28 August 2025 – My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk by Mick Hart
Don’t you just hate it when you mislay something? It’s so frustrating, isn’t it? This year I have had trouble remembering what I’ve done with summer. I recall someone saying, “Hooray, summer is here!”, and I recollect catching a glimpse of what I thought was it, but I looked away for a second, and when I looked back it had gone. Indeed, the past few days have seen rain and floods so portentous as to be almost biblical.
A couple of weeks ago — I won’t be precise — I caught summer in the act of sneaking up on me. In complete defiance of the official weather forecast, the sun was clearly violating the conditions of its parole: it was out and about and shining.
I hadn’t had my fair share for a while — well, you don’t at this age, do you? — you do? Well, lucky you! — I’m jealous of your suntan — so, I said to the missus, or she said to me — it’s one voice after all these years (ah, hem): “Why not go to Svetlogorsk for the day?”
Checking my diary for prior engagements and finding in my calendar that what was left of my life was free, I acquiesced (some people just agree), and before you could say, “I wished he’d get on with it!”, we were on our way to Svetlogorsk.
Had I found my bicycle clips, we would have gone by tandem, but there’s more to life than losing things, apart from life itself, so I consulted a very good guide written by someone of proven veracity, and taking myself at my word, we decided to go by bus.
My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk
We weren’t working to any particular timeframe, which is a pretentious way of saying that we weren’t working to any particular timeframe, so we took a minibus, a 61, to the stop by Königsberg’s fighting bison, an imposing composition in bronze by none other than August Gaul, and walked the short distance from there to the bus stop situated on Sovetsky Prospekt (Soviet Avenue). Just as I wrote in my earlier post, and, of course, I never lie, within minutes of us being there a Svetlogorsk bus rolled in, and a few minutes later we rolled off in it.
A few minutes more saw the evidence laid before us that I was not the only one who had found a bit of summer amongst the wreckage of the season. It was just as I had written in that extremely well-researched blog post of mine: traffic build-up in the Kaliningrad suburbs on roads leading out to the coast.
Fifteen minutes into it and having been overtaken twice by the same snail in reverse, I began to wish that I had never written that post to which I keep referring; talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy!
In that post (There I go again! If I didn’t know myself better, I would accuse myself of bias!), I wrote that the time it takes to travel by bus from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk is one hour and fifteen minutes, and, though my eye for detail comes as no surprise, I somehow couldn’t believe that I had got it so terribly right! What I failed to mention in that excelent mother of all posts was that there is at least one bus on the Svetlogorsk route that doesn’t go where you think it is going; it does not stop in the centre. This bus enters Svetlogorsk’s outskirts and, just when you are slipping into a sense of false security, goes sailing off to somewhere else (“Next stop: Somewhere Else!”). So, if you find yourself on this bus (“Hello, Mrs Conductor, does it stop at the centre?” “The centre of what? The universe?”), you’d best get off as we did, at the stop in the dip near the lake.
This stop, hitherto unused by me, turned out to be more convenient than I first gave it credit for. On the way to the beachfront, it was our intention to call at the arts and crafts street market opposite Telegraph Café to collect and pay for a commissioned piece of leatherware. Could it be a pair of swimming trunks? Not telling you. Let’s just say that whilst most things shrink in the water, you wouldn’t want this one to ride up with wear.
The shortcut through the hills and wooded hillocks of old Svetlogorsk [sic] Rauschen made me wince at the outset as it was all uphill (funny that?), but the absolute joy of this route was that it took us through an interesting mix of dwellings old and new, from original German houses secreted in wooded gardens to glades containing mid-rise flats, adventurously medievalised by the inclusion of half-timbered uppers.
The other surprising thing about this shortcut, or cutshort as Olga sometimes muddles it, was that this ‘cutshort’ really was short. We emerged from the woodland shortly after entering it, and there, on the right, was the market. I don’t believe we’ve accomplished this before; we were exactly where we wanted to be and quickly.
The compact area set aside for traders at the confluence of two streets was packed today. Summer could run, but it could not hide!
Some stalls at this market are permanent fixtures; others are infills, with traders bringing their own folding tables, which is something that we sometimes did when standing at boot and vintage fairs in England. Ah, what memories such sights bring!
First sight of Olga was met with great enthusiasm by friends and associates alike; they also said hello to me. I was acquainted with most of these people, and as for those I had not met, well, introductions in Kaliningrad are evergreen experiences.
Speaking English in Kaliningrad
There was a time, when I first came to Kaliningrad, in the perestroika years, when the sound of someone speaking English, and the sight of an Englishman speaking it, transcended curiosity. The unwavering stares received had a polarising character: at one end of the spectrum, a deep suspicion lurked; at the other, the kind of fascination that vainer folk than I might have found quite flattering.
Eventually, I grew accustomed to the habit of being gawped at and even got to enjoy being regarded as an exotic object, apparently too much so, because as the years rolled steadily by and a new generation arrived on the scene, replacing the Soviet mindset with their internet view of the world and the more savvy grasp it gave them of the ways of different cultures, modesty forbid, but I missed the attention my simple presence had once so effortlessly generated. But one grows older, as one does, and as one does, one hopes, less needful of the spotlight. “I wanted so much to have nothing to touch. I’ve always been greedy that way.” (Thank you, Leonard.) And then, just when you least expect it, like some of the buses we travel on, the bell rings and it’s all change, please.
Hunkering down in Russia during the coronavirus period, which was a much-to-be-preferred option than returning to hysteria-blighted Britain, I discovered once again that the sound of someone speaking English and being English on Kaliningrad’s streets had overnight become something of an anomaly, more so than it would, given Kaliningrad’s exclave status, than in Moscow or St Petersburg, and that this trend would be intensified by developments in Ukraine as visitors from the West diminished, particularly those who wear cravats and speak with English accents.
But I digress (“Cor blimey, don’t you!”) Helloes, how-are-yous, introductions and curious observations over and with our business at the market done and dusted, we wended our way at a leisurely pace along Svetlogorsk’s charming streets, taking note on our way of the capital renovation that had rescued the Villa Malepartus from almost certain extinction.
A new café lifted on wooden decking at the entrance to the public space containing Yantar-Hall was designed to attract attention. We contemplated the prospect of offering it our patronage but decided not to after all, turned off by its ‘boom boom music’.
We continued our walk to the coast, strolling across the landscaped parkland be-fronting Yantar Hall, marvelling at the transformation from all it had been in my days, a soggy chunk of decaying woodland (there are some who would say that they liked it that way), and ended up for that bite to eat, which we would have had at the previous café had the volume been turned down, at the glass-plated, steel-framed and, on a bright and blue-skied day, aptly named Sun Terrace.
Strategically situated on the coastal headland on route to the Svetlogorsk Elevator, The Sun Terrace is the perfect place to pause and enjoy, as I did, over a pizza and coffee, twenty minutes of quiet repose. The sunny skies above, the green lawns all around, the garden beds with their shrubs and flowers, the birch-tree woodland backdrop, the little birds singing and chirping happily in the boughs and branches of trees – what more could one possibly ask for? Noise, it would seem, is the answer. A couple seated opposite us outside on the café’s patio was respectfully asked by the waiter if everything met with their requirements.
The male contingent replied that whilst they could find no fault with the food, the one thing lacking was music.
I wondered if The Sun Terrace were to act on his advice, what music they would opt for. Would it be, let’s hope not, the kind that had driven us quickly away from the café we would have frequented had it been less musical? Could it have been less musical? Hmm? There’s no accounting for taste.
No music is good music when that music is bad. So, Sun Terrace be advised: continue to do what you do well – provide the space, the food, and beverages and leave the music to Nature’s Orchestra.
As the Elevator’s website highlights, there is no better place to be than aloft inside its vast glass gallery if stunning views of the Baltic Coast are the sort of thing that floats your boat.
Olga likes to go there to take selfies for social media; I go there to take an interest in the luxury seafront apartments‘ latest phase of development. As you can see from the photo below, they, and the promenade on which they are based, have really taken shape.
Older than the Elevator but refurbished since my first trip on them in summer 2001 are the small suspended yellow pods, at one time Soviet red, which, capable of transporting in their enclosed and glazed interior two standing or seated passengers, are a cable car and ski-lift hybrid. Essentially, the vehicle is a funicular, conveying passengers to beachside level from the upper reaches of the steep coastal bank and, more importantly, back again. They offer a convenient and comfortable alternative to foot-slogging the uphill path that, once completed but with great difficulty, leaves even the fittest person pretending not to be out of breath.
The cable-strung contraption is a particular favourite of mine. Whenever I visit Svetlogorsk, I look forward to the prospect of sailing up and down in it, even if getting on and off, with its slightly alarming bounce and the need to open and latch two doors whilst the conveyance sways in contradiction, demands a certain degree of elasticity more suited to supple youth and to the rest-assured action of younger sinews.
The queues for this novel but practical mode of transport show no sign of getting shorter as bathers head for the only substantial open stretch of beach sufficient in capacity to accommodate their growing influx.
Svetlogorsk’s oldest promenade is still very much under wraps due to ongoing restoration, a programme that has effectively closed the greater percentage of the beach resort’s beach.
Meanwhile, at the new promenade, a ribbon of sand implanted at the point where the structure meets the shore provides an attractive, albeit limited, beach alternative. It is an integral feature of the coastline complex, which in essence, and for the present, siphons off overflow bathers from the opposite end of Svetlogorsk, but the reality on the ground is that by far the greatest proportion of sand is still very much off limits, pending the completion of the renaissance of the earlier promenade.
My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk
Not being a beachy person, not even in the slightest (I haven’t been since Charles Atlas warned about the inherent risk of sand being kicked in one’s face.), the prospect of being barred from the beach is somebody else’s – not my – problem; whereas no bar on, overlooking or at an equitable distance from the beach, is very much my problem.
I have to say, therefore, that on my most recent visit to Svetlogorsk, I was well chuffed by the discovery that the portion of beach still open to those who like nothing more than to laze and swim, swim and laze, laze and … (It is fairly easy to see how writing about this aimless practice could become habitual, even if actually doing it could not.) has a small food and drink outlet held up to the sky on stilts.
For a man who has just descended by cable car, the challenge of climbing two flights of steps to buy a bottle of beer was a less arduous undertaking than perching on a wooden plank for the 25 minutes it took for my other half to grow tired of splashing about in the briny.
Strange things happen at sea, or so I have heard it said, and just to prove this point, whilst she was in the water, Olga made a new friend. She wasn’t a mermaid nor sea monster but a young woman with a delightful mien who had authored a book about Japan, possibly making her stranger than both those marine creatures put together, and though she failed, mercifully, to address me in Japanese, when she spoke she spoke the King’s English almost as good as Charles himself and nearly better than me. (I just can’t seem to stop these days using words like ‘like’ and ‘innit’. “Ee, mon, I haven’t the faintest where me gets de ‘abit from! It makes me eddy at me!”)
These facts alone were enough to qualify both her and her husband for an invitation to join us this evening at that well-known restaurant Wherever. We did not know where the restaurant was and would not know until later, when we would rendezvous with a friend and follow her to wherever it was that she saw fit to take us.
We met our female companion in the rip-roaring, rollicking centre of town, which, I am fairly certain, must be twinned with Great Yarmouth, where people crowd intently and to the beat of open-air music, sing, dance, eat and carouse as though they are on holiday, most likely because they are.
Although the restaurant to which we were taken was not familiar to me, the building that it occupied had, for as long as I could remember, been an object of admiration as well as one of intrigue. I could not understand for the life of me why such an obvious Rauschen relic, an edifice of historic importance, had lain for so many years in such a sad and sorry state of destitution. Shame on me, I know, but in the early twenty-tens, I had regarded its exotically planted but much neglected gardens as nothing more than a cutshort, though I always peeped inside the building whenever I went stampeding past on my way to wherever it was I must have been going, wondering why this rarified building, whatever it was supposed to be, seemed to have no other use than a place for stacking chairs. However, mystery on mystery, or simply a case of misplaced memory (it’s gone the way of the sun), for when we asked one of the waiters how long the restaurant had been open, the answer we got was ‘always’. It was a Delbert Grady moment: “You’ve always been the caretaker. I should know, sir. I’ve always been here.”
Anyway, to put you out of your inquisitive misery, the beautiful building’s restaurant goes by the name of Kurhaus. The building itself is restored-Rauschen, but the restaurant has more than a lingering flavour of what it must have been like to dine there during Soviet times. The absence of loud music is a blessing!
In describing my day at Svetlogorsk, I have unwittingly provided you with a blueprint for an excursion. It is easier to remember than trying to say ‘fiddlesticks’ fast, so put your map-head on your shoulders and get a load of this:
How to get there. Where? Precisely
Get off at the bus stop near the lake; turn left, then immediately right; keep a straight line at the back of the houses and climb the steps into the wood; keep on walking until you reach a broad glade ‘ringed’ with houses and flats; climb the steps or slope to the right; turn left at the top of the hill, past the flats with the wooden fretwork; then turn immediately right. (How are you doing so far?) From here you will see the open-air market and, across the road, the Telegraph café. From the café, hang a left and then immediately left again. The Starry Doctor Hotel is on the left and the Villa Malepartus a little further on your right. This street is a wonderful street complete with old and new-old houses of an extremely evocative nature, which any one of you or I would love to live in if we had the chance. When you reach the junction at the top of this road, Yantar Hall is unmissable — it is large, modern, futuristic and also, they tell me, multifunctional. Head along the winding path in front of this wave-like structure, and there you will find The Sunshine Terrace (as its name is written in English, you will find it hard to miss), and after you’ve taken refreshment there, it’s straight on to the lift.
To find your way to the cable cars, direct your feet towards the centre of town (you could try asking where this is!). The ticket office can be found to the right of Svetlogorsk’s railway station just inside a small, paved area where amber traders sell their wares. Treat yourself to some of this before you make your descent. (It’s more than a million years old, you know! Not the chairs, the amber.) And now that I’ve got you down on the beach, have a beer for me!
Revised 25 August 2025 | First published 14 October 2024 ~ Telegraph in Svetlogorsk Good Coffee Unique Art
Contrary to received wisdom, it is not always necessary or indeed advisable for travellers to stick to the beaten track. Verily, by doing so the chances of missing out on some hidden cultural gem or other, or hitherto unencountered esoteric and unusual experience, are magnified manifold.
