Published: 31 July 2021 ~ Svetlogorsk a Tale of Two Lifts
It was winter, or somewhere on the edge of the coldest season in the year.
We were walking along Svetlogorsk prom, the original piece, and having fooled ourselves into believing that the sea air would be all those euphemisms that they are fond of using in England, bracing, invigorating, fresh, which mean ridiculously and intolerably cold, my brass monkeys were telling me that it was time to head for a nice warm bar.
In those days, 2001, the choice along Svetlogorsk prom was rather limited. You had a café, take it or leave it, and we had only just left it.
“It’s working!” exclaimed Olga.
“My charm?!”
No. She was pointing towards a tall, ribbed biscuit tin standing on end at the side of the bank.
“It’s a lift, and it’s working,” she exclaimed again.
“Is it?!” I asked.
Both pronouncements were hard to believe, as one section of the tin’s corrugated metal was missing and two others were flapping around like a panic-stricken liberal at a patriots’ convention.
These were the days before marriage, when making a good impression was almost as important as drinking a nice pint of beer, so without exposing my reluctance I agreed to take the lift.
“Let’s do it!” I announced.
Ten seconds later we were doing it, or about to, we were about to go up in the lift, so why did I have that sinking feeling, as if I had just been shafted.
It wasn’t a big one, quite small in fact ~ looks can be deceptive ~ and as it was already up, it took some time to bring it back down, and with the most frightful clanking. I had heard a lot about Kaliningrad’s lifts, lifts inside 1970s’ flats that regularly got stuck, and the last thing I wanted was to be trapped in this sardine can slowly but surely refrigerating in the ice-cold wind that was whipping around the Baltics.
There were four of us in the lift; myself, Olga, the man who pressed the ‘up’ button and my apprehension; anymore and it would have been really crowded. Not the sort of lift you would want to take in these uncomfortable days of slavish social distancing.
The lift had rattled and groaned down, and it rattled and groaned up, but it got there, a little too quick for my liking. I was just beginning to enjoy it! Isn’t it always the way!
The doors opened onto another world: an even colder one.
It was like stepping out of the TARDIS, except this TARDIS was smaller on the inside than it was on the out, and onto a platform which, although buckled and uneven, could at a pinch have accommodated at least a Dalek or two.
My word but the wind up here was all those euphemisms and more that meant, ‘Hell, I’m freezing my nuts off’, and I was off as well, pretty sharpishly. Olga could stand and admire the view as much as she liked, impressing her or not, it was time to nail my true colours to the mast and hot foot it to bar-room sanctuary!
Svetlogorsk a Tale of Two Lifts
Kaliningrad’s new beach-side lift, located three-quarters of the way along the new promenade as part of its grand development plan, is solid-built, having a large and airy assembly room, a modern ticket office and turnstile entry system, with marbled interior and two lifts spacious enough in which to hold an illegal gathering in the midst of a pandemic.
Svetlogorsk a tale of two lifts: The 2021 lift ticket and boarding office
The apparatus by which the lifts work is well oiled, and the lifts themselves have a lovely bedside manner. ‘Going up’ says the automated voice, which is rather reassuring, and with the slightest of bumps the ascent begins. Hoisting isn’t in it; you glide and as you glide, to dispel claustrophobia and replace it instead with a fear of heights, the shaft becomes transparent. Through the now glass sides daylight pours in and with it views of the sea, the sky and the coastline, the ground slipping quietly and smoothly away, until, with another gentle bump, the lift comes to rest where it should.
Svetlogorsk a tale of two lifts: The 2021 lift, upper platform and viewing gallery
Everyone holds their breath, except those that can’t breathe through their masks, wondering, as lift travellers’ do, what if the doors don’t open? But guess what, they do. And there you are, standing umpteen feet from the ground in the long, glass viewing gallery, feeling as high as a kite and besotted with the view, some of which has been there for centuries and some of which is changing before your very eyes.
Tip for the moment: Every moment in a person’s life is historic, some more historic than others. Don’t forget to capture these for the sake of social history.
View from the top of the Svetlogorsk Promenade lift, July 2021, showing development in progress
Published: 30 July 2021 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade Perchance to Dream
Before the Baltic seaside resort of Svetlogorsk was Svetlogorsk, I mean when it was Rauschen, the promenade, along which smart and well-dressed German ladies and gentlemen walked to be seen, to socialise and to partake of the fresh sea air, was of the slatted-wood variety and ran from where the Soviet sun dial stands today to the corner of the access road that twists and curves from the town above.
To the right of the sundial lay a stretch of beach, three-quarters of which was covered in rocks and boulders interspersed with brief ribbons of sand. I walked along there once looking conspicuous in my brown Oxford brogues, like a failed graduate from English spy school.
This new and inevitably controversial development all but obliterated what little bit of sand there was, although in the last 12 months or more the sand has reappeared, shipped judiciously in from somewhere to quell the rising tide of discontent at nature’s loss for profit’s gain.
The promenade itself is both a luxury and convenience. It is nicely finished in variegated styles and colours of block-paving, as well as granite slabs and traditional wooden slats, providing plenty of space for perambulation both on foot and on wheels.
The street furniture combines traditional with modern exotic: crescent-shaped backless and wrought-iron benches in more than sufficient numbers take care of the bum department and matching black waste bins, black pendant lampstands and bollards, also in black, borrow for their style and class from classic designs of the late 19th century and the earliest years of the 20th.
The extensive hording behind which the pile-driving and foundation laying is busily underway for the ambitious sea-view development is brightly printed with artist’s impressions of what the strip will look like when the heavy plant machinery goes, the noise has all died down, the dust has settled and the buildings are up.
Svetlogorsk promenade extension under construction, July 2021
The scenes foretold are predominantly night-time ones. They present an attractive window-lit oasis of seductive commercial modernity. In this light, with the surf-rolling sea out front and the steep, foliated, tree-topped banks out back, Svetlogorsk has never looked so sensual. It’s Frankie Vaughan’s moonlight and Chris de Burgh’s lady in red all wrapped up in a silky-smooth smooch under the stars, on top of your dreams.
A computer-generated image of Svetlogorsk promenade
Down the road a bit in daylight, stands the already up and running replacement pedestrian lift. It’s a cut above the old one (more of that later), which could well have been an advert for corrugated tin had not sections of it in the fullness of time simply upped and blown away.
The new lift on Svetlogorsk promenade, 2021
The new lift is no such beast. It is a solid-looking affair, with its own concourse and a clean, no-nonsense interior. At the side of it, rather less spectacular but none the less fun, stand a couple of 1950s’ retro American diner caravans dispensing food of the fast variety, together with teas, coffees and ices.
A ‘diner’ fast-food wagon next to the lift on Svetlogorsk’s promenade extension, July 2021
It was whilst I was sitting opposite these on one of the chairs and at one of the tables provided drinking my tea that I had the feeling that I had seen this lift before, or something quite like it, in the opening credits of Stingray. Touched by Gerry Anderson, I half expected to hear that dislocated voice booming across the decades, “Anything can happen in the next half hour!”
