Tag Archives: Olga Hart in Kaliningrad

Fort XI Kaliningrad Hosts Retro Car Club

Fort XI Kaliningrad Hosts Retro Car Club Day

Fort XI (Fort Dönhoff) Revisited

Published: 29 April 2021 ~ Fort XI Kaliningrad

The classic cars had been assembled in two parallel lines. Even though there were as many as 15 or 20, they were lost, engulfed by the vast piece of open ground on which they were parked in front of a landmark that has earnt itself the dubious reputation of being Kaliningrad’s most ugly whilst, ironically, most iconic post-war building.

I am referring, of course, to that concrete anomaly that replaced the beauty that was Königsberg Castle, the House of Soviets ~ a building much loved by western journalists in their quest to mythicise Russian austerity, and for all those who earnestly believe that nothing ever changes for the better, a reassuring reminder that their nihilism is not unfounded.

House of Soviets Kaliningrad
‘H’ for House of Soviets ~ it has the same ambiguous appeal as Marmite

Fort XI Kaliningrad: Retro Car Club Day

The classic cars lined up on the paved expanse belonged to members of the Kaliningrad Retro Car Club. The cars were standing in front of the House of Soviets as a prelude to being driven cavalcade fashion on to Fort Dönhoff, the eleventh of the twelve forts that form the outer ring of the city of Königsberg’s nineteenth century defence system.

As we were a few minutes early for kick-off, I used the time available to snap a few pictures, both of the cars and the House of Soviets. Rumour has it that after 50 years of non-occupation due to its having been constructed on ancient tunnels that rendered it unsafe the moment it was built (and yet it is still here?), the days of the controversial House of Soviets may be finally numbered. I can hear Elton singing “I’m still standing” and Leonard Cohen reminding us that “You hear these funny voices in the Tower of Song …”

Camper Van Kaliningrad Retro Car Club

How chilly it was on this late April day can be calculated from the thin blue palate of the sky and the fluffy white clouds skating across its surface. The breeze was slight, but whenever the sun disappeared behind one of these cotton-wool splodges, the 8 degrees that we had been promised by the weatherman dipped, and the chill factor bit home.

Nevertheless, after twelve months or more consigned for the most part to barracks on account of coronavirus, it was good to be out and about again, even quite amazing to be standing there permissibly in such an open and public space, with the tall buildings of the city in the background, the traffic bustling past and on the near horizon the always edifying and noble turret of Königsberg Cathedral.

Königsberg Cathedral view from House of Soviets
Königsberg Cathedral as seen from the former castle site ~ Kaliningrad, April 2021

Now that all the crew had arrived, it was time that we set off, and today we were in for a treat. We would be travelling to Fort XI in our friend Arthur’s Volga.

I have had the opportunity to ride in two or three Volga classics since moving to Russia. I love the typical 1960s’ interior — the low-slung front bench seat, the colour scheme that replicates that of the car’s exterior, the busy chromium dashboard, column-change gear stick, and, most of all, the arched transparent speedometer which, in its hey day, was as space-age chic as Sputnik (see first image in this post).

Unfortunately, Arthur’s speedo has the irritating tendency when the car is in motion to chatter a lot, and as we accelerated on the outskirts of the city, the chattering  increased with such velocity that Inara, Arthur’s wife, in a refreshing moment of complete indifference to the repressive nature of political correctness, made as if the noise was coming from a car-mounted submachine gun. For a fleeting second it looked as though she was wearing a small moustache and was that a wave she was giving or a rather silly salute?

Despite this fantasy, there was little doubt that we were not travelling in a 1939 Mercedes-Benz 770 Grosser Offener Tourenwagenas, not least because I have it on good authority that the suspension on this particular vehicle has a solid retaining quality, whereas, in my opinion, the Volga’s suspension is spongey, tending to rock the car about on Kaliningrad’s variable road surface like an afternoon romp on a waterbed.

From consideration of the vehicle’s suspension, I then found myself asking did Volgas, indeed any Russian cars of this period, have powered steering? I ask this question as it is a mystery to me whether our driver, Arthur, wrestles with the steering wheel because he has no choice, because it is required, or simply because it is his adopted driving style?

I do know that other drivers were pleased to see the old girl on the road ~ and I don’t mean my wife. Numerous cars tooted respectfully at the unusual sight of the senior citizen bouncing across the city ~ and I do mean the car, not me.

Fort XI Kaliningrad by retro car

We were jolting along the approach road to Fort XI, when our hitherto uneventful journey took a dramatic turn for the worst. Suddenly, Arthur switched off the engine, and we coasted the last few metres, arriving at the side of the carpark under a cloud of steam.

Thankfully, the fault was not a serious one. The articulated radiator screen, which should have been open, had closed itself, either because of a broken piece of wire or for want of a screw (steady!). Whichever it was, willing helpers from the car club were immediately on hand and the problem was resolved within minutes, demonstrating how, when cars were honestly mechanical, not stuffed with computerised gismos as they are today, all it would take was a little know-how, a spanner and a screwdriver and a quick-fix would be implemented.

Kaliningrad Retro Car Club

Arrival at Fort XI Kaliningrad

As we rolled past the perimeter gate of Fort Dönhoff, with the soldier’s grave to the left and the Soviet barb-wired emplacements to the right, I recalled my first visit to this heritage site back in 2015 and our last visit, which took place at the end of January 2020.