Indubitably, there are some parts of the world, some sinister and dubious places, where keeping to the beaten track is less a question for tourism than an action guided by common sense in the interests of survival.
Take London, for example, that patchwork quilt of small towns wherein no boundaries lie. One minute, you, the traveller, can almost believe what the travel guides tell you, that London is, indeed, one of the world’s most civilised cities; the next, having strayed from the beaten track, that you are up S*it Creek without a paddle in, what to all intents and purposes, is the Black Hole of Calcutta. Is it Africa or Pakistan? There’s no point leaving the beaten track to be beaten in your tracks. Best to beat a hasty retreat.
Enrichments of this nature do not apply, thank goodness, to a small, secluded backstreet in the seaside town of Svetlogorsk on Russia’s Baltic Coast. Not officially known as ‘Off the Beaten Track’, Street Ostrovskogo (‘Off the Beaten Track’ is easier to say) is a quaint, leafy, meandering avenue that wends its way from Street Oktyabr’skaya (if you find it easier, ‘Off the Beaten Track’ will do).
In Svetlogorsk, the streets run off from a large, open public space in the centre of the town, which, during clement months, overflows with tourists eagerly taking advantage of the outside drinking and eating areas. One of the streets that travels from this lively, bustling hub is Ulitsa Oktyabr’skaya. It is the street you will need to walk to get you to the Telegraph café.
The route is a rewarding one. It takes you past a Svetlogorsk landmark, the 1908 Art Nouveau water tower, past the town’s pretty Larch Park with its copy of Hermann Brachert’s ‘Water Carrier’ sculpture ~ the original is in the Brachert Museum ~ past my favourite and recently renovated neo-Gothic/Art Nouveau house and onto the Hartman Hotel.
To say that you cannot miss Ulitsa Ostrovskogo would be a silly thing to say, because if your sense of direction is anything like mine … Sorry? Oh, it isn’t. Well then just look for a clothes shop on your right. You won’t be able to miss it, because your sense of direction is better than mine and also because in the summer months some of its garments are hung outside in order to make the shop more visible, and besides it is located within one of those charming old German edifices that have at their gable end an all-in-one veranda-balcony glazed and enclosed in wood. This then is the junction at which you turn for Telegraph. This is the end of the beaten track.
Halfway along this quiet backwater, at the point where streets meet chevron-fashion, stand a permanent cluster of market stalls. You didn’t miss the turning, so there’s no earthly reason you should miss these either, especially those with roofs, which give them the quaint appearance of modest garden summer houses. Here, artisans working in various materials, from leather and ceramics to metalware, together with artists of paint and palette, regularly gather to sell their goods. The range and novelty of their handmade products really are surprising and the quality of them consistently high.
The location of these stalls could not be better placed, since a little further on the left-hand side, you have reached your destination ~ Svetlogorsk’s former telegraph building, resurrected in recent years as an outlet for arts and crafts and as a coffee shop and art gallery.
Telegraph in Svetlogorsk
In addition to selling coffee of various kinds~ and very good they are too! ~ Telegraph deals in assorted teas, other delicious drinks, a seductive range of desserts, irresistible homemade cakes and the sort of pastries you’ll want to leave home for. It is also a cornucopia of distinctive handcrafted wares, including vintage and designer clothes, prints, postcards, vinyl records, decorative items for the home, and original works from local artists.
IIts comfy settee and low-slung armchairs, into which one’s body readily sinks, plus the light and airy but cozy ambience, make for a very pleasant environment in which to relax, unwind and shop. If you cannot find a gift in Telegraph, something special to treat yourself with or a Baltic souvenir, then there’s definitely something wrong with you.
An introduction to two of Telegraph’s artists
https://vk.com/album55604070_101203993 Lilya Bogatko works in the field of applied arts, designing and decorating ceramic goods with stylised naturalistic images. She prefers to work in monochrome, consigning her line-drawn black motifs to high opacity white grounds on tableware and ornaments. Her distinctive illustrations, many of which have a gentle charm that could grace a children’s storybook, possess an ethereal quality. Indeed, a fair proportion of her subjects, be they man or beast, float above the earth; they take to the air with wings. When her subjects are not animals, real or mythological, or people literally raised to a higher level of spirituality ~ have wings will fly ~ her stock-in-trade motifs are replications of Kaliningrad landmarks, such as the now defunct and liquidated former House of Soviets, the refurbished Zalivino lighthouse overlooking the Curonian Lagoon and Königsberg Cathedral.
Based in St Petersburg, Lilya is a regular visitor to Kaliningrad and the Kaliningrad region, from which she derives inspiration and consolidates her sales outlets.
https://vk.com/album-30057230_195486413 Pavel Timofeev has an arts and crafts workshop at Telegraph in Svetlogorsk, where he produces, among other things, leather purses and wallets, men’s and women’s leather bracelets with inscriptions on request, ornamented key rings and a range of fashion jewellery.
His speciality is selling watches with watch-face customisation. The face design can be made to order, with the option of a leather strap in traditional classic or novel styles. The straps can also be personalised.
For examples of Pavel’s watches, please refer to the carousel that appears below this profile:
The room opposite Telegraph’s ‘sitting room’ is its designated art gallery, a well-lit exhibition space with enough wall and floor capacity to showcase umpteen works of local artists. On the occasion of my visit, the art form most conspicuous was assemblages ~ 3D compositions created by taking disparate pieces of whatever it is the artist has scavenged and then arranging or assembling them on a backboard of some description so that the configuration that ensues presents itself as a pictorial image or, from impressions of the whole or its parts, invites interpretation.
Victor Ryabinin, our artist friend from Königsberg, was the man who introduced me to assemblages. His interest in the potential of this technique as a medium for symbolism had him unearthing whatever he could from the remains of Königsberg’s past and putting the pieces together so as to excite in the observer a quest to uncover meaning, either the artist’s or their own.
Since Victor was profoundly immersed in and also deeply disturbed by the eradication of Königsberg, the assemblages that he built from the remnants of destruction often convey a personal sense of irredeemable loss, an inescapable sadness, a wistful but unrequited need for a less tragic end to the city which he dearly loved and in which he loved to live. Victor travelled outside of Königsberg more often and also further than its famous philosopher Immanuel Kant, but he possibly left it less than Kant or anyone else for that matter.
By contrast, the assemblages gathered together under Telegraph’s roof evinced none of this solemnity. They danced a confident riot of bright, effusive colours, orchestrating lively, often comic, images and energising expressive shapes, some fondly reminiscent of the enchanting kind of illustrations that adorned the pages of story books beloved of old-time children, others cleverly more obtuse or playfully cryptographic.
In vivacity of colour and their three-dimensional character, the assemblages reminded me of the kind of shop-front sign boards popular in the Edwardian era, and there was much at work in their composition to insinuate a vintage charm. But the incorporation of parts taken from obsolete engines, metal handles, steel rivets, goggles and the like, plus paraphernalia of various kinds possessing mechanical provenance and rigged to suggest articulation, disclosed a contemporary steampunk influence. Intriguing, all bewitching and also fun to boot, take any one of these assemblages, hang them in your abode and if until now you have felt that your home lacked a conversation piece, trust me when I tell you that this omission will be rectified.
In the Svetlogorsk we know today, cafes, bars, restaurants and places of interest to view and visit exist in appreciable numbers, but every once in a while, one stands out in the crowd: Telegraph is that one.
It may have exchanged its wires and needles for coffee and for art, but the function of the historic building as a centre of communication lives on in its role as a meeting place, and the message that it telegraphs couldn’t be more accommodating: Sit a while, relax, enjoy a beverage and a piece of cake and let your sensibilities flow with the positive vibes that emanate from all that you see and all that you feel around you and from what can be bought and taken home, because the chances are that whatever it is that tickles your fancy in Telegraph, you will never find another like it; the chances are it will be unique.
After browsing, binging, basking and borrowing (borrowing from your friends to pay for the coffee and art, “I’ll see you alright, later …”), especially on those days when the craft-sellers’ stalls are active, in finally heading off for home, you will say to yourself with satisfaction, what an enjoyable day I have had. I am so pleased I read Mick Hart’s blog and was urged by him to get up off of my … ah, to get off of the beaten track.
Telegraph ~ social and cultural space of Svetlogorsk.
Telegraph is a public and cultural space (a centre of urban communities), created by city residents for city residents.
We do not have a director, but we have a working group. We are a community of participants with common goals and values.
Telegraph is located on Ostrovskogo Street in house No. 3 (next to the Post Office).
There are four spaces here:
– a coffee shop (here you can try aromatic fresh coffee) – a living room with an exhibition of works by craftsmen (you can buy local handmade souvenirs) – a gallery (local artists hold exhibitions here) – workshops (pottery and carpentry) – a terrace and a lawn with the longest bench in the city.
Our space regularly hosts meetings of various communities. Any participant can propose an idea for their own project and find like-minded people who will provide the necessary support.
Telegraph exists outside of politics, outside of religion. We are open to new acquaintances/initiatives.
The Telegraph project team deals with city projects and development issues.
Co-working ‘Thoughts’ (Aptechnaya, 10); keys from the barista in the coffee shop; additional conditions by phone +79114839050
How to get from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk
18 August 2025 – From Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk
One of the things that I like about being in Kaliningrad is that it is not far away from the Baltic coast. The main resorts, Zelenogradsk (in German times: Cranz) is approximately 35km (22 miles), a 30-minute drive away, and Svetlogorsk (in German times: Rauschen) is 40km (25 miles), which takes about 40 minutes to drive.
Modern roads and upgraded transport links have improved travel to the Baltic coast no end since the good old days, when all there was in the way of major travel infrastructure was a couple of pre-war German roads with more than their fair share of potholes.
The problem is that whilst the region’s ever-developing tourism infrastructure is fuelling dramatic growth, the good news for the region’s economy is not always good for local travel, as there are days in the height of summer when vehicular demand for the Baltic coast can severely test one’s travelling patience.
Kaliningrad’s tourism record reads like a year-on-year success story, particularly with the impetus it received from restricted overseas travel during the coronavirus era and a continuation of that trend due to evolving geopolitics.
Domestic travel to the Kaliningrad exclave from Russia’s capital city, Moscow, and from other territories inside ‘Big Russia’ appears to have multiplied 10-fold over the past five years. To get a handle on this, you would need to review the statistics, which, with a grade 9 CSE in math, I am disqualified from doing. What does add up, however, is that whichever mode of transport you plan on using to get you from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk or Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, be it private car, taxi, bus or train, during the height of the tourist season, it pays to avoid peak-time travel.
Here’s some handy information to help you on your way:
Distance from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and to Svetlogorsk by road
Significant disparity on the internet exists regarding the distance between Kaliningrad and Zelenogradsk. I don’t know why it does it, but the distance keeps on changing. Sometimes it is 40km (25 miles), sometimes 34km (21 miles) and sometimes 20km (12.5 miles). It just keeps getting closer or moving further away depending on who you would like to believe. Why not, then, believe me? Thirty-five kilometres (22 miles) seems to be where it’s usually at.
The time it takes to travel from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk by private vehicle or by taxi is another debatable issue. Some internet sites say 20 minutes; others, 40 minutes. I would hazard a guess that with a good backwind and favourable traffic fluidity, the journey should take no more than 30 minutes.
The distance between Kaliningrad and Svetlogorsk has a rather less shaky consensus. It appears to hold steady at 40km (25 miles), giving an average time to drive it of 40 minutes.
Taxi from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk General rule of thumb: beware of travel and trip advisor websites that purposefully conceal the dates on which they publish content. Case in point: A reasonably well-known travel website, which precludes publication dates, claims that a taxi from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk will cost you 600 roubles. To get there at that price, you will first need to take a time machine to a point in the distant past when things were a whole lot cheaper.
The average taxi fare from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk is 700-1000 roubles (£6.45-£9.20), with the lower end of the tariff being the least likely of the available options.
The average taxi fare from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk is 1000-2000 roubles (£9.20-£18.40).
Taxi Services: Whether you use an app, call the cab office, or hail a cab on the street, Kaliningrad is no different from any other city in the world: always agree on the fare before entering the vehicle. The majority, if not all, of Kaliningrad taxis are now meter-based, so if you take one off the street, the driver may just point to the meter when you ask the important question, “How much will it cost?” Whether you accept this answer will depend on how trusting you are and how well you cope with suspense.I, for one, am rather fond of a ballpark figure/estimate.
Buses from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk
The city’s main bus terminal is a short walk away from Kaliningrad’s Southern Railway Station (Kaliningrad-South) (Kaliningrad-Yuzhny).
It takes approximately one hour by bus from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, about one hour and 15 minutes.
The bus fare to Zelenogradsk is approximately 100 roubles (90p)
The bus fare to Svetlogorsk is approximately 155 roubles (£1.43)
Buses to Zelenogradsk and to Svetlogorsk leave Kaliningrad Bus Terminal approximately every 20 minutes.
If you are catching the bus from the main bus terminal, you must purchase your ticket at the terminal itself. Automated gates are now in operation, and you will need to have your ticket at hand for scanning validation.
Buses to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk also leave from a stop opposite Kaliningrad’s Northern Railway Station (Kaliningrad-North) (Severny Vokzal) on Soviet Avenue (Sovetsky Prospekt). If you are not working to your own strict timetable, you can wander down to this stop, check the destinations of each bus as they dock, select the one you want, hop aboard and buy your ticket.
The last bus from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk leaves at 21:30.
The last bus from Zelenogradsk to Kaliningrad leaves at 21:30.
The last bus from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk leaves at 22:30.
The last bus from Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad leaves at 22:30.
The line number of the bus to Zelenogradsk is 141 and to Svetlogorsk 118.
Train from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk The journey by train from Kaliningrad to Zelenogradsk takes approximately 35-45 minutes, and from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, about 1 hour and 30 minutes.
Trains depart from Kaliningrad’s Southern Railway Station (Kaliningrad-South) (Kaliningrad-Yuzhny) multiple times per day.
Stops on the way are displayed visually on a screen in each carriage and delivered audibly by an automated voice, which is conveniently broadcast both in Russian and in English. When travelling by train to Svetlogorsk, please be aware that the final destination is Svetlogorsk-2, so don’t alight at Svetlogorsk-1 unless this is the stop you are aiming for.