It did. I finished my tea.
On the slatted wood just in front of the thick metal railings which allow you to see the sea, there are a series of very nice, heavy wooden recliners, which my wife had me photograph as she reclined away for Facebook. You also get traditional seats of the park-bench type, thoughtfully encased in a metal-framed and polycarbonate curvature, so perchance it should rain you can stay where you are, keeping an eye on the sea just in case it might do something different.
Sea view from Svetlogorsk’s new promenade
We walked to the prom twice in one weekend to experience the thought-provoking contrast between the sea that never changes and the Svetlogorsk coastline that does and is.
On the first occasion we left the prom the hard way, climbing the steep and finally zig-zagging metal steps to emerge all hot and sweaty and gasping for breath, but still pretending that we could do it again all day, at the top of the road where the Hotel Rus once stood, and indeed, still does, albeit now in a closed and in a somewhat lonely capacity. If I had not been so close to keeling over after climbing the stairway to heaven, I could almost have shed a tear. The Hotel Rus closed! Who would Adam and Eve it! Another piece of my personal history gone!
Having learnt our lesson the hard way, on the second occasion of leaving the prom, we paid our 50 roubles and took the lift.
I’ll tell you about that later.
Svetlogorsk promenade hotel construction with recently completed lift, July 2021
Now, I hate football with a vengeance and always have. I have hated it for as long as I can remember and from my earliest childhood, especially at secondary school level. There was something so odiously, if not inclusively, masculine about having to interrupt your academic day by running up and down a muddy field in your silly little short shorts booting a ball about, accompanied by a gaggle of inane whoops and shouts under the kindly ministrations of a retarded bully-boy games master.
In those days wearing rainbow colours in support of all kinds of deviant practices was unheard of and, besides, had it otherwise been the case it would hardly have been encouraged. You only had to say, “I don’t like football”, to be immediately on the receiving end of ‘poof!’, ‘queer!’, ‘homo!’.
Football was a masculine game; it was all about manly men, both on and off the pitch; it was a case par excellence of male camaraderie, of muddy and sweaty male bonding but strictly of the non-rainbow kind.
So, it is not without some curiosity that we arrive in the 21st century to find that under the guise and guile of racism traditional notions of masculinity are as much under attack on and off the football pitch as they are in almost every other UK walk of life.
I take as my lead on this treatise a recent article, ‘On racism and football, it’s England vs. their fans’, published online by Politico, a media resource described by AllSides media-bias rater as ‘Left Leaning’. Don’t take a spirit level to it, you will only tax your bubble.
The article in question is one of a plethora launched amidst the media-hyped hysteria about the so-called racist behaviour of a section of the England fans during the Euro 2020 final, which took place at Wembley Stadium in London recently (I haven’t a clue when exactly, as I don’t follow football?). But let’s leave that article for the moment and cut to the chase.
Keep Woke out of Football
The politically correct storm in a liberal-left teacup is all about ‘taking a knee’ (No, not in the groin. Don’t be silly. You all know what ‘taking a knee’ means. It’s so everywhere that it wouldn’t surprise me if Brits are not soon wearing builders’ knee pads to go with their facemask fashion accessory ~ isn’t the 21st century fun!!). Apparently, when the English team took a knee, some of the fans took to booing. At the end of the game, when England lost, allegedly certain members of the English team were subjected to racial abuse.
When Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, denounced the ‘vile racist abuse’, (I believe she was referring to the verbal offence not the act of booing) she was accused by black player Tyrone Mings of hypocrisy. Because Priti Patel had once described ‘taking a knee’ as ‘gesture politics’, and when asked if she would criticise fans who booed England players taking the knee, she had replied that it was their choice, Mings felt justified in saying “You don’t get to stoke the fire at the beginning of the tournament by labelling our anti-racism message as ‘Gesture Politics’ and then pretend to be disgusted when the very thing we’re campaigning against, happens.”
Whatever you might say about Mings’ game, joining the dots obviously isn’t it. He should stick to football, and possibly hone his skills, and Priti Patel should conduct herself in a manner befitting that of a home secretary, which is exactly what she is doing.
The problem with ‘taking a knee’ is that whilst some postulate that it as an anti-racism message, others see it as the political salute of an organisation described by The Telegraph as ‘a radical neo-Marxist political movement’. I refer, of course, to Black Lives Matter (BLM).
Patently, it is not within the remit of the British Home Secretary to endorse controversial brands.
The Politico article also alludes to Priti Patel’s refusal to endorse ‘taking a knee’ but at least has the decency to acknowledge that the reason one takes the knee is “in support of Black Lives Matter protesters”, which does not entirely dovetail with Mings’ vocalising of it as an “anti-racism message”.
The same article also offers an alternative, acceptable reason as to why some of the England supporters felt the need to boo, which is to “keep politics out of football”.
Booing for all the right reasons is not such a bad thing.
If only more people would boo for keeping politics out of wherever it is they do not belong, life might inch up a notch. We could certainly do with people standing outside our schools and booing and, if not exactly booing, demanding that we keep politics out of the UK education system, where it operates at every level subversively and with grievous intent to indoctrinate.
I booed, latently, when in the opening paragraphs of that article ‘On racism and football, it’s England vs. their fans’, I learnt for the first time that football, the game that I loved to hate, was, or was expected to be, as mixed up, convoluted and Woke-obsessed as British society itself. Why was the author of this piece rambling on about the virtuous things that some of the players did, were doing or had done when they were not booting a ball around and getting paid too much for it? It was not until I got to the bit about Jordan Henderson embracing LGBTQ+ laces and armband that the article raised a smile, a sigh of relief and a sense of where this was going. I checked the article’s attribution: aahh, ‘activist and editor at the New Socialist’ ~ mystery solved.
It would be naïve of me to suggest that LGBTQ has nothing to do with football and everything to do with people’s personal sexual proclivities, because some would Woke me up with, no it is all to do with inclusivity, others that is a gender equality message and still others a case of ‘gesture politics’, but, be this as it may, football, I would argue, is two teams of 11 men, 10 of them running around a field in pursuit of a plastic ball and the eleventh stood there like a dummy surrounded by three metal poles.
The Oxford Learner’s Dictionaries defines football as “a game played by two teams of 11 players, using a round ball which players kick up and down the playing field. Teams try to kick the ball into the other team’s goal”. There is nothing in this definition about sexual deviations, taking knees, knees up mother brown, or mother white, or one or other of the players giving sixpence a week from his not insubstantial salary to the local home for stray migrants ~ please send all donations to The Ritz …
Then comes the dogma and bigotry, the ironclad implication that if you do not wish to align yourself with a neo-Marxist group and believe that politics should be kept out of football then as sure as night follows day you must be far rightist. In fact, anyone who refuses to join in with the Riverdance foot-stamping and tantrum-inclined politics of the left, whether it manifests itself on the football pitch or anywhere else, can only be motivated by far-right sympathies. Like the game of football itself, you are either with us or against us, there is no middle way.
