Tag Archives: expat Kaliningrad

Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT a Lesson in Harmony

Balt Restaurant Zelenogradsk Review

Updated: 30 June 2024 | First Published: 29 January 2023 ~ Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT a Lesson in Harmony

I’m sure, almost certain, that it was not there 18 months ago when I last visited Zelenogradsk (doesn’t time fly!), but it was there now. I am talking about a new restaurant ~ new to me ~ that sits smack bang at the midway point of Zelenogradsk’s serpentine high street: a large, impressive, luxurious establishment set back from the street inside a broad paved plaza, its plate-glass single-storey extension forming a scaled juxtaposition against the taller four-storey building to which it is attached, the latter meticulously refurbished to a grand and imposing standard.

In the winter months when we were in town, the first impression of this restaurant from the outside looking in was PC; that’s not politically correct, but plush and cosy.

It was bitterly cold that day, and if the hallmark of a successful bar or restaurant is principally defined by the pulling power it possesses to tempt one off the street, then rest assured Balt restaurant has it.

Oh, did I forget to tell you? The name of the restaurant is Balt.

The first impression from the exterior of the building, which is so categorically bourgeoisie that Lenin had turned his back to it, was swish. I made a mental note, a simple equation: plush+posh+impressive+coastal-resort-town-centre = expensive. So, let’s jump to the bill. We had three dishes, nothing elaborate, a speciality tea and a glass of beer. It didn’t break the bank.

The second impression the Balt conveys is ‘big’. “It’s so big!” say your senses, when perhaps what they should be saying is not that it’s so ‘big’ but “It’s so tall”! In keeping with the modern trend in bar and restaurant design, the Balt is undeniably big, but, initially and accurately, the spaciousness perceived is confined to the height of the ceiling. In fact, the seating area which leads away from the entrance hall is limited to the perimeter of the extended part of the building; it forms the letter ‘L’, being a long, but slightly wider than the word implies, corridor. This is because, once again conforming to popular predilections, the restaurant is built around the kitchen, in other words built to a plan in which a centralised kitchen is King.

In the olden days, restaurants concealed their kitchens as though they were the black sheep of the family, the philosophy seeming to be ‘out of sight, out of mind’. This closeted mentality was an excellent way of keeping patrons on edge, since they never knew come the following morning, having enjoyed their meal the night before, whether their friends would be ready and waiting to scream, “You didn’t eat there, did you!” and then hamming it up with relish, proceed to recount in lurid detail the latest hygiene scandal.

Today, there is no need to be told by the ‘well-meaning’ ~ friends, family or the media ~ what goes on in restaurant kitchens, because everything is on display and laid out for the eyes to see. Restaurant kitchens have come of age. They are open, accessible, uninhibited, something to be admired, something to be proud of, not hidden away like a seedy back room in the depths of a mucky book shop. Restaurant kitchens have been emancipated, and a large part of that liberation lies in the transformation from an observance of cautious propriety to out-and-out exhibitionism.

True, some bar and restaurant designs tend to over-egg the soufflé. Displaying a kitchen eagerly in all its stainless steel, hygiene-oriented, busy, industrious, functioning glory is one thing, but it is quite another and quite inexcusable to overdo the exposure. Thankfully, Balt’s kitchen is a far more sophisticated and in-keeping centrepiece, enabling it to escape comparison with a man in a mac on a hill surrounded by too little foliage. I think the word I am searching for is ‘subtle’.

In fact, everything about Balt, not in its individual accoutrements but taken as a job lot, regarded in its entirety, is the epitome of subtle. How this works exactly is rather clever, because Balt is far and away not without a surprise or two, not undernourished in novelty.

Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT

We were able to appreciate both the component parts of this dichotomy and its overarching effect from the favourable location of the table to which we had been escorted. The seats to which we had been shown occupied the latter portion upon the longer extension of the ‘L’ shaped room, almost at its inflection, thus availing us of a first-class view of each and all the different elements, which, when assembled as a whole, add up to the Balt experience.

First off, we were close to the kitchen, just a few feet away from the serving area: a long, curved counter on which chefs add the finishing touches to the dishes they are preparing before popping them into the tandoor oven, and from which attentive waiters pick up meals that are ready to go.

From our vantage point, we had a privileged view of the kitchen and the floor-to-ceiling tandoor, a large cylindrical-shaped oven used for baking unleavened flatbreads and for roasting meat. Once the open oven door and blazing fire beyond had ceased to remind me of crematoria, it was fun to watch the chef at work, sliding the various dishes and breads into the wood-fired oven with the help of a peel, a long-handled shovel-like implement with a flat metal pan attached to its furthest extremity.

Chef uses tandoor oven in Zelenogradsk restaurant Balt

Looking straight ahead, I noted with satisfaction the high-backed wooden chairs belonging to the nearest table. The back rests consisted of two vertical ebonised planks slightly angled toward one another. Close to their highest point a pair of semi-circles had been cut out so that in alignment they formed a circle. The only other concession to decoration was the seemingly random inclusion of small, pierced motifs ~ simple shapes which donated a touch of mystique without disturbing the minimalist balance.

Ebonised plank chair in resturant frequented by Mick Hart

My forward view also provided examples of ingenious lighting styles, including a heavy, orange tassel-roped pendant and lampshades mimicking small sheaths of straw.

Rope lamp shade in Zelenogradsk restaurant

The tables to the left and behind me were objects to be marvelled at. The tops were made of marble, the ends scalloped to give an uncut look. They were supported on a cluster of angled posts, recycled wave-breaking poles, some of which had been allowed to protrude through the table’s surface, and hovering above them with remarkable pendulosity was a clump or cluster of shell-like bowls, off-white in shade and in shape asymmetrical, which had me wondering, out loud as it happens, if they were really made from the pumpkin skins I imagined they were or from moulded papier-mâché

Zelenogradsk restaurant tables Flintstone-style.

