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
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).
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
UK to Kaliningrad 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… Read more: How to Get to Kaliningrad from UK
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… Read more: Kant’s Tomb at Königsberg Cathedral in Kaliningrad
Culture on a cold evening 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… Read more: Awesome Königsberg Cathedral Organ Concerts
Königsberg Cathedral organ is a musical landmark 19 March 2026 – Königsberg Cathedral Organ pulls out all the stops! Konigsberg Cathedral, reconstructed from the ashes of the Second World War, is a culturally nostalgic landmark, all that remains of Kneiphof Island, and a fascinating historic and architectural monument of the first order. It is also… Read more: Königsberg Cathedral Organ pulls out all the stops!
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
Revised 7 March 2026 | First published 6 March 2020 ~ International Women’s Day Kaliningrad
Just before the dawn of International Women’s Day 2020, we took a trip to the BauCenter, where I bought Olga a nice trowel and some other romantic garden implements. I thought these would make excellent presents, and I was right. The garden has now matured and looks very nice indeed.
Travelling across Kaliningrad today on our way to the garden centre, we marveled at how the city had swung into action in readiness for International Women’s Day on Sunday.
The city was festooned with flower-sellers, ranging from one person with literally a handful of flowers to stalls consisting of two and three tables profusely bedecked with all manner of blooms.
Tulips Rule OK!!
The flower-selling booths, which are there on a permanent basis, were, of course, also in full swing, helping to transform the city into a charming early-spring festival ablaze with refreshing and natural bright colours.
International Women’s Day Kaliningrad
To Kaliningradians, International Women’s Day is an important date in the yearly calendar. It is a celebration of femininity, a time to show appreciation for the love, devotion, work and commitment that women invest in relationships and the value they impart to motherhood and family. I remember last year [2019], even with the sleet and snow, how many men of all ages were out on the streets of Kaliningrad purchasing flowers to present to their wives and girlfriends.
I tried comparing International Women’s Day in Kaliningrad with its UK counterpart, but, try as I might, there was nothing to recall. Perhaps, on March the 8th, I had always been in the wrong place at the wrong time (ie, hiding in the pub), or, then again, perhaps buying flowers for one’s other heterosexual half is frowned on in the UK as an unforgivable act of sexism.
Hmmm, well, the last thing that I would want to be accused of is sexism. Perish the thought.
So, I refrained from purchasing my wife flowers this year (which makes it sound as if I bought her flowers last year), and instead I bought her a shovel and a trowel so that she could plant her own in the garden.
Which just goes to show that leading your wife up the garden path does not have to spark a gender war!
On recounting some of my experiences of working in the publishing industry, some wag asked, back in the 90s, “So, what are you going to do when you leave school?”
1 March 2026 – Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing
The following diary extract is taken from my time as managing editor at a now-defunct travel-trade publishing house, which we shall here refer to as Shackelton Press.
Shackelton Press for me represented the last post in a long line of desperately bizarre, tumultuously chaotic, and unbelievably high-octane-stressed advertising-based publishing houses, each one stocked with larger-than-life, weird and wonderful characters.
Let’s do a bit of time travelling:
Preface
These little insights, or snippets of madness, are taken from my 1996 diary. The setting is London. The names of both the publishing house and the actors in it have been changed to protect the reputations of the not-so-innocent. If you know who you are, God bless you. I trust that you all came through the experience mentally and emotionally unscathed. They were, as John Lennon lyricised, “Strange days, indeed!”
Cast of Characters: Editorial Director: Byron Quill (Quilly)
Managing Editor: Mick Hart (or, ‘managing badly’, as Sebastian used to say, or ‘managing just’, as Mr Ormolu was wont to quip)
Production Department Staff Sebastian Forrester (subeditor/researcher/writer – part-time actor)
Margaret Clark: (researcher/subeditor)
Matt Ormolu: (editor)
Grant: (graphic design and page layout)
Arthur: (freelance editor – South African) nickname ‘Slice’
Suit & Tie: (researcher/subeditor) – female
Publishing house: Shackleton Press
########################################
Introduction
Is it the same today? In my days, people were always leaving publishing house editorial/production departments, either because they couldn’t stand the pace any longer and wanted to get their life back or were, or so they said, moving on to richer pastures. Such is the land we occupy, known as Wishful Thinking.
On this day, Friday 15 May 1996, someone – yet another someone – was about to make the great escape. She was a northern lass, who we will refer to here as Margaret Clark.
