dining and drinking experience, especially should you be able to boast of sufficient friends or relatives to descend there as a group. But no matter how much you fall in love with any one seat and location, permit me to offer a little advice: on subsequent visits, be adventurous; go for a seat you haven’t yet sat in, as each location around the room has a unique perspective to offer.
On the evening to which the photographs here pertain, we were seated close to the bar, a location to which I am eminently suited, for not only did it allow me to feast my eyes on the beer stock and watch the barman playing the taps, but I also spotted a namesake whisky whose brand I was unacquainted with. Though not, as a rule, a spirits drinker, this Hart Brothers’ distillation was far too much of a bold coincidence to let it pass unsampled, and I am sure had both of my brothers been present, they would not have foregone the opportunity to have joined me in a wee dram.
You can’t get enough of a good thing
The Art Depot Restaurant is part of Kaliningrad’s intriguing Ponart Brewery complex, a restored 19th-century, multistorey, redbrick building with a superlative brewing history surrounded by an assortment of shops and other cultural amenities. Brewing has been returned to the premises (yummy); there are guided beer-tasting tours, and, preferably whilst your head is still clear, you can, if the mood so takes you, clamber into the viewing tower and survey the old industrial site and the district it inhabits.
I tend to put my faith in history, because I do not trust the present, and the future has all but expired. Beer and history have been going steady for as long as I can remember. So, let’s toddle along to the Art Depot Restaurant and raise a glass to both of them.
Here’s where the good thing is:
Art Depot Restaurant, Kaliningrad Kaliningrad, Sudostroitelnaya st., 6-8 (on the territory of the historical quarter ‘Ponart’)
Updated: 28 March 2026 ~ How to Get to Kaliningrad from UK
Airspace Closures
Russia has closed its airspace to airlines from multiple countries in direct response to airspace closures effecting its airlines, which were introduced by western governments opposing Russia’s military operation to ‘demilitarise and de-Nazify’ Ukraine. Airlines on the banned list are prohibited from landing in or flying over Russian territory. As a result, air travel disruptions are widespread. If you intend to travel in the immediate future, you should contact your airline or travel agent for further information. Links to Airport/Airlines websites can be found at the end of this guide
Most people travelling from the UK to Kaliningrad are not
going to do so by car, train, taxi, bicycle or hitching. Some of you might, but
most of you won’t. You’ll want to come by plane, so that’s what I will focus on
here.
Flights from the UK to Kaliningrad
As far as I am aware, there are no direct flights from the UK to Kaliningrad, and there has not been for some time.
The last time I flew back from Kaliningrad to London direct was many years ago. I remember it well, as I sat in the front of the plane looking through the open door to the flight deck. The date was 10 September 2001. It was most probably the last day that you would be able to do that on an international airliner.
I am told that the only ‘convenient’ way to fly to Kaliningrad from Europe is to fly to Turkey and from there to Kaliningrad. If you aren’t in the market for paying between £400-£800 pounds, then I wouldn’t bother.
If you do fly to Kaliningrad, you will land at Khrabrovo Airport. Once a relatively small red-brick building dating from the Königsberg era with a high wire fence, today Khrabrovo Airport is a modern terminal possessing all the usual facilities.
From Khrabrovo Airport to Kaliningrad
The distance from Khrabrovo Airport to Kaliningrad Central is about 23 km, and the journey takes approximately 20 to 30 minutes.
The easiest way of getting to Kaliningrad is by taxi. Look for the cubicles by the airport terminal exit, which offer taxi services. The fare to the centre of Kaliningrad typically costs between 700 and 1000 roubles (approx. £6.48–£9.26). Here is a price guide by destination,using licensed taxis (recommended).
The cheaper option is to travel by bus: fare 50 roubles (0.38 pence). The route number is 244-Э. Payment is made on the bus, either to the driver or a conductor. Buses run frequently, about every 30 minutes, between 7.00am and 8.20pm (Link to Bus Timetable). The average time of the journey to Kaliningrad’s Yuzhniy Bus Station is 40 to 50 minutes.
Kaliningrad via Gdansk, Poland
(Photo credit: Serhiy Lvivsky)
The route that most of us take when travelling to Kaliningrad is to fly by Wizz Airlines from Luton London Airport to Gdansk and then travel from Gdansk to Kaliningrad.