Every item in the Balt’s atmospheric makeup is an imagistic letter in the word and concept of ‘Natural’: wood, stone, fire, rope, straw, vegetables. At one end of the subtle spectrum, Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble would not look out of place, but the Balt’s natural is a polished natural that borrows as much for its appeal on the application of chic sophistry as it does from down-to-earth and back-to-nature.

Crazy paving restaurant floor Baltic Coast

For all its emphasis on the natural world, Balt’s designers’ have hedged their bets, choosing not to preclude but include the fashionable tried and tested, omniprevalent in bar and restaurant, distressed industrial look.

This approach has become so widespread that it has gone beyond ‘must have’ to ‘can’t do without’. In the Balt, it has gone one further, becoming ‘Would you Adam and Eve it, the concept actually works!’: rocks, marble, stoneware vases, corn plants, vegetables and pieces of tree, rub along quite nicely, thank you, with gnarled brickwork, whitewashed slat-board, old beam ceilings, exposed ventilation ducts and suspended arty farty spots.

Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT old brickwork

It is a tribute to Balt’s interior designers that they have managed to pull off a subtle, seamless fusion of modern chic and reclaimed-rundown and then wrap it all up in an eco-friendly ethnicity.

Harmony at the Balt restaurant, Zelenogradsk

In a nutshell ~ and I am sure that Balt would approve of the use of such natural imagery ~ the key word to Balt’s come-hither and dine-within appeal is harmony. Everything, including things that would normally be at odds with each other, are wedlocked. It might be a marriage of convenience, but one that is no less perfect for it. Even the ethnic music, with its emphasis on tom-tom beat and repetitive chanting, is low-key, Sade-like and subtle.

At the centre and everywhere else of this is lighting. I’ve said it before; I’ve said it again; I’ll say it again and keep on saying it: from Restaurant Guy Savoy in Paris to The Four Seasons B&B in Brightlingsea, if the lighting is not right everything else will be wrong. Lighting is the magic drawstring that pulls everything together.

Balt’s lighting is soft, suffused and artistically modulated: a harmonising integration of ambient-sensitive ceiling spots and downlighters, overhead table pendants ~ each paired with its own novel shade ~ soft-glow wall lights, natural fire and candles. It’s good, because it works. It works because it’s good.

At this juncture, I know what you are thinking: So much for the Balt’s design; what about the grub?

Those of you who have read any of my bar/restaurant reviews will know that when it comes to food I’m hopeless. Why do I go to bars? To drink. Why do I go to restaurants? Usually because the company I’m in wants to go to restaurants, and so I tag along, but also because, as you may have deduced, I am an ardent fan of interior design and a connoisseur of atmosphere.

As a baked-beans-on-toast man, a man who likes simple food, I cannot provide you with a gourmet breakdown of the range of food Balt has to offer or the quality of its meals, and neither shall I try. However, a quick twirl around the internet should satisfy your curiosity. It might even tell you all you need to know.

Our order at the Balt amounted to a snackette: a spicey vegetable platter on oven-baked bread ~ a white leavened flatbread similar in texture and taste to naan ~ and some exotic-looking poppadoms. It was not in the least expensive, but I will say that presentation took precedence over quantity. Now, were you to indulge in a main meal, the situation may be completely reversed or, like everything else at Balt, a happy medium struck.

I had a beer, naturally. It was palatable but served up in one of those peculiar ‘neither here nor there’ glasses, ie glasses that are neither small nor large, which frankly I find irritating. Half a litre, fine; half a half litre, fine; anything else exceeds my mathematical ability (see Soul Garden post).

Mick Hart at the Balt restaurant in Zelenogradsk

Olga Hart at Balt restaurant in Zelenogradsk

The Balt, I am told, offers a range of dishes based on Indian subcontinent fare, which is something of a luxury in this part of the world. The prices are so-so, but not so expensive that they will tear the lining out of your pocket, and the carefully choreographed atmosphere, which is as restful and relaxing as it gets, beats anything I have experienced anywhere else in the Kaliningrad region or for that matter in the UK. Recommend the Balt? I’d buy it if I could!

The main thing
Balt (restaurant)
Kurortny Prospekt, 16, Zelenogradsk, Kaliningrad region

Tel: +7 906 238 99 74

Website: https://balt.rest/

💚 Around the Kaliningrad region

Angel Park Hotel > An inspirational rural recreation centre on the site of an East Prussian settlement
Amber Legend Restaurant > Amber Legend Yantarny, a jewel in the coastal town of Yantarny
Fishdorf Country Guest Complex > A family-oriented retreat, secluded and steeped in nature
Fort Dönhoff (Fort XI) > An evocative 19th century redbrick fortress, part of Königsberg’s labyrinth defence network
Polessk Brewery > Beer, history and German-Gothic architecture (that’s my personal order of preference!)

It’s that man in the Russian hat in Bedford!

May this fair land we love so well in dignity and freedom dwell

28 May 2023 ~ It’s that man in the Russian hat in Bedford!

Great news! That is, great news if you are a dinosauric socialist or a politically challenged liberal: the results of the UK local elections suggest that Labour are back on track to break into Number 10 next year. It is rumoured that when this catastrophe happens, the first item on Queer Stammer’s agenda will not be to reverse rampant crime on our streets or stem the terrorist threat but to reverse Brexit in all but name. A politician, who wishes to remain Anonymous, as he hasn’t had a sex change, has disclosed that a bill will be produced (abracadabra!) that will ensure that whilst officially the UK is no longer a vassal state of the Evil bully-boy Union, the bureaucrats in Brussels will be firmly back in the driving seat.

Beyond rumour is the sure certainty that the UK’s immigration crisis, that is the one the Conservatives are powerless to prevent because, and I quote, of ‘legal challenges’ ~ time for Sorryarse’s UK legal-system to be investigated and overruled ~ is about to go from bad to worse.