I wondered how this massive conservation/renovation programme had fared during the past 15 coronavirus months and how badly if at all the pandemic restrictions had affected business. Taking into consideration Russia’s nationwide policy to boost home tourism, whatever the downside, I reasoned, it had to be a good deal less dramatic than the impact Covid restrictions is having on business in western Europe.

Once the cars had been lined up exhibition fashion in front of the left arm of the fort, Olga and I decided to go and see what changes had taken place since we were last here.

Fort XI Kaliningrad Hosts Retro Car Club Day
Cars in the process of being lined up at the front of the fort
BMW Outside Fort XI Kaliningrad
Bring on the BMWs!
Olga Hart with Volkswagen Fort XI Kaliningrad
A German fort has to have a Volkswagen

I recalled Arthur ~ not Arthur of Kaliningrad Retro Club fame, but Arthur the man in charge of Fort XI’s reincarnation ~ saying on our last visit that he visualised one corridor inside the fort becoming a trading and exhibition street, so we decided to check this out first, stopping off on the way to rekindle some warmth over a cup of tea in the fort’s cafeteria.

Fort XI Kaliningrad developments

The vison of the ‘street’ had indeed been brought to fruition and atmospherically so. On our previous visit, you had to appreciate the vision with little vision, as the tunnel was lightless. But now illumination there was, set just at the right level so that you could see what you needed to see without compromising atmosphere.

I apologise to anybody if I have omitted them and their enterprise from this list, but, working from memory, on one side of the street the chambers leading from the main tunnel housed an antique shop, a coffee shop, a jewellers and amber specialist’s shop, an exhibition of military items leading to an evocative display at the base of the melted staircase (see my previous post on Fort XI Dönhoff) and a ‘rifle range’. On the opposite side the vaulted rooms had been opened up to allow access to the curious: one long, arched chamber contained haunting images of Königsberg as it had been before the war and as it was later, after the RAF had bombed it and after the battle for the city; whilst another room, judging by the cumbersome apparatus contained within it, appeared to be the fort’s original boiler house.

  • Fort XI Kaliningrad
  • Trading Street Fort XI Kaliningrad
  • Antique Shop Fort XI Kaliningrad
  • Cafe Fort XI
  • Branch Tunnel Fort XI
  • Grid Iron Doors Fort XI Kaliningrad
  • Shooting Range Fort XI Kaliningrad

Each room in the fortress is lovingly festooned with educational wall boards, which no doubt inform you of each exhibit and the interdependence that each room had to the fort’s military effectiveness, but, alas, as my ability to translate Russian is not as good as it should be I had to rely for the most part on my own perspicacity. And, it would seem, as my eyesight is not as good as it once was, I completely failed to notice that the newly erected ‘you are here’ boards, strategically placed in the tunnels and corridors, are all equipped with English translations. So, like the explorers of old, I plotted my course with vicissitude!

The past’s presence in Fort XI Kaliningrad

Standing once again in the main tunnel, taking my photographs, I became aware of the strange hush that descends on visitors once they have been swallowed up inside the fort’s subterranean maze, the possible joint consequence of acoustic absorption by the high, arched ceilings, the awesome madness of the construction in terms of sheer size and scale and the impenetrability of trying to imagine what it would have been like to have been a soldier stationed here, sentenced to serve and live in the echoing twilight of this vast brick warren.

Atmospheric Fort XI Kaliningrad
Relics of War Fort XI Kaliningrad
Relics of war …

Consulting my inbuilt compass, which seems to work on the principal of a magnetic attraction to vodka, I returned to the comparative warmth of the outside world and on the way met Arthur, architect of the fort’s restoration.

We had ‘bumped into’ him and his wife earlier in the café where we had briefly discussed ‘work ongoing’ and, meeting with him now, were privileged to be offered a tour of some of the other parts of the fort that we had visited last year, to see the changes that had been made.

The rooms and associated area focusing upon Königsberg’s war-time history and the fort’s involvement in the siege of Königsberg had undergone a rationalised re-configuration. The cabinet and wall displays of WWII Soviet weaponry, uniformed mannequins and such had been added to and re-assigned, and a wheel-mounted machine gun ~ possibly a DShK 1938 ~ took pride of place in the centre of the room (the sight of such a weapon would be enough to throw our British-Soviet re-enactors into uncontrollable raptures!). Likewise, the study area, complete with white board and electronic visual and auditory equipment, had been tweaked and moved to a better location. Last year these rooms had been good; now they were professional.

Our next stop was a large room, composed of three or four chambers, which, I seem to recall from our last visit, had been used for social functions. Indeed, this spacious room, with its grand open fireplace, would seem to make the perfect place for venues. However, we learnt today that it had been reassigned as a museum of fortification, whose educational resources were to be augmented using state-of-the-art virtual-reality.

As exciting as this promised to be, I have to admit I was disappointed. I suppose because I saw this room as the right place for a Wetherspoon’s pub ~ but, hey now, isn’t that typically me!

Fireplace Fort XI Kaliningrad

What our small party agreed on was that the rooms and corridors into which we had been shown were nice and warm, but lordy! — imagine how difficult and how expensive it must be to heat something of this magnitude!

From this suite of rooms we were taken outside across one of the interior grassed quadrangles, along a block-paved path to a door in one of the adjacent banks. I could see as we approached that this entrance had been tidied up and, indeed, fitted with one of Fort XI’s signature gridiron doors, two in fact, the interior one serving as an airlock to keep in the warmth from the central heating.

Inside, electric lighting clearly testified to the fact that a great deal of work had been undertaken in restoring the brickwork both in the walls and the floor. Apparently, each brick had been painstakingly cleaned by hand.