Thus, it comes as no surprise that the Politico article, as with many other on the left, links the ‘mindless violence of hooliganism with far-right sympathies’ ~ no mention here then of weeks of street rampaging, public disorder and the mindless vandalism against civic statues and Britain’s heritage that characterised the ‘mostly peaceful’ riots of BLM. You disagree? Go home and take the liberal tablet and whilst you are at it, take a knee.
WOKE WATCH UK!
Now spitting tar and feathers the Politico article navigates safely into familiar territory. Having satisfied itself that the disinclined knee-takers and stadium booers are far-right extremists, it full steams ahead up Shit Creek postulating on the way that “the far right have always preyed upon … forgotten working-class communities”. So, who are the football fans who dare go ‘boo’, warriors of the mythical far right or working-class victims that the far right have duped? Two considerations arise from the victim statement: one, that the majority of football fans are from working-class communities, which they are; and two, yes, they have been forgotten ~ forgotten systematically over the years by the very people who egregiously pretend that they are the champions of the working-class, call them the left, call them socialists, call them new socialists, call them what you want, this putty vocalist clan have almost always one thing in common, which is that the majority of their kind are bourgeois-emulating lush-living liberals who talk the talk but do not walk the walk.
These are they who have an awful lot to say about racism and about equality in our working-class communities whilst advancing and enforcing ideological doctrines, such as globalism and mass immigration, that are tailor-made to undermine cultural identity and social stability. Globalism, mass immigration, open borders, political correctness and Wokism serve nothing but an elitist liberal club and as such are no friends of England’s working-class communities.
But take heart! All is not lost! The article goes on to suggest that the naughty element tarnishing the otherwise good behaviouralist fans appear to be suffering from that strange malady that most people tend to contract after the age of 14, anachronism: they belong to “another era” and “struggle to find a way to adapt to the modern world”.
Oh, brave new world that has such creatures innit!
What ‘modern world’ is it to which we must adapt to earn ourselves our browny points? Presumably the world of Woke, where all and everything has to be subsumed into the importance of rainbow colours and the virtue-signalling of ‘taking a knee’.
“Most of the team’s supporters have spent the last few years going through an attitude change that they should be given credit for.”
This is like saying, ‘I’ve kicked your arse, now I’ll pat your head, you good sheep you”. Such delusive nonsense might make the writer sleep better at night, but in reality, it will take a lot more condescension than that to rub out the fact that the majority of legacy Brits will never cave in, not to accepting politics in football and in any other part of their lives where politics should not be. If the English majority had wanted Wokism, they would never have voted for Brexit and the Labour party would not have collapsed in the last general election.
Oh, and if you are left wondering, so to speak, of course Brexit has been blamed for the malodorous actions of those ‘far-right’ fans! Cue a nursery full of bawlin’ babies: “We want a people’s vote!”
True to liberal or ‘new socialist’ form the tone of this article then becomes more rabid and froth foamy as it implodes towards conclusion. Brexit, as I have said, has already joined the ranks of the ‘usual suspects’, but there are a lot of other liberal-lefty hobbyhorses that are still unaccounted for. And then, just when you are asking yourself why you have not been mugged by the usual neuroticisms and enrichment blandishments, your faith in liberal bias is restored. In profusion, as if the writer is worried that he (she/it?) forgot to include them ~ and inclusivity is a very serious matter ~ comes ‘right-wing’, ‘populism’, ‘borders’, ‘immigration’, and ‘gender fluidity’ (I don’t much care for the liquid sound of that last one, do you?).
And so, we end up with what the writer no doubt believes is much of a ‘tan-ta-rar’ but is really little more than a sorry descent into cliché, that “right-wing populist politicians, including those in the government, continue to sow the seeds of division and stoke the fires of hatred”. Rather than admit that it is our socially engineered society with all its isms, virtue-signalling and Wokeness that is sowing the seeds and stoking the fires.
But now, of course, it is all going terribly wrong. The architects have the divisions for which they have been working but are perplexed and frustrated that they have gone no deeper than the thin end of the wedge and what is more disturbing for them is that as society grows more ‘populist’ the more exposed their handy work becomes.
As with all fanatical idealogues they have overestimated their own capabilities and underestimated the strength of the resistance. The days when legacy Brits could be cowed into submission by accusations of racism and other PC nonsense never really happened, at least not beyond the sold-on delusion, and as it never happened in the hey days of Tony Blair when liberals were living the dream, they might as well accept that it is never going to happen, no matter how many toys they toss from the three-wheeled liberal pram.
Time was once that football was a man’s game. The players all wore shorts that were far too long for them, had skinny legs and nobly knees. The football was a big brown lump of leather inflated by a blow-up pig’s bladder, a vegetarian’s nightmare. The players were rewarded with three and thruppence a match, and nobody fell over and cradled their leg unless they really had to. In the days of manly football the stands were full of working-class white men in long brown macs and flat caps. They did boo, even though politics was nowhere to be seen, but the only people taking a knee were players who got one accidently in the centre forwards. But still they played the game. “Come on now, play the white man!”, would come the roar from the crowds, and no one criticised because no one cared, back in those bad old real days.
Football! It has about as much appeal to me as keeping racing pigeons whilst ferreting during opening hours.
I think real socialists, the old kind, possibly loved it, but not so it would seem new socialists, as the writer of the Politico article decries football, “as a sport that has always lent itself well to toxic masculinity, a staunch ally of right-wing populism”.
What to do! What to do! Presumably the only way to deal with this ‘toxic masculinity’ is to shirt-lift it out of existence and, whilst you’re at it, for pity’s sake don’t forget to take that knee!
The Soviets never got their house in order, but will a lesson emerge from the past
Updated 29 March 2024 | First published: 21 July 2021~ Its Curtains for the House of Soviets
It is official: 51 years after its construction and the same number of years of non-occupation, arguably one of Kaliningrad’s most iconic buildings, and ironically one of its most lambasted, especially by the western press, is about to be demolished. I am, of course, referring to the House of Soviets, ninety per cent of which was completed in 1985 on a site close to where once stood the magnificent Königsberg Castle, the East Prussian city’s jewel in the crown, which was extensively damaged in the Second World War and then, in 1967, dynamited into oblivion.
Rumour has it that the House of Soviets was regrettably erected on top of a labyrinth of subterranean tunnels connected to Königsberg Castle which rendered the structure unsafe, from whence came the folk story that the concrete behemoth was doomed from day one, never to be completed, never to be occupied, cursed by an act of celestial sabotage bent on avenging Königsberg’s fate.