The lefties have always been advocates of open-door immigration. After all, it was introduced by Mr Blair and his cronies as a pre-emptive measure to shore up the loss, which they rightly anticipated, of the white-working-class vote when the old grassroots socialists finally cottoned on, which eventually they did but only after it was much too late, that under Mr Blair’s stewardship New Labour had ceased to be the party of whippets, flat hats and pigeons, and that they and their tired old Marxist policies had been well and truly shafted. No one, not even the Neanderthal socialists, asked for multiculturism, and yet many just went along with it because since their grandads voted Labour they hadn’t the gump to ask themselves why they should do the same.

Neither did we ask for a free-for-all immigration fiasco. In fact, the majority voted Brexit to call for a halt to immigration, and what did we get in return? The net result under Tory rule is that immigration has soared to hitherto inconceivable heights. We also voted Brexit to loosen the pseudo-liberal stranglehold on every law that governs our land, particularly countercultural laws that originate from and are weaponised by the European Convention of Human Rights, the sole-serving purpose of which are to pave the way for mass immigration, a move that Britons pay dearly for, always in cash, often with lives. This, we are told, is social enrichment, when all that is enriched by uncontrolled third-world migration are the symbiotic coffers of the UK’s legal profession, the political mannequins on the end of the strings and the shadowy globalist figures whose hands control the strings that make those mannequins dance to their tune.

We will greet them on the beaches!
Sir Winston Chapelcliff

The proof is in the political pudding: You can vote as much as you like in Britain, but you’ll never get what you voted for. Other democracies around the world are routinely dismissed in Britain by its media and its political class, who refer to them as ‘managed democracies’, the implication being that we should think ourselves jolly lucky that the democracy in which we live is perfectly mismanaged.

At the end of the day, and every day, the cronies that govern our country, whichever party to which they belong, happily and arrogantly ride roughshod over all we believe in and all that we hold dear. Even now, as Enoch Powell’s predictions of ‘Rivers of Blood’ flow from cerebral to credible, the British media continues to praise the heinous game of migration chess foisted on us by a man whom it egregiously applauds as a ‘philanthropic billionaire and champion of human rights. They over egg the diversity soufflé whilst putting down the culinary critics who see it for what it is, as sickly as sick can be, by labelling them as conspiracy theorists and disciples of the far right. And should everything else in their bag of tricks fail, leaving nothing to dissemble with, they fall back on their second-rate act, drop Putin’s name into the mix and blame it all on the Russians.

Hats enough of hat!

You have just read the preface of two seemingly disconnected but actually interdependent actions: the singing of a song entitled There Always Was an England and an overwhelmingly strong compulsion to put on my Russian hat.

Look, it’s that man in the Russian hat!

Earlier this month I took my autocratic Russian hat for a test drive in the English countryside. On a date not to be disclosed for fear that they might travel back in time and attempt to rewrite history (the lefties are always at it), I plonked my hat upon my head and went for a stroll around Bedford.

Now, at any other time in the glorious history of our sovereign country, this would have posed no problem, but today, with almost every English town and city looking, sounding and feeling like the asylum version of Noah’s Ark, keeping a firm hand on one’s tiller is a crucial prerequisite for navigating dangerous urban waters.

This, as it happens (Jimmy Saville was fond of this phrase) is a convenient water-related metaphor, because the first place that my Russian hat took me was along the side of Bedford’s Embankment, next to the River Great Ouse.

Noah is not an English name, so there is a very good chance that he was one among a group of men idling near the water’s edge looking as though they had landed from Eastern Europe. Perhaps Noah himself had brought them?

You could tell that they belonged to the Tracksuit Bottom Club, because all were wearing tracksuit bottoms. They were gathered in a circle, and one of the men, the one with the most superior bottoms, was addressing the rest in earnest, or possibly Lithuanian, or it might have been Ukrainian (do they have a language?). The group was listening so attentively that its leader must have been giving them tips on how to work the benefit system, which was fortunate for me, as I glided past them in my hat like something hypersonic and, undetected by enemy radar, arrived at Bedford’s Suspension Bridge without comment, let or hinderance.

A thing of beauty!

It was a lovely day to be standing above the River Great Ouse wearing a Russian hat. A couple of swans went by, who must have been working for border security because they took as much notice of me loitering in my Russian hat as they would a flotilla of boat people cruising into Dover.

A bus pulled up outside the Embankment Hotel, and from it alighted a gaggle of shadowy personages who went inside the building. Was it one of those freebee buses paid for by the government? Sorry, I mean paid for out of the British taxpayers’ pocket? “Don’t go to the Embankment bar,” whispered a prophetic voice. It was the same voice that long ago had advised me quite correctly to “Avoid the BBC licence fee as one would avoid the plague!” Yet again, I thought it prudent to act on its advice. As an Englishman in England, I had to watch my step! I watched them all the way back to Bedford Town Bridge.

Where did you get that hat?

If there is one thing in life that never ceases to amaze me, and I assure you it’s not the Labour party, it is just how useful bridges are when you want to cross from one side to the other, and Bedford Town Bridge is no exception. Built in 1813 and expanded in 1938, the bridge insisted I stand upon it and have a photo taken wearing my Russian hat!

You can tell it is not a selfie, for, if it was, I would have been pouting and looking like a ten-year old thanks to the camera’s filter. Not having any tats, well, not that I can show you, and without a ring stuck through my snout or a bolt thrust through my lip, the risk of doing something like that, taking a selfie that is, was slim to say the least.

I had my photo taken and then pressed on, passing numerous people young and old alike, who didn’t even see me let alone my Russian hat because every zombie one of them was twiddling on their mobile phones as if they’d sold their soul to Bill Gates, which in effect they had.

Within less time than it takes to invent a pandemic and cash in on those fatal jabs, I came at last to the High Street, which was busy, busy, busy. As I had not been asked to produce my passport, I assumed I was still in England. It’s just not that easy to tell anymore.

I crossed over the zebra crossing, well why not? That, like bridges, is what they are there for, and continued in the same direction in which I had been going. All of a sudden, a strange looking fellow dressed in a pea-green T-shirt clutching a first-prize trophy that had been given to him gratuitously by the world’s most apolitical club ~ it ironically goes by the name of Eurovision ~ turned tail and ran. Had he seen my hat? The last I saw of this funny little man, he was heading towards the offices of the Government in Exile located on Britain’s ‘Take Anyone Street’. Man, that’s an awfully crowded street ~ innit!