The train fare to Zelenogradsk-Noviy Station is approximately 100 roubles (92p)
The train fare to Svetlogorsk 2 Station is approximately 125 roubles (£1.15)
So, there you have it. Whether you drive it, bus it, go by taxi or take a train, Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk are right on Kaliningrad’s doorstep. Follow my advice, and I guarantee you’ll know you’ve arrived when you finally get there.
Craft, Imported and Specialty Beers: Tapkoc Belgium Blond Ale
Mick Hart’s difficult job of reviewing craft, imported and specialty beers in Kaliningrad
6 August 2025 – Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale
With the name Tapkoc on the collar label, and beneath it, on the label proper, the picture of a piddling cherub (Manneken Pis) with ‘censored’ slapped over his naughty bits, who could resist the play on words? We could, fellow drinkers, because, dear beloved, we are gathered here today to conduct the serious business of reviewing Belgian Blond Ale.
Trusting that the brewers would never be so brave as to brew a beer with ‘told you so!’ in mind, I left Cultura Bottle Shop with Tapkoc nestling in my nice brown paper bag, confident that what was in a name and upon a label had nothing to do whatsoever with what was in the beer or what it would taste like.
Heaven forbid that I would be so lax as to invite accusations of vulgarity, but I sincerely believe that no student of the English language can claim to have mastered that language until they have complete understanding and appreciation of the many idiomatic expressions and the daily uses to which they are put. Take ‘piss’, for example — no crudity intended — not to be confused with ‘taking the piss’, which is something I’d never do.
The impolite word ‘piss’, together with its derivatives and associations, has extremely versatile usage in the English language, a fact no better illustrated than when it is used in conjunction with the gentlemanly art of beer drinking. Take note (make some, if you like): the expression ‘going on the piss’ is a common phrase in the United Kingdom. Precisely translated, it means ‘to go on the beer’, of which an elaboration would be to indulge in a beer-drinking session. Not that in England beer is considered urine; on the contrary, since the dissolution of Watney’s piss water, beer is held in high esteem by many, even exalted by some. For example, when we say in England that we have been on a ‘piss-up’ or ‘pissing it up’, it’s not something we are ashamed to admit to; quite the reverse, in fact. ‘Piss artists’ are rather proud of having been ‘on the piss’. We regard it not in terms of disapprobation but as something of an achievement. In other words, when the English say they’ve been ‘pissing it up’, the connotation of shame is rarely present.
People who have been ‘on the piss’ may feel a little embarrassed when they are forced to admit in consequence that they ended up ‘totally pissed’ and in the process disgraced themselves, but by and large they are not ‘pissed off’ to have ‘pissed it (their money) up the wall’ and ended up quite rat-arsed. Please note, however, that whilst many who go ‘on the piss’ invariably end up rat-arsed, they are rarely ever, if ever, referred to by themselves, their relatives, friends or colleagues as ‘rat-arsers’.
The English are nothing if not reserved, preferring, if at all possible, to avoid the more debasing title of ‘pisshead’ in relation to their drinking habits but have no difficulty whatsoever in accepting the synonym ‘piss artist’ — a name which many practitioners wear as though it were a badge of honour.
Excuse me, once again, if only for excusing myself, which some may infer as a sly attempt to circumvent self-censorship for the sake of being crude and wanting, like a naughty boy, to see the word ‘piss’ in print (well, it makes a change from writing sh…hhhhh!) It’s just that ‘piss’ and the past tense ‘pissed’ have such astonishing versatility within the English language, almost as much, but not quite, as another adaptive English word, which is ‘fart’, but we won’t fart about with that at the moment. We will leave that for a later lesson and get down now to the serious business of tasting this Belgian blond, coz if we carry on like this, getting pissed will be out of the question.
Tapkoc Belgium Blond Ale won a Bronze medal in the ‘Light Ale’ category of the competition for brewing products ROSGLAVPIVO-2023 and a Gold medal in the international competition Beer 2024 in Sochi. [source: https://tarkos.ru/catalog/blond-el/]
Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale
So, the beer with the piddling Belgian boy claims to be a Belgian blond ale. What exactly did I make of it?
At first sniff, the blond Belgian releases a lovely bouquet of tangy, hoppy notes, accompanied by a deeper, rounded sound. No, this is not the follow-up English lesson that I mentioned earlier. The aroma of this beer is a nose-fondling melody. It’s not quite a symphony of scents, but it pulls out the organ stops similar to the way in which Gobbo Fletton, our village church organist, did during the 1960s, that is, forcefully but in no particular order.
I was relieved, as much as the boy on the bottle, by this reassuring revelation. And yet, as the beer didn’t smell like p…, what exactly did it smell of? Potato juice or pastry? As pale and pallid as it certainly is, someone had come along and put body in this beer (which is different from somebody’s body), and the part that was the most pleasing was that it packed a bit of an oomph. (No, this is not the follow-up lesson to which I alluded earlier.)
In the glass, Belgian Blond has a hazy fantayzee look, which, for a blond beer, is often interpreted as a sign of honest-to-goodness, natural quality, particularly if the fruit-basket scent is oranges and lemons, say the belles with large melons. The chorus line of different notes is as revealing and provocative as the 19th-century music hall Can-Can. Can they? Yes, they can. Have they? By Jove, they have. The fruity exterior cleverly masks a deceptively deep, dense flavour, which may or may not be innocent or, failing that, have been put there on purpose.
Storm in a teacup or pee in a pod? I have no intention of pissing about or pissing off the brewers; Tapkoc is no clone. For a start, and at the finish, Belgian Blond is a six-percenter, and I seriously doubt you will find anything anywhere which subtly brings together such a pleasing piquant taste and underlying strength. If the motive for drinking it is still unclear, perhaps we had better call Poirot. He was Belgian, was he not?
Ah, now you are taking the — guess the penultimate word competition — p…
And my last word on the subject? Writing this review was easy. In fact, it was a piece of — guess the last word competition — p …
BOX TICKER’S CORNER Name of Beer: Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale Brewer: Tarkos Brewery Where it is brewed: Voronezh, Russia Bottle capacity: 0.5 litre Strength: 6% Price: 130 roubles (£1.20) Appearance: Blond Aroma: So much to choose from Taste: An interesting and not unflavourable test of the taste buds Fizz amplitude: 5% Label/Marketing: Statue of a small boy urinating Would you buy it again? It’s already happened
Beer rating
The brewer’s website has this to say about Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale: A rich golden ale with a subtle, ethereal aroma of spices, created by Belgian yeast. The strong beer gives a noticeable warming effect and stimulates the taste buds but does not overload them. It is an ideal accompaniment to exquisite dishes. Website: https://tarkos.ru/
Wot other’s say [Comments on Tapkoc Belgian Blond Ale from the internet, unedited] 🤔 It’s OK, but it smells like cardboard. [Comment: That’s because he’s got a cardboard box stuck on his head.] 😉 The beer may not be quite in style, but it’s interesting, and I liked it. [Comment: You can’t say fairer than that.] 😑 I don’t get the joke about the name Tapkoc and its relevance to the peeing cherub. [Comment: An unassimilated migrant living in the UK] 😎 Unusual in everything – from the label to the taste. [Comment: He’s got it!]
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 9: Three Bears Crystalbeer
Updated 28 July 2025 | First Published 27 November 2020 – Three Bears Crystal beer in Kaliningrad, Russia
Whenever I see a beer bottle or can in a Russian supermarket with three bears (tree meeshkee) on the label, I am smitten by a wave of nostalgia, as this brand of bottled beer was quite possibly the first I drank on my inaugural trip to Kaliningrad.
Memory is a fallible thing, for mine suggests that my first Three Bears was consumed in the winter of 2000, whereas internet research indicates that Three Bears made their Russian debut later in 2002.
Be this as it may, there is no denying the fact that the brand has successfully established itself as quintessentially Russian, and with bears in name and bears in logo, it could hardly have failed to do otherwise. For example, if the beer had been Russian Hat, they could have achieved a similar effect by using an ushanka label — come now, of course you know what I mean; an ushanka is one of those furry hats with a flap down either side.
Typically Russian in appearance, the Three Bears brand was originally part of the Heineken portfolio but is now produced by United Breweries. [source: AI Google]
Three Bears Crystal beer in Kaliningrad Russia
The Three Bears brand has four exciting variants: Three Bears Classic; Three Bears Light; Three Bears Crystal; and Three Bears Strong. At 8.3% ABV, the Three Bears Strong obviously speaks for itself: it sort of makes a deep ‘Grrrr’ sound; the Classic at 4.9% is not so ‘Grrrr’, but still is ‘Grrr’; the Three Bears Crystal, which is 4.4%, is by no means a purring pussycat; but, as you would expect, Three Bears Light is only 4.7% — er, wait a moment, am I missing something? Perhaps when they use the word ‘Light’, the allusion is to colour?
Three Bears Crystal beer in Kaliningrad, Russia
I chose to buy Three Bears Crystal because whenever I have a session, I will normally drink a couple of 1.5-litre bottles of beer in what is referred to as one sitting. How much of a lush you judge me to be by supping this amount will be predicated entirely on your own consumption criteria, namely, “Woah, that’s far too much!” or “I’d get that down before breakfast!” The difference in definition lies somewhere between one’s understanding of the difference between broadcast and boast, prohibition and politician, and promise and perversion — all three tinged by the maxims ‘men will always be men’ or ‘men will always be boys’. Such connotations could cause a stir of controversy by the time they have reached the end of the UK rainbow but could equally garner butch-like brownie points with feminists on the way.
Sorry, all this has about as much to do with Three Bears Crystal beer as Biden’s implanted view of the world had with facts and reality. My advice to you is, unless you are absolutely sure that Goldilocks is female, don’t go down to the woods today, or you could be in for a big surprise.
I stayed in with Crystal, and was I in for a Big Surprise!
In the bottle and in the glass, Three Bears Crystal has an attractive amber tone, making it an empathic ale for amber-lands consumption. Its hoppy, bitter fragrance tends to waft away a few minutes after decantation, which was enough in coronavirus times to alarm you with the question, “Am I losing my sense of smell?” but, needing no better excuse to quickly take the taste test, as soon as it hit your tongue, you breathed a sigh of relief: “Aha,” you went. “Worth every rouble!” Of course, during coronavirus, I always wore my face mask whenever I drank Three Bears or anything else.
Three Bears Crystal has, what I like to refer to, as a ‘straw taste’ — and I do not use this term derogatively. I know that it does not sound nearly as chic as shampers or as manly as scotch on the rocks and is probably a rustic hangback from my days as a teenage farmer, but whatever its derivative status, ‘straw’ is a term that captures for me a specific beer experience in which the initial bitter sharpness is offset by a blunting edge, a saturating mellow taste.
This is not to say that Three Bears Crystal does not pack a zing, although I have my suspicions that this is down to its carbonation, which, I also believe, is instrumental in producing the lingering bitter tang, which remains well after the product has been consumed. But for all that zinging and tanging, the essence of this beer is decidedly Matt Monro — an easy-on-the-palate version of easy listening on the ears.
Three Bears Crystal beer is a session beer
In words that every beer-quaffing Englishman will readily understand, Three Bears Crystal is, in my judgement, as sound as a pound (and as right as a rouble). It is what is known in drinking circles as a ‘session’ beer.
It goes down famously well with a traditional packet of crisps and a handful of salted peanuts, neither of which you can currently enjoy in any English pub due to the recent virus curfew laws*. These laws seem to suggest that coronavirus hides in pubs and waits to pounce on people who prefer to snack with their pint rather than eat a “substantial meal,” such as a big plate of greasy burgers, lashings of frozen peas, and a disgusting pile of fatty fries made from reconstituted mashed potatoes. [*At the time when this post was first published (2020), UK coronavirus laws outlawed drinking in pubs without the coronavirus passport of having purchased a ‘substantial meal’.]
Conclusion: The message is Crystal clear. You don’t need a Vaccine Passport, then fly to the UK to suffer a plate of infamous pub grub just to enjoy a decent beer. Three Bears Crystal beer is sold in most of Kaliningrad’s supermarkets in handy 1.5-litre bottles at a price you cannot growl at. Why not buy two bottles! Should you overdo it, there is always the hair of the bear!
Three Bears Crystal beer
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Three Bears Crystal Brewer: United Breweries Where it is brewed: St Petersburg and in other Russian locations Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.4% Price: It cost me about 125 rubles (£1.23) in 2000 Appearance: Light amber Aroma: Not much Taste: Light bitterness, the equivalent of a British light or pale ale Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Traditional Russian Would you buy it again? I have, on several occasions
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Burgh Island and Greenway: on the Agatha Christie trail
25 July 2025 – Agatha Christie’s Burgh Island and Greenway House
Burgh Island
Going over the hill, especially when the term is used figuratively to describe the juncture between youth and old age, is not recommended. Likewise, when you reach the top of the hill on the approach road to Bigbury-on-Sea, I suggest that you step on the brakes and stop. From this point your first spectacular view of Burgh Island is likely to be not much different to the one offered to Agatha Christie, Noel Coward, Winston Churchill and Mick Hart.
You see that large building fronting Burgh Island, the white one in the striking Art Deco style, well that’s the Burgh Hotel. It was first constructed in 1929, modified and improved in the early 1930s and, as that decade unfurled, rapidly established itself as one of England’s most in-vogue venues for socialites and celebrities, a premier destination for those with money, those with influence and for those in search of inspiration.
Agatha Christie
Agatha Christie, one of England’s most prolific and arguably most famous literary figures, was so taken by the inspirational ethos of the island, the sophistry of its hotel and the fictional source material offered by its top-drawer patrons that the hotel built her a beach house to use exclusively as a writer’s retreat. There, she is reputed to have written two of her greatest novels, And Then There was None and Evil Under the Sun, the latter extensively filmed on Burgh Island and in and around its hotel as part of the David Suchet series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot.
Burgh Island and Greenway House: on the trail of Agatha Christie
Before Agatha Christie made it her own, Burgh Island, known in ancient times as Borough Island and thereafter variously as Burr and Bur Isle, had a colourful reputation for smuggling, pirates and wrecking — where coastal in Cornwall and Devon does not? On a more prosaic level, the island in the 18th century was a base for Pilchard fishing.
