As noted in those previous posts, the block-paved thoroughfare runs parallel with the sea, but on walking it you reach a point where a series of low-level private flats, not so terribly old, obstruct you from making further progress. At this juncture, you have no option if you want to proceed but to continue your walk in land, a route that very soon brings you before a rather prosaic development residential in nature, most of whose flats which were up for sale last year are up for sale this year (2020). But as you turn to the right a most amazing visual thing happens, helped not a little, I suspect, by the mediocre tenor of the flats you passed a moment ago. In less than 18 months a new development has sprung from the ground, which, in its domineering height, prodigious bulk and latitude and by dint of its sheer proliferation in a relatively short space of time, really knocks you for six.
Completely out of scale with everything around it and consuming more ground than a migrant camp in Calais is the most enormous high-rise residential estate that I have ever encountered. With your senses still reeling from scale fright, the foreground flats and those behind them marching regimentally down the steep fall of the hill, grab you by the Gothics. If, like me, you are a Gothic freak, adore Gothic almost as much as drinking a pint of real ale in the company of Nigel Farage, then you will put aside any prejudices that you may have adopted against kitsch and lap what you see before you up like a Westernised Bela Lugosi on a boy’s night out in Butlins.
Gothic ~ get the point!
Here, there are more than enough perpendiculars, faceted angles, towers, turrets and pinnacles to give every Gothic addict the fix they crave and need. Yes, I know that these structures are modern, but I have personally consulted with Tom Cat Murr in whom, he has assured me, no catatonia has been induced by their 21st century origin.
Zelenogradsk Apartment Blocks with a touch of Gothic
I am not sure, however, that either he or I feel the same way about the estate’s alter ego, those just as massy structures that run in line with their Gothic neighbours along the unfinished roadside and which extend at right angles from them.
Zelenogradsk flats, Russia: two styles face off against each other ~Zelenogradsk New Sea View Apartment Blocks
The flip side to the Gothicised coin is a vast battery of impressive apartments built, correction embellished, in the Neo-Classical and Neo-Renaissance spirit. Designed with corners, angles and twists enough to thwart prescribed conformity, and assisted in this respect by the natural decline of the landscape, along whose downward curve this Goliath series of buildings march in the most dramatic manner, the stacking effect of shelves and ledges, inclusion of white panels, many adorned with relief motifs, and woven into the frieze a colonnade of arches strike a Kensington/Chelsea chord in me, chiming, whilst not exactly in tune but all the better for it, with a nuanced note in their juxtaposition against the light-brick infill. The icing on top of this pastiche cherry has to be the recessed oval, a final flaunting touch of extravagance clearly seen at the front and centre of the classic Dutch-styled gable.
The icing on the top ~ Zelenogradsk New Sea View Apartment Blocks
Whatever your feelings towards these 21st century additions to Zelenogradsk’s built and natural environment, you have to admit they are a big improvement on the experimental, rectangular-limited, mass-housing pre-fab models constructed during Stalin’s reign and the clunky pre-cast concrete jobbies, known as the Khrushchyovka, that went up at an alarming rate in the late 1940s and 50s.
Nevertheless, for all their ubiquitous uniformity and quick-assembly triumph over the lauded principles of aesthetic finesse, they, these seemingly once drab predecessors, have, with the re-evaluation that typically comes with the passing of time and hindsight, acquired, especially in recent years, an era-defining nostalgic status similar in intrinsic import to the cult of personality.
However, whether today’s apartments that are changing Zelenogradsk’s shoreline profile into a high-density urbanised landscape will be accepted so sympathetically by tomorrow’s generations depends on values we cannot predict. As with everything in our immediate lives ~ only time will tell.
‘You ought to get out more!’ Since the birth of coronavirus, the intentional irony in this off-hand remark has taken on a whole new irrational meaning. We know that we want to get out more, but we are told that we should stay in more, and even a patriot like Nigel Farage, who does get out occasionally to do nothing more obnoxious than stand on a cliffside in Dover watching the endless flow of boats coming in full of happy smiling migrants destined for 4-star hotels (they do get free face masks as well), is castigated by the liberal press for breaking UK quarantine rules when they know full well he is not.