I was now standing in one of Bedford’s most populated thoroughfares, next to Debenhams, that has closed, not far from Beales, which has closed, just around the corner from Eurovision Stores, many of which, like borders, are open (A round of applause from the Liebour party!). So far only two people had noticed my hat. I don’t know how they did it, as both have silly great faces of metal and all they do all day long is stand and stare at each another. These ‘statues’ in the centre of Bedford are worth every penny that you, the taxpayer, paid for them: trust me, I’m a politician.

From here it was all downhill to Ethnic Street, or Midland Road as it is sometimes known. Surely someone here would be a specialist in spotting Russian hats? But no, so off we went to Wetherspoons. It being at this juncture not just as good a place to stop as any but the place where stopping is most desirable, and that’s an unarguable fact! — you wouldn’t want to walk further, believe me you really wouldn’t.

Over a thoughtful pint in Wetherspoons we, my camera crew and I, considered chancing our hat in Bidenham, er sorry I meant to say Biddenham, the home of the Ukrainian flag, but came to the conclusion that as the virtue-signalling folk who live there exhibit obvious limitations in independent thinking, the likelihood of any one of them understanding Cyrillic was much less in their favour as was looking silly in the eyes of the world.

Perhaps I should start a beginner’s course in reading Russian hats at Bedford College. We could follow the immigration paradigm: First come, all served! Discounted fees for the naive, especially those voting Green or Labour. But hurry, as places and brain cells are limited! Just quote the password dorac!!

Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations Win First Prize

Zelenogradsk ~ streets ahead with imaginative decorations

Published: 10 January 2023 ~ Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations Win First Prize

In the UK, the festive season is well and truly over. Unless you had a better time than most, the last remnants of the New Year’s Eve hangover will have sailed way into the ether, along with the memories you cannot remember and those you wish to forget. But here, in Russia, the festive holidays do not peter out until the morn of the 15^th of January. This is because the Russian Orthodox Church follows the old Julian Calendar and not the Gregorian one, so, although some religious denominations still celebrate Christmas day on the 25^th December and the big festive night for Russians is the same as that for the Scotties, New Year’s Eve, Russians also celebrate Orthodox Christmas on the 7^th January and Orthodox New Year’s Eve on the 14^th January. That’s an awful lot of celebrations in one month, but it does mean that the municipal decorations remain intact until the middle of January.

Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations Win First Prize

Bearing this in mind, I took a trip to the Baltic seaside resort of Zelenogradsk on the 9^th of January to shiver in front of the sea and say hello to what are without question the most inspiring display of Christmas decorations this side of the Russian border.

I have no idea whether Kaliningrad holds a Best Decorated Christmas Street in the Region competition, but if it did, the main street of Zelenogradsk would win hands down. Words like magical and enchanting easily spring to mind, along with novel, imaginative and even bizarre!

This year I took my camera along with me and, although the snaps that I have taken do not do the panoply near enough justice, they do manage to give an idea of the thought and effort that each shop, café, bar, restaurant, etc put into producing the best expression of Christmas joy. They certainly make my Christmas baubles look pathetic in comparison, even when lit with flashing lights.

Which of the Christmas ensembles along Zelenogradsk High Street would I nominate for first prize? That’s a tough ‘un’. I’ll leave it to you to decide.

Christmas decorative arch in Zelenogradsk

Amber Empire Zelenogradsk decorated for festive season

Snowmen Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations

Christmas decorated shopfronts Zelenogradsk 2022/3

Vintage Carriage Zelenogradsk High Street

Zelenogradsk specialist marzipan shop decorated for Christmas

Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations, Meeskkee, teddy bears

Zelenogradsk Christmas Decorations with Olga Hart

Unusual Christmas decoration on Zelenogradsk

Some relevant links

Zelenogradsk Lit Up Like a Christmas Tree!
Amazed at the Museum of Skulls and Skeletons Zelenogradsk
An Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with a Bear and Beer

Life in Kaliningrad Russia under threats and sanctions

Do I detect an air of Pofik!?

Published: 3 July 2022 ~ Life in Kaliningrad Russia under threats and sanctions

With Lithuania threatening to blockade Kaliningrad by restricting transit of goods from mainland Russia by train, the Latvian Interior Minister gleefully announcing that this proved that the West was poised to ‘take Kaliningrad away from Russia’¹ and the Prime Minister of Poland making so much noise that it is difficult to tell whether it is his sabre rattling, his teeth chattering or something else knocking together, it looked as though once again the storm clouds had begun to gather over the former region of the Teutonic Order.

I cannot say with any semblance of sincerity that, as the shadow slowly dispersed, the Kaliningrad populace breathed a sigh of relief for, quite frankly, and with no flippancy intended but wanting as always to tell it how it is, nobody ~ at least nobody that I am acquainted with ~ seemed to give a fig.

You can put it down to whatever you like: the Russian penchant for c’est la vie, faith in themselves and their country, a growing immunity to the West’s mouth and trousers or perhaps the absence of a corporate media that makes its fortune by pedalling fear. But whatever you ascribe it to, if the residents of Kaliningrad were supposed to feel afraid, it didn’t happen.

Perhaps it was because we were all too busy laughing at Boris Johnson’s jokes, the ones about the situation in Ukraine never occurring had Vladimir Putin been a woman, which, Boris woked, was “the perfect example of toxic masculinity’ (By the way, what is the definition of non-toxic masculinity? Is it where you rove around without your pants on having painted your gonads rainbow colours? Or when go into hiding like President Turdeau whenever you hear a trucker’s horn?) and his suggestion at the G7 Summit that the leaders of the ‘free’ world (free with every packet of neoliberal dictatorship) should take off their clothes to equal the manliness of Vladimir Putin, to which Mr Putin replied, and I think this is something we can all agree on, “I don’t know how they wanted to undress, waist-high or not, but I think it would be a disgusting sight either way.”² Er, I assume that Boris was joking ~ wasn’t he? ~ and joking on both accounts?