Personally speaking, the House of Soviets was the first building to attract my attention and the one that imprinted itself on my memory when I arrived in Kaliningrad for the first time in winter 2000. I do not believe that it had anything to do with the avenging shadow of Teutonicism, but that it was rendered more significant and considerably more memorable by virtue of its epithetic pathos. As a statement it was one that would have been better had it never been made. At best it was a back-handed compliment and at worst a symbolic fiasco, for, in spite of its formidable name, it never was the House of Soviets, in fact quite the opposite, and would have been more aptly called the House Where No Soviets Were or the House Where the Soviets Ought to Have Been or, well, you get the picture …
Like many who live in Kaliningrad, my feelings for the House Conspicuous for The Soviet’s Absence are ambivalent. By any stretch of the imagination, the building is not a pretty sight, but it is very much of its time. Similar structures in the UK, hailed in the 1960s as a new dawn in architectural design, have mostly gone the way the House of Soviets is going, although a handful won reprieve from the demolition hitmen by forging themselves a new identity through the listed buildings’ honours and have since become a footnote in Forgets Guide to the Architecturalocracy.
There are some in Kaliningrad who believe that the House of Soviets deserves similar status, that it is iconic enough to be preserved, but the official view is that restoring the house, which is a hundred times bigger than any house that I have ever seen (perhaps the Soviets got lost in there), is a far too costly enterprise.
The House of Soviets’ problem — what should be done about it and what should become of it — has been the subject of ardent debate for many years, as has been what should replace it. The cultural-heritage lobby has never had any doubts: the House of Soviets borders on hallowed land. It is right on the doorstep of Königsberg Castle, or rather where Königsberg Castle formerly stood, and this group, which allegedly boasts notable architects among its membership, holds firmly to the opinion that that any regeneration project destined for this patch should pay homage to the cultural and the architectural significance of all that has gone before, and this includes, but is not restricted to, pundits who are of the unswayable opinion that nothing less than the reconstruction of Königsberg Castle will suffice.
Understanding the negative answer as to why Königsberg Castle cannot be reconstructed requires a lot more insight into large-scale building projects than the romantic desire to have it rebuilt. Like you, I gain great satisfaction from architect’s drawings, scale models and, nowadays, the ubiquitous computer-generated 3-D virtual tour, but what do I know about the real nitty gritty — about materials, logistics, the ins and outs of engineering and, most importantly, expense?
I appreciate that should Königsberg Castle or part thereof be reconstructed that the international community would be obliged to rethink Kaliningrad, to review it not for its over publicised fixation on military might but as a showcase to the world of the highest cultural, historical and architectural values, and that any design programme forward-thinking enough to incorporate features from the castle could not help but be held in the highest esteem by architects, city planning departments, civic leaders, politicians and socio-cultural historians throughout the world. Not a bad thing, you have to admit, for a place that has had to endure a recent lifetime of negative press, propaganda and impolitic criticism.
So, has the moment been lost forever? Is Kaliningrad standing at the crossroads of its destiny yet again, and are those people to whom its destiny is entrusted going to steam it on down the highway that leads to fame, honour and fortune or put it into a barrow and wheel it down a side road?
Whilst the House of Soviets stood … and stood, and stood, and stood … its fate undecided, and whilst the debates of what should and should not be done reamed on inconclusively, conservationists, historians and culture-conscious lobbyists nurtured a ray of hope that shone, if not as brightly as they would have liked, at least with some conceivable lustre. Hope, after all, dies last, they say.
But even Hope is not immortal. The fate of the House of Soviets, which hung in the balance for so many years, has finally been decided, not only with respect to it coming down but also with regard to the nature of its replacement.
Exit stage left the House of Soviets; enter stage right controversy.
It’s Curtains for the House of Soviets
As I understand it, the days of debate are ended. Various regeneration plans were invited and submitted for what will effectively become, when the curtain falls on the House of Soviets, Kaliningrad’s new city centre, and one of the plans has been chosen. The problem is, however, that the Chosen One, is not everybody’s choice. The plans have, to coin a phrase, received a mixed reception, both from Kaliningrad’s Joe Publicskee and a handful of Russia’s respected architects. But isn’t this par for the course, you ask? Whenever has it been possible to please all of the people all of the time?
At the end of the day, whether it is a city redevelopment project or putting up a garden shed, people will take sides. Heels dig in, opponents pull and tug from their respective corners and opinions harden and grow more vituperative.
I do not have to voice where my allegiance lies, because I am an old fart who lives in the past and rarely likes to come out of it. But if you are one of those who are sorely disappointed by what they propose to build on the grave of Königsberg Castle and the haunted House of Soviets, the best advice I have for you is learn to time travel as I have done!
Allow me to elucidate with a word (not the last one, I hope) from the Hope Dies Last Society: “Just because they are not going to reconstruct Königsberg Castle in 2021 does not mean that they never will. 2021 is a small part of the ever-changing present; it isn’t something written in stone.” You see, the beauty of time travel is that not only can you go backwards but you also get to flirt a little with the secrets of the future!
Take England’s King Richard III, for example, who never listened to me. This great and majestic nobleman who was known for centuries as the lost king, eventually turned up, or rather was turned up, in, of all places, Asian Leicester. Where exactly? Under a city carpark! Had anybody told King Richard III whilst he was alive that he would end up under a carpark in predominantly Asian Leicester, he would, having executed the person first who dared to suggest such a terrible thing ~ Leicester of all places!! ~ most assuredly have avowed “Never!” And, of course, he would have been wrong!
So, never ever say never! Only time will tell!
*Note that in the interim, between the time this post was written and revised, rumour has reached me that the new city-centre project has been shelved and when the House of Soviets goes, it is being replaced with parkland.
To coincide with what would have been Victor Ryabinin’s 75th birthday, a book has been published which celebrates and commemorates his life and work. Conceived, supervised and edited by Kaliningrad artist Marina Simkina, daughter of the famous Russian poet Sam Simkin, and Boris Nisnevich, author and journalist, this fascinating book contains personal memories of Victor Ryabinin and critical acclaim of his work and career from 28 of his friends and colleagues.
More information about the book can be found by following this link [Victor Ryabinin the Artist Born in Königsberg], which will take you to the permanent pages on this blog under the category Victor Ryabinin Königsberg.
An artist who can hear angels speak Художник, у которого ангелы говорят Kaliningrad author and journalist, Boris Nisnevich’s essay on the haunting influence that Königsberg’s ruins had on Victor Ryabinin’s philosophy and art: “When I wrote the draft to this article, I wrote that I believe there is no equal to him in Kaliningrad — I still believe he has no equal.” ~ Boris Nisnevich
In Memory of Victor Ryabinin This article was published in memoriam on the first anniversary of Victor’s death. Victor died on 18 July 2019.