In connection with this event, I had been directed by my director (after all, that’s what directors are for, directing) to sally forth, in my own time, of course, or manage someone else to do the same (that’s what managing is all about, delegating) in the interests of procuring for the aforesaid Margaret a communal card and leaving present.
To avoid the boredom of it, I delegated the role to the one chap in our department whom I knew would turn a routine task into something more diverting. No one was better suited to this task, I thought, than Sebastian Forrester, the irascible budding actor, whose aspirations of high culture and whose self-regard for sophistication presented numerous opportunities whilst preparing for the lunchtime trip to, how do we say it, ‘take the piss’.
Friday 15 May 1996 – as it happened
Sebastian, who was extremely excited by the responsibility conferred on him, entertained, with my help, the whole department. He set up his affectatious cultural airs as if they were skittles and my debasing of them the balls that would knock them down.
Margaret Clark, the girl who was leaving today, reminded me of a stick of rock; she had ‘Northern Girl’ stamped right through her. As such, she would most likely have been happy with a pair of clogs, a flat hat and a bowl of mushy peas, heavy on the mint sauce, for a leaving present, but Sebastian, true to form, had his mind set on something she would like because it was something he would like. He seriously had no idea if she had any interest in, or appreciation of, art, and neither did I. But once Sebastian had latched onto something, it was like a dog’s teeth in arse. (This analogy has some baring, sorry, bearing, on the eventual choice of gift, or, of course, I would not have employed it.)
So, we were off to Covent Garden to buy Margaret, who was leaving, a book on art that she might not want, would not like and would never read. It sounded to me like the perfect present for a person quitting a job that she did not want, did not like and was pleased to close the covers on.
Sebastian, just before we left the office, was commenting vociferously on the remarks of one of his colleagues, whose projected view on everything he considered rather crass: “Oh yes, Michael, there’s old Ormolu, his usual helpful and refined self, ‘I think some novelty items are in order, Sebastian,’ he said. Novelty items, indeed. And we all know what he means by that!”
What Sebastian did not know was that Matt Ormolu and I had already discussed the type of present that we were going to buy dear Margaret, and novelty items were top of the list.
“Oh no, Michael!” protested Sebastian, his nose curling and sensibilities clearly offended. “I’m not under any circumstances going into Nutz Novelty shop!”
“Sebastian I barked (Sebastian was the son of an army officer, and sons of army officers, I have found, respond instinctively to the old sergeant major treatment). “Sebastian!”
“Yes, Michael!”
“We are going in!”
“Right, Michael!”
“Oh my God!” That was Sebastian, genuinely shocked by the risqué greeting cards greeting him in Nutz Novelty.
Naturally, being a thespian by aspiration, buying anything of such a crass, crude nature was theatrically beneath him.
Officially, we only had our lunch hour in which to buy a present, and the clock was ticking. In Nutz Novelty, the hands and the pendulum bore an intended resemblance to male genitalia.
“Pity we can’t afford that,” I thought.
Sebastian’s dithering was impinging upon our schedule, so I had to make a managerial decision. So, much to his dismay, I grabbed the nearest greeting card. On its cover was a naked man, who was looking rather gay. Then, before Sebastian could faint, I added to my basket a jumping clockwork bum and a packet of luminous condoms.They were always experiencing power cuts up North, so Margaret should find some practical use for them.
Sebastian was so appalled that, in the interests of balance and resuscitation, I accepted his need to restore the culture he’d lost by looking for it in Dillons bookshop.
In Dillons, we haggle over two potential publications: Works of Art of the Past Century or 100 Years of Playboy. I’ll leave you to decide which one of us advocated which book.
To placate Sebastian, Works of Art of the Past Century it is. A good manager always manages to make concessions when they are faced with a member of staff who looks as though he’s about to stage a tantrum.
With the esteemed book in his mitt, Sebastian proceeds to checkout, putting the book on one side of the counter and resting the Nutz Novelty nude-man card on the other.
The shop assistant rings up the book and then, glancing at the gay card, with its picture of a compromised nude man on the front, asks Sebastian, “Is this yours?”
Sebastian panicking, “Good heavens, no! He bought it from Nutz Novelty!”
But ‘he’, meaning me, was nowhere to be found. I had expeditiously removed myself and was studiously and demonstratively preoccupied with Post-modernist Works of Art.
“We sell them here,” the assistant said, referring to the card.
Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing
We were already late back from lunch, two hours late to be exact.