Alack-a-day if he wasn’t, they just might be some of the most stupid things he has ever said. That’s a close call, because occasionally, but very seldomly and most likely accidentally, Boris can say things that make some sense, not much and not often, but it does happen, which is more than can be said for anyone in the Labour party ~ or about any and all of their supporters. But you must admit, Boris, that the things you are blurting out of late do have a rather silly public schoolboy wheeze about them. Were you the President of the United States at least you could plead senility or, failing that, insanity. But beware! Keep on behaving like this and you’ll make yourself the perfect candidate for filling Biden’s boots when Biden’s booted out.

I suppose we should all just take a step backwards and feel thankful that in the pre-bender-gender days of Winston Churchill, the great man himself was endowed with more than his fair share of so-called ‘toxic masculinity’, had he not been, we’d all be speaking German now. Mein Gott!

We don’t. And the storm over Kaliningrad and the storm in a teacup, the G7 Summit, both failed in their endeavours.

Actually, I have been rather parsimonious with the truth, I mean about the storm in Kaliningrad. It did break and when it did, it surprised everyone. After a glorious week of sun, sand and sea weather, Kaliningrad and its region were suddenly plunged into the most frightful and persistent series of electric storms that I have ever experienced.

For three days and nights, the firmament’s guts growled, sheets of livid light flashed across the sky, and lying there in bed listening to it, as we didn’t have much choice, it was easy to imagine that the entire world was forked ~ forked with lightning!

Olga was in a right old tizz. To her it was a celestial sign, a sign that her tarot-card readers and crystal-ball gazers, whose predictions she believes implicitly and to whom she refers collectively as the esoterics, and whom I call snake-oil salesmen, had got it right: change was in the air, tumultuous change. This was the start, the new beginning, the tip of the dawn of a different world. As strange as it may seem, Gin-Ginsky our cat did not appear to have any opinion on it at all, or, if he did, he was saying nothing. He is a very diplomatic cat. He might also be a very crafty cat.

Considering him to be a little less slim than he used to be, Olga recently changed his food to a product branded ‘Food for Fat Cats’. This and the use of the word ‘light’ on the packet obviously implying dietary benefit. Our cat Ginger loves it. He scoffs it twice as fast as his usual food and in ever-increasing quantities. Every now and again he will look up from his bowl between mouth fulls and fix you with his ginger eyes as if to say, “I’ll show you!” Perhaps, the ‘Food for Fat Cats’ tag line is meant to read ‘Food to make cats fatter’? I must remember to warn him, if he ever attends a G7 Summit, not to take his shirt off!

Those of you who in the West, especially those of you who changed your avatars and are now ashamed you did so (but will never admit to it!), are dying to hear, I know, how badly the sanctions are biting here in Kaliningrad. That’s why I mentioned the cat: he’s biting his grub. But I would be Boris Johnson should I say that the price of cat’s grub has not gone up. But what other things have gone up (ooerr Mrs!), or are we all eating cheaper brands of cat food?

I know that an interest in this exists because lately a lot of people have been tuning into my post Panic Buying Shelves Empty. I can only presume that this is down to Brits kerb-crawling the net in search of hopeful signs that western sanctions are starting to bite. In a couple of instances, we, like our cat, are biting into different brand-named foods than those we used to sink our gnashers into, the reason being, I suppose, because the brands that we used to buy belong to manufacturers who have been forced into playing Biden’s spite-your-nose game: Exodus & Lose Your Money. Also, in some food categories, price increases have been noted. Pheew, what a relief. If these concessions did not exist then the whole sanctions escapade would be more embarrassing than it already is for leaders of western countries who are ruining their own economies by having introduced them.

Were we talking about beer? Well, we are now. Some beer brands are absent, although the earlier gaps in shelves have since been filled with different brands from different companies and from different parts of the world. Those that are not the victims of sanctimonies, which is to say those that still remain, do reflect a hike in price, but as prices fluctuate wildly here at the best of times it is simply a matter of shopping around as usual.

So, there you have it. Not from the bought and paid for UK corporate media and their agenda-led moguls but from a sanctioned Englishman living in Kaliningrad, Russia, who is willing to swear on a stack of real-ale casks, honestly, one hand on heart and the other on his beer glass, that life in Kaliningrad under threat and sanctions has changed so little as to be negligibly different to life as it was in the days of pre-sanctioned Kaliningrad.

If I have disappointed your expectations, I’m sorry.

References
1. Russia threatened NATO with a “meat grinder” when trying to take Kaliningrad Russian news EN (lenta-ru.translate.goog)
2. https://www.rt.com/russia/558107-putin-boris-johnson-response/

Image attributions
Thunderbolt: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Mr-Thunderbolt-cloud-vector-image/31288.html
Fat man: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/fat-man-clipart_4.htm

Amber Legend Yantarny is a jewel in the coastal town!

Yantarny: sea, sand and the Amber Legend restaurant

Updated: 24 August 2022 | First published: 30 April 2022 ~ Amber Legend Yantarny is a jewel in the coastal town!

The ‘Amber Restaurant’ as people refer to it, although its real name is Amber Legend, is located in Yantarny, a small coastal resort nestled on the edge of the Baltic in Russia’s Kaliningrad region. Yantarny is held in high regard for its Blue Flag beach, which is all white sand, and for its good, clean air.

It is also known for the Amber Legend, a novel and attractive restaurant cunningly constructed on a split-level plan.

Built on a fairly steep incline, the pavement entrance to Amber Legend accesses what is effectively the upper ground floor, while the doors at the rear of the building lead to the lower level.

Externally, the building is invested with more than a touch of the neoclassical. It follows a simple but imposing geometrical outline, with dominating rectangular upright supports, a balustrade balcony traversing the width of the building and a matching balustrade parapet. After an introduction of this calibre, anything less internally, both upper and lower level, would be disappointing, but happily this is not the case: aesthetic integrity and continuity are safely, indeed inspiringly, assured.