Personal Tour Guide Kaliningrad Stanislav Konovalov (Stas) was a student and close friend of Victor Ryabinin. In the months following Victor’s death Stas supervised and worked on the emotionally and physically difficult task of dismantling, packing, transporting and storing the many and various Königsberg artefacts, artworks and assorted relics that once adorned and constituted The Studio ~ Victor’s atmospheric art studio and celebrated reception room. Stas took detailed photographs and measurements of the room in the hope one day that it could be reconstructed as part of a permanent exhibition to Victor and his work. Sadly, Stas himself passed away in November 2020. We live in hope that someone will continue the work that his untimely demise left unfinished. This is Stas’ story.
Victor Ryabinin’s Headstone Königsberg After quite a hiatus Victor’s grave was finally bestowed with a headstone befitting the man and the artist. It shows Victor sitting on a stool in his art studio. He is leaning nonchalantly in his chair, relaxed, unassuming, in tune with himself, his life and the world around him. His right arm is resting on one of his art-historian creations, his left arm cradling the base. The artwork is an assemblage, a composition of assorted Königsberg relics assembled icon-like within a frame …
Published: 13 July 2021 ~ It Happened at Waldau Castle Kaliningrad
Take a 750-year-old castle, a friendly curator-family from central Russia, an impressive and well-stocked museum, two classic Volgas and a vintage Hanomag car, a guided tour by a youthful tour guide better informed than Tacitus, home-baked bread the delights of which I have never tasted before made by a child baker, a female troupe in full traditional German dress demonstrating Prussian folk dancing, first-class quality beer and cognac, a rousing speech by our friend Grozmani about the book that took him 29 years to research and write, an opera concert performed in the open air by professional opera singers, a grand finale supper with large iced cakes, and what you have is one of the most unusual and interesting birthday parties that I have ever had the good fortune to have been invited to.
The curious location of this event, to which we were driven in style in our friend’s, Arthur’s, classic Volga, was Waldau Castle, thirty minutes or so by car from Kaliningrad.
We had called at the castle at the end of the Kaliningrad Retro Car Club’s rally a couple of weeks before, on which occasion I had been attracted to the castle on many levels but immediately by the feel of what it was and what you would not expect it to be.
It Happened at Waldau Castle Kaliningrad
No sooner had we passed through the gate into the castle grounds than I was smitten with an enveloping sense of calm, a convalescent repose, which had it been a churchyard or a monastery would have excited no further response but, given the purpose for which it had been constructed and by which it had lived out most of its life, fortification, seemed oddly at variance with its military biography.
My first impression had been no aberration, for the same singularity stepped out to greet me when we passed through the castle gate this evening. There was no challenge, no rattle of sabres or priming of firearms, in fact nothing to authenticate its militaristic legacy, only an inviting, calling, sense of calm, the kind that those who seek and who are fortunate to find might speak of in terms of sanctuary.
We had pulled up in our Volga not at the front of the house but a short distance from it and parked at the side of the drive. Although the castle’s surviving principal building was visible from where we were, it was yet indistinct, only a glimpse of its tall, grey walls asserted itself through the wooded area that lay between us, the tree trunks and branches obscuring whilst the leafy canopy overhead cast a thoughtful but not unpleasing shade over the tranquil prospect and introduced a welcome coolness in which refuge could be taken, for although it was early evening the heat of the day had not yet abated.
Set in the middle of this entreating copse stands a solid monument of large, rectangular proportions surmounted by an apex top. It is dedicated to those who fell in the First World War. This is a German monument which has on both of its narrower ends an incised representation of the imperial military cross and along the top edge of the monument’s greater width words of commemoration.
There is something so touchingly melancholic about this monument immersed within the shade of Castle Waldau’s trees. I detect in it an attitude of self-consciousness, as if it plainly understands that whilst symbolism is timeless, the land on which it is stationed, and for which the men it pays tribute to gave their lives, is now but a point of historical record and has lost all claim to anything else.
Be this as it may, I could find nothing in the calm that I have already described to suggest the slightest trace of rancour, just a gentle, quiet, contentment. So, if there are ghosts in the grounds of Waldau Castle, you are less likely to hear them rattling chains than to catch them occasionally sighing.
It Happened at Waldau Castle Kaliningrad
The path that leads away from the German memorial led us in a straight line to the front door of the castle. We stood on the opposite side of the sweeping driveway taking in the Teutonic might with which all German buildings of a certain age and stature in this part of the world are redoubtably invested. Bold, solid and, apart from the section of the building devoted to the doorway and its encasement, austere, the structure embodies typical if mythical German virtues and has an impregnability about it that perceptibly transcends bricks and mortar, effortlessly overshadowing the knowledge and laws of mere physics.
Waldau Castle facade
The only concession that the architect of this building has made to the decorative lies in the perpendicular that projects, surrounds and extends vertically from the main entrance, a feature which supports two sets of simple Gothic windows, three in parallel, both sets incorporating tracery and both arranged within a rectangular oriel supported by a stepped, pyramidical corbel. Enrichment takes the form of a small number of various blind, recessed arches, with the oriel culminating in a crenelated cornice and the perpendicular typically concluded as a broad stepped gable, the last horizontal platform of which makes the perfect base for Mrs Stork and her nest.
Two photographs (see above) depicting Waldau Castle entrance and the Gothic nature of the embellishing features
To the right of the building, orienting from the position of observer standing at the front of the castle, is a second three-storey building connected to the principal by a high wall. This second building houses the castle museum.
The museum at Castle Waldau, Kaliningrad region, Russia
Both the castle and its grounds have passed through innumerable transitions in its 750-year history and no better appreciation of this can be found than by visiting the on-site museum, which occupies the cellar, ground and second floors of the surviving wing of the castle.
It is impressive in its collection of artefacts, impressive in its layout, impressive in its inventive displays and impressive in the past that clings to it in every tread of its ancient steps and every nook and cranny. It is so impressive that it needs to be covered in its own article, so we will put it on hold for the time being and revisit it at a later date. Ghosts and God willing!
It Happened at Waldau Castle Kaliningrad
In the wall that connects the two remaining parts of Waldau Castle, there is a small, low archway, the kind in historic buildings that must be walked through in order that the apparition that you will eventually become can follow in the footsteps of those that once like you were physical forms. It is truly a time-honoured ritual, in every sense of the word, but do not forget to lower your head!
On the other side of this portal, we found ourselves on a piece of wild ground, on a slight eminence looking over more ground of an even wilder nature: lush, green, overgrown and silent. This is the last step on the road to complete tranquility that you would want to take of your own volition. We ambled along, Olga, our friend Inara and I, stopping now and again to move fragments of brick with our shoes or to pick up a piece of pottery, deep in the thought of moments past.
The back of the castle is not in the best of health. There is no denying its solid state, but the wall rendering has given way in places and the castle’s eyes, the many windows spread out across its awesome width and height, are covered in a mess of makeshift cataracts. I cannot remember when, if ever, I last beheld such an incongruous and anomalous sight, in which doors of all shapes, sizes, makes and periods have been requisitioned for use as wooden blinds to eye-patch empty window sockets. But work proceeds, and as Waldau Castle knows, possibly better than anyone, nothing remains the same for long or forever.