That’s quite funny, isn’t it? One Englishman pursued doggedly by the UK’s liberal media for travelling down to Kent, whilst hundreds of migrants from every corner of the globe you have never heard of, and don’t particularly want to, are pouring into the UK like, er let’s say hard water through a Co-op tea bag, and on arrival, having been duly welcomed by our British Polite force, are then bussed to British hotels to reside in non-social distancing proximity at the expense of the British taxpayer. Hmmm?
Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer
Safe in the knowledge that, to use Mrs May’s expression, it was ‘highly likely’ that there would not be a train of migrant boats being dutifully escorted to the shores of the Baltic Coast, I decided that a second trip to the coastal resort Zelenogradsk was needed before second wave coronavirus potentially washes us back over the isolation threshold.
From Kaliningrad by car, the journey to Zelenogradsk takes between 20 and 30 minutes on the region’s modern road network (providing the crowds are not out!). As we zipped along in a friend’s car, I reflected on how long and cumbersome the same journey used to be just after Perestroika, bumping and pot-hole dodging the old German road within its crash-insensitive avenue of big gnarled trees.
Ahhh, Kaliningrad’s new generations do not remember those times, but for those of us who do, we are able to appreciate just how extensive and beneficial improvements in this region have been over the last 20 years.
Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer
It was another beautiful day in this priceless exclave of Russia as we drew in at the side of the road close to the bus park and rail station.
We had been forewarned by Zelenogradsk residents that we would find the resort exceptionally busy, far busier than it was when we last visited three weeks or more ago. To some extent, this was to be expected, as we were now further along holiday-period road, but our sources informed us that the tourist population had swelled as a result of the Russian government’s incentivisation to boost domestic tourism, which, with international travel limited and some of the borders still closed, appeared to be doing the trick. Apropos of this, I prepared myself for the game of spot the Muscovite on holiday. What I was not prepared to find was that bears (meeshkee) would also be taking advantage of the relaxed self-isolation rules.
There was one standing by the side of the road as we alighted from the car. Just to prove the western prejudice that bears really do walk the streets of Russia, I asked him nicely if I could have my photograph taken standing next to him. As you can see from the photograph, he was only too happy to do so.
As I walked away, however, I sensed that this particular bear was becoming increasingly grizzly. “Anglichanin! Anglichanin!” he growled (Anglichanin meaning Englishman). Looking back, I saw that he was standing with his right arm extended. His palm was open and he was repeatedly scratching it with his claws in a gesture that could only mean that he had a terrible itch. Poor bear, I thought. And then the possibility dawned on me that perhaps non-isolating meeshkee who consented to have their photograph taken expected to be remunerated.
Having crossed his palm with rubles, we dropped our travelling bag off at the dacha kindly lent out to us by a friend, and took a walk along the prom. Yep, the news was spot on, both the prom and beach were busy.
The frontside bars and restaurants were also busy, not full but far from empty. For the first time I caught a whiff of nostalgia. If anybody had told me six months ago that I would be shunning these essential establishments for health reasons I would have laughed at them. More shocking came the realisation that this was possibly the longest continual period in my life, at least from the age of 14, that I had not frequented a pub or bar.
To take my mind off this reprehensible milestone, we decided to take a brief excursion into the backstreets of the town.
What a delight these streets are. Architecturally, they provide the onlooker with an historical snapshot of the region’s social history, an evocative diorama depicting life from pre-war Germany, through the Second World War, across the Cold War period and into the present day.
Nostalgically, this pre- and one ardently hopes never-to-happen gentrification, echoes, for my generation at least, a time of natural realism now forever lost in the UK, but preserved in Kaliningrad and in its surrounding towns and villages in the overgrown verges, rough tracks, a seemingly inexhaustible inventiveness for recycled car and lorry tyres, vegetable plots neatly honed, vibrant cottage flower beds and an astonishing medley of makeshift sheds, lean-tos and little old barns. (See my later post, which I haven’t written yet.) I cannot remember the name of the street ~ I think it was Memory Lane.
From this enlightening excursion, we ambled back to the dacha, stopping on the way for some edible provisions and, naturally, a couple of bottles of beer. We were going to divvy up the grub and, making a picnic with it along with one of the bottles of beer, head off to the beach.
We had decided to walk away from the nearest, the most central point of the beach as this was where people would naturally be most concentrated, thus availing ourselves of a quieter spot whilst fulfilling our social contract to observe the one-metre rule.
Our plan paid off. We found a nice, white sandy stretch of beach with a convenient barrage of sea-breaker sandbags against which I could rest my back as I drank my beer whilst my wife, Olga, went for a swim.