The question is, however, why did the proprietors of the Amber Legend not call their establishment ‘Blue Flag restaurant’, ‘good clean air’ or ‘split-level neoclassical eatery’? Why the ‘Amber’ and why the ‘Legend’?

There are two possible reasons, one lesser known to some and the other, one trusts, obvious to anyone who has frequented the restaurant in person. The first most conceivably has to do with Yantarny’s massive amber reserves. Approximately 90 per cent of the world’s amber resources are sitting in Yantarny. They are mined upon an industrial scale using the open-quarry method.

The second, inspired by the first, has visible connotations, since both the exterior and interior of the building are lavishly decorated with variegated stones of genuine polished amber. Inside the restaurant the precious ancient resin is taken to another level of artistic meritocracy, as richly inlaid amber panels of many different hues sharing geometrical space with amber art assemblages. (Thanks for the word, Vit!) vie for your attention.

There are amber trims to the seats; amber-studded back rests; inset amber wall plaques; the bar is adorned with amber; and the ceiling-suspended lamp shades, bowls of amber inlay, are interwoven tiffany style.

Of particular note are the broad wooden panels, chain-hoisted close to the ceiling, each containing a window of different coloured amber stones lamp-backed for illumination.

Confoundingly, when we visited the restaurant, it was during the daylight hours, so that although in the room’s darker recesses some of the lamps were lit, the full effect of the interplay between light source and amber creation was lost in the dilution of overpowering, brilliant sunlight. However, the upside to this was in the excuse that it presented, which was as good as any that I could invent, for returning on an evening to witness what most assuredly must be a lighting display of artistic splendour.

Another sphere of artistic splendour, according to my wife, who had dined at Amber Legend before, was lurking in the toilets, and this, she said, was something that I must see.

Amber Legend Yantarny legendary toilet

Now, contrary to what you may have been told, I am not in the habit, not even rarely, of taking a camera into the toilet, but called upon by my wife to do so, strictly on account of the brilliance of the interior décor, I cast caution to the wind, in a manner of speaking, and made an exception on this occasion. The result of this promiscuity is documented here in two revealing photographs, illustrating the continuation of the amber theme, both in the ornamentation surrounding the wash basins and, more spectacularly, in a glass-windowed chamber recessed within the toilet floor, where chunks of amber of novel shapes and some of prodigious proportions turn everyday humble toilet into a veritable natural history museum, even at the inconvenience of others wanting to use the convenience.

You may have liked the loo, but do you like the blue? In my humble opinion, the TARDIS-blue woodwork that repeats itself throughout the restaurant, including the toilet, creates the perfect frame for the amber displays. It is just neutral enough without subsiding into plain and functions as a recall feature of Amber Legend’s personalised style. I call the colour TARDIS blue because recognisably that is what it is, which is why I should imagine we chose this colour for our TARDIS, the one that we built at home. But then, I suppose, it is not that unusual; just the colour of choice for everyone’s TARDIS.

At this point I would normally add a footnote about the food, so why disappoint. But first a caveat. As you probably recall, whilst making allowances for having been called gormless ~ and who wouldn’t want to be, for it is such a lovely word ~ gourmet I am not. Beer needs volume; food needs volume. There is only one winner. But, when we visited Amber Legend I was feeling rather peckish, so I did partake of the pizza, which was pretty good as pizza goes. However, my fellow patrons, who needless to say were more adventurous in their choice of dishes than I, as most normal people appear to be, reliably informed me that their meals were most enjoyable. And I have no reason to doubt their sincerity.

The verdict is, therefore, that when visiting this coastal jewel in Kaliningrad region’s amber crown (remember the name, Yantarny) make sure your experience is complete: Discover the Amber Legend!

Essential details

Amber Legend
66A Sovetskaya Ulitsa
Yantarny
Kaliningrad Olblast
Russia

Tel: +7 (401) 233-55-25

Open until 12am

Drinking Beer in the Premier Café Bar Kaliningrad

A review of the Premier Café Bar Kaliningrad by Mick Hart

Updated 20 August 2022 | First published: 25 April 2022 ~ Drinking Beer in the Premier Café Bar Kaliningrad

After a two-year coronavirus hiatus that, give or take the odd sortie, dissuaded me from drinking in bars, I allowed myself to be willingly seduced into returning to my sinful ways. The establishment we visited recently is not entirely my sort of place. It is a modern café-bar, all plate glass and open-plan, but as it is one in Kaliningrad that I was unacquainted with, and a place dispensing beer, to resist would have been inexcusable if not altogether futile.

The Premier Café Bar (aka Prem’yer Minstr Kafe Bar Magazin), Kaliningrad, is located inside a substantial building with the main entrance off Prospekt Leninskiy. It divides neatly into two parts: one side functioning as a ‘liquor store’ (they like this Americanisation in Kaliningrad); the other as a bar.

The off-licence facility (English off-licence sounds so 1950s’ corner shop, don’t you think?) has an impressive upmarket feel about it. Behind the low-level counter, the custom-made floor-to-ceiling shelves are stocked with an astounding array of imported spirits, including Jim Beam, my favourite bourbon, but in a series of flavoured variants of which my palate is virginally ignorant. In fact, many of these exotic imports I had never heard of and might not try for some time to come, considering the average price per bottle is a budget-busting 30-quid.

This disinclination to shell out unreservedly on something the price of which others might willingly accept may have its origins in my youth. There was a time in England when we could buy Jim in half-gallon bottles from the Yanks at the local airbase on a bartered goods and ‘at cost’ basis. In comparing the prices today, and taking into account the diminutive size of the bottles, I realise nostalgically that far from living a mis-spent youth, I had lived a youth well-spent or in the last analysis was a youth who knew how to spend well.

In addition to the well-stocked top-drawer spirit brands, Premier also boasts a regiment of chilling cabinets, which contain more varieties of beer than Russia has sanctions, if that is feasibly possible, and hosts a good selection of quality wines from vineyards around the world.