“It wil be a ground-to-air arse-seeking boot for us, Mr Hart!” was Sebastian’s prediction.
We were rattling along on the tube, with Sebastian imitating what he expected Director Quill to say about our lengthy expedition,” Huh! Did it take two of you!”
“To which the reply will be, Sebastian: ‘Yes, one to go into the arty-farty shop and one to buy the bouncing bum.’”
Mr Quilly never commented on our combined late return, but he did say, “I can’t have my managing editor buying condoms, bouncing bums and false breasts in Nutz Novelty Shop.”
Leaving his office, I thought, “Where did he get the false breasts from?”
As I approached the editorial department, I could hear actor Sebastian hamming it up in no uncertain terms: “… and whilst I was in Dillons looking for a decent present, there’s old Mick,” I could hear him sneering, “dithering about in Nutz Novelty shop, undecided about whether he should buy the fart spray or the masturbatory glove?”
“False breasts? Masturbatory glove?” Perhaps Quill and Sebastian were more frequent visitors to Nutz Novelty than we gave them credit for. Perhaps they are given credit? Perhaps they had a joint account!
When I entered the department, I was greeted with: “We thought you were never going to come back. It’s 5pm!”
“Sebastian’s fault,” I replied. “He’s such an old woman when it comes to buying presents.”
No fear of reprisals for that comparison. The one thing I never did was employ feminists.
Mick Hart’s Diary One Day in Travel Trade Publishing
We were late back, so late that we barely had time to wrap the presents and get the card with the bare gay man on the front signed.
South African Arthur, regarding the nude picture on the front of the card, asked: “Why is there a picture of Quilly on the front? More to the point, who took it?”
Grant, from the production department, asked, referring to the photo, “Is this a still out of Sebastian’s latest film?”
After everyone in the production department had signed the card, I ferried it, with half the department behind me, to Mr Quilly’s office. Through the window in the door, we can see him smiling as he signs the card.
Matt Ormolu: “Quilly’s smiling. Perhaps people should leave more often.”
Even Mr Quilly himself had a comment to make: “I’ll have to be more careful about who photographs me as I’m scrubbing my right knee!”
It was almost time to leave for the leaving party, which was taking place at a venue in the Angel. There was an air of school days’ excitement in the office. We were going to be really naughty and leave fifteen minutes early. Even old Suit and Tie, one of the female editorial staff, was coming with us tonight. She usually went straight home to darn her socks or something.
Outside on the street, most of those people accompanying me waited patiently for a cab; all, that is, but Sebastian.
“Typical Harty situation,” he scoffed, referring to me, and then directed at me: “Haven’t you heard of that simple and convenient mode of transport known as the tube?”
“Indeed I have, Sebastian, but you being an actor and all, I wouldn’t dream of casting you in the role of a commoner. Besides, on the tube you’d most likely be deprived of a speaking part, whereas in the cab your oratory will be rewarded with a standing ovation.”
“You’d have a job standing …” but his derision was cut short by our chariot arriving.
The cab got us to where we wanted to be, door to door, in half the time it would have taken by tube.
“I know, Sebastian, there is no need to congratulate me. We are here much quicker than if we had taken the tube; that’s why I’m the manager, here to manage.”
Sebastian’s book, A 100 Years of Art, came in handy. Margaret used it as a platform for the jumping bum, and everyone, except for Sebastian, was enraptured by it. “Good choice, Sebastian,” Ormolu glowed – and so did the condoms.
Whilst Ormolu and the condoms glowed, Sebastian glowered; he was leaning in close – too close, I thought – to two of the female editors for which he had a lascivious liking, chastising me for all he was worth: “You should have seen him, old Hart, standing there in Nutz Novelty, unable to make up his mind whether to buy the fart spray or the masturbatory glove!”
I steered clear of this conversation but wondered how Sebastian would deal with certain questions the female staff now were putting to him regarding the glove to which he had alluded, of which, like Quilly’s female breasts, I had not the slightest knowledge.
All things considered, the party went well, which was something of a letdown by publishing standards. Nobody got paralytic and disgraced themselves by fondling bottoms, except for the clockwork one, or by slagging off the production director to his face; nobody threw up, got into a fight or bonked one another in the gentlemen’s lavs and the stench of Ganja was conspicuously absent. It all could have been so very different, if I had only invited the sales staff.