Time was once that I would take a pre-booked taxi from Gdansk Airport to Kaliningrad. If you had contacts in Kaliningrad, which I had, someone could arrange this for you. In 2024, I was told that the journey to Kaliningrad from Gdansk Airport would cost you in the region of £200-300. This is a gigantic leap in price from the 100 quid that I was paying back in 2019. Why? Could the price hike be associated with border-crossing difficulties emanating from coronavirus restrictions, a by-product of Western sanctions or just plain old profiteering? Whatever the explanation, you might be of the opinion that the taxi option is no longer viable. Even if you like spending money, Poland is no longer accepting vehicles with Russian number plates crossing from Kaliningrad into Poland (now, where’s my screwdriver!) (Link to article on Poland’s extraordinary measures. It also mentions a ‘big wall’, so you won’t go climbing over that, will you, with or without licence plates! So there!)
First from Gdansk Airport to Gdansk city bus station
I have travelled by bus to and from Kaliningrad via Gdansk many times now.
To do this, you must first take a bus or taxi from Gdansk Airport to Gdansk Bus Station, located at 3 Maja St, 12.
The bus line is 210. The bus fare is 4.80 zloty (0.97 pence). The service operates every 30 minutes and takes about 35 to 40 minutes to reach Gdansk city bus station.
After rolling out of bed at 4am in the morning to catch a flight from London Luton Airport, I am inclined to travel to Gdansk bus station by taxi.
There are plenty of taxis at the airport rank, and the cost of the trip is about 90 zloty (£21). The trip takes approximately 10 to 15 minutes.
And now, from Gdansk bus station to Kaliningrad
The bus ticket from Gdansk costs 155-190 zloty (approximately £31 to £38). There are multiple buses a day from Gdansk Bus Station, and the last bus leaves at 5.00pm. The approximate travel time is advertised at 3 hrs and 30 mins and 4 hrs and 30 mins, depending on the route, but in reality it often takes longer than this, due to the grilling you get at both borders, especially since the Polish border authorities introduced the practice of photographing everyone on board: Smile, please; we are going to make crossing into Kaliningrad extremely irritating for you. It will be inside leg measurements next! (Spoiler: On a couple of occasions, I was stuck at the borders for 8 hours! Make sure your sim cards are working, your phone is charged or you have a book to read!)
Catching the bus means buying tickets online in advance. By far the most straightforward and therefore best online booking service is Busfor.pl
Example of Busfor’s Gdansk to Kaliningrad page below:
There was a time when the bay from which the Gdansk>Kaliningrad bus service operated was Gdansk’s best-kept secret. You could try asking at the bus information office, but if they had that information, they would not be letting you have it. Later, they stuck a piece of paper on the wall, which revealed the bay to be number 11. Don’t be put off if when arriving at the bay you see the name Królewiec and not Kaliningrad. According to what I have read, in 2023 some bright Polish spark came up with the idea of renaming Kaliningrad or, as they put it, reverting the name to its historical Polish name. That’s helpful, isn’t it?
The facilities at Gdańsk Bus Station are bog standard. It does have a bog (it will cost you 5 zloty for a pee), but the metal tins that used to function as a left-luggage department have moved, TARDIS-fashion, from the interior of the bus station to a bit around the back of it (you will need zlotys to activate these), and the bus station cafe, which was basic but useful, as there are no other cafes nearby, has closed. There is a burger bar in the bus park, which, in winter, has a plastic sheet around it, where you can stand and wait for your order.
At the time of writing, you will have approximately two hours to kill if you catch, for example, the morning flight from London Luton Airport to Gdansk in time to catch the 3.00pm bus. My advice is to take a walk into Gdansk Old Town for great cafes and a historic atmosphere.
The buses dock at Kaliningrad’s Central Bus Station in the vicinity of the city’s South Railway Station. Change here for local buses, coaches to Svetlogorsk/Zelenogradsk coastal resorts and taxi services.
Public transport to the city centre is plentiful, including trolley bus services, mini-buses and trams. Note, however, that some buses operate on a no-conductor electronic-card basis. If you haven’t got a Russian bank card or a ‘Volna Baltiky’ transport card (the cheapest option at 33 roubles) use conductor-served buses. I have worked out (at least, I think I have) that the orange buses take card payments only. The mini-buses accept cash as well as cards. Approximate fare to anywhere in the city is 48 roubles.
Taxi services from Kaliningrad Central Bus Station: !!! Scam alert: Avoid the gaggle of taxis that huddle and hustle around the immediate vicinity where the bus from Gdansk to Kaliningrad terminates. The motley crew that operate these dodgy deals on wheels are to be avoided at all costs, unless you want to triple or quadruple the going rate.