Premier bar

The other half of Premier is where the bar hangs out. It is a proper bar, with wooden stools lining its front and opposite a conforming row of fixed seats and tables, markedly similar in style to the sort of thing you would expect to find in a 1950s’ retro diner.

As I come from England (note, I never say from the UK because that would be too shameful), I have a natural predilection for bars which actually have bars in them, as opposed to bars where there is no bar, only table service. I liked this bar because it had a bar, and it had one with Premier written across it, which is something that I also liked because it helped to solve the mystery of where I was, as I had missed the name of the premises when we entered the building. It also had something unusual going on at one end of the bar, the leading end: an inbuilt feature resembling a truck or trolley. The significance of this embellishment was something that escaped me then and continues to elude me now, but as bamboozling as it was, it did not prevent me from liking it.

The big, old wooden beam above the bar, which acts as a suspended lighting console, and the ceiling-mounted wagon wheels in the room opposite, also have quirk appeal, but by far the most interesting and memorable difference that Premier bar possesses is that at the end of a long wide corridor, lo and behold there’s a bike shop! Now, this is a novelty, to be sure. Consider the possibility: one could stop at Premier for a bevvy or two, buy a bike and cycle back home. And I bet you’ll never guess what ~ this is precisely what I did not do.

Perhaps I would have felt more adventurous had I not been so busy admiring the chevron-tiled floor and, where retro posters are not covering it, the good old-fashioned brickwork. These accentuated traits compensate a little for Premier’s lack of old worldliness, which given the choice is the kind of environment in which I really prefer to drink and where once I am inside it is virtually impossible to prise me out.

Generally, Premiere’s décor both in the bar and off-sales, eschews the modern industrial style. The absolute connection between wagon wheels, hanging beams, rusticating trolleys, exposed ventilation tubes, art gallery sliding spotlights, exposed brickwork and retro posters may not be immediately apparent and may remain that way forever, as the Premier name offers no clues, unless, of course, it has something to do with what is invariably touted as the greatest invention of all, the wheel ~ as in wagon wheels? trolleys on wheels? Premier meaning first? Perhaps not.

To add to its collection of ideas, Premier fashionably utilises a range of different light fittings which flaunt the latest trend in visible filament bulbs. Who would have thought even a decade ago that the humble pear-shape light bulb with its limited choice of white or warm glow would morph so quickly and so dramatically into the numerous shapes, sizes and colours available today and all with their once latent elements proudly on display?

Visually, the Premier has more than enough going for it to fulfil the need for an interesting dining and drinking backdrop, which is good as it offsets the dreadful din clattering out of the music system. To be fair, this obtrusive and perfectly unnecessary adjunct is by no means exclusive to Premier; most bars seem compelled to inflict this modern excuse for music on their unsuspecting and long-suffering customers with little or no regard for conversation or atmosphere.

Of course, the problem could lie with us. After all, we are not in the first flush of youth. But call us wrinklies with hearing intolerance or people of discernment fortunate to have been born in and therefore to have lived through the age of pre-mediocrity, the fact remains that boom, boom, boom and lots of squiggly noisy bits iterating repetitively at ‘What did you say? Speak up!!’ volumes are more annoying than a slap on the arse, if not infinitely less surprising. Eventually, one of our august company, ex-Soviet Major V Nikoliovich, marched across to the bar and asked for the racket to be turned down. Oh, he can be so masterful!

He also evinces considerably more trust in fate than I could ever muster. For example, another of Premier’s novelty features is the under-floor display unit, containing various curious and random artefacts. The glass panel at floor level is something I carefully avoided, whereas VN exhibited an almost perverse and mischievous delight in deliberately perching his weight on top.

Where our paths, VN’s and mine, do converge is that we like to sample different beers. Today we were on the Švyturys, a once renowned lager first brewed in Lithuania by the Reincke family at the latter end of the 18^th century but which in more recent times has become part of the Carlsberg stable, one of those foreign breweries that perfunctorily closed its doors in Russia after the sanctions had bolted. I’ll lay odds on favourite They Wished They Hadn’t.

As we had already eaten, I cannot comment on Premier’s cuisine, although a quick whizz round the internet reveals that Premier receives consistently good reviews for its international fare and its excellent pizzas. My friends ordered some light snacks, which they seemed to enjoy, and although forever conscious of the need to prioritise volume for beer, I did permit myself to nibble upon a couple of cheesy balls, which seemed to go well with Švyturys.

Throughout our stay at Premier, the staff were attentive and accommodating, but why did I have the impression that they were on the verge of crying.

I forgot to look back when we left the cafe to see if the sight of a bunch of old farts who routinely complain about tasteless ‘music’ exiting the premises had wreathed their faces in much-needed smiles.

Had we have been in the States, crying or not, we would still have received a white toothy grin and a just as fictitious ‘Have a nice day’, which of course we wouldn’t have wanted and of course we would not have appreciated. C’est la vie, I suppose!

Essential details

Prime Minister Café Bar Kaliningrad
Prospekt Leninskiy 7
Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Oblast
Russia, 236006

Tel: +7 963 738 77 76

Opening hours
Monday to Sunday 8am to 4pm

Cuisine speciality
European, Italian, Japanese

More places in Kaliningrad
Dreadnought Pub & Music Venue Kaliningrad
Kavkaz Restaurant Kaliningrad
Mama Mia Restaurant

Stay Young & Avoid the Vaccine

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 483 [10 July 2021]

Published: 10 July 2021

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.”

Seems like the only way to go.