24 February 2026 – Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful
No sooner had I posted Snow in Kaliningrad than the first signs of a thaw occurred. At 4.30am on the morning of the 22nd February 2026, my long-term insomnia allowed me to listen with immeasurable clarity to the roar of glaciers leaving our rooftop and the commensurable and sporadic sounds of smaller pieces of ice, mimicking handfuls of gravel, sliding and rattling stridently off terracotta and metal surfaces as they literally lost their grip.
Fate’s forceful intervention, either betraying the promise of a snowbound world or working with Nature to release water from frozen petrification, are interpretations only to be mediated by your personal understanding of the benign and malignant forces that constitute our natural/unnatural world. Are postulations of a beautiful Nature all that they are cracked up to be, or is Nature merely an aberration, a mistake, which, including us, is nothing more than a virus more invasive to planet Earth than a dinghy full of migrants powered by liberal-leftism on its way to England? In the stillness of 4:30, it all seems so peculiar.
Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful
Snow may have brought the Old West quick draw to Kaliningradians armed with shovels and across its frozen tundra made otherwise manly men mince, but the flip side to the challenge is, or has been, many a pretty and picturesque scene, with white landscapes, crystalline trees, a wonderland playground for children, including for those that have never grown up, and, once you’ve contended with frozen toes and mastered the art of your balancing act, an all-pervading magical atmosphere.
Herewith is a handful of images from the cards that winter has so far dealt us. The cards for March are yet to be played; thus, all bets for a no-snow spring are off for a few days more.
It looks cold, and it is!
If you haven’t the foggiest where the following photos were taken, then you evidently haven’t read my post on Königsberg Cathedral. The down-to-earth views are photographed on a very cold, snowy evening from the side of Honey Moon Bridge, which is the bridge that connects Kneiphof (Königsberg) with Kant Island (Kaliningrad) to the Fishing Village. The other snapshots offer a grandstand view out and over the sublime expanse of the cathedral’s rooftop, with its distinctive decorative cupola-shaped knop and skyline-commanding mast.
The streets of Kaliningrad
Self-explanatory really: street scenes of snowbound Kaliningrad. If you’ve never clapped eyes before on a photo-posing historic fire hydrant, you have now. If it could operate a smartphone, I’m sure it would take a selfie – or perhaps it has too much pride.
Youth Park snowed under
Kaliningrad’s Youth Park is usually teeming with life, but a few days ago, when these photos were taken, it was a snow-inhabited ghost town. Apart from snow-shovelling men, nothing else was working. The indoor skating rink was open. A great place to be on a cold and icy day!
Sledging (or should that be doughnutting) in Central Park, Kaliningrad
Just before the big thaw set in, we set off to Kaliningrad’s Central Park, which at first sight may appear flat, but at the furthermost end, that’s the one where you don’t come in through the main gate, is characterised by a pronounced declivity – let’s say ‘slope’.
The Marilyn Monroe of curves, the landscape’s flattering figure makes it the perfect place to position yourself and slide off into the stream below – if, of course, you are not too careful. We were.
I stationed myself at the base of the sledge-run and arrested the first descent in such a way that it almost took my arm off. This taught me that the best method of halting the sledge was to stoop down with hands outstretched as if I were a wicket keeper, which I rarely was, because second to football, I hated cricket; yet, had I been more compliant, I might have been correctly informed that a decrease in speed could be best effected by the pilot of the speeding snowcraft using their heels as brakes. These modern doughnut-shaped things are mighty fast on snow, albeit a little less dignified than their more conventional counterparts.
Winter in Kaliningrad can be both harsh and beautiful
In winter, much of Central Park, like the trees that occupy it, lies dormant. But after a game of snowballs and lying in the snow, you really need something to pep you up. I have generally found that in winter at least one of Central Park’s refreshment kiosks debunks shutdown and that snacks, teas, coffees and even ice creams are still available for the cold and brave.
Catering for those whose resuscitation requirements are rather more sophisticated, I was pleased to learn that on the day in question – the question being, whatever was I doing standing around in the snow? – The winter-friendly kiosk was adult enough to provide mulled wine.
At four quid a pop, you don’t get pop, but you do get a very tasty, very warming and satisfactorily large helping of a put-colour-back-in-your-cheeks beverage. Just the job for a man with frozen feet and his doughnut-stopping, beer-raising arm having narrowly escaped dislocation.
Essential survival garments for cold weather in Kaliningrad
21 Feb 2026 – Snow in Kaliningrad: Great Shovels and Icicles!
Brrr! That’s something that we all understand in England. At 14 degrees above outside, it’s brrr in most English houses, not simply because we are not used to the cold, but from the shiver that passes down our spines and out through the toots of our toes when we have, in the last resort, to switch on the central heating: Better the shiver we know and must live with than the aaargh that comes with the gas bill.