A spiral staircase inset in the wall led into a long chamber, wide enough to hold two tiers of desks. Above this chamber, accessible by the same staircase, lies a second chamber of identical proportions. And in each, as in almost every room in the fort, there are professionally designed and attractive wall-mounted information boards.

It looked like a school, and it was. Once complete, this combination of rooms is destined to facilitate Fort XI’s Spy School ~ an educational experience from which one will eventually graduate knowing all there is to know about the art, science and history of spying. Call me Maxwell Smart, I thought, as we descended the spiral staircase.

On our way back to base, I praised Arthur for the sterling work he and his crew had achieved in the past year, to which he graciously but wryly responded, as he did last year, there is still a great deal to do, adding that his reward for orchestrating the never-ending project lay in the cultural service that he was providing.

That is the joy of spending time with time travellers and historians. It is not just their knowledge that attracts but their love of the past in whatever form it takes to float their boat, and that obviously goes for cars as well.

Russian classic car enthusiasts are no different from their British counterparts in this respect, although, needless to say, in Russia the social dimension shines. The car club is just that: a club. The people all club together, muck in together, bring food, tea, coffee and picnic tables to each venue that they inhabit, ensuring that the day becomes an enjoyable social occasion.  

On this occasion, music was also provided courtesy of a vintage USSR radio, and for those of us who were passengers, and thus relieved of the responsibility of being behind the wheel, vodka was also at hand. Don’t drink and drive! This is how the slogan went. Wise words indeed. Could this be the reason why I gave up driving years ago?

  • Group Photo Kaliningrad Retro Car Club
  • Mick Hart with Kaliningrad Retro Car Club
  • Mick & Olga Hart Kaliningrad Retro Car Club
  • Mick Hart Kaliningrad Retro Car Club
  • Mick Hart Kaliningrad Retro Car Club
  • Olga Hart & Inara Kaliningrad Retro Car Club

After Arthur’s tour, we made our way back to our retro club friends, who were enjoying the sunshine in spite of the chill that its presence had failed to entirely eradicate.

Some of the car owners had brought along Soviet-era samovars: big, nickel-plated kettles with chimneys on the top. This would be the first time that I would get to see them in action.

Olga Hart with samovar Fort XI Kaliningrad

Olga and I have always wanted a samovar, so that we can react the counting-the-stars scene in Hedgehog in the Fog.

At present, we only have a couple of plug-in electric samovars, which are all well and good as curiosity pieces, but to enjoy the real experience of tea-making using a samovar you really do have to feed it with made-to-measure kindling wood, then stand back whilst the water boils and watch as the chimney smokes!

The carnival atmosphere around the car and picnic tables also seemed to appeal to the fort’s four legged critters. It brought out the resident funny bunnies and, not to be left out, even a duck got in on the act.

Teased by the sun and a sporadic stiff breeze, the day had all the makings of being a cold one, but the warmth of human interaction, good company and a genuine sense of camaraderie ~ all of the human values that coronavirus restrictions have threatened to deprive us of over the past 12 months ~ proved their vital importance, reminding us in timely fashion that there is only one true normal, which if taken away leaves nothing.

The historic setting added its own unique ambience. Fort XI is an inspiration —the perfect place to realise that there is no time like the past. It is a true gateway into Königsberg and its region; an ongoing restoration project of no small magnitude celebrating history even as it continues to be history in the making.

On the subject of time, I am not sure what the soldiers billeted here in their past-present thought of our antics today, but with history being so vibrant and so alive within the walls of Dönhoff, you feel you can almost ask them? Perhaps when you visit you will?

Fort XI Kaliningrad uniform display

*****************************

Essential details:

Fort XI Dönhoff
Ulitsa Energetikov
Kaliningrad
Kaliningrad Oblast 236034

Tel: +7 4012 39 04 61
Web: https://fortDönhoff.ru/en/

Opening times:
The fort is open every day:
Summer from 10am to 6pm; Winter from 10am to 5pm

Admission:
300 roubles
Discount tickets 150 roubles (pupils and students, retirees, veterans of the Great Patriotic War, the disabled)
Free admission for children under 7 years old

Sightseeing tours:
Tours are provided free of charge
On weekdays tours take place daily at 11am, 1pm, 3pm and 5pm
At weekends and holidays at 11am 12 noon, 1pm, 2pm, 3pm, 4pm and 5pm
Approximate duration of tour is one hour
For groups of more than 10 people, advanced booking is required. Tel: +7 401 239 0699

Fort XI Website: https://fortDönhoff.ru/en/

For more background information on Fort Dönhoff, see my earlier post: https://expatkaliningrad.com/fort-donhoff-kaliningrad/

Copyright © 2018-2021 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.

UK as the sinking cultural ship

Moving to Russia from the UK

Why I left the UK and moved to Kaliningrad

Published: 20 February 2021

I was sitting in the office of our antique shop. It was a bright, sunny afternoon one Saturday in June. A couple whom we knew as being members of the 1940s’ crowd had just parked their 1935 vehicle on the small forecourt out front. I greeted them as they entered the shop, and they said to me, in a disappointed tone, “We have just heard that the shop is closing; that you are selling up and moving.”

I replied in the affirmative.

After saying how much they would miss the shop and us (which was nice of them), they enquired where I was moving to. Over the past six months I had become an expert at answering this question. Turning away to place an advertisement on the shop’s ad board, I casually replied, “Russia.”