That small, ruined structure sitting on the island’s summit, the one you can see with your naked eye and in more detail through your trusty binoculars, is not a Victorian folly but the remains of a one-time monastery, the remnants of a chapel and what is left of a ‘huers’’ post — a place where ‘huers’ kept watch on the sea. When shoals of pilchards came in sight, the huers would kick up a ‘hue and cry’, alerting the fishermen at shore level that it was time to knock back their beers, exit the Pilchard Inn and put out to sea in their fishing boats.
The Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island
Burgh Island’s Pilchard Inn, unmissable from the mainland even had its name not been emblazoned across its front in welcoming large black letters, is reputed to have made its debut in the fourteenth century. How much of the fourteenth century remains of it today is a matter of conjecture — something to keep you occupied whilst you sit there sipping your beer, gnarled oak beams above your head, much-trodden flagstones beneath your feet and, without a pilchard in sight, without a care in the world.
^ Mick and Joss Hart outside the Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island
The Pilchard Inn, the Art Deco hotel, Agatha Christie’s beach house, a couple of private houses, oh, and not forgetting the huers’ hut, plus a garden shed or two, these are the sole structural occupants of the island’s-built environment.
The island’s natural environment, criss-crossed as it is with a cobweb of tiny footpaths, is a dream of a place for ramblers. It offers spectacular views across a beautiful seascape to the mainland’s rugged and ragged cliffs and on the island itself imparts to the roving explorer awesome sights of precipitous drops into the foaming surf of the ocean below. Rumour has it that someone, mention no corporate names, took the legal route in an attempt to prevent the public from enjoying this gift from God, but thankfully for once on this occasion when money talked no one wanted to listen and justice came out on the side that it should. So gleefully put on your walking shoes and celebrate the ‘right to roam’.
^^ “It’s not true that we wish to deter people from walking across the island. Just follow the line of the fence and you’ll be fine …”
Burgh Island and Greenway House: on the trail of Agatha Christie
Burgh Island is a tidal island, meaning that at certain times of the day the sea recedes like so many hairlines, leaving behind a stretch of sand, similar to a widow’s peak, across which, if the mood so takes them, prospective visitors can plod.
When the tide is in, reaching the island by Shank’s Pony is still a possibility, providing you like wet trousers, but staying with the majority, it is easier and more fun to pay the two-quid passage and make the crossing on the Burgh Island sea tractor.
This intriguing shallow-water machine has been thrilling and ferrying passengers from Bigbury-on-Sea to Burgh Island and back since the 1930s. You may recall Poirot and Hasting travelling on the tractor across the causeway at high tide as guests of the Burgh Hotel in the TV adaptation of Christie’s Evil Under the Sun. On June 25 (2025, that is), we followed in their wheel tracks.
The current tractor, I have been told, is not the original 30s’ model, but the carriage and its application differ very little. I have scant regard for boats but enjoyed the trip to Burgh on this unusual four-wheeled vehicle. It may not be the exact same tractor that ferried Agatha from A to B, but the view of the island that it provides from its elevated platform of the historic Pilchard Inn and what is described consistently as the island’s iconic landmark, the mainland-facing Art Deco hotel, cannot be substantially different from the scene with which the famous writer would have been familiar.
Restored and refurbished in such a manner as to replicate the glamour of its 1930s’ heydays, today’s Burgh Island Hotel is widely regarded to be a faithful representation of what it would have been before it entered a period of slow but steady decline after the Second World War.
The hotel’s golden years are also said to be echoed in the many period events hosted there on an annual basis, with their observance of the sartorial elegance for which the thirties is famous and their ‘take you back to the time’ music of hot jazz, swing and Lindy hop.
A flick through the pages of the hotel’s website should be enough to convince you that no punches are being pulled in guaranteeing paying guests refinement, luxury and exclusivity on an unprecedented Art Deco scale.
It is said that to stay at the Burgh Hotel is a ‘Once in a lifetime experience’, and this is hardly surprising. It is difficult to ascertain what exactly a bed for the night will set your wallet back, but £480, £650 and climbing seem to be the ballpark figures, with afternoon tea ringing the till at £110 for two. At these prices ‘once in a lifetime’ is perfectly understandable’; staying there twice, highly unlikely; and never, more likely than that. However, should you win the lottery …
Whether extortionate hotel tariffs are an evil under the sun, a sure-fired way of keeping the riff-raff out (it’s odd that I’ve never stayed there?) or just an unpredictable gamble on a typical English coastline, often chilly, frequently windswept and not uncommonly pelted with rain, are points on which you may wish to ponder before you part with your hard-earned cash.
Agatha Christie beach house
Ardent fans of the Art Deco period and of Agatha Christie alike may take comfort in the knowledge that what you pay for is what you get. Recent refurbishments at the Burgh Hotel are said to have been made with utmost care and consideration for heritage authenticity. However, I wonder how true this is of Agatha Christie’s beach house?
It is written almost everywhere that Agatha Christie thought of the Burgh Hotel as a ‘home away from home’. What she would make of it now, now that her once authorial haven has been turned into – I quote – “One of the sexiest hotel rooms in the UK …” is difficult to say.
I cannot help feeling that this rebranding, as well as being vaguely tasteless, is a rather short-sighted move. Think about it, if you will. Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie, Lady Mallowan, DBE, celebrated author of 66 detective novels and 14 short-story collections, creator of the world-famous Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, the best-selling fiction writer of all time, conceived and wrote at least two of her novels at the Burgh Island beach house, and now that beach house is being promoted as a place for potentially unwanted conceptions.
You would have thought, would you not, that this made-sacred-by-Agatha place would have better been preserved as a museum to her memory or alternatively restored to the inspirational model it was, no matter how basic by modern standards, so that those in search of the ultimate Christie experience, to whom it seems money is rarely an object, would unconditionally flock. Either of these two options have a more in-keeping ring, don’t you think, to the hotel’s glittering past, than words that would seem to cast it as a 21st century bordello. But then who knows what the future holds for England’s imperilled heritage?
Greenway House
Our personal ultimate Christie experience was to follow up our excursion to Burgh Island, with a visit to the much-loved author’s South Devon summer home, Greenway.
Greenway House, a late Georgian mansion enclosed within extensive grounds on the River Dart near Galmpton in Devon, had been Christies’ dream house since childhood. It came on the market in 1938 at a time when Christie and her archaeologist husband, Max Mallowan, were masterminding their escape from Torquay, which, as early as the 1930s, was rapidly falling from grace. [Visiting Cornwall and Devon: Is it a good idea? – Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia]
Christie refers to the house and grounds as “beautiful” and her summer home as “cozy”. There’s no argument to be had that architecturally the house excels in every respect, but of all the grand English properties that I have visited (the invites are overwhelming!), my take on Greenway House, or to be more precise its location, or to be more precise than that its singular isolation, is that it leans a little on the eerie side.
Greenway’s isolation is one of a particular kind. It owes much to the lay of the land and the place it occupies within that landscape. Yet, its sense of exclusion begins a mile or two before being vetted and admitted at the gatehouse. Once you have crossed this threshold, the perception of leaving the world behind intensifies immensely, growing proportionally stronger as you wind your way along the shadowy woodland lane to arrive at Greenway itself.
Unlike many English homes of its stature, Greenway House does not possess a sweeping, open driveway with statement views of itself and of a customised, limitless landscape. Closed in on arrival by the estate’s former stable block, since converted by the National Trust into a tea room and specialist shops, at the back and to the opposite side, the house is a claustrophobia, albeit an attractive one, of landscaped rock and foliate banks. A short gravelled forecourt, embroidered with a strip of lawn, lies at the front of the property, from which the ground slips steeply away under a formidable curtain of woodland interspersed with thickets of shrubbery down an eye-squinting awesome descent to a wide plateau of water belonging to the River Dart.
I have read reviews that claim that from Agatha’s former bedroom window lovely views are to be had across the Greenway estate, when, in actual fact, the view is restricted to the sliver of lawn that borders the house at the front, and below, way down below, through the mire of trees and bushes, the wide expanse of the River Dart, which, resembling a barrier moat, consolidates the feeling of being locked away and locked within. The seclusion is extraordinary, and its effect upon a fanciful mind more extraordinary still.
Not by choice but by fate decreed, the day that we had chosen to pay our respects to Greenway was the wettest day of the week. No sooner had we entered the house than the heavens poured forth its contents. Trapped within the house, which is trapped within the grounds, whilst trapped within one’s imagination, with the rain streaming down the windows in an endless succession of tears, it was easy to comprehend how vulnerability might find a mind encircled by circumstances such as these susceptible to its intimidation, and then inhabit it and haunt it with scenes of unspeakably brutal murder. In their own different but similar ways, Burgh Island and Greenway House are made to measure locations for the propagation and proliferation of such disturbing thoughts.
There’s a little of each of these locations in a good many Christie novels and considerably more of both in And Then There Were None’s Soldier Island: the inescapable reckoning ground where Christie’s helpless, hapless victims are lured to share a collective fate of serial execution.
As for the house itself, with the exception of the library, I would stop short of calling it cosy, at least with respect to the way in which the word is routinely applied: imposing, yes; interesting, certainly; intriguing, delightfully so; imbued with singular Christie character, of that you can be sure; but if cosiness, the ordinary cosy, the commonplace cosy, the little, the cute and the cushioned cosy, had ever made its home here, then someone or something had come along whilst we were busy splitting hairs on the nuanced notion of ‘cosy’, and quietly done away with it.
I think that it was done in the Max Mallowan dressing room, either with the fax machine or the script of Dead Man’s Folly signed by David Suchet.
Below – literary genius: A copy of the script from Dead Man’s Folly, filmed at Greenway House, inscribed and signed by David Suchet, the eponymous Hercule Poirot, together with first editions of Agatha Christie’s masterpiece novels.
Below – antiques & collectables: Agatha Christie and her husband Max Mallowan were keen collectors. They loved antiques and curios. Greenway House is full of them. Even if the house hadn’t belonged to one of the most famous writers of all time, there is enough heritage on display to warrant more than one visit.
Below – over-fertile imagination:Quite easy to imagine any number of assailants lurking in the seclusion of the walled gardens, the undergrowth, in every nook and cranny, of which there are inconceivably many, and likewise behind every tree.Look at her, for example!
Below – bogged down in thought: If I lived at Greenway, I would thank the Lord every day that unlike the house I was brought up in, Greenway has an inside toilet. Would you want to venture late at night, outside, in the dark at Greenway! Thus, here I am on the Greenway throne, not exactly rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, but feeling rather cheeky all the same.
Below – Greenway library:During the Second World War, Greenway House was requisitioned by the US Coast Guard. The library, then the recreation room, became the canvas for a unique series of 13 murals, which travel across the frieze of all four walls.
The murals, which gain maximum impact from the four restrained shades used to create them — black, white, blue and khaki — tell the story of the US Coast Guard’s 11-month’s journey to England in preparation for the D-Day Landings.
When the property was decommissioned, Agatha Christie admitted that she had been “somewhat surprised” to discover on her library walls Lt. Marshall Lee’s ‘graffiti’. Fortunately, however, as well as writing masterpiece novels, she also seems to have possessed a highly developed sense of respect for our national heritage. She rejected the offer by the commanding officer of the US Coast Guard to have the frieze painted out, preferring to preserve it for posterity as another chapter in Greenway’s history, a memento of the Coast Guard’s stay and for its significance as a wartime record.
Above – Greenway library:Important point: During WWII, when Greenway library became the US Coast Guard’s recreation room, the bar was in the alcove.
Below – echoes of a past life:It is said that in taking on Greenway House the National Trust strove to preserve as much as was humanly possible of the home as it was when the Christies lived there. In this they did achieve, for you enter the property as a guest not in spirit as a paying visitor.
And then there was one (isn’t there always) who couldn’t find the pet cemetery As the rain eased off and the chance of getting soaked diminished, I finished soaking up the pre- and Agatha-Christie atmosphere of Greenway House, and, consulting the ground map of the estate given to me with my entrance ticket, went in search of, and never found, the Christie family pet cemetery. We did locate certain walled places, such as the tennis courts, the peach house, the croquet lawn and allotment, but the cemetery was not in the place where the map told me it would be. I knew I should have taken that course in elementary map reading.
As the appointed time rolled round to rendezvous with my brother — he hadn’t been prepared to pay Greenway’s 17-quid admission and had gone instead in search of fish and chips, which he found but never bought because they were too expensive — Olga wandered off to meet him where we had prearranged, leaving me alone with my map in the befuddling network of gardens.
With a few minutes to spare, I decided to explore further, wending my way at a pace through a series of narrow paths between the gardens’ dividing walls, which, without familiarity to tell me otherwise, took upon a maze-like character. Time conscious, I hurried along, passed beneath an old brick archway, found myself in a sunken garden alone with a trickling fountain, twisted my way through a rock ravine buried in ferns and backed with bushes, which hissed at me in the wind like rattled snakes in a steam iron, and, at one point having popped out briefly where I didn’t really want to be behind a garden gazebo, eventually materialised on a hard-surfaced lane wide enough for vehicular use and good enough for me.
You would have thought that being alone on a National Trust estate would hardly, if ever, be possible, but I was alone, quite alone, or was I? The strong winds rushing like panic through nature’s leafy and bowered confinement seemed to come from every direction, including the fourth dimension, instilling vulnerability, which I am sure our Agatha would have approved of, in my gathering sense of predicament.
There and then, I should have retraced my steps, should have headed off back to the rendezvous point, but the sight of an enormous tree stopped me in my tracks. It was a terrible magnificence, the scene of its uppermost branches spinning and writhing in wind-propelled ecstasy, that I felt the need at once to capture the wanton graphics of it, and, since the tree had no objections, or was otherwise preoccupied, I stooped as low to the ground as I could go (surely not at your age, Mick!) and took some lousy photographs. Alas, my smartarse camera proved itself insufficiently clever to adapt the lens to the angle wanted.
Fast developing cramp, and because the wind cried Mary, thrashing through the boughs of the trees and charging through the bushes like a machete wielding migrant let loose on the streets of London – it seemed to be a someone or failing that a something (a country, for example) descending into liberal madness – or was I merely thinking of my tumble drier at home (?), I gave up with a vengeance on my lonely pet-cemetery quest.
Having no desire to be remembered as victim number one in the unsolved case of the Greenway Murders (which, it would be postulated later, were committed by a psychopath, or psychopaths unknown, who, mesmerised by Agatha Christie’s 66 murder mysteries, all of which had been solved, had decided they would go down in history for getting away with the perfect murder at Agatha Christie’s home), I reviewed my situation with greater urgency than hitherto.