References
1. Our World in Data [https://ourworldindata.org/covid-vaccinations?country=OWID_WRL] [accessed 9 July 2021]
2. The Moscow Times [https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2021/07/09/coronavirus-in-russia-the-latest-news-july-9-a69117] [accessed 9 July 2021]
3. Mirror Online [UK records 29,000 Covid cases in worst day since January – with 37 more deaths – Mirror Online] [accessed 9 July 2021]
4. Mirror Online [ Long Covid: 14 symptoms that could be signs of illness – from insomnia to earache – Mirror Online] [accessed 9 July 2021]
5. BBC [https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-57772515] [accessed 9 July 2021]

Image attribute
Cute Baby: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/pi58ypdKT.htm

The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad

We will find them off the beaches

Published: 20 May 2021 ~ The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad

The Kaliningrad region has two main coastal resorts, Zelinogradsk and Svetlogorsk. When I first came to this part of the world twenty years ago, both were quiet, sleepy and remote, rundown by the destabilising repercussions of perestroika but no less charming and appealing in the history of themselves and the beauty of their location.

Fast forward to the coronavirus summer of 2020, and we open the TARDIS doors onto two highly developed and equally commercialised venues teaming with people, not only bonafide Kaliningradians but Russia’s World and its Wife.

Closed borders, bans on international air travel and a finely tuned and successful alternative ‘holiday at home’ programme have seen tourism rocket, the word on the street being that virtually every hotel in and around the two main coastal resorts and in Kaliningrad itself are pre-booked for the summer season. Last year, a friend of ours who has a dacha in Zelenogradsk that she rents out during the summer season was able to grant us a couple of weeks free accommodation, which we were pleased to accept. This year, her dacha is fully booked. We will have to sleep on the beach.

The natural beauty of the Baltic Coast, Kaliningrad

Kaliningrad Oblast, the Kaliningrad region, is a relatively small piece of land. In fact, locals refer to it as ‘small Russia’ as distinct from the Russian mainland, which is ‘Big Russia’. Although transport facilities have greatly improved, with good rail connections and upgraded rolling stock together with a spanking new road system of motorway standard, the sheer volume of people that flood here in the summer months and the increasing number of people moving here from Big Russia or, as a friend of ours put it, people with deep wallets who can afford to buy holiday homes, can, when the sun comes out, create if not a logistics nightmare at least a logistics headache.

For beach bums this is a bit of a bummer. The last thing that young, toned bodies eager to exhibit themselves on the best stretches of sandy beach want is to be stuck where they cannot be seen, all hot and sweaty, in a three-mile traffic tailback. What about my new tattoos or my little skimpy bikini! It is at times like these that Kaliningrad ‘O Blast’ really lives up to its name!

But take heart! All is not lost! For those of us who appreciate natural beauty, free from the face- and buttock-lifting Botox of commercialisation, the Kaliningrad region possesses many unique off-the-beaten-track locations that have not yet entered the telescopic sites of the cash-quick entrepreneur.

What these secluded coastal places do not have in terms of grand hotels and expensive restaurants, they more than make up for in timeless quality, and whilst they may be lacking in sandy beaches and ever-rolling waves they are also lacking in hordes of people. In other words, such places are the preferred habitat for the solace-seeking discerning coastal visitor, a haven for the sleepy backwater type who values the natural world above artifice and seclusion above high-density beach bathers.

The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad

It may take a little more effort to find where you are going to than it does when you go to the coastal resorts, but once you have arrived there you will be glad you made the trip.

True outdoor types will marvel at the idyll of small inlets shaped and shuttered by wetland reed beds that form a pie-crust pattern of coves along a rambling scenic coastline unmolested by change, a coastline replete with all kinds of waterfowl, a fascinating ecosystem offering beautiful views across the lagoon including inspiring sunrises and magnificent sunsets.

This chain of small coves is so tucked away from the modern world that as you sit there on one of the water-worn breakers gazing out to sea, Gates, Shutterbugger, indeed the entire Silicon Valley mob, seem as distant and insignificant as second-rate villains in a Marvel Comic (just don’t forget to switch off your mobile phone!).

Baltic Coast Zalivino — The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad

Here, the only connection that you need are those that connect you with the real world ~ your natural senses. Tune your mind to these and sentience just takes over.

The large boulder that you are sitting on could be one of a group, one of an arched construction that follows the shape of the cove, or an early rock in the long parade that stretches out into the bay. It is a good place on which to perch and contemplate, if it wasn’t, then why would those sea birds mimic you?

**Mick Hart & Olga Hart, Baltic Coast (May 2021)**

In some places the coves are beaches in miniature, wide enough to lay a blanket and to bed down on for an afternoon’s duration; in others, they are a natural composition of millions of small shells and tubular reed fragments.

Closer to civilisation, extensive gardens of old German and Soviet houses nestle just a few yards away from the waterline, whilst gnarled, split and hollowed out old crack willow trees, which generations of children, before PlayStation came along, made rudimentary playgrounds out of, still support swings and climbing ropes from their strong, low-lying, outstretched branches.

**Mick Hart & Olga Hart, Baltic Coast, Russia (May 2021)**

Away from the villages, nature takes over completely: on one side, the relatively still water surface shimmers on the lagoon, on the other, tall encompassing reeds, wetland meadows or dense woodland complement the sequestered scene.

The Kaliningrad region has two main coastal resorts, Zelinogradsk and Svetlogorsk. They are well publicised, and rightly so, as much for their beautiful sandy beaches and tantalising seascapes as for their history and their architecture. But the Kaliningrad region also has an evocative natural coastline, an ecological treasure trove that is as near and dear to the heart as it is far from the madding crowd. It is a many jewelled retreat in this extraordinary region’s crown; not somewhere where you go to, but somewhere where you go to be.

Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

An Englishman's Experiences of Life in Kaliningrad

Tag Archives: expat Kaliningrad

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Some relevant links

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Do I detect an air of Pofik!?

Amber Legend Yantarny is a jewel in the coastal town!

Yantarny: sea, sand and the Amber Legend restaurant

Amber Legend Yantarny legendary toilet

Drinking Beer in the Premier Café Bar Kaliningrad

A review of the Premier Café Bar Kaliningrad by Mick Hart

Premier bar

Stay Young & Avoid the Vaccine

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 483 [10 July 2021]

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.

Stay young & avoid the vaccine

The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad

We will find them off the beaches

The natural beauty of the Baltic Coast, Kaliningrad

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