Fortunately for the UK, however, whilst we really should open the coal mines and pile that lovely black stuff into our stoves and onto our fires without a thought of tomorrow, global warming has come to our rescue. Temperatures in England – not the ones that are rising under every true-born Englishman’s collar, owing to the government’s sponsored migrant invasion – are typically, if not perversely, generally low in summer (you’d think that would drive the blighters away, would you not?) but not so low in winter.
Passing over pointless places of which the UK is composed, and, focusing solely on the one and only UK country that counts, that being obviously England, we will state in connection with our winters that it’s just as well that things are as they are; for given the slightest touch of ice and the most meagre sprinkle of snow, the government and the media go immediately into national crisis overdrive – ‘Help, there is snow on the road!’ – when all we should be concerned about at any time of the year are migrants, muggers and terrorists and with signing up to reasonable campaigns such as banning the hoody from our streets along with the types that wear them. Not yet put your name to this? Then do so straightaway!
Snow in Kaliningrad: Great Shovels and Icicles!
It pleases me to confirm that in Kaliningrad this year, we have experienced, and are experiencing, what I would call a real winter. For several weeks at least, temperatures have been hovering between -9 and -14, dropping sometimes dramatically to -24.
There are certain sounds associated with real Kaliningrad winters, which are alien to their unreal England counterparts, and of this we can honestly say vice versa. For example, mild winters in England are apt to bring forth incredulous cries of, “What the f…?! I can’t believe this gas bill can be right! ”, whereas in Kaliningrad, and I imagine most everywhere else in Russia, when the temperature rises slightly, one is wont to hear, especially in one’s attic, a terrifying and mighty roar, like the tortured grate of metal on metal, which could easily be mistaken for the frightening din of Casey Jones’ train hurtling out of control down the MF of railway gradients (A conversation in Islington: “Mummy, who the [beep] is Casey Jones?” “Hush, now, dear, put out the light and try to go to sleep. Don’t read that terrible stuff; it is the workings of the fetid mind of one of those naughty men The Guardinistan calls a populist; besides, even with the help of daddy’s child support benefit and contributions from your many uncles, and with I working every hour that the tax god sends, we cannot pay the electric bill, so please don’t give me cause to wonder why I am blessed with being a mother, particularly at this stressful time, and put that light out, now!”), or, for those, like the child in Islington, who have never heard of Casey or his Cannonball Express or owned a pair of stoker’s gauntlets, a substantially different comparison, but one I am sure you will all agree lacks no less of the colourful, is that of the sandpaper sound emitted by a big fat woman hauled along on a sledge, albeit not very gracefully, over freshly gritted ice or across a piece of pavement where the snow has mischievously melted.
Thankfully, this ginormous roar emanates not from either one of these two most obvious sources or even, as might be supposed, from the jaws of a passing lion. They are broadcast by the peremptory movement of prodigious drifts of snow and underlying sheets of ice taking their leave from sloping rooftops. This is why, as you saunter around Kaliningrad, you will observe on many an apex roof protrusive wire frames put there for the strategic purpose of cunningly arresting the wanton and wayward slip of snow, the ultimate objective being to prevent its rapid downward motion so as to mitigate the risk of it plummeting onto your head and doing to you, as a result, without recourse to expletives, what your maiden aunt might coyly describe as ‘a right old mischief, make no mistake!’.
We desperately need something like this – wire frames, not aunties – positioned just a little below the surface of the water and preferably fitted with very sharp spikes, invisibly laid length and breadth across the English Channel. Apart from the entertainment value accruing from the implementation of such a delightful and curious contraption, it would, methinks, provide some budding entrepreneur with the opportunity of making a killing (language of the stock market) on the crowded shores of France, before the inevitable killings are made (language on the streets) in England, by selling to the former country’s lucrative and ever-expanding inflatable dinghy industry thousands of puncture repair outfits, which much of Britain would surely sponsor, as the last thing that its people want is to stop the boats rolling in and prove Elon Musk’s predictions wrong that in them, along with the migrants, a civil war is coming.
The other tell-tale sound of winter heard with fascinating regularity in the attic of your former Königsberg house is the one that goes scrape, scrape, scrape, wafting upwards in the chill of the night from the snow-challenged ground below. This is the winter serenade of many plastic-bladed snow shovels, wielded by men in thick woolly hats, shovelling snow off paths, both in private gardens and on public streets, as though should their husbands fail to do it when they are expected to, then their wives might form the opinion that there is something seasonally wrong with them.