I wanted no part in this drama, that is to say the specific part that my predicament seemed to have singled me out for, so, with a furtive glance around me, and the wind in the trees growing louder than ever, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and nipped off rather sharpishly, not the way I had come, but back to Greenway’s ticket office via the tiny zig-zag path that runs down the bank at the side of the house. And do you know to this very day I couldn’t begin to tell you, even if I was that person who continually makes things up, where, exactly, on Greenway estate, Agatha Christie buried her pets. So, there’s another mystery for you; granted not a whodunit as such, more of a whereisitat, but a teasing, taunting mystery all the same.
You may wish to visit Greenway to solve the mystery of the missing pet cemetery and to reach those parts of Greenway, the famous boating house for instance, which the conspirators of rain and time prevented us from seeing — a good excuse for us to return again. You may also want to prove me wrong that, in contradiction of touristy websites, Greenway doesn’t do cosy, although, in its defence, I doubt that any house of its imposing size ever could or does. What Greenway has, however, is a lurking, lingering aura, which is as close a clue to homeliness as it gets.
The family photos on the grand piano, the umbrella in the hallway stand, the trilby on the table, the linen on the beds, there to create an effect you might say, but then how would you account for that essence of something else, that something quite intangible? The feeling that the house is waiting for those with whom it shared so many years of history, they who loved it and lived in it, to make their way back home again. It’s a persuasive sentiment and that’s a fact, yet is it a red herring? Do any of us ever leave the homes we really love?
Perhaps it really is true that ‘Time is just a mode of thought’. Perhaps this is the concept that holds the key to almost all life’s mysteries, including those we find ourselves in and find inside ourselves when we enter the gardens and beloved home of Agatha Christie’s Greenway.
On the sixth anniversary of Victor Ryabinin’s Death
18 July 2025: Victor Ryabinin, Artist — A Grave Decision
As the sixth anniversary of our friend, Königsberg artist Victor Ryabinin’s, death approached, the established etiquette of paying our respects to him at his graveside was brought into question by a discourse on the imperative or expectations of doing so. The postulation was challenged by another: that unconditionally consecrating the memory of the deceased is greater testimony to everlasting endearment than obedience to the yearly ritual of paying homage at the grave.
Looked at from the departed’s point of view, having stepped out of mortal time to make room for eternity, like the fabled ten thousand men of the Grand Old Duke of York, who, when they were up, they were up, and when they were down, they were down, within the abyss of eternity, when we are there, we are there, and when we are not, we are here. Or are we?
In mortal terms, but not in the dominion of the mortal deceased, a time will come when everyone known to him personally — family, friends and work colleagues, indeed, in time, his entire generation — will no longer be soil-side up, an incommoding inevitability which is almost certain to make visitations of any order difficult, with, perhaps, the exception of the supernatural kind.
Never is this inability to reunite at the graveside more problematic than when you are in your own grave. And never is this fact driven more firmly home than when walking solitarily, consumed by quiet reflection, among the weathered and stooping tombstones within a typical English churchyard.
^^Grave of Samuel Treeby, Ringmore, who departed this life in 1828 …
Pull back the ivy and brush away the lichen and moss from the tombstone of your choice, and there you will find the names of those who lie beneath your feet. There is every possibility that they have been lying there for nigh on a hundred years or more, living their lives again and again, trapped inside the immutable time capsule that begins with birth and ends in death but which only culminates long enough to begin the process all over again. Not a single detail of their lives — our lives — is vulnerable to change, once the lid has been screwed down and the capsule sealed forever. Even Britain’s most fanatical revisionists, the history-rewriting BBC, who constantly lie to the young, are but fleetingly successful in their ideological ambition to reshape and corrupt the past. Their falsification of history may persist for a while, briefly, for a flirtatious interlude, but bound by the law of immutability, the past, when it does, as it will, eventually reasserts itself, all is reset as it should be.
In the last analysis, the already interred are safe, and we who are waiting to be interred, we are safe as well. Somewhere, out there, in our future, locked within our immutable time capsules, the dates and the details of our lives, literally written in stone, are irreversibly and unrevisably sacrosanct: date of birth, date of death and everything in between — nothing and no one can change that, not even those that hate you for living out your life without ever paying for a TV licence.
Comparatively, the world has changed considerably in the six years that Victor Ryabinin moved decisively out of time. Coronavirus, the Ukraine conflict, the shift towards, or constant references to the shift towards, a New World Order (most of us are patiently waiting for a world order of any kind!), I wonder what Victor would have made of all this. I am sure the events of the past few years would have elicited a sketch or two in his daily journal or sent him reaching irresistibly for his easel and his paintbrush.
All deaths are hard to accept, especially for those who are most affected by them, but the death of a creative person is perhaps among the hardest deaths to reconcile. The imponderable is forever present: what would they, the artist, have gone on to create had death not overtaken them? What gems of culture has the world been deprived of?
Victor Ryabinin, Artist – a Grave Decision
The death of someone creative who was also a valuable lynchpin between the lives of numerous people from different backgrounds and walks of life, as Victor professionally and personally was, adds to this imponderability, since once the main link breaks, instantly or gradually, the remaining links are bound to suffer severance, resulting, either way, in the chain’s disintegration. I wonder how many of Victor’s relatives, his friends and art-world colleagues will honour him with their presence this year. Time is often praised, and so it should be, for being the healer it indubitably is, but people are apt to forget that the great healer is also a great invalidator and that with the more time that passes, the more forgetful we become and the easier it becomes to simply forget.
Where anniversaries are concerned, particularly those that relate to death, it is often the case that, willed or not, life gets in the way. ‘Time waits for no man’, making it rather sexist, and life, the bugger, it just goes on until, of course, it doesn’t.
I remember watching a film in which somebody utters the common idiom to the main protagonist, whose fictional wife has recently died, [paraphrased] ‘Life must go on,’ to which the main protagonist replies, “Well, I don’t know about must go on, but go on it certainly does.”
I think we will all agree that life does exactly that: it just goes on, with or without us. Its perpetual motion never ceases: the daily grind with its wearing demands, the past’s emotional baggage bearing heavily down upon us, the cast-iron plans we make for a future we may not live to see, the years that blow away with yesterday’s confetti, more deaths in one’s personal circle and, with each successive page that lifts and flies from the calendar, even be they on angel’s wings, the encroaching prospect of one’s own demise getting ever closer and growing ever larger in one’s consciousness. Yes, I think we can safely say that life goes on alright, irrespective of who we are, what we are, who we weren’t, and who we would have liked to have been and nevermore can be.
The death of a loved one may slow us down, but however hard it slams on the brakes, nothing stops life’s carousel from turning. Life and the world are indifferent mechanisms: Around and around and around they go; why they do it, nobody knows. As one gets off, another gets on. The organ grinder keeps on grinding. Hark! He’s playing our tune. Hum along; it’s called ‘Tricked by Nature’.
It was Mr Wilcox who said to me, “We are fighting a war against human nature.” He went and died in Spain, you know. He imparted these words of wisdom to me when I was at an impressionable age. His words made a lasting impression.
I have often wondered since, as I wonder now, have most of us surrendered? Conscientious objectors to thought are everywhere, and if actions speak louder than words, think what they can do to logic. Losing is never impossible, but fighting on the losing side has its compensations: it relieves you of responsibility and releases you from a troubled conscience should you ever wake in the middle of parenthood with the words upon your lips, “Lord, what is it that I have done?!” The Grand Old Duke of York had ten thousand men, none of whom, like you or me, ever escaped their destiny: when they were up, they were up, and when they were down, they were down. And we’ll all be that way some day and forever.
And so it is with our dear friend Victor: born 17 December 1946, died 18 July 2019.
Victor Ryabinin in his art studio, February 2019, displaying a work of art – a bottle of cognac
I never made it to Victor’s grave this year. Intention was vetoed by humdrumicity. In other words, life got in the way. I did raise a glass to his memory and to who he was and would always be, consoling myself with the thought that I was exactly where I had left myself in the summer of 2019. That’s the other haunting thing that old graves have in common: the mourners never get to leave them, no matter how often they return or if they never return at all.
Those of you who are authentic English – that rules out a good many – will not be unaware of one of England’s most famous children’s story writers, Enid Blyton. She wrote a series of successful adventure novels in the 1940s and 50s about five going somewhere or doing something. For example, Five Go Down to the Sea, Five Go to Mystery Moor, Five on a Hike Together. Without Enid Blyton’s consent, but I am certain she approves (as this is not a woke rewrite), we did something similar in Five Head off to Cornwall.
For those of you who didn’t know that Cornwall is in Kaliningrad, you’re right. It isn’t. But this account finds itself in my cunning ‘Diary’ category, in which I can write about almost anywhere and, failing that, almost anything, even when it isn’t in or relevant to Kaliningrad, so you haven’t caught me out yet.
The Five that went to Cornwall in June of this year (2025) consisted of my not-so-good self, my good lady (I left the bad one at home.), my youngest brother Joss, a venerable Old Gentleman and our version of End Blyton’s Timmy the dog, Kiera. How did we all fit into a Messerschmitt bubble car? The obvious answer to that is we didn’t. We bombed off from Bedfordshire in a large and comfortable Land Rover.
Visiting Cornwall and Devon: What to expect
This is that story, in words and pictures:
Five Use Airbnb Airbnb is a Godsend, isn’t it? It’s also a pain in the arse. Five used it to pick their ideal holiday home, because rumour has it that it’s the best place in cyberspace to track down self-catering accommodation at a reasonable price. To join Airbnb’s happy-go-lucky community, in addition to the usual written particulars, you need to provide a mugshot of yourself and also attach a document, such as a copy of your passport, to prove you are who you say you are.
One of the two cottages in which we stayed also asked for a statement to be written explaining why their cottage was a ‘good fit’. I wanted to write, “Because it reminds me of a pair of underpants”, but refrained from doing so and wrote instead, because we are the Famous Five, who go to places and do things.
Five Go to Briar Fisherman’s Cottage There are no shortage of fisherman’s cottages in Cornwall, perchance because there was a time when there was no shortage of Cornish fishermen. In fact, every fisherman had a cottage, the vast proportion of which today have been converted into holiday lets, presumably because it is an easier way of making money than to go bobbing about on the briny early at the crack of hangover in all kinds of English weather.
Briar Cottage (let’s leave the fisherman out (Oh, that dripping sow wester!)), the one in which we stayed, is located in Boscastle. If you like low ceilings, gnarled beams, lots of original nooks and crannies and plenty of old-world feel – and we most certainly do – then fall in love at first sight with Briar Cottage you most certainly will.
Briar Cottage is chocolate-box picturesque. It is tucked away in a truly sequestered spot, cozily contained within a Victor Matured two-tiered garden, with all the right dimples in all the right places. It is clad, adorned and surrounded by flowers and invested with foliage and shrubbery so perfect in their natural complement that even Enid Blyton’s pen would have struggled to make it more idyllic.
In the near distance, as the rise of the land precludes sight of any other, the sort of landscape that children draw — steep and rolling hills with little toy cows in pocket corners — reach up into the sky and touch the sun with their eyebrow hedgerows, and if you get to sleep in the room that is furnished with two single beds, this is the scene that will greet you, each new dawn as you draw back the curtains. Think character cottage enclosed in a lushly planted garden retreat, and your thoughts will lead you to Briar in Boscastle.
This is how we rated Briar Fisherman’s (Hello, he’s back!) Cottage nestled in Boscastle: Plus 😊 Location: Excellent for touring, not so easy for the local pubs at port level, for which you need to be an accomplished mountain climber or own a funicular railway. Facilities: Everything you could possibly need is there, including the most important thing, which, as you know, is a beer-bottle opener. Condition and Comfort: A+ The cottage cannot be faulted. In fact, it is even better than the owners, described.
Minus 🤔 Parking: If you are spoilt by off-road parking at home, you may feel inconvenienced by the fact that there is no off-road parking at Briar Cottage or designated parking space. There is a small layby just up from the cottage where you can unload your gear, but pay heed that this is a privilege and one that comes with a warning, namely that should you leave your car there unattended for any length of time, they, whoever they are, possibly the Boscastle Mafia, will block it in for a month of Sundays, as this is a private parking spot. The owners of the cottage claim that parking space is usually available a little further down the road. This turned out to be true, and we were happy with that. {Briar Fisherman’s Cottage, Boscastle, is listed on Airbnb and other online holiday-letting websites. Just enter the name in Google😊}
Five Go to Boscastle Remote, rugged, secluded, the village of Boscastle, location of an ancient but still working fishing port, is a treasure trove of antiquity and character. It is a pilgrimage destination for fans of the famous novelist Thomas Hardy and for stout-hearted fellows and gals of the outdoor hiking and trekking variety.
Plus 😊 Location: No better for landscape sightseers, especially those who like it rugged and brooding Amenities: Boutique shops; tourist-oriented cafes and souvenir outlets; three pubs; cafes Places to visit: The Museum of Witchcraft; The Grave of Joan Wytte (White Witch) — if you can find it!; St Juliot Church (Thomas Hardy connection) Atmospheric: Very Pubs: (see Five Review Pubs section)
Minus 🤔 Location: Steep, multiple-hairpin road. The walk from the top of Boscastle village to the port below is not for the faint hearted. This is a double-plus positive, if you like that sort of thing, but not so appealing if you are unsteady on your pins and are wanting in the lungs department when making the uphill journey. Parking: Pay and display only (well, what did you expect) Pubs: (see Five Review Pubs section) #
Postscript: I did not walk from the top end of Boscastle to the port below. I almost flew. My little legs and tippy-toe feet went down those snake-twisting roads as though someone had shoved a firework up my ah …, er, shirt. The time was early evening. The sky was grey and overcast. I was on my own. From one end of the village to the other, there was not a living soul. Or was there? If you like it close and eerie, Boscastle is the place to be.
Five Go to Newquay (but pass straight through it) Footnote (so to speak) The original title for this story was ‘Five Go to Newquay But Wished They Hadn’t’, but I’ve reserved that one for Five Go to Torquay.