Nine times out of ten, on hearing this, the astounded party would cry: “Russia!”. And some even fell back a few paces, as if thrown from the bombshell I had just dropped.

On this occasion I was deprived of my fun, as the people concerned turned out to be the one in ten: they expressed no astonishment on learning that I was planning to leave ‘our wonderful democracy’, in fact they empathised with me, sounding envious that I was ‘getting out whilst I can’, and saying “we don’t blame you” and “we would like to do the same.”

Mick Hart & Olga Hart in their Vintage & Antiques Emporium
Mick Hart & Olga Hart in the Vintage & Antiques Emporium

But I did not decide to leave the UK and give up the country where I was born and everything I had ever known simply because it would furnish me with a first-class opportunity to laugh at the way the UK media brainwashes people.

It is true that my wife is Russian, and some people when apprised of this fact took it for granted that this is why I wanted to move to Russia, the logic being that had my wife been Martian I would want to move to Mars or, even more irrational, had my wife come from Wisbech I would want to move to the Fens. She hadn’t, and I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. Would you?

There was, of course, a bit more to it than that.

Moving to Russia from the UK

My wife, Olga, moved to England in 2001. In Russia she had been a qualified teacher of English with 10 years’ teaching experience, but as we know, or are led to believe, educational standards in the UK are far superior than those in any other country, so her qualifications and teaching experience was immediately rendered null and void.

Being a worker not a shirker, within two days of arriving in England, Olga set out to find gainful employment, no matter what it was, and after a couple of weeks managed to obtain the envious position of waitress at d’Parys Hotel in Bedford. Not bad, we thought: from qualified teacher with 10 years’ experience to table servant in two weeks: Welcome to the UK!

Nevertheless, it was a job — a thankless job. No sooner had she started than she fell foul of a bossy young lady with a rank inferiority complex and seriously challenged people skills, whom I would eventually christen ‘Fat Arse’ ~ for reasons that would be quite apparent to you had you been acquainted with her ~ and by extension (heaven forbid!) d’Parys then became known to us and our close circle of friends as DeFatties.

Incidentally, this rebranding of the hotel almost caught us out when my seven-year-old stepson, who liked to be taken to d’Parys for chicken nuggets and chips, blurted out one Sunday afternoon, “I like it here in DeFatties!!”

“DeFatties?” asked Olga’s bemused manager.

“Er yes,”I quickly replied, “Daniel calls it that because I always say that we are off to d’Parys for chicken nuggets and fatty fries, instead of saying chips, and although he’s doing well with his English, he does tend to confuse his words a little.”

But I digress.

During this period of her induction into the side of British life which immigrants rarely anticipate, Olga did manage to find temporary work with an agency that needed tutors with foreign language skills to act as a guide and mentor for overseas students. She juggled both jobs and eventually migrated her waitress skills to what was then d’Parys’ sister enterprise, The Embankment Hotel in Bedford.

The Embankment Hotel, Bedford
The Embankment Hotel, Bedford, UK (December 2019)

Whilst labouring here, in addition to working towards her UK Citizenship ‘exams’, she was also studying for a postgraduate degree at Luton University, and in the meantime landed her first education post in the UK as an advisory teacher for EMASS (Ethnic Minority Achievement Support Service).

This meant that she would have to give up her job in the hotel trade, an outcome which my stepson Daniel heartily disapproved of. His mother becoming a ‘teacher’ was a definite step down from hotel waitressing, with its chicken nuggets, fatty fries and often free ice cream.

Although the EMASS job was a demanding one, Olga enjoyed it. As she said later, she felt as if she was actually doing some good and although it was not that well paid, most importantly, she liked the staff and got on well with her boss.

It was about this time, as Olga passed her QTS (Qualified Teaching Status) exams, that I asked her, whilst she still had chance to change her mind, was being a full-time teacher really what she wanted? I had visited a couple of schools in Kaliningrad, Russia: once to collect Daniel from primary school and, on another occasion, to pick up some documents from the Russian equivalent of a UK comprehensive. On both visits I had been struck by how well behaved and polite the children and students were and how attentive and orderly they were in class compared to their British counterparts.

I was not without experience of what British schools were like. I had a near brush with school culture when I left university. Not having the faintest idea of what I wanted to do in life, I fell prey to what in those days was standard career’s advice, which was to dragoon you into teaching. Reluctantly, I went through the motions, which included three-days’ ‘teaching observation’ at a school of one’s choice ~ I chose The Ferrers School, in Higham Ferrers, Northants*.

This brief introduction was enough to convince me that by not pursuing it further I would escape a career worse than death, and that, remember, was back in the 80s, when although British schools and life in Britain generally was all going terribly wrong at least it had not gone so utterly wrong as to be irredeemable.

But, in spite of all my remonstrations to the opposite, Olga ignored my pleas, held her course and set sail into the Poe-like maelstrom of UK education, reasoning that this was her job, this is what she had been trained for and this is what she wanted to do. Besides, she enjoyed teaching and enjoyed being a teacher.

UK schools like Poe's Maelstrom
Illustration for Edgar Allan Poes’ A Descent into the Maelstrom by Harry Clarke
(Attribution: Harry Clarke, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

Soon after qualifying she landed a job at the now no-longer-in-existence Harrowden Middle School, Bedford, and soon after that she stopped enjoying teaching and stopped enjoying being a teacher. This was the UK: being a teacher in the UK was nothing like being a teacher back home in her native country, Russia.