Reputable taxi services are typically accessed via the following websites/apps:
Airport transfers can be pre-booked using Utransfer
How to Get to Kaliningrad from UK
Kaliningrad via Lithuania
It was once possible to get a train from Vilnius, Lithuania, to Kaliningrad (the trip took about 7 hours). That service has been suspended now. As for travelling by bus, the information served up on the net is vague and conflicting. It seems that all direct intercity bus services have ceased, but, for 37 euros (£32), a once-a-day indirect bus still functions. Only consider this option if you are into long bus journeys, as the grapevine suggests that the trip from somewhere in Lithuania to Kaliningrad takes 21 hours. Bon voyage! See Omio.
Rumour has it that an alternative to the cross-border bus from Vilnius is to use local buses/trains, cross on foot via the Kibartai-Chernyshevskoe border and then use local buses/trains on the Russian side. I cannot confirm this, as I have not personally used this route, but it is one you might like to check out.
Panemunė–Sovetsk (where you can cross on foot!) This is a foot-friendly (and no other type of vehicle) crossing from Lithuania into Kaliningrad, Russia, and vice versa.
It requires taking a bus or taxi or being dropped off by a relative or friend at the checkpoint, walking across and then continuing your journey on the other side by one of the three means cited.
The crossing is located in the town of Panemunė (Lithuania).
To cross, you will need a valid passport and a Russian visa (or e-visa).
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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.
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
Revised 23 March 2026 | First Published: 8 February 2021 ~ Awesome Königsberg Cathedral Organ Concerts
Can you spot the clue in one of the photographs providing evidence that this was first written in 2021? First prize: a face mask.
We recently received a kind invitation to attend an organ concert at Königsberg Cathedral. This was the first time that I had been to a concert there, and I was keen to discover if the sound of the cathedral’s pipe organ was as impressive as the organ looked.
With temperatures outside falling to as low as -17 degrees, we were surprised, happily surprised, to discover that in spite of the capacious size of the cathedral, it was warm and comfortable. For a building that had been reduced to a shell in the Second World War by RAF bombing and subsequently and painstakingly restored, the atmosphere and ambience are superb. Lighting is important in any environment, but particularly so in exhibition and concert halls, and here it cannot be faulted.
Königsberg Cathedral Organ Concerts
The colonnades, sturdy walls and Gothic vaulted ceiling served the acoustics well, the hard surfaces deflecting the quieter notes distinctly and the deeper tones with generous resonance. The organ rolled, rumbled and reverberated, the multiple dense sounds thundering spectacularly from numerous points within the building’s chambers.
I will admit that I am not much of an opera aficionado, but on this occasion I felt that the dulcet tones of the singer complimented and contrasted perfectly with the rich and varied tones of the pipe organ.
At the close of the concert, we chose to walk around the back of the cathedral, past Kant’s tomb. My wife, Olga, rightly commented that here, outside and within the cathedral, the spirit of the city of Königsberg lives on.
This was so true, and I felt rather guilty that I had not visited the cathedral more frequently since moving to Kaliningrad.
I confess that since the death of our friend Victor Ryabinin in the summer of 2019, I have been purposefully avoiding the cathedral and the surrounding area. The cathedral and Kneiphof Island are only a stone’s throw away from Victor Ryabinin’s former art studio and as such constituted the epicentre of his cultural and historical world. There were so many memories that I did not want to face, and so many more, like this evening’s, which he may once have contributed to but now never will ~ at least, that is, in person.
But you cannot hide forever, and I was glad that I had agreed to attend the concert this evening.
Even in the falling temperatures and with noses looking like beetroots, Olga managed to snap some photos of the cathedral on this very cold winter’s night, which capture the magical quality of the external lighting and how it is used to imaginative effect.
Brrrr: It was time to rattle back home on the number 5 tram and, once indoors, make with the cognac!
Königsberg Cathedral Organ Concerts: Königsberg Cathedral website: http://sobor39.ru/
This was the concert lineup for the 6th of February 2021:
Titular organist of the Cathedral, laureate of international competitions, Mansur Yusupov
Soloist of the Kaliningrad Regional Philharmonic, laureate of international competitions, Anahit Mkrtchyan (soprano)
Music and song featured works from the following composers:
A. Vivaldi A. Scarlatti G. F. Handel J. Pergolesi J. S. Bach V. Gomez M. Lawrence, A. Babajanyan
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.
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.
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.
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/.
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 everythingKant 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.
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.
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.
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