Plus 😢 Nothing obvious
Minus 😢😢 Almost everything, without the ‘almost’ Location: Newquay is located southwest of Boscastle (now where did I put my compass?). It is about 20 miles away and, in our opinion, is only worth the trip to assure yourself that you wished you hadn’t gone there. Amenities: Lots of pubs, but, by the looks of them and by the looks of everything else, you wouldn’t want to use them. #
Postscript: We only got out of the car to buy something from one of Newquay’s shops and, even then, whilst leaving the place at speed, were worried about contamination. I checked myself for tattoos, looked in the mirror for rings in my snout and wondered if the soles of my shoes were as down and out as the buildings.
The best thing about visiting Newquay is the sigh of relief as you leave it.
Five Go to Somewhere Special (if only I could remember what it is called. I think it is between Widemouth Bay and Upton.) Location: We are talking here about a dramatic cliff-top view on a section of spear-pointed headland that looks out one side on a ragged coastline of craggy coves weaving and curving as far as the eye can see and, on the opposite side, upon and across a cove prodigious in its proportions, hemmed in either end by jagged wedges of sea- smashing rock.
My name for this dramatic headland is Commemoration Peak, since the top is dotted with slate-slab benches, each one personalised with the names of loved ones no longer of this world. There is also a curious monument, a man-made formation of rocks, where painted pebbles have been deposited bearing poignant tributes to those who were but are no more. The stillness of their lost presence on this wild and windy outcrop, high above the rolling waves, is amplified, and in order to escape the noise of loss, you instinctively cast your eyes to that faraway point on the distant horizon, the place where people across the ages have always gone to look, vainly for comfort and/or meaning, to the edge of comprehension where the sky embraces the sea. It’s an introspective journey, which starts at the end of everything but which, in the end, never arrives there. Practicalities: There is a layby you can park in and a van on the side of the road, where, instead of standing too close to the edge of the cliff, you can come down to earth with a portion of burger and chips.
Five Go to Tintagel The only one among our famous five who could pronounce this settlement properly was our very own Old Gentleman, but as he was once a scientist, it is perfectly logical that he could, n’est-ce pas?
Plus 😊 Location natural: Sublime, in the true sense of the word, as defined by Edmund Burke in his A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful,1757.
If ever there are two words that have earnt their respective places in Hubert Conspicuous’ Guide to Travel Bloggers’ Cliches, then those two words must assuredly be first ‘breathtaking’ and secondly ‘stunning’. So, let’s go ahead and use them, as we could do a great deal worse in attempting to describe the stunning Tintagel headland and the breathtaking views therefrom: first inland, looking up to Tintagel Castle, then looking down from cliff top to sea and then gazing out to that mystical hinge where water shakes hands with the skyline.
Small man-made paths about the width of rabbit runs, rove up and down and around the grassy and rock-jutting promontories and across the dipping troughs, the highest point of which consists of two tall peaks linked for human passage by a simple scaffold bridge. From a distance, this looks so dangerous that you feel the urgent need to cross it as much as you do the compulsion to venture as close to the edge of the cliffs as you can and hurl yourself right off them. Yes, Tintagel is that sort of place. But it’s also good for the thighs and calves (Do I hear a wolf whistle?), and for wondering out loud for any seagull that cares to answer, how old is Tintagel Castle? Not the remains on the outcrop of rock, but the one that towers in liveable form above the coastal epic, the one which is now a hotel. Without cheating recourse to Google, I bet it dates to Victorian times.
Minus 🤔 If you watch telly a lot, Tintagel is the sort of place that is destined to make your legs ache.
Location town: Plus 😊 & Minus 🤔 Tintagel town is a lovely little place with a meandering main street containing all sorts of shops selling interesting but overpriced stuff for tourists. And why not! Come on, loosen that wallet! You’re on holiday!
It was in one of these shops, not the whisky-tasting one or the one selling pseudo-antiques, that I bought and sampled my first genuine Cornish pasty in years. My advice, as I’m not a carnivore, is to go for the cauliflower, lentil and curry option, and then park yourself on a free civic bench and enjoy! The cafes and restaurants in Tintagel are a ‘cost an arm and a leg’ job, and the pubs, though Cornish kosha once, of that I have no doubt, have, through injudicious gentrification, lost too much spit to too much polish. There are lots of great pubs in Cornwall but none, I’m afraid, in Tintagel.
Five go to Portwenn and find themselves in Port Isaac Phew! Didn’t my brother go on! If I had a rouble for every time he mentioned ‘Doc Martin’, I’d have saved enough to buy myself … not a lot, I should imagine? Location: It’s where they filmed Doc Martin, silly!
Plus 😊 Doc Martin is, I am told, a highly successful, long-running TV comedy drama set in the fictional Cornish port of Portwenn, whose real name is Port Isaac.
Put off by razzamatazz of any kind, I was at the outset loathe to go there, but once we had driven down its impossible narrow streets, along its tiny house-hemmed lanes, missing the sign completely warning ‘Unsuitable Road for Vehicles’, almost mowing three people down, nearly taking out a bay window and arriving much surprised back where we had started still unable to find a space to park in, and could that be with a painter and decorator attached to the Land Rover door handle, I grew immediately fond of the place.
Port Isaac is picturesque today because yesterday its commercial and residential properties were sandwiched together up hill and down dale, twisting, weaving and winding, in order to squeeze as much as possible into the natural lie of the land. Thus, the functional of yester-year becomes the historical quaint of our present. Bless ‘em all, bless ‘em all, the long and the short and the tall, not forgetting their crooked walls, their wonky roofs and their great slate floors …
My brother wasted no time in familiarising me with all the Doc Martin landmarks, particularly Martin Clune’s’ surgery (not the suspected ear job but the fictional office of Doc Martin fame).
After well-deserved refreshment in the Golden Dragon pub, which is painted blue not gold, we walked the sloping harbour road to the house made famous in the Doc Martin series. Judging by the ‘polite’ notice in the window of the property, the conclusion may be drawn that the property’s owners learnt the hard way that fame comes with a price. Respecting their privacy as requested, we refrained from peering through the windows as countless Doc Martin fans must have done, the fiction so bewitching them that it must have escaped all probability that the interior shots of the doctor’s surgery might possibly have been made somewhere in a studio as far away from Portwenn as Portwenn is from Port Isaac.
I am sure that at some time in their never-ending childhood Enid Blyton’s Famous Five visited Port Isaac and whilst there did discover many a smuggler’s haunt, secret passageways by the score and more ripping things going on than ever were conceived in the wildest Doc Martin plots. Unfortunately, however, during our time in Port Isaac, we were exposed to no such shenanigans but were happy to have been given the chance to embrace Port Isaac’s timeless past and pleased by virtue of our visit to have become a small part of its history and it an unforgettable part of our own.
Minus 🤔 The most significant downside to visiting Port Isaac is its dearth of parking. The official pay-and-display car parks sit at the top of the hill, some considerable distance on foot from the village. If the residents wish to put tourists off, and the regional attitude would suggest that they do, then the lay of the land of Port Isaac definitely works in their favour. With car park corrals far away from the port and with streets too narrow and steep to accommodate on-road parking, it would seem that Port Isaac’s structural history contains an inherently grockle-proof element.
Five Go to Padstow Location: Approximately 45 miles from Boscastle Known for: Historic harbour and seafood restuarants
Plus 😊 For me, taking into consideration that I am not a boating type, Padstow is as described above. It has a pleasant, centralised harbour surrounded by cafes, restaurants, fish and chip shops and a network of narrow streets embroidered with speciality shops. Hit it right, mid-afternoon, for Cornish pasties reduced in price. Apparently, if boating is your game, you pays your money and off you float to various destinations.
Minus 🤔 £8.90 for a jacket spud and 19 quid for fish ‘n’ chips. Hmm? Perhaps I have just lost touch with the UK’s inflated cost of living.
Five Go to South Devon
Unable to marry the prerequisites of our trip to Cornwall, which were, not necessarily in this order – a base with pubs in walking distance, accommodation on a reasonable budget, somewhere preferably in Boscastle or as near as dammit for touring purposes for the duration of five or six days – we decided to split the destination in two and, after spending an exorbitant time trawling through Airbnb, alighted on a cottage in the small South Devon town of Modbury, which would thus become phase two of our holiday destination.
Five go to Applecot Cottage in Modbury Applecot, another Airbnb find, is one of a parallel series of 19th century town houses forming Modbury’s Brownstone Street, aptly named once I’m sure, notwithstanding that the street today is predominantly white in colour. No matter to us, however, as Five Go Off with a Satnav.
Plus 😊 Location: Excellent as a home base for exploring South Devon by car
Brownstone Street connects with Modbury high street and in it (not to be confused with ‘innit!’) if you don’t find almost everything you want and almost more than everything you need, then you must be after something else. Amenities: Applecot is dug-friendly and also textile oriented: fitted carpets reign throughout, along with comfortable sink-in armchairs and a highly relaxing settee. You even have a choice of what to use for privacy: will it be curtains, blinds or both?
If I was to compare our first holiday cottage, Briar in Boscastle, with our second in Modbury, Applecot, the defining difference would be that whereas Briar, with its low oak-beamed ceilings and Cornwall trademark slate-stone floor has a masculine feel (ooh, missus!), Applecot, with its accent on soft-furnishings, it’s fitted carpets and comfy chairs, its patterned curtains, art-studio ornaments and all that it contains all in its thought-out place has a feminine personality. But let’s don’t get too gender. Here I am mindful of floaty feminine not frenetically, fearlessly feminist! I wouldn’t want to put you off.
A nice touch at Applecot is the information and welcome pack. Personalised by the host and her husband, this mine of useful information also serves to remind guests that Applecot is not first and foremost a strictly commercial enterprise but a loved and cherished home. It has that lived-in, cared-for feeling, as though the owners have gone on holiday, and you have faithfully promised to look after their home whilst they are away.
My good lady wife professed to be completely in tune with the unspoken essence of Applecot. From the naturalistic ornaments to the ideas expressed in the prints on the walls, both the aesthetic and esoteric ethos vibrated through her energy chords, whilst the rest of us, including the dog, were satisfied to say the least that this well-appointed property was less than a minute’s walk away to Modbury’s nearest pub. One for one and all for ourselves, a win-win situation.
Minus 🤔 It would be remiss of me — and you know that for all my faults, this is not one of them — if I failed to bring to your attention that, as with Briar Cottage in Boscastle, parking at Applecot is problematic. Whilst the inclines in Modbury are nowhere near as mountainous as they are in Boscastle, Brownstone Street is brownstone steep, and once you’ve unloaded your vehicle, which you have to do on double yellows, you must remove it and take potluck that you’ll find a place to put it somewhere at the top of the street. We have Potluck to thank, for he was on our side.
Another consideration, which may or not be important to you, is that since Applecot is a terraced property belonging to a certain age, it does not possess a garden, but in my opinion, be it ever so humble, in terms of overall comfort, its nearness to the pubs and to other high-street facilities, Applecot more than makes up for its parking and garden deficits. Moreover, I should add, the rental price is right! {Applecot, Modbury is listed on Airbnb and on other online holiday-letting websites. Just enter the name in Google😊}
Five Swan Around Modbury Location: Twenty minutes from the South Devon coast; twenty minutes to Dartmoor
Is Modbury a large village or is it a small town? Great imponderables such as this do not detract from the fact that it is darn pretty and quintessentially English. The high street, aka Church Street (or is that Poundwell Street?) meanders gracefully from a steep incline opposite the parish Church of St George down to a dip at the crossroads, wherein stands the Co-op, before becoming a rural road, rising out of site and drifting into the great beyond.
Described widely as a historic market town, in the same way that a renowned English figure couldn’t see any ships, I could see no market in Modbury.
What I did lo and behold was an attractive series of boutique shops, art galleries, delicatessens and a wonderful half-framed timber pub.
Everything in this little place evokes a sense of style and culture redolent of its English past. From the floral wreathes on shop doors, the trailing plants above them and the potted plants which flank them to the brightly coloured bunting connecting the shops both sides of the street, Modbury is a bright and beautiful place. Is it a village? Is it a town? I don’t think it cares that much. I think it is simply content being cosy and complete and being whatever you want it to be. For more information, see> https://www.visitmodbury.co.uk
Plus 😊 I think I may have already brushed upon some of its good points, but an additional feather in Modbury’ positive cap is that its beautiful rural location is in easy day-trip reach of many must-see places, including the golden sandy beaches of Bigbury-on-Sea and the wild expanse of Dartmoor.
Minus 🤔 Give me time, and I might come up with something.
^^^^Bollards!More than a hat trick in Modbury.
^^^^Ringrose, a recommended shop in Modbury. Fun, fabulous and friendly service.
*****Another recommended Modbury shop isMackgill’s Delicatessen : I Just couldn’t stop scoffing their Cornish pasties.
Five Go to Bigbury-On-Sea Location: Bigbury-on-Sea isn’t very big at all. It is a village in the South Hams district on Devon’s south coast about seven miles from Modbury. Even without an Arthur Daley-bought satnav do not expect to cover the seven miles distance in the time it would normally take by car, since the roads are devilishly narrow, are up and down like a roller coaster, maze-like in their twists and turns and claustrophobic in their impenetrable banks of foliage. Does this warrant a minus? I for one don’t think so. I consider it more of a plus on life’s roadmap of unique experiences.
Plus 😊 Bigbury-on-Sea boasts the largest sandy south-facing beach in South Devon and is a popular destination for surfing, kitesurfing, windsurfing, and wing-foiling types. On the day of our visit, although the sun was out, a stiff, cold breeze belted across the Atlantic, coming in such gusts that I had to hang onto my Königsberg hat! One man’s meat is a vegetarian’s poison, thus what to me was a state of inclemency was to the surfers a joy to behold.
Minus 🤔 The coastal view of Bigbury-on-Sea seen from nearby Burgh Island has been spoiled from what in the 1930s would have been an acceptable, even attractive, sprinkling of dwellings into an overcrowded jibbly-jobbly mess, primarily due to lax planning laws and, perhaps, who knows, the odd greased palm or two (are we talking butter or lard?). I particularly dislike the new fad and fashion for those horrible, huge plate-glass-windowed, so-called eco-friendly, wood-stuck, virtue-signaling, steel-framed holiday chalets that have in recent years the frequent and awful propensity for popping up around Cornwall and Devon like a nasty dose of ‘Whilst no one’s looking, we’re bound to get away with it.’ It is my considered opinion that a reprised version of Agatha Christie’s conclusive Then There Were None would do this stretch of South Devon’s coastline a purging power of good.