Mick Hart chilling on Zelinogradsk beach, Baltic Coast, Russia
The water was gloriously warm, Olga informed me later, and my beer, which had been well-chilled at the outset, kept sustainably so parked between the sandbags where I had placed it at ground level. We were each so comfortable in our own right, according to our own pursuits, that we stayed put until evening and by so doing were granted a first-rate view of one of the Baltic Coast’s legendary sunsets ~ sublimity at its best.
Zalinogradsk, Baltic Coast, Russia, Sunset August 2020
Making our way back into town, we spent another lazy hour sitting on one of the benches along the central promenade playing spot the Muscovite before returning to the dacha for a nightcap with a blue elephant.
No, this is not the name of a Russian beer (as far as I am aware), and neither have I reached the intoxication level whereupon such manifestations are commonplace to me.
The blue elephant in question was a little elephant made from Plasticine. On our way back from our street tour earlier, we had stumbled upon some young entrepreneurs selling Plasticine models on the edge of the sidewalk.
We bought the blue elephant from them, upon which one of the boys exclaimed excitedly, “Great, we’ve now got enough money for three ice creams!” and when I asked them if we could take their photograph they were even more excited, “Enough for three ice creams and our photograph taken!”.
Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs, Zelenogradsk
I think when I get back to Mick’s Place (Attic Bar) I will allocate a special spot for this new drinking partner of mine, providing he keeps a metre apart and always wears his facemask.
Zelinogradsk, Russia: a hand-sculptured Plasticine elephant. Now a drinking partner in MIck Hart’s bar Mick’s Place
Although I am still prone to headlining this series of articles as the Diary of a Self-isolator, I have begun to wonder whether the relaxation of coronavirus restrictions warrants a change of name, say, for example, the Diary of a Social Distancer, but have come to the conclusion that in the interests of continuity the original appellation should persist.
You can see the etymological crux of the issue in the revelation that recently, whilst self-isolating, I accepted the invitation to emerge from the homestead to stay for a couple of days at a friend’s dacha in the heart of Zelenogradsk.
Zelenogradsk is considered to be the second principal seaside resort in the Kaliningrad region, the number-one slot invariably reserved for Svetlogorsk. Whilst it is widely accepted that Svetlogorsk wears the crown, in recent years that crown has been tarnished by a controversial extension of the coastlines promenade in preparation for an extensive building programme that has decimated the resort of what little beach it had.
Zelenogradsk, on the other hand, has a beach par excellence; acres of white and golden sand stretching across the curving coastline for as far as the eye can see. On a good day, that is under a bright blue sky with plenty of sun to boot, the Zelenogradsk coastline is a beach-lovers paradise and the rolling waves and surf from the sea a scintillating superlative for all that is loved about swimming and sailing about on the briny.
Natural sandy coastline: Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
Today (3 June 2020), the weather conditions could not have been better. And for reclusive comfort combined with close proximity to the front, the old German house in which we were lodging could not have been more inviting or better located.
Before heading off to the beach, we decided ~ my wife, our friend and I ~ to buy a pizza and a few edible accessories from one of the seafront bars. This was the first time since coronavirus began that I had eaten in a restaurant or been to a restaurant to buy food, and although we were sat outside on the decking and the waitresses were bemasked, the entire experience seemed strangely illicit and fraught with a sense of risk.
On paying for our order there was a poignant moment when one of the girls who had served us, possibly the manager, not only thanked us for our custom but almost begged us to return again, such is the devastation that coronavirus has wrought upon the café, bar and restaurant business.
We did not eat in the restaurant’s outside seating area, choosing instead the comparative safety of limited social numbers in the conservatory of our temporary German home.
Before eating the food we had bought we of course observed all of the risk-decreasing procedures handed down to us from the world’s health industry, which is to say that we washed our mitts and swabbed the polystyrene packaging with antiseptic wipes before opening it and then used cutlery to eat with.
I have to admit that it was good to sample fast food again, even though the preliminaries had knocked it down a gear or two.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Victually resuscitated, plus a bottle of white wine later, our friend departed, leaving Olga and myself to make our way to the sea.
I wondered, as I walked towards the beach, if the low numbers of people present was a coronavirus consequence. If so, it was the perfect tragedy, but the volumetric increase in visitors on the following day, which was a Saturday, assured me that the comparatively low turnout had been the product of a working day.