Returning to the front of the castle was a lot like having swapped Leonard Cohen for VE Day. The vintage cars had been lined up on the opposite side of the drive to the castle entrance and the party guests were busy assembling in the middle of the driveway.
A troupe of ladies all dressed in period Prussian costume were about to demonstrate the art of traditional Prussian dancing. The music and footwork in clogs set the party spirit in motion, but before getting down to the serious business of sampling the beer and cognac, we were about to be given a guided tour of Waldau Castle’s ground floor rooms.
On the other side of Waldau Castle’s entrance sits a great hall, which owes its present restored condition to the hard work and volunteer commitment of one family, the Sorokins, whose tender loving care can be seen and felt everywhere. Observing and appreciating is one thing, but it is quite another to have to clean and repair acres of wooden floorboards, bricks by the thousands and dusty, peeling plasterwork and have to construct hefty, wooden, external doors and massy window frames when by trade you are not a carpenter but are the sort of valuable person who can turn your hand to anything.
When my wife mentioned this feat to the head of the Sorokin family, he modestly confirmed, “No, I am not a carpenter by trade, but I believe that everyone has an innate knowledge that they rarely ever use, and if necessitated can turn their hand to anything.” I would like to have concurred, and I did note the professionalism of his castle doors and windows, but I also recalled in secret embarrassment how, back in the 1970s, my one foray into DIY had resulted in the humiliating experience of witnessing the wall-mounted can opener that I had screwed to the wall lasting for less than a day before it fell off ~ and so I had my doubts. As the saying goes, “Horses for courses.”
In the process of describing Waldau Castle it is next to impossible not to resort to words like strong, solid, robust, but it is only when you get inside that you are able to fully appreciate the exactitude with which these attributions apply. The windows, sitting as they do at the front of broad, deep brick arches, reveal the thickness of the walls to be at least three feet, and the quality of the brickwork, in all its restored glory, leaves you in little doubt that endurance and longevity have always been the castle’s watchwords.
But restoration in terms of visitor attraction is not confined to structural work. Also to be considered is, for want of a better word, the inclusion of suitable ‘props’, the seeking out, acquiring and emplacing of interior décor and household items best able to create a medieval atmosphere. Central to this objective, and situated in the main hall of the castle, are two suits of armour ~ a matching pair (I did not stop to check if it was ‘his’ and ‘hers’), conjoined with wall-mounted hunting trophies, intricate tapestries and a ceiling pendant made from a heavy wooden wheel entirely surrounded by antler horns. I’ll have the full Hermann Göring baronial hunting-lodge works, please!
Olga Hart with tapestry at Waldau Castle
Wall thickness Waldau Castle
The tapestries, which are as colourful and imaginative as they are intricate, are made to order for the Sorokin family from specific patterns that they provide to a specialist company. Now that my wife had seen these, I wondered how long I would have to wait. It was not long: “I really want to buy one of these!” Olga exhaled.
Our tour guide was the oldest son of the Sorokin family, who not only had an incredible knowledge of the history of the castle, but was fluent, articulate and completely unphased when it came to holding court to so many adult strangers. My Russian gets better every day (I boast ye not), but my present knowledge was no match for the speed and confidence with which this young man discharged his verbal duty.
Our guide led us from the main hall into an adjoining room. There are no corridors, at least between rooms, in this part of Waldau Castle, thus access to the three great rooms at ground level is obtained on a door-to-room basis.
The second room, though large, was of smaller dimensions than the first, but as with the former had undergone extensive renovation and as with the former was work in progress.
From here we were taken into the kitchens, where, at the far end of the room, two hefty brick-built ovens encased in rusting white metal testified to the gargantuan task of cooking meals on a banquet scale. The ovens were quiet today and the castle interior cool, but one can imagine how unbearably hot and sweaty this environment would once have been when full of cooks and servants and the ovens in full swing.
In this room there was another oven. Tall, slim, far more elegant than the ones I have described, made of ebonised cast iron, with a succession of white porcelain knobs protruding from rows and layers of doors, this oven was of German manufacture. It had a German precision-build quality about it that was undeniably superior, and I should not imagine for one moment that anyone among our company was in the least surprised to learn that this fine example of industrial German craftsmanship, which is almost 170 years old, is as functional today as it was on the day it was made.
Not a grandfather clock!
Two other features in this kitchen that caught my eye were the heavy wooden serving hatch in the wall to the back of me and a nineteenth century iron ceiling column, with an intricately wrought Corinthian capital.
Whilst our young tour guide was fulfilling his duty, a man entered the room who was immediately recognisable to us. It was our friend Ivan. At first, I thought what a coincidence, and in a way I was right. I knew that Ivan was renovating an old German building of his own, but I had not realised that it was just up the road from Waldau Castle. And a second coincidence, it was his birthday, too.
We were greeting each other just as the tour guide was explaining about the intrinsic dangers of old building restoration. Apparently, in the process of their labours the Sorokin family had uncovered Schweinfurt paint, or Emerald Green as it was generically known.
Emerald Green was an extremely popular colour in the early nineteenth century. It was used in paint, wallpapers and a number of other pigmented and dyed products, and it was used extensively. But whilst most of us know about the dangers of friable asbestos, less people are acquainted with the fact that many old green paints and green-coloured wallpapers, those made from a compound in which arsenic was one of the main ingredients, could, did and can kill. Highly toxic when it was produced, the dust from this arsenic derivative continues to pose a serious threat to health and retains its lethal potential.
Right on cue, no sooner had our tour guide apprised our fellow tourers of this warning from the past, than a playful poltergeist or two, decided to shake the ceiling. A small amount of dust descended, enough to make our company beat a hasty retreat.
In the first room, where we had now re-assembled, I had noticed earlier that opposite the main entrance there was a carved, Gothic screen in wood, which, on closer investigation, I discovered was employed to separate the area in which we were standing from a corridor that ran the entire length of the back of the building. This was an unusual arrangement, at least it was not one that I was familiar with in the large historic houses and castles that I had visited in England. In the wall of the corridor, a few feet back from the screen, I also observed a great wooden staircase that could be closed off, if need be, by two incredibly large and heavy doors.
We were not privy to this section of the castle today or to its upper storeys, but I hope we may be allowed to explore at a later date.
There are many things that can inculcate a thirst, and history is one of them. A table in the main hall had been laid out with food, bottles of beer and cognac and, on the word ‘go’, it was every man for himself (I have no idea what the women were doing?). To accompany my cognac, I chose a large, flat, round bread roll, and was glad that I did. I cannot recall tasting bread half as delicious as this. The second surprise was that the baker of this delicacy turned out to be a young boy, the youngest son of the Sorokin family. When Olga praised him for the bread, he threw his arms around her and thanked her for her kind words, saying that it was the nicest thing that anyone had said to him. I endorsed her praise, adding Königsbacker beware!