The other minus box ticked categorically by Bigbury-on-Sea is the old familiar bugbear, nowhere free to park. OK, there are too many people and too many cars, and life is a hustle anyway. But £8.50 pay and display for parking your tin for a measly four hours! Rip-off Britain strikes again. I would willingly cough up double if the local council would guarantee that they would use the money to put to rights the blot which they have failed to protect this beautiful landscape from.
Bigbury-On-Sea has a big, modern, pay-and-display unit, one of those which accepts all kinds of payments, including touch-card and QR-code-by-phone. The only problem is that not many people, including us, seem au fait with its usage. Once you get the hang of it, it’s a piece of proverbial p*ss, but should you be rushing to catch the tractor before it leaves for Burgh Island, give yourself plenty of time, for even if you are savvy with this irritating P&D system, all it takes is that one person to non-comprehendee in front of you, and you may need to roll up your trousers and make the trip to Burgh on foot! Not so very stylish if you are dressed black tie and evening jacket. (I always travel to Burgh this way, complete with a pair of wellies.)
Postscript: Anybody into Art Deco, which includes the 1940s’ clientele of our former Northamptonshire vintage shop, and every living soul who has ever read Agatha Christie, will be cognisant of the fact that Burgh Island is home to, and also privately owned by, the iconic Art Deco hotel dominating its frontal perspective.
It had never been our intention that Modbury would become a springboard for an Agatha Christie experience, the holiday merely evolved that way, thanks mainly to my wife, Olga, who decided when we arrived at Modbury to take a look at the map. Whilst we were in South Devon, we made the Christie-Deco pilgrimage by celebrated sea tractor to the romantic setting of Burgh Island, treading in the footsteps of other great celebrities, such as Noel Coward, Edward VIII, Wallis Simpson and Winston Churchill. Bitten by the Christie bug on Burgh, we later went on to visit Agatha Christie’s summer retreat, her Georgian mansion, Greenway, an account of which I will attempt to cover in a subsequent post next month.
Five Go to Torquay (and wished they hadn’t) Minus 🤔Minus 🤔 Often described with a wicked sense of humour as the ‘English Riviera’, apart from visiting Torquay as part of our impromptu ‘tread in the footsteps of Agatha Christie’, having been to Torquay before, back in the 1990s, I wanted to see for myself if it was as bad as my memory told me it was. It wasn’t. It was worse.
Torquay started its journey long ago and has now completed it, and every step of the way has been downhill. I presume that they call it the English Riviera as a means of circumventing the possibility of anyone going to its counterpart in France. If it’s a cunning ploy by the British Tourist Board, someone should tell them it doesn’t work. It may be Froggy France, but when the French finally wake up and kick posturing Macron out, go and compare for yourself!
Torquay town couldn’t look more rundown than if it was a road-killed rabbit. Urban decay and grubby dilapidation set a perfect scene for pavement sprawling outs and downs and winos. Meanwhile on the shore front, the flowers in the municipal gardens and what remains of Torquay’s famous palm trees, shiver not only in the cold June breeze but at the surrounding sight of commercialisation that is at once and impressionably stark and tacky. Blame it on a snide satnav or an act of gross perversion, but can anyone tell me, please, is Torquay twinned in any way with Newquay and Great Yarmouth? It was foot down hard on the gas pedal and back inland post haste!
Five and the Mystery of the Ever-Arsey Cornish Locals Are the Cornish locals friendly? In a word, no. In another word, ‘grockles’.
A grockle is a derogatory term that has been in circulation in Cornwall since the year dot. It is a means of identifying and disenfranchising tourists by those who consider themselves true Cornish born and bred; brought up, I expect, on a strict diet of pasties and clotted-cream scones. It is a well-publicised fact that those who subscribe to this traditional bigotry can sometimes come across as churlish and unwelcoming, but at the end of the day, it’s all a storm in a Cornish teacup and should be taken with a pinch of salt.
My personal way of getting around this straw-in-the-mouth and smock-frock attitude is by comparing it to those ‘hicks in the sticks acting strangely’ films. You know the ones to which I refer, where strangers come to town and the locals instantly all clam up, as if they’ve suddenly been stricken by a collective dose of Cornish piles.
The way to deal with this legendary hangback is much the same as with any other: Do not take offence; simply take the piss. After all, you are on holiday! That inimitable welcome in the hillsides is one of the reasons I go to Cornwall!
How we laughed😂: Instances of rudeness and unfriendliness that we encountered on our stay in Cornwall — and notice I reference Cornwall and not South Devon — ranged from rudeness in pubs and shops to snidey whispers and muttered remarks.
One glorious moment occurred when on sitting down at an outside pub table whilst one of us went inside the pub to check the interior out, a red-faced old piss artist, who had obviously spent a lifetime overdoing it on the jam and cream scones, warned us not to allow our much larger Akita dog to stray anywhere close to his mongrel pooch or his totally tiny and indifferent dug would ‘’ave her!’ Did he mean bite or sexually? When we rose to leave, he fired back sarcastically, “Thanks for sitting at my table!”, for which we thanked him in return. We assured him the honour had all been his, but on this occasion there would be no charge.
Another instance of unprovoked abuse, even more amusing than the first, took place outside Boscastle’s Museum of Witchcraft. For one moment, I thought one of the museum’s exhibits had escaped. A tall chap in a black sweatshirt suddenly turned on me: “F*ck off!” he bellowed and then just as quickly added, “Sorry, I’ve got Tourette’s …”
“Think nothing of it,” I replied. “Everyone tells me to F*ck Off! including myself.”
I believe my brother added: “If he’s not told to f*ck off at least once a day, he imagines somethings wrong …”
I am not altogether certain whether this gentleman really had Tourette’s or had discovered the perfect Cornish means of exercising abuse without fear of reciprocation. He did have a badge with ‘Tourette’s’ written on it, and his sweatshirt carried the slogan ‘Swear, Swear, Swear’, but anyone can wear a badge just as anyone can wear a sweatshirt. “It’s a blessing he’s not multilingual,” I thought. But then I remembered the shores of Dover, and every city in Britain, and strategically changed my mind.
Five Review Pubs in Cornwall and South Devon Cornwall Boscastle 👎👎👎 Legend has it that there was once 22 pubs in Boscastle; we found three: Two we used and one we did not, having been steered away from the third by scary tales of a stupendous revamp, which had resulted in the imposition of exorbitant recoup prices.
Cobweb Inn The Cobweb Inn, Boscastle, is prominently situated in the port area of Boscastle itself. It is a great slate-stone slab of a building, five stories tall with an 18th-century history, which evolved into a public house by way of a corn mill, grain store, and off-licence. The Cobweb is a survivor. It survived the devastating Boscastle Flood of 2004 and later, in 2024, a landslip, which brought part of the cliff above crashing down upon it. Its greatest threat to continued success today is its shifty opening times and tourist-unfriendly bar staff.
The Cobweb Inn’s website reassuringly states that the pub closes at 11.30pm. On the evening of our first visit, we were turfed out at 11pm and come the following evening at 10.30am. On neither occasion did those tending the bar forewarn of this impending doom and never the bell for last orders did toll.
On our second visit, the two XXL ladies manning the pumps kept loitering near the bar or peeping around the wall of the bar from the adjacent room, presumably reconnoitring to see how much beer we had left in our glasses, poised for the first opportunity to snatch them away and close the pub. Then came the corny routine of standing the chairs on the table tops and bringing out the furniture polish.
When I rose to buy a pint at approximately 10.30, I was abruptly told, “We’re closing!”
Could they have heard us farting? Except that we didn’t. Well, not this evening.
My brother, being less shy about coming forward than I am, piped up from his seat:
“This pub closes earlier every night. Last night it was 11, tonight it is 10.30, on your website it’s 11.30. Which is it?”
“We’ve got no customers,” came the tart reply.
“We’re here,” my little bruv replied. “What do you think we are?”
It was a good job that the large lady was not a quick thinker or an honest replier.
“You might as well pour me a pint,” I reasoned. “After all, it’s all money.”
She sullenly acquiesced.
Brother wasn’t finished.
“If you carry on treating your customers like this, the pub will end up as an Indian restaurant.”
“I doubt that very much!” snapped the hostess with much, much more than the mostest, thrusting my pint towards me as if she had just removed the pin and was off to take cover again.
We didn’t eat at The Cobweb. We couldn’t. The kitchen was always closed (snigger). But they say the grub is good. Let’s hope for all concerned it surpasses the Cornish greeting. Cobweb Inn, Boscastle website>https://cobweb-boscastle.co.uk/
Napoleon Inn Napoleon Inn, Boscastle: On the second evening of our visit, we were treated to one of the more surreal experiences of our trip to Cornwall: Let’s play it down and call it vernacular. We’ve all seen those films where the main protagonists walk into a remote and secluded inn expecting refuge and hospitality only to discover that there is something amiss with the locals: something odd, something strange, something secretive, something suspicious, something not quite right. Welcome to the Napoleon, Boscastle.
The setting could not be better for a stage play of this kind. An ancient inn off the beaten track: oak beams, flagstone floors, deep dark wooden settles; a number of rooms on different levels; a locals’ not a tourists’ pub; somewhat rundown, faded and jaded; an honest pub in its way, but a pub with something to hide.
We entered the pub via the short steep path that runs at the back of the building and, having been unable previously to use the smaller bar, as it was crammed to the rafters with locals pretending that they could sing, we swerved left yet again into the larger room. However, on this particular evening, the seats lining three walls of this room, and the stools fronting the bar, were occupied by locals who could sing. In fact, all harmonised perfectly, delivering sentimental ballads to do with their native county and singing wistful folk songs about sailing home to Cornwall. As there was nowhere for us to sit, we sailed off into the lower bar at street side, returning to the upper room when the choral troop had gone.
We had barely raised our second pint of Hicks up to our thirsting lips than the hicks from the sticks descended upon us; the first in the buxom form of a woman who introduced her personage as the landlady of the pub. She plonked herself down at the end of the table and began to ask us the usual questions: Where did we come from? What were we doing here? Why were we staying in Boscastle? Switching into banter mode, we soon had this rather stout lady in stitches. But then, just as it does in the films, the mood changed quite abruptly, and slowly, but with stealth, we found our table surrounded. The questions kept on coming, but more insistently now and noticeably with a warmth that seemed to be cooling rapidly. A chap, on whom we had never set eyes and didn’t really want to, was suddenly summoned behind the bar. He was a cross between Rolf Harris and Gerry Adams, with an attitude positively hostile. We had the buxom one to the left of us, some young fellow-me-lad sprawled half on half off his bar stool opposite, a good-looking bint perched on the bar stool next to him, a non-descript innocent bystander (they always get hurt, do they not?) and to my left, seeming to guard the exit, but possibly only loitering, a little Chinky Chinese chappie. To say that I suddenly saw myself on the Jon Huston set of the film The Maltese Falcon would be putting it mildly. Was it all about to kick off? I clasped my pint glass firmly. But then almost collapsed into tears, as it was roughly put to us that we looked like undercover authorities, possibly the police!
Whatever else the Napoleon wasn’t, and what it wasn’t was welcoming, it was a lovely piece of pub-goer’s theatre.
As for the Sunday roast and the tastiness of the Yorkshire puddings. You’ll have to see Trip Advisor if you want to know about that. Napoleon Inn, Boscastle website>https://www.napoleoninn.co.uk/ NB: Due to the escalating level of paranoia, we refrained from taking photographs 😁
The Golden Lion The Golden Lion, Port Isaac, calls you by your name. If you are a pub-going person, (and if you are not, you should seriously consider jumping into a rubber dinghy and trumping off to another country, as pubs are a part, an important part, of our heritage) Port Isaac’s Golden Lion, which is incongruously painted blue, is too irresistible not to frequent.
I’ve never seen any of the Doc Martin programmes, but I’d wager my penny to your pint that in the making of the drama, the Golden Lion must have featured in one or two of the episodes. The pub’s location in the port’s layout demonstrates how successfully town planners in days of old got their priorities right. Where better to put a pub than on a sharp bend at the bottom of a great big hill? Coming down, you need to stop for a pint to put a brake on your speed; going up, you need to stop for a pint to make the uphill journey more of a struggle, so as to blame it on the beer rather than too little exercise. Inside, the pub is as wooden as any old port pub should be. It has a much oversubscribed to veranda facing the sea and the cliffs, and out back, down a narrow alley, a stone-walled seating area that sits above the ancient harbour below. Within this welcoming walled-in wedge stands something you may have failed to install in your garden: a sea-salvaged ship’s cannon, the history of which you can acquaint yourself with here: https://www.portisaacheritage.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/The-Gun-in-the-Bloody-Bones-Yard.pdf
South Devon
Modbury The White Hart Hotel Modbury’s historic coaching house, now a gastropub with rooms to let, is conveniently just across the road from Brownstone Street. I say conveniently, for if you are staying in Brownstone Street, as we were, it’s just across the road. The inn may be credited with a long history but, like many pubs in the UK, all that it had has been lost to an over-zealous and unimaginative revamp, which has robbed the pub of its past and turned it into an echo chamber. The older chaps at the bar were real, proper English chaps, one and all gifted by God with hospitable natures and senses of humour. The younger ones were yawpers, and it was their incessant grating cacophony that drove us from the pub to the Exeter Inn across the road. We noted in the brief time that we were on the premises that the White Hart stocks a range of beers more exciting than the standard fare of most pubs in the area, many of which are dominated by bog-standard brews from St Austell Brewery, but sadly when we called in, the beer selection was down to one. Catch it on a night when the yappers and yawpers are absent, or fitted with a silencer, and when all the pumps are fully loaded, and maybe the pub would be worth a more protracted visit.
The Exeter Inn The Exeter Inn in Modbury is billed as a 14th century coaching inn. The outside is a medievalist’s architectural dream and without question the jewel in Modbury’s high street crown. I wonder, however, if the half-timbered structure is less Middle Ages in origin and more a 1930s’ folly?
Peeping through at the diners in the window seat, we got the impression that inside the Exeter Inn would be the Talbot Hotel Oundle and were rather relieved, therefore, that having left our black-tie attire at home, the interior turned out to be anything other than we expected. Deep sigh of relief, also, came with the discovery that unlike Modbury’s White Hart Inn, The Exeter Inn had not been unwisely ‘got at’ — at least not yet!