There are so many accounts that I could narrate to you about my wife’s experiences as a teacher in the UK, but I will leave that for a later post. Suffice it to say, it was every bit as bad as I had described it and worse, and it was no coincidence that the first school at which she worked, Harrowden,  soon earnt itself the sobriquet of ‘Harrowing’.

If you are familiar to any degree  with the UK education system you will not consider it to radical of me to say that UK schools and universities are little more than political indoctrination factories. The educational equivalent of ‘from the cradle to the grave’, but in this instance from primary school to university, the principal function of the education system is to inculcate, without fear of question or second thought, the dubious doctrines of so-called liberal progressiveness, particularly with regard to socially engineered and politically correct enforced multiculturalism and, in more recent years, gender engineering.

PC brainwashing in the UK ~ why Moving to Russia from the UK was a good idea

This, let us refer to it as political paedophilia, filters down from the top, through the career school heads and the ultra-left liberal staff to be consolidated by the biased nature of the texts and writers studied and reinforced by a daily helping of liberal-leftism from the BBC.

At the time that Olga was teaching, the BBC was head-over-orgasm in a tawdry sycophantic fantasy with Barack Obama, pulling out all the stops to cast him in the unlikely role of the Patron Saint of Democracy. When he was ousted in 2017, Trump was immediately framed as Bogeyman Number Two, just behind Vladimir Putin. Although Olga was unwilling to take an active part in this political grooming of youth ~ and refused to point blank ~ she had to endure considerable bullying before her case was heard, viz that she was there to teach English not enforce political views and corrupt the minds of the young.

Be careful whose sweeties they are and who you accept them from!

There are many other problems associated with working as a teacher in the UK, such as inflated bureaucracy, unnecessary paperwork, unpaid overtime etc, but these ills are universal to a good many other jobs and professions. However, one that is exclusive to teaching, and which stems from the same invasive fungus root of ‘liberal progressiveness’, is the continual round of daily abuse that teachers have to contend with both from feral pupils and their belligerent parents.

Every single day in my building, there are egregious acts of student misconduct going unchecked.  Teachers are losing hope that things will ever get better, and we are tired.  We are expected to be therapists, social workers, substitute parents, punching bags, and outlets for student rage and verbal abuse.  Teaching is only a small percentage of what we do anymore.

Extract from Letter from Teacher – Dear JCPS

Once again, I do not intend to expatiate on this here but will leave that subject for a later and more detailed post on the parlous state of the UK’s education system, in which I shall provide specific examples of incidents that my wife experienced whilst teaching.

After 20 years on the frontline of Britain’s schools, my wife had had enough. It was time to call it a day ~ get out. In many ways, this was a great pity, as teaching had been her life. In the UK, in addition to her teaching qualification, she attended and successfully completed many professional development courses and received numerous compliments and accolades from the heads of the institutions in which she had taught, from members of the teaching staff and also from pupils.

Mrs Hart thank you for being a fabulous teacher. Englishman in Kaliningrad.
The rewarding element of teaching ~ so sad that UK’s schools are the victim of a pernicious ideology

Throughout her career, she had seen many teachers come and go, both long serving and new: some who had been ‘dreaming of escape’ for years and just could not take it anymore; others, fresh from college, who lasted less than a week before making the brave but timely decision to embark on a different career.

As if an Orwellian education system, lunatic skewed political correctness and state-sponsored delinquency was not enough, another baptism of western malfeasance awaited my wife.

In the time that she had been resident in England there had been several anti-Russian campaigns prosecuted in the extreme by the UK’s media, but in her last three years of living there the establishment and its media’s attempts to trash all things Russian and stir up rampant Russophobia had gone into overdrive, having obviously been prioritised by those who control our governments.

It was no coincidence then, and it is no coincidence now, that the anti-Russian Blitzkrieg had been  launched at a time when both the British and American public’s trust in the neoliberal way had resoundingly hit the skids. The last thing that an imploding democracy needs is its 5-year cross-tickers looking elsewhere for the national, traditional values that no longer exist in their own back yard. And UK politicians would do well to remember that making history is a considerably less stable proposition than valuing and celebrating history, not to mention rewriting it or simply giving it away.

Moving to Russia from the UK to escape political correctness

At last, incensed by the liberal propaganda machine and suffocating political correctness, Olga broached the subject to me of getting out ~ of leaving the country.

So, did I agree to go just because I am a fine husband and devoted to my wife? It would be so easy at this point to say yes, and by doing so pedestal myself as a martyr to feelings other than my own, but the truth is that it took almost three years before I, too, decided that I had had enough of the liberal canker that was so malevolently blighting the land that I loved. English born and bred, a legacy Briton with roots ~ my grandmother’s brother fought and died for his country in the First World War; my two uncles also fought in the Second World War, and my father’s brother, who was a Major in the Second World War, was awarded the Military Cross (M.C.) posthumously) ~  it should not have been an easy decision to make, and it wasn’t.

In the interim, whilst I was weighing my decision,  I used to joke that the next time I went on holiday to Kaliningrad I would ask for political asylum on the grounds that I could no longer live under the oppressive liberal yoke: open borders,  anti-social behaviour, ethnic-linked but never officially admitted-to crimes, increased internet censorship, and all the other politically correct baggage ~ the petty, ridiculous, meaningless stuff that is blown out of all proportion and which saturates our daily life, such as  should we have a female Dr Who? how many women are there in the UK’s board rooms? not enough black actors on television, should same sex couples be allowed to adopt children, LGBT issues, gender issues, race issues and aarrrrggghhh!!