Our friend Yury and I were in full flow about the quality of the beers when, in true Russian party fashion, it was announced that we all had to congregate outside on the drive to do something? When I discovered what that something was, an attempt by the hosts to dragoon us into a dance routine, I swiftly excused myself. Our friend Ivan followed my lead, but Yury stepped up to the challenge, and I was only too happy to play the part of photographer as he was twizzled around the tarmacadam.
Yury Grozmani demonstrating the art of Prussian folk dancing; and above, the talented boy who bakes the bread
We had not long been back inside, and not too far from the table, when a second announcement was made. It was now time to witness an operatic performance, which would take place on the granite stone courtyard at the front of the Sorokin house.
It would be dishonest of me to claim that I have any love or affection for opera, but, by the same token, it would be no less dishonest if I did not admit that I enjoyed this performance immensely. The Sorokin family’s house made a superb backdrop, the large open window with wrought-iron lattice work emitted the piano accompaniment perfectly and, from where we were sitting, gave us a first-rate view of the pianist at work.
I marvelled at the fact that the performers required no artificial amplification systems to project their voices, which were either remarkably well toned, aided by the acoustics of the building that lay behind them, or both.
Before the performance commenced, our friend, Yury Grozmani, delivered a speech as requested by the host, about the book he had researched and written on the vintage cars of Königsberg. Yury is what you would call a natural speech maker and, as he admitted himself, once fired up it was difficult for him to come back down.
Yury delivers a speech about the book that he worked on for 29 years
When both performances reached their respective conclusions, the tables were rearranged and laid out for supper. I refrained from indulging in the big iced cakes but was quite pleased that we had enough time and enough cognac left for one or two for the road before being chauffeured home in style by Arthur in his Volga.
Essential details (not of the party, but of Waldau Castle):
Waldau Castle Kaliningradskaya Ulitsa, 20 Nizov’e, Kaliningrad Oblast, 238313, Russia
Tel: 007 (963) 299-85-43
Opening hours 7 days a week ~ 10am~5pm
How to get there By car, taxi, bus. The approximate journey time is 30 minutes
Growing old is an occupational hazard of being born, but by staying young forever you can avoid untested vaccines and serious complications from catching Covid-19.
Just when I was absolutely certain that I would soon be certain about changing the name of this series of diary posts from ‘self-isolating’ to something more applicable to the lifestyle I am leading, like what?, along came the Delta variant, the call for bars and restaurants that do not have outside seating areas to close, renewed attention to maskee wearing and a rallying cry for mass vaccination, which has as its masthead the controversial word ‘mandatory’. Thank heavens for that, I thought: self-isolating it is and thus it will remain.
An inveterate worrier, and a professional at that, who is more worried about not having something to worry about than worrying about something, lately I have done a lot of introspective soul-searching as to why coronavirus has not bothered me as much as it should, and in the process have asked myself the questions: Is it because I have adopted a reckless and cavalier attitude? Have I been turned by the myriad conspiracy theories? Or have I just dropped out of the panic circle by living one day at a time and by allowing the news that I can be bothered to read to simply wash over me?
Not much news is good news and no news even better, but if you have ever tried avoiding mainstream media, along with the gabbling gibberish of social media, you will inevitably have discovered that it is not that easy. There always seems to be some well-meaning soul on hand to replace the valve in the radio that self-preservation removed.
Dropping out is a great feeling, truly emancipating, and what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about, but bad news like coronavirus itself has an aerosol effect (at least, I think that is the right word for it), and when I turned on and tuned in I discovered that in the UK Matt Hancock had left his post, disgraced but lustfully happy, that the man who had replaced him, Mr Sajid Javid, the brown man with a bald head, was calling for ‘F’ Day and that western media was adopting an ‘I told you so’ attitude to Russia’s latest Covid predicament, eagerly using words like ‘forced to play catchup’ and ‘caught on the back foot’ to describe Russia’s clamour to get as many people on the vaccination bandwagon and in the shortest time possible as the Delta variant stalks the land.
Our World in Data 1 states that 18.5 million people have been fully vaccinated in Russia, representing 12.8% of the population, compared to 48.2% fully vaccinated in the United States and 51.3% in the UK. So, perhaps the phrase catchup is not as undeserved as it first might appear.
From The Moscow Times2 I learn that the Delta variant is surging ~ now, where did I put that maskee? ~ that someone in Moscow has been detained on suspicion of selling fake coronavirus vaccine certificates and that Moscow’s first criminal case against someone has been opened for allegedly purchasing a counterfeit QR code, which could be used to grant the perpetrator access for indoor dining in Moscow’s restaurants. It is times like these that make me feel glad that I am a beans-on-toast man.
So, does this all mean, taking into account the ‘success story’ of the UK’s vaccination programme, that jumping onto a small boat and heading to the Sceptered Isle would be strategically fortuitous. After all, if I was to set off now I might arrive just in time to celebrate Britain’s big ‘F Day’.
And yet, there is no confusion like coronavirus. Google News UK throws up any number of articles claiming that the virus can be spread and caught even by those who have been fully vaccinated; that thousands of Brits are destined to catch coronavirus once restrictions are eased; that ‘breakthroughs’ are happening all the time (that’s not victims breaking out of lockdown but coronavirus infecting people who have had the vaccine); that Brits are being told to carry on social distancing and wearing masks even when they have had two jabs; that booster jabs will be needed … etc
The Mirror3 reports, for example, that the UK can expect 100,000 cases per day as restrictions are eased. Another Mirror4 article tells us to watch out for Long Covid, and identifies 14 symptoms that could be signs of Covid, from insomnia to earache. Looking down the Mirror’s list I thought, “Well, I’ll be buggered, it looks as though I may have had Long Covid since I was 14, or even before”.
Then there was this report from the BBC5 which informed me that due to escalating cases of Covid that the NHS Covid contact tracing app used in England and Wales must be made less sensitive to take account of the hundreds of thousands of new cases that will emerge after ‘F Day’, which, in case you are in any doubt, means Freedom day. I had to back-track through the news and read up on what exactly this app is and what it does. Apparently, it detects the distance between users and the length of time spent in close proximity, which is currently 2m or less and for more than 15 minutes. In doing so it seemed as if I had stumbled upon the latest chapter in How to make your life technologically unbearable and become neurotic in the process. But then, what would I know? I do not have a mobile phone.
On reflection, I do not think that I will travel to the UK after all, although given the inconvenience, costs of tests and what have you, if I was to go I would most likely go by small boat across the Channel, as thousands of illegal migrants can’t be wrong.
Stay young & avoid the vaccine
So, back to taking the vaccine, or not as the case may be.
It occurred to me that instead of taking any vaccine and exposing myself to any number of unknown, possibly critical and censored, adverse side-effects, I could try getting younger, as the incidence of coronavirus cases in the young is relatively low as is the risk of developing serious illness and dying from it.