Snow in Kaliningrad is a shoveller’s paradise
Shovelling snow in Kaliningrad is rather more than just a must-do occupation during the winter months; it is, most vitally, when push comes to shove, an intensely competitive sport intended to determine who can do it more frequently and with the most success.
Hailing from a country that is largely less white than it should be, by which, of course, I mean snowless England, where all you have to do is sneeze from any part of the body and the little snow that there is gets blown away, I confess that I am not, by culture and also by lack of experience, particularly good at shovelling, and being rather competitive, or so I have been told and more often than not accused, I tend to subscribe to the mantra of letting sleeping snow lie, preferring rather to trudge across it, even should it cover my knees, than spend a proverbial month of Sundays digging away at snowdrifts as if they never have any intention of disappearing on their own accord.
However, like so many things in life, once bitten, forever smitten. Public Health Warning: Shovelling snow can prove addictive!
A word to the wise, therefore! Before you take to your shovel, it is as well to glance at the nearest rooftop to ascertain the amount of snow and estimate its adherence, prefacing this wise precaution with yet another you may not have thought of, which is that before you start to wield your shovel, stick a tin helmet on your head, or alternatively a Russian castroola (that’s saucepan in your lingo). Once you get beyond the question, “What am I doing this shovelling for?”, which is quickly followed by “Is it necessary?”, and which runs to the conclusion that “I suppose I must. I’ve bought a snow shovel”, you really can get into it, both the saucepan and the shovelling; and, after a while, its all systems go and, dare I say it, really quite fun.
Snow in Kaliningrad paves the way for new experiences
I find that the pleasure of shovelling snow is intensified considerably if, by using the imagination that God saw fit to give you, you trundle forcefully through the snow, making a brr, brr, brr sound as you go. Since it is so cold, so very cold, at -24, you will probably find these sounds occur in the absence of conscious effort, but rattling teeth and knocking knees, though they add tremendously to the experience, are never nearly quite so satisfying as going ‘brr, brr, brr’, when the object of the exercise is to pretend you are a snow plough cutting along the highways and byways in blizzard-blown Siberia.
Adopting this clever fantasy (clever because it stops you asking, ‘What am I doing this for?’) inspired the efforts of a certain man, who uncannily looked a little like me, to such a devoted extent that he found it hard to stop, which in hindsight was rather unfortunate, because having shovelled a surfeit of snow from the pavement outside on the street, quite by accident or malevolent fate, overnight the temperature rose, causing some of the snow to melt and that which was travelling down to earth from an inconsiderate universe to turn whilst on its long descent partially into icy water before coming to rest on terra firma, thus threatening to transform his (this man who looked a little like me) nice, neat, snow-clean path into a local skating rink.
This unforeseen development had the effect of persuading me, I thought not injudiciously, to desist from looking out of the window through which the altruist’s handy work was so demonstrably evident. There were other windows that one could look out of without incurring a sense of guilt, advocating remorse or entertaining rum predictions of unspeakable turns of events, but possibly not with so much success of not inviting jealousy, as from the window I had chosen I could only admire and gasp out loud at how big the neighbour’s had become. Sagely, I said to myself, against the lamentable backdrop of someone vigorously shovelling, ‘Should Kaliningrad hold a competition to see whose is the biggest, it would have to be our neighbour’s.’ I mean, just look at the size of that one! What a beauty! What a monster! What a magnificent icicle to behold!
It saddened me to think that when soon the shovelling shall be heard no more, this prize-winning shard of ice will melt and shrivel away no different to us and to nothing, and all that will be left of winter, as with every seasonal change in life, will be an echo of the past, marked by the eerie silence of redundant snowmen’s shovels, since disbanded in garden sheds, their handles and blades covered in cobwebs, and in their forced retirement singing, humming and sighing gently of shovelling feats and duty done.
But take heart, those that do, compared to those that don’t or rather petulantly won’t! Spring is not as distant as the snow would have you believe. No sooner will your magic shovels be sadly stashed away than the long green grass will rise on your lawns, over which you will feel the duty-bound need to wave and waggle your strimmers.
And to think that there are philosophers out there who waste their entire existence deliberating and discoursing on the purpose and meaning of life. Give them a shovel, I say, and put them to something needfully useful!