And then comes Brexit, with its liberal-motivated back-stabbing, double dealing, wriggling, writhing shiftiness and utter contempt for democracy — the liberal leavers screaming (and don’t they just!) that we must have a ‘people’s vote’ in the name of democracy when by the democratic process that is exactly what we had, it was called a referendum. (Apropos of this, it amused me recently to see the headline in one of the UK’s extreme left newspapers which claimed that if Trump was not impeached it would be a ‘threat to democracy’. Talk about ironic!)

Even though Democracy ~ battered, bloody, tarnished, sullied, bribed, threatened and subjected to all manner of shameful legal illegalities ~ would eventually break free from its criminal leave abductors, thanks primarily to Nigel Farage, by now my mind was made up. We were sailing on a cultural Titanic. It was time to leave the sinking ship

There were some who asked, “Why not got to Spain?” and “Why not go to France”. I suspect my reply was somewhat too obtuse for them: “The EU ~ NGOs ~ Merkel”.

And now, when fellow Brits ask me ‘do I like living in Russia?’ I play their game. Knowing what they want to hear, I reply, in a suitably pained tone: “Why did I do it …?” And as a triumphant smile begins to dawn on their faces, before they can say I told you so I quickly conclude my statement with, “ … leave it so long, I mean. I should have moved ten years’ ago!”

Next (when I have time to write in between beers) ‘What I like about life in Kaliningrad’

I found time: What I like about Kaliningrad!

All you need is a a way-back machine to be proud to live in Britain again!

*Note: My school observation took place in the 1980s, so I am not qualified to comment on The Ferrers School today.

Copyright © 2018-2022 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.

Image attributions:
Brainwash tap:
https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Danger—brainwashing/71010.html
Ghoul with sweeties bag:
http://clipart-library.com/img/1687772.png
No to political correctness:
Wikipedista DeeMusil, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

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2020 Memories are made of this

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 292 [31 December 2020]
or Goodbye 2020, if I never see you again will it be too soon?

Published: 31 December 2020 ~ 2020 Memories are made of this

The End is Nigh! Well, you would think so from the aggregated hype bubbling furiously over the past 12 months in the cauldrons of the western media. Never before in recent history has the press had the opportunity to indulge itself in a Groundhog Field Day like the one that has been handed to them by the pandemic (or is that scamdemic?). But enough of the soothsaying and a tad more soothing-saying, if you don’t mind. The end is nigh for 2020: Time to reflect on the past 12 months.

Diary of a Self-isolating Englishman in Kaliningrad
Previous articles:

Article 1: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 1 [20 March 2020]
Article 2: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 6 [25 March 2020]
Article 3: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 7 [26 March 2020]
Article 4: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 9 [28 March 2020]
Article 5: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 10 [29 March 2020]
Article 6: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 16 [4 April 2020]
Article 7: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 19 [7 April 2020]
Article 8: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 35 [23 April 2020]
Article 9: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 52 [10 May 2020]
Article 10: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 54 [12 May 2020]
Article 11: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 65 [23 May 2020]
Article 12: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 74 [1 June 2020]
Article 13: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 84 [11 June 2020]
Article 14: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 98 [25 June 2020]
Article 15: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 106 [3 July 2020]
Article 16: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 115 [12 July 2020]
Article 17: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 138 [30 July 2020]
Article 18: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 141 [2 August 2020]
Article 19: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 169 [30 August 2020]
Article 20: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 189 [19 September 2020]
Article 21: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 209 [9 October 2020]
Article 22: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 272 [11 December 2020]

My period of voluntary self-isolation began back in March 2020, and like most people I have evaluated the quality of my life during this epoch as a series of stops, starts and checks. However, on looking back I realise that although the impediment of coronavirus fear and its attendant restrictions have cast a long shadow over our social life, it never succeeded in inflicting a total eclipse. As my wife is fond of saying, “Humans can adapt to anything in time”, and whilst in my books I have committed the cardinal sin by steering clear of bars and other places where people tend to congregate, in retrospect 2020 was far from totally written off. Indeed, in spite of muzzle-wearing and fetishistic hand-sanitising, we did still have a life ~ we met friends, took several trips to the coast, visited art galleries and places of historical interest, entertained at home and, most importantly, used the extra time that we had at our disposal in the most constructive ways.

We certainly managed to get more done around the house and in the garden ~ especially in the garden. This is Olga’s pet project: converting what was a slab of inherited concrete into a proper, functioning outdoor area, where she can enjoy the flowers and trees, and I can enjoy a pint.

Years ago, in the mists of a different time, I worked on a magazine called Successful Gardening, from which I learnt that my greatest contribution to any practical endeavour in this field would be to make myself scarce, which is exactly what I did. So, I have to confess that the lion’s share of the work was done by my wife. Yet, I feel no need for excuse making. Gardening is a sport, and like any other sport, some you participate in; in others you are a spectator.

Where coronavirus is concerned, it is for my family and friends back in the UK that I feel the most sorry. The UK media has not had the opportunity to be this gory and ghastly in its coverage since Jack the Ripper terrorised Whitechapel. Not even brutal acts of terrorism, which are officially swept under the carpet by deflection techniques that focus on holding hands and candle-lit vigils, come close to the penny dreadful coverage that coronavirus receives. It would not be half so bad if 1 + 1 = 2, but nothing about the measures being taken to combat coronavirus in the UK ~ the draconian measures ~ seems to add up, and, as with Brexit, the country appears to be split yet again, and uncannily yet again, as with Brexit, the fault lines are political and a peculiar inversion of the status quo.