By 12 noon on Saturday the numbers of people in Zelenogradsk had swelled enormously, but not to such an extent as to render social distancing ridiculous, as it had in England when people had flocked to Brighton beach in such appalling numbers that it was all they could do to find enough room in which to stab each other.
As we walked along the widened footpath with its pedestrian section on one side and its mini-road on the other, along which whizzed all kinds of two- and four-wheeled mini traffic, and with its astonishing eclecticism of man-made buildings on one side and the rolling sea and sand on the other, I hoped for their own sake that there were no representatives of a certain American media organisation lurking around in the undergrowth. From what I have read recently the western media seems to have a neurosis regarding ‘ethnic Russian families’, ‘smiling Slavic couples with children’ and ‘traditional family values’, all of which was refreshingly evident today. It is a peculiar point to ponder on, is it not, that what matters to some is of no matter to others.
Take the preferences of my wife and I, if you will: My wife swims; I drink.
Under the Old Normal, we would find a spot that was mutually suitable. An outside drinking area for me to relax in; a section of beach close to the sea for her to get sand in her toes and completely drenched in salt water.
Under the New Normal, however, this was not to be. Although the seating areas outside the bars were reassuringly patronised, the interiors being off-base, I had decided aforethought not to frequent them but carry on social distancing. So, whilst my wife dunked herself, I simply went for a stroll, and when I had strolled enough waited for her on a bench like the perfect husband I am.
Example of brand new old: Neoclassical building on the coastal path, Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
My fascination along this particular pedestrian thoroughfare is with the architectural anomaly. It is so outrageously ~ in an entrancing sort of way ~ diverse, with no two buildings the same either in scale or point of style. It is not visually unheard of, for example, to have a brand-spanking new hotel ~ all curvilinear, porticoed, sleek and slick in metal and glass and conspicuously erect ~ rubbing shoulders, I should say, with a great, grey giant of a building, a sad and sorry-looking concrete block of flats, neglected, uninhabited, windows open and vacant like the proverbial eyes in skulls and next to it, abstrusely, a red-brick castle pastiche, festooned with mini-turrets, or a vast building in magnolia-coloured stone boasting all the attributes of neoclassical architecture in its most defining form standing next to a humble shack, a distressed-brick and weathered wooden domicile with its roots in Eastern Prussia but with the added Soviet enhancements of an asbestos roof, steel railings and bulwarking metal sheets. I could walk up and down this road all day marvelling at these sites, which are far more interesting, and infinitely more imaginative, than anything you would see today on the fashion-circuit catwalks.
This lovely old building overlooks the sea along the Zelenogradsk coastline. Its much sought after location almost certainly means it will be demolished to make way for a palatial new residence, or, more likely, hotel. Myself, I would go for renovation. There is nothing like restoring heritage and making it your home.
Our excursion to the beach tomorrow would take me even further along this road, to a place of architectural extravagance the likes of which I have never beheld before, but more of this in a later post.
The sea and my wife having been reacquainted, it was now time to walk into town and purchase some bottles of ale from a well-stocked shop on Zelenogradsk’s high street. I would like to include these delights in my bottled beers of Kaliningrad appraisal, which I started compiling last week, but notwithstanding that they were not bought in the city itself, a minor point that could be overlooked, I have limited my bottled beer review to include brands that are generally available in supermarkets, so I will possibly leave the ones I tried today for a future specialist category on craft and imported beers.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Now, coronavirus has brought about a number of changes both in attitudes and lifestyle, some seemingly seismic, others more subtle. Like Nigel Farage, who on his Facebook page posted ‘103 days since I last drank a pint in a pub’, it has been 106 days-plus since I drank a beer in a bar or restaurant. Drinking at home is not my cup of tea, although that is what I drink there, and I have to say that sitting on a park bench and drinking ~drinking alcohol that is ~ is one of those dubious pleasures in life which up until now has passed me by. Today, however, as my wife wanted to go swimming again, and as I would rather be outdoors than in, whilst she got ready to swim this evening I packed up my beer in my old kit bag ready to find that bench.
To be honest it was not as bad as I had anticipated. All in life is relative and when you have been cooped up for the greater proportion of 106 days, a park bench and a bottle of beer is paradise. As the song goes, ‘the bare necessities of life will come to you!’
Mick Hart, in the company of a bottle of beer, happy to be on a bench on Zelenogradsk beach (July 2020)