But whilst the young may feel good about this now, unless they do as I am doing, which is getting younger, they too will eventually grow old, which is not advisable, given the depressing prediction that coronavirus may never go away. All of which points to the unsettling conclusion that growing old is becoming a far more risky business than it was and always has been.
After serious consideration, I think we could do worse than to take a leaf out of Charles Aznavour’s philosophical song book. Asked about ageing, the acclaimed singer/songwriter reputedly said, “There are some people who grow old and others [like me] who just add years.”
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 14: Zatecky Gus Svetly
Published: 6 July 2021 ~ Zatecky Gus Svetly in Kaliningrad
With all this talk about the increasing incidence of coronavirus, deadly Delta variants, mandatory vaccinations and QR codes, what better time could there be for hightailing it into the churdak and hiding out with a bottle or two of peeva. If you cannot use a crisis as an excuse for drinking, what can you use?
I certainly felt the need to protect my mind from the doom, gloom and despondency that once again is doing the rounds and chose as my vaccine on this occasion a beer that is not really called ‘Fatty Guts’, although given the bizarre lengths to which brewers in the UK are willing to go to compete for offensive beer names, had it been the name of a UK beer I would hardly be surprised. I believe it was the Firkin pubs in London that kick started silly beer names back in the 1980s, and I remember only too well that Barker’s Dive Bar in Southwark served a very nice pint of ‘Bollock Twanger’ and another beer whose name was so rude that you whispered when you ordered it.
But Fatty Guts is neither a British beer or a beer brewed anywhere else ~ as far as I am aware!
The real name of the beer that is the subject of this review is part of the Baltika Breweries’ stable. It is brewed in St Petersburg and is called Zatecky Gus. You can see how easily it could be mistaken for something else. We will at last be respectful and refer to it by its full appellation, Zatecky Gus Svetly.
Zatecky Gus Svetly is a pilsner lager and as those of you who have been following my Bottled Beers in Kaliningrad reviews will know, I am no great fan of Pisner, sorry, I meant Pilsner. However, when you say that you are going to review as many bottled beers sold in the city’s supermarkets as you can, then you have to follow through. Actually, when I drink Pilsner the risk of … it doesn’t matter. Now, where was I. Ahh yes, Pilsner.
Zatecky Gus Svetly in Kaliningrad
Zatecky Gus is everywhere, so it was not difficult to pick up a bottle from my local supermarket. It cost me £1.29 for a 1.5 litre bottle, and I was happy with that.
It poured easily into my vintage Soviet beer glass ~ one of those manly types with a handle on the side. It poured pale golden and had a pale golden aroma, slightly hoppy, a bit aromatic. The process of decanting brought forth a light froth, eventually culminating in a medium head, which, although the lager itself has very little body, clings to the glass as you down it.
Some Pilsners are heavy, oily even, their high-calorie composition cunningly disguised by their light appearance and must-be-served-cold character, but Zatecky, I was relieved to find, is not one of these. In fact, it has a refreshing, sparkling nature, a commendable finish and a pleasing after taste.
Regrettably, taste in general is somewhat lacking, which is a mystery as I recall reading somewhere that Zatecky is brewed to a traditional recipe using a high-quality hop that has a dynastic reputation stretching back over 700 years.
I love antiques, but search for this as I might I could not find it, and whilst it would be disingenuous of me to write it off completely, I was left at the end of the bottle with a distinct sense of expecting and wanting more than this lager could deliver.
On a hot summer’s day, I have no doubt that refrigerated Zatecky would be better than an ice cube, but although it goes down like the Titanic, just don’t expect to travel first class.
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Zatecky Gus Svetly Brewer: Baltika Breweries Where it is brewed: St Petersburg, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.6% Price: It cost me about 131 rubles (£1.29) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: Yes, just about Taste: Not much, but it is refreshing Fizz amplitude: 6/10 Label/Marketing: Traditionalist ~ sort of Would you buy it again? I have bought about 3 bottles Marks out of 10: 5.5+
*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.
Appraising the restoration of an architectural delight
Published: 1 July 2021
Back in February 2020, I felt compelled to flag one of my favourite historical buildings in the Baltic resort of Svetlogorsk, the former German town of Rauschen. At the time of writing, this superb example of neo-Gothic architecture was exhibiting signs of year-on-year neglect, having stood empty for almost two decades, and whilst its shabbiness combined with the Romanticist style in which it is built and embellished lent it a more than passing air of Hitchcockianism, it was evident that unless remedial action was taken, and taken soon, catastrophe would ensue.
A Gothic favourite of Svetlogorsk revisited
Gratifying it was, therefore, to discover on a recent trip to Svetlogorsk that the initiative had been taken, money had been invested and this architectural icon had been rescued from extinction.
Admittedly, the sunny yellow paintwork, new roof and the homely inclusion of window boxes in full bloom have diminished the prospect of the Castle of Otranto, but since Svetlogorsk is prone to the odd thunderstorm or two, all that is needed are a few circling bats and one or two long flowing cloaks and imagination is back in business.
Even without these props, the Gothic allure shines through. Revivalist architecture of this period (c.1920s) demonstrates the extent to which it is possible to achieve ‘imposing’ without descending headlong into the unforgivable maelstrom of conspicuous consumption and glitz. Granted, the house is bold and arresting but not in a way that exposes it to accusations of show and pretentiousness. Even its salient feature, the striking square-section turret with ornamented pinnacle, evades such criticism, for whilst it embodies magnificence, the visual impression, as immediate and memorable as it is, is not, depending on the observer’s susceptibility, neither as lasting nor profound in its simpler evocation as the literary and folk-lore associations that cumulatively manifest when observing it from different angles, on different occasions throughout the year.
A Gothic favourite of Svetlogorsk revisited
When you are next in Svetlogorsk, stop a while to observe, engage and enjoy this venerable building. A few yards more and you will arrive at yet another Rauschen/Svetlogorsk gem, this being the Hartman Hotel, a sensitively restored hostelry whose delights you can savour over good food and a bevvy or two whilst relaxing on the hotel terrace.
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Promenade Apartments Svetlogorsk Showcase Stylish Living 30 May 2024 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History At the point at which the new stretch of promenade on Svetlogorsk’s coastline meets the old, a broad canvas containing an evocative black and white photograph of the promenade as it appeared when Svetlogorsk was German Rauschen effectively… Читать далее: Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History
An incomplete German masterpiece 17 May 2024 ~ Ozerki Lock Masurian Canal the brave and beautiful Pursuant to our trip to Znamensk, we motored on that same afternoon to a lock on the Mazurski Canal (aka Masurian Canal), a German project implemented in 1911. The plan was for the canal to connect Königsberg (now Kaliningrad)… Читать далее: Ozerki Lock Masurian Canal the brave and beautiful
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