In complete contradiction to the overt emphasis placed at any other time on civil liberties and the evils of the so-called surveillance society, 1984 and all that, it is the left that appears to be screaming for lockdown, mask-wearing and any other hard and fast rules. Indeed, they do not seem to be able to get enough of it, and, with the illiberality that is customary with liberals, are spitting tar and feathers at anyone who is impudent enough to advocate liberty above home slavery. The megaphone message is:  Do as you are told! Stay in! Don’t go anywhere, or we are all going to die!!.

Admittedly, there are a lot better things to do with your time than dying but is being bolted and barred in your home for what little there is left of your life it? The older we become the more precious life becomes, but so does living your life. It is the Bitch of having been born at all.

The problem, or at least one of the salient problems of getting old ~ and for some inexplicable reason we all tend to do it, get old, I mean ~ is that you reach the stage where you think you can hear each grain of sand dropping into the hour glass, and whilst it is normal on the push-penny arcade machine of life to brace yourself for the moment when inevitably your turn will come, when you will be bumped off down the chute, the media over the past 12 months has not missed a trick in reminding us that the man with the cowl and scythe is busier than he has ever been pushing coins into the slot.

No one can deny that there has been a lot of death about, and sadly we were not spared. Our good friend, Stanislav (Stas) died in November 2020. Immediately, rumours abounded that he had died of coronavirus, the majority of people having become so obsessed with the virus that it has become almost impermissible to die from anything else. Stas did not die from coronavirus. But he did die, and with his passing we lost a very good and much-loved friend.

Without doubt, one of the most perplexing things about getting older is that not only do you have to come to terms with your own mortality, you also have to come to terms with the loss off those who are nearest and dearest. Each loss tears a hole in the fabric of life that can never be repaired.

But enough of this morbidity. Like everything in life, what some people lose on the swings others gain on the merry-go-rounds, and whilst we can conclude that whereas it has been a troubled year for most of us, especially those on the frontline ~ doctors, nurses, paramedics and the rest ~ if you have the good fortune to be a mask producer, the director of a pharmaceutical industry, a media magnate, I do not suppose that Mr Coronavirus seems such a bad fellow after all, and this is without mentioning the increased yields experienced in the funeral industry.

Enough said: In a consummately original and unplagiaristic moment, my valediction for the year 2020 is that it was ‘the best of years, ‘t’was the worst of years’.

Think of 2020 as a painful tooth that needs to be extracted by the dentist: you might miss it, but you will certainly be glad it has gone …

Happy New Year
to One & All

2020 memories are made of this

Related article: Out of 2020 Out of the EU

Copyright © 2018-2021 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.

An Autumn Walk in Kaliningrad

An Autumn Walk in Kaliningrad

A walk to Max Aschmann Park

Published: 31 October 2020

We never did keep that appointment we promised ourselves and go for a picnic this summer in Königsberg’s Max Aschmann Park, but prompted by the delightful autumnal weather, all sun and blue skies, we did walk to the park today and, because it covers a large area, managed at least to stroll through one section of it.

Autumn in Kaliningrad

Our route to the park would take us through some of the most quiet and atmospheric streets of the old city. These are cobbled streets lined with great trees on either side. In spring and summer these trees are a silent explosion of green leaves, and although they have begun to shed them profusely in anticipation of winter’s dawn, sufficient remain to act as a filter to the last rays of the summer sun, which scattering through them illuminate their various hues and shades like a giant back bulb behind an origami screen.

Olga Hart photographing autumn in Kaliningrad
Olga Hart photographing autumn in Kaliningrad, October 2020

Below the sunburst, across the humpty dumpty road surface, the grass verges ~ neat or overgrown ~ and on the pavements, where there are some, the leaves lay strewn like so much wedding confetti ~ yellow, brown, auburn and gold. They would form carpets were it not for the hardworking road sweepers, who are out and about at the crack of dawn piling the leaves into heaps ready for the administrations of the follow-up leaf-sucking lorries.

The street we are walking along is, like many in this neighbourhood and in other parts of remnant Königsberg, a cavalcade of architectural opposites. We pass by the Konigsberg signature flats, a series of long but detached blocks, three or four storeys in height, each one re-equipped with its Soviet steel door and, in this particular instance, curiously clad in wood.

If you know Kaliningrad you are ready for contrasts, but ready does not mean less surprised. In two steps we go from the scene I have just described to another quite improbable, yet not quite so improbable in the light of the status quo.

A large bushy tree rolls back at the side of us and there, of course, they are ~ the new-builds. We were half-expecting them, but not at any moment. They are three or four in number, big brand-spankers; demure-brick faced in parts but striking in their adaptation of Neoclassical principles. They shine and they sparkle with pride in the sun; the sun polishes them and casts an autumnal eye along the neat, trimmed verge evenly planted with shrubs, the upright expensive fence and the ever-imposing gate. The sun seems to wink at me, but perhaps in my admiration I failed to notice the slightest breeze and the way it secretly shifted the branches across my line of vision.

Some of the houses along this street conform to the more conventional and some, which must be flats, are hefty great slabs, albeit with nice arched windows. And then, just when you have stopped thinking ‘phhheww they must have cost a bit’, you reach the end of the road, and there in the corner, at the junction, you immediately fall in love with what once would have been an almost-villa ~ a lovely, lovely property, with its original pan-tiled roof virtually conical in form and with one of those small arched windows typical in Königsberg peering out of its rooftop like the hooded eye of an octopus.