The Exter inn, in Modbury, is unspoilt. There is plenty of wood, and it’s painted black – snob-screen divisions, low oak beams, wall supports – all painted black. There is a multiplicity of nooks and crannies and other age-old features, such as sections of dark slate paving, which can easily be likened to the in-floor tombstones found in Britain’s churches and cathedrals.
If it wasn’t for the lack of good beer and a woman behind the bar with little or no interpersonal skills, I would nominate this pub as a contestant for what a pub should be. Alack-a-day, however, good beer and a variety of it, together with a congenial welcome, were conspicuous for their absence. The woman behind the bar had an unfortunate way of addressing her customers. She sounded and she looked like she had entered the licensing trade by way of being a sergeant major, a matriarch of a 19th- century workhouse and the governor of a Victorian prison. Appropriately, the only beer on offer was the aptly named Jail Ale, which was perfectly in keeping since service at the bar was like admission to the nick — empty your pockets and just keep quiet!
Contrary to its external image, the pub’s interior is a trifle worn out, even to the extent that the down-the-yard outside gents has a wall painted black to pee up and the proverbial ‘plink, plink’ water cistern. This was fine by me, to whom such nostalgic details are hallmarks of propriety. An old pub should be what it is: not a pastel-washed, block-wood furnished waiting room, pandering to the whims and caprices of the arty-farty three-course meal and ‘mine’s a red wine’ brigade. If you would like to know what the food was like, the crisps are quite expensive. The Exeter Inn (which is not in Exeter but in Modbury) website> http://theexeterinnmodbury.com/
The Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island Almost every old tavern is Britain’s oldest tavern in the same way that almost every old tavern in Britain is haunted. Nobody has yet told me whether Pilchard’s pirate Tom Crocker haunts its 14th century cellar, but if he doesn’t, he should. The pint of Otter Ale that we bought in the unspoilt upstairs bar overlooking the sea was one of the best we savoured in Cornwall and in Devon. And even if it hadn’t been, the Pilchard is worth the trip, either on foot or by sand tractor, just to take in the historic patina of all that has gone on, been thought, felt and said within its time-sanctified, oak-beamed and ancient-walled interior.
The Journey’s End, Ringmore, South Devon You won’t find the pub immediately, but the pub sign is unmissable. It is a finely crafted work of art. The carpark is opposite Ringmore’s All Hallows Church. Pop inside and confess your sins (you know a confession is overdue), take a stroll in the graveyard as a timely reminder of what one day will be and then head off on mortal foot into the charming chocolate-box lanes of this tiny, seclusive hamlet. The pub is directly in front of you, there at the foot of the hill, built into the verdant landscape like the cottages that surround it as though there was never a time in history when they were never where they are now.
The Journey’s End is said to have started life in the 13th century and is a wood and flagstone memorial to the origins of its ancestry. It is all antiquity, abundantly layered with atmosphere and, on the occasion of our visit, gets a big gold star for having the friendliest and most accommodating host of all the pubs that we experienced whilst touring Cornwall and Devon. Thank you, Mr Publican, for taking the time, even though the pub was busy, to grant our party access to, and for apprising us of the history of, the building’s old armoury room! It was a pleasure to make both your, and its, acquaintance! The Journey’s End, Ringmore, website>https://www.thejourneysendinn.co.uk/
The Warren Inn Historically, and due to its isolated location high up there on Dartmoor, The Warren House Inn has got an awful lot going for it. I’ve stopped off here twice, this holiday’s visit making it three times, just to experience the odd phenomenon of walking out of a pub onto a magnificent rooftop wilderness.
The Warren House has many claims to fame, one being that it’s fire has been burning since 1845. Great Galloping Expenses Batman! “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I forgot to stoke it up last night!”
I love the aged-in-the-wood and stone interior as much as I love studying the old framed photos that capture The Warren through decades of its history. It was such a shame, therefore, that the woman behind the bar got a bit of a bark on when she learnt we weren’t in the offing for a five-course meal. “They’re all reserved!” she rasped, alluding to the tables. Whereas, in point of fact, they weren’t. The Warren House Inn website> http://www.warrenhouseinn.co.uk/history.html
Five Go to Dartmoor Returning to Dartmoor after a 40-year hiatus, I was struck, as many have been before me, by the sudden change that occurs on leaving the green chequered meadows of the South Devon countryside for the rugged, rolling expanse of this inspirational landscape. The change is not purely one of visual contrast, it cuts much deeper than that. There is a permeating quality to Dartmoor, its wild moorland, formations of granite rock, lack of a new-build housing estate, its unexpected yet perfect isolation, that penetrates the psyche and sets the Romantic spirit free.
Dartmoor’s erratic climate has been well-documented over time, and, I am pleased to say, it did not disappoint. Within minutes of leaving the sunny climes of the rolling South Devon countryside and climbing into the moorland wilderness, the sun we had left behind was peremptorily replaced by a brooding panoply of seven, or maybe even more, non-erotic shades of grey. A fine wet mist descended. It carried in the breeze, bringing with its murkiness unforgettable images of Basil Rathbone and Peter Cushing. Our very own Hound of the Baskervilles, except that she came from Bedfordshire, was, with her powerful shoulders and grey-white beast-like fur, as close as I had come in years to a real, live, snarling werewolf. “Stick to roads!” I heard a voice say. Luckily for us, the chances of doing anything less were slim. Not forgetting that we had in our possession the most reliable satnav money could buy, we also had new friends: several helpful Dartmoor ponies, who knew the moors like the back of their hooves.
Five Keep Out of Dartmoor Prison As soon as I mention Magwitch, you’ll think big man with a bald head and a bent nose, and before you know it the puzzle will have fallen into place: Dartmoor+Dartmoor Prison+Magwitch+Charles Dickens = Great Expectations.
Dartmoor was also the prison from which the infamous London gangsters, the Krays, were alleged to have sprung Frank Mitchell, alias ‘The Mad Axeman’, whom, it was also alleged, they later went on to murder.
To appreciate Dartmoor prison, preferably from the outside, in all its harsh Victorian glory, Dartmoor needs to be dank and bleak. As it is often, it seldom fails to press all the right emotive buttons.
Five Went to Other Places in Cornwall and Devon They did, indeed.
In conclusion, there isn’t one (Dr Towlson: “As you go through life, you often find that there seldom is.”): Devon and Cornwall are two counties in England where social and cultural history, ancient history, scenic and sublime landscapes and thought-provoking sensorial seascapes converge to offer the visitor an almost infinite range of experiences that will keep you coming back for more even before you leave.
Visiting Cornwall and Devon: Is it a good idea? Can you think of a better one?
We aim to develop the best personal qualities in students, by Olga Korosteleva-Hart, English Teacher
25 May 2025 – Proshkola School Kaliningrad Inspiration in Action
In Proshkola school, Kaliningrad, teachers practise the humane pedagogy of Shalva Amonashvili, the ethos of the school being to evolve free-thinking minds, stimulate imagination and exercise inventiveness.
At Proshkola, teachers strive to establish mutual respect. Each student’s self-esteem is seen as a valued asset, an essential prerequisite for academic success and a foundation on which to build a sense of personal confidence, which will hold them in good stead as they journey from their school life into the adult world beyond.
Towards this end, therefore, there are no clichéd lessons and unproductive moralizing, no stultifying and exhausting homework, no terrifying, fearful tests and checks. At Proshkola, personal development, creativity and the cultivation of spiritual values are encouraged every step of the way. Here, students are given the faith they need to become the best versions of themselves.
For example, recently my seventh-grade students were given the opportunity to cast themselves in the role of island sovereigns, invested with the power to, among other things, legislate laws, promote food production, devise national costumes and establish national symbols with which to express the island’s unique identity.
The holistic nature of this project required students to explore their imaginative resourcefulness, harnessing creativity to the challenging but fun task of designing a fully functional island society with all that this entails, from workable economics to cultural norms and mores.
The results and satisfaction deriving from fun proactive tasks like this transcend mere education. They bring out the best in students. They empower and inspire.
[ProSchool] Proshkola School Kaliningrad
It is this creative spirit, this ethos of mutual engagement that sets our school apart. It is not a school of learning by rote, but a school that places the greatest emphasis on inspiration, interaction and results from collaborative teamwork. Our students’ aspirations and what they go on to achieve is how we, as a school, define ourselves. We never forget as teachers that success is symbiotic.
^During my last lesson with Year 7, I asked students to write a thank you letter to their classmates for something they had done for them during the school year. Two of them wrote to me. I finished the drawing which they had started. It’s times like this that make teaching so worthwhile – Olga Korosteleva-Hart
At ProSchool ~ https://vk.com/proschool39 ~ we strive to develop the best personal qualities in students.
Published with the kind permission of Alyona Pusko, Director, Proshkola School, Kaliningrad
Published 8 May 2025 [VE Day] – Well Done Reform A Great Week in British Politics
Congratulations to Nigel Farage and Reform for their spectacular success in the local elections.
Reform, led by charismatic leader Nigel Farage, has stunned the British establishment yet again. In last week’s local elections, Britain’s fastest growing political party, Reform, took an impressive 677 seats across all contested councils, won two mayoralties and gained another MP.
Mainstream media could not have got it more wrong when they dubbed Reform the ‘Upstart Party’. ‘The Up-and-Coming Upending Party’, or the ‘Most In-touch with the People Party’, that would have been more like it, with Reform having positioned itself as the leading voice in British politics and a real contender for Number 10.
Tapping into years of deep-seated frustration over the relentless loss of its nation to pro-migrant tub-thumping liberals, Reform is making significant gains on all political fronts as liberalism’s flawed and dismal dictates crumble and disintegrate from one side of the Atlantic to the other.
Well Done Reform A Great Week in British Politics
The big losers on election day were unanimously the Conservatives. It was they, unsurprisingly, that took the hardest hit. After 14 dreadful, shambolic years in office, which opened the door to Labour, the only wonder is that anyone bothered to vote for them at all, and one suspects that those who did were the vote-by-rote fraternity, those who have developed over time a nasty stuck-in-the-rut compulsive kind of voting habit, which they know they ought to quit but, as with any other entrenched addiction, is easier said than done.
The Cons deserve no sympathy; they have reaped what they have sown. Their 14 years of faulty governance were some of the most embarrassing, some of the most chaotic in British political history.
Split down the middle by pseudo-liberal influencers, the Cons were far too busy fighting amongst themselves to deliver on their promises, paving the way for the pro-migrant left to exploit this lack of leadership and fill the moral void with its woke-obsessed agenda.
It certainly did not help the Cons when instead of returning to grassroot principles they sold out to the woke vote by installing Mrs Badenoch (bless her old cotton socks), who, should she eventually lead the party to victory, would wear the gilded crown of being the first woman of colour to hold the office of British prime minister. How’s that for ticking Labour’s box first!
You would think that the Cons would have learnt their lesson from the fall and fall of Rishi Sunak, but no. The quickly invented Badenoch was a Dr Who regenerative moment for the likes of the party’s liberal faction, but for the dyed-in-the-wool blue rinse brigade, it was yet another broken string on the old Conservative fiddle; another act of betrayal in a long series of similar acts, gambling on the premise that in order to survive, the Cons need to emulate Labour and ultimately beat them at their own game. Whata mistaka to makea …
As for Labour, what you can say? Labour has been Starmered, well and truly Starmered. If Tony Blair has gone down in history as a nail in the UK’s coffin, Starmer could be remembered — if remembered he is at all — as the Labour party’s undertaker and grave digger in chief: the man who laid the party out and then went on to bury it.
Well Done Reform A Great Week in British Politics
Returning to the voters of habit who have yet to understand the existential crossroads that Britain has been driven to, the collapse of the vote for both Cons and Labour translated in some areas, predictably ivory tower areas and those which for the moment are the least effected by immigration, into gains for Jeremy Thorpe’s old crew, the faded jaded Liberal Democrats
For disaffected voters frightened to think outside the box, it was time to fall back on the old switcheroonee. If they could not vote for Liebour or Cons, and conscience said they couldn’t, then they would have to vote LibDem! What a terrible farce. What a tragic mistake.
The Liberal Democrats as the name suggest are little more than orange squash Labour — full of sugar and diluted down — which, in terms of immigration and the woke that provides its life support, offers more of the same but worse. But look here let’s be frank, Cyril, some of the LibDem politicians and even some of its supporters come across as nice mean-wells — enlightened Tims-Nice-But-Dims. True, many are wishy washy and still others namby pamby, but whatever they are individually taken as a party, they are still the problem not the solution.
What a naga to backa …
If you think about it, and it isn’t really rocket science, to steal a march on Reform all that Labour and the Cons need do is to stop the boats from romping in, take control of Britain’s borders and, as in Russia, where Russians come first, restore faith in blighted Britons that the government is their government, that the country is their country and that it is their culture and they who come first.
The fact that the old political parties will not control immigration and will not withdraw from the ECHR, the thorn in the side of sovereignty, not even to save themselves, is an out-and-out admission that they have not the slightest intention of observing and upholding the primary responsibility of that of any government, which is to ensure the safety and security of the citizens of the country who voted them into office on this mandate.
So, under the rule of the two old fogeys, the long-since past their sell by dates Labour and Conservatives, what has Britain got to look forward to? Both of the two old past-it parties will keep on letting the migrants in and letting them in their thousands. They will blather on about net-zero policies whilst concreting over the countryside. They will turn the other cheek on escalating utility bills and, with nothing else up their sleeves, inflate the cost of houses. There will be more boats, more migrants, a more divided society, more deaths and broken lives, more candle-lit vigils, more and more and more and more stultifying woke and with each year that passes less of the Britain we knew and loved. Is this what you want for your children’s future? That’s what you’ve got and that’s what you’ll get if you vote for the same old cronies.
Take your country back, now, whilst you have the chance, for it may well be your last chance.
“Only Reform will stand up for British culture, identity and values. We will freeze immigration and stop the boats. Restore law and order. Repair our broken public services. Cut taxes to make work pay. End government waste. Slash energy bills. Unlock real economic growth.
“Only Reform will take back control over our borders, our money and our laws. Only Reform will secure Britain’s future as a free, proud and rich nation.” — https://www.reformparty.uk/
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