For a few moments I stand in the road looking from my present, as its past looks back at me.

Original Königsberg  house with pan-tiled roof and octopuseye window
Königsberg house on the corner, autumn 2020

We have no choice but to leave Königsberg at this junction, making our way along a busy thoroughfare where the  concrete battery of flats left us in little doubt that we were back in Kaliningrad ~ they in the 1970s and we, by the sight of a facemask or two, again in 2020.

We instinctively knew that we were on the right track for Max Aschmann. We did have to stop and ask someone, but immediately afterwards landmarks from our previous excursion remembered themselves to us, and it was not long before we recognised the lemon church and one of the entrances to the park, the one we had used before.

On our previous visit, we only had time to venture as far as the first group of lakes, but today we wanted to broaden our horizons, so we pressed on. We had not gone far when Olga, always on my left side, relinked her arm through mine.

The broad swathed track curved and as it did another expanse of water opened up to us on our right, set against a verdant backdrop of trees, some still green, others in autumnal garb. The leaves were thick on the ground, but not all of them had fallen, and those that were still aloft painted autumn across the skyline in nature’s soft and mellow brush strokes. It was as if we were walking into the heart of a picture.

At the front of a lake stood a fir tree, anchored to the ground by three or four ropes. It was a Christmas tree, bracing itself for the world’s first coronavirus Christmas.  Close by, there was a great pile of tree trunk sections. We wanted one of these for our garden. We had the samovar, the juniper twigs and each other, all we needed now was the log, so that we could sit on it and count the stars like Meeshka and Yorshik in Hedgehog in the Fog (Russian: Ёжик в тумане, Yozhik v tumane)

A Christmas tree, Max Aschmann Park, Kaliningrad 2020
Christmas comes early to Max Aschmann Park ~ Kaliningrad, October 2020

We walked on. Whatever Max Aschmann Park had been, and it was really something in its day, for all intents and purposes, its modern incarnation is more Max Aschmann forest.

On the hard-surface paths, long and straight that criss-cross the woodland, lots of people were walking. They were people of all ages, babushkas and derdushkas, family groups and teenagers, but no matter who they were or how old they were, a peaceful unification prevailed. There was nothing fast, nothing loud, nothing out of place or obtrusive, certainly no coronavirus madness or any other menace to interfere with the calm repose. And yet here we were in the midst of dense woodland, itself in the midst of a bustling city. The experience was simple but memorable. There was something wonderfully alien about it, not only by what there was but thankfully by what there was not.

An Autumn Walk in Kaliningrad

It does not matter where I roam; wherever I am, something old, something from the past comes forward and makes itself known to me, and that something this afternoon was the remains of a building, here, in the centre of the park. I had read somewhere that in its day the Max Aschmann Park had been a haven for the German well-to-do and a holiday destination for those who by virtue of wealth and status qualified for its privileges, so the sight of this leftover dwelling did not entirely surprise me.

What remains is little more than a great slab of concrete, but closer inspection reveals metal reinforcing rods and the remnants of one or two steps that lead down into a small recess beneath the concrete floor, now silted up with earth and woodland debris but which would presumably once have been a cellar or, perhaps, a subterranean garage, as these are standard features of houses in this region.

Mick Hart in Max Aschmann Park ~ An Autumn Walk in Kaliningrad
Mick Hart sitting on and surrounded by history in Max Aschmann Park, Kaliningrad, October 2020

Before I sat down on the concrete remains to have my photograph taken, as thousands had done before me and would continue to do so afterwards, I discovered one of the house gate piers lying prostrate among the leaves. There would have been a time when it was doing something practical, but it was doing nothing practical now, having relinquished its incipient function for matters of mind and heart.

Next on the voyage of discovery was another lake, this one more expansive than those we had passed already. The ground tapering gently to the water’s edge made an approach quite possible, and three or four people were gathered there feeding a bevy of swans. There were also two or three trees, not many, but just enough to satisfy the idyl along this picturesque border.

A walk to Max Aschmann Park
Olga Hart at the side of the lake in Max Aschmann Park, October 2020

Waterside trees always possess an anachronistic architecture, and these were no exception. Complementing the natural contours of the lake, and with the trees and bushes in their variegated shades rolling and billowing around it and into the distance, they and the scene they belonged to put me in mind of a 19th century lithograph, which, if it was mine to own, I would hang on a wall, preferably in my personal bar, in Mick’s Place, where I could sit and savour the view whilst sipping a glass of beer.

A beautiful autumn-leaf hat in Max Aschmann Park, Kaliningrad

But time was ticking on, as it has the habit of doing, and it was time to be making tracks. For this purpose, we chose instead to return through the woodland itself, at least for a short distance before we re-joined the path.

Under the trees, the ground was a little bit squelchy, but this natural hazard of woodland walking was only objectionable as far as our boots were concerned, and it had certainly made no difference to a small group of woodland wanderers who had removed themselves into the fringe of the wood for a spot of al a carte lunch. I wondered, had they carried that old metal barbecue on stilts with them, or had it been donated by an unknown benefactor who had staked out that spot on a previous occasion?

Even deeper into the wood and perched on wooden roundels cut from sizeable trees were people enjoying a picnic. Now that’s an idea, I thought, we really must do that and do that one day soon: go for a picnic, here, in Max Aschmann Park.

Before autumn:

Kaliningrad Green & Adorned with Flowers

Link to> Kaliningrad in Autumn Leaves it Out

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Copyright © 2018-2021 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.