14 October 2024 ~ Telegraph in Svetlogorsk Good Coffee Unique Art
Contrary to received wisdom, it is not always necessary or indeed advisable for travellers to stick to the beaten track. Verily, by doing so the chances of missing out on some hidden cultural gem or other, or hitherto unencountered esoteric and unusual experience are magnified manyfold.
Indubitably, there are some parts of the world, some sinister and dubious places, where keeping to the beaten track is less a question of tourism than an action guided by common sense in the interests of survival.
Take London, for example, that patchwork quilt of small towns wherein no boundaries lie. One minute you, the traveller, can almost believe what the travel guides tell you, that London is, indeed, one of the world’s most civilised cities, the next, because you strayed from the beaten track, that you are up S*it Creek without a paddle in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Is it Africa or Pakistan? No point leaving the beaten track to be beaten in your tracks. Best to beat a hasty retreat.
Telegraph in Svetlogorsk
Enrichments of this nature do not apply, thank goodness, to a small secluded backstreet in the seaside town of Svetlogorsk on Russia’s Baltic Coast. Not officially known as ‘Off the Beaten Track’, Street Ostrovskogo (‘Off the Beaten Track’ is easier to say) is a quaint, leafy, meandering avenue that wends its way from Street Oktyabr’skaya (it’s easier just to say ‘Off the ‘Beaten Track’).
In Svetlogorsk, the streets run off from a large, open public space in the centre of the town, which, during clement months, overflow with tourist’s eagerly taking advantage of the outside drinking and eating areas. One of the streets that travels from this lively, bustling hub is Ulitsa Oktyabr’skaya. It is the street you will need to walk to get you to the Telegraph café.
The route is a rewarding one. It takes you past a Svetlogorsk landmark, the 1908 Art Nouveau water tower, past the town’s pretty Larch Park with its copy of Hermann Brachert’s ‘Water Carrier’ sculpture ~ the original is in the Brachert Museum ~ past my favourite and recently renovated neo-Gothic house and onto the Hartman Hotel.
To say that you cannot miss Ulitsa Ostrovskogo would be a silly thing to say, because if your sense of direction is anything like mine … Sorry? Oh, it isn’t. Well then just look for a clothes shop on your right. You won’t be able to miss it, because your sense of direction is better than mine and also because in the summer months some of its garments are hung outside in order to make the shop more visible, and besides it is located within one of those charming old German edifices that have at their gable end an all-in-one veranda-balcony glazed and enclosed in wood. This then is the junction at which you turn for Telegraph. This is the end of the beaten track.
Halfway along this quiet backwater, at the point where streets meet chevron-fashion, stand a permanent cluster of wooden market stalls. These are something you cannot miss also, especially those with roofs, which give them the quaint appearance of modest garden summer houses. Here, artisans working in various materials ~ leather, metalware and ceramics ~ together with artists of paint and palette, regularly gather to sell their goods. The range and novelty of their handmade products really are surprising and the quality of them consistently high.
The location of these stalls could not be better placed, since a little further on the left-hand side, you have reached your destination ~ Svetlogorsk’s former telegraph building, resurrected in recent years as an outlet for arts and crafts, as a coffee shop and art gallery.
Telegraph in Svetlogorsk
In addition to selling coffee of various kinds~ and very good they are too! ~ Telegraph deals in assorted teas, other delicious drinks, a seductive range of desserts, irresistable homemade cakes and pastries you’ll want to leave home for. It is also a cornucopia of distinctive handcrafted wares, including vintage and designer clothes, prints, postcards, vinyl records, decorative items for the home, and original works from local artists.
Its comfy settee and low-slung armchairs, into which one’s body readily sinks, plus the light and airy but cozy ambience, make for a very pleasant environment in which to relax, unwind and shop. If you cannot find a gift in here, something special to treat yourself with or a Baltic souvenir, then there’s definitely something wrong with you.
An introduction to two of Telegraph’s artists
https://vk.com/album55604070_101203993 Lilya Bogatko works in the field of applied arts, designing and decorating ceramic goods with stylised naturalistic images. She prefers to work in monochrome, consigning her line-drawn black motifs to high opacity white grounds on tableware and ornaments. Her distinctive illustrations, many of which have a gentle charm that could grace a children’s storybook, possess an ethereal quality. Indeed, a fair proportion of her subjects, be they man or beast, float above the earth; they take to the air with wings. When her subjects are not animals, real or mythological, or people literally raised to a higher level of spirituality ~ have wings will fly ~ her stock-in-trade motifs are replications of Kaliningrad landmarks, such as the now defunct and liquidated former House of Soviets, the refurbished Zalivino lighthouse overlooking the water’s edge of the Curonian Lagoon and Königsberg Cathedral.
Based in St Petersburg, Lilya is a regular visitor to Kaliningrad and the Kaliningrad region, from which she derives inspiration and consolidates her sales outlets.
https://vk.com/album-30057230_195486413 Pavel Timofeev has an arts and crafts workshop at Telegraph in Svetlogorsk, where he produces, among other things, leather purses and wallets, men’s and women’s leather bracelets with inscriptions on request, ornamented key rings and a range of fashion jewellery.
His speciality is selling watches with watch-face customisation. The face design can be made to order, with the option of a leather strap in traditional classic or novel styles. The straps can also be personalised.
For examples of Pavel’s watches, please refer to the carousel that appears below this profile:
The room opposite Telegraph’s ‘sitting room’ is its designated art gallery, a well-lit exhibition space with enough wall and floor capacity to showcase umpteen works of local artists. On the occasion of my visit, the art form most conspicuous was assemblages ~ 3D compositions created by taking disparate pieces of whatever it is the artist has scavenged and then arranging or assembling them on a backboard of some description so that the configuration that ensues presents itself as a pictorial image or, from impressions of the whole or its parts, invites interpretation.
Victor Ryabinin, our artist friend from Königsberg, was the man who introduced me to assemblages. His interest in the potential of this technique as a medium for symbolism had him unearthing whatever he could from the remains of Königsberg’s past and putting the pieces together so as to excite in the observer a quest to uncover meaning, either the artist’s or their own.
Since Victor was profoundly immersed in and also profoundly disturbed by the eradication of Königsberg, the assemblages that he built from the remnants of destruction often convey a personal sense of irredeemable loss, an inescapable sadness, a wistful but unrequited need for a less tragic end to the city in which he loved to live and which he loved. Victor travelled outside of Königsberg more often and further than Immanuel Kant, but he possibly left it less than Kant or anyone else for that matter.
By contrast, the assemblages gathered together under Telegraph’s roof evinced none of this solemnity. They danced a confident riot of bright, effusive colours, orchestrating lively, often comic, images and energising expressive shapes, some fondly reminiscent of the enchanting kind of illustrations adorning the pages of story books beloved of old-time children, others cleverly more obtuse or playfully cryptographic.
In vivacity of colour and their three-dimensional character the assemblages reminded me of the kind of shop-front sign boards popular in the Edwardian era, and there was much at work in their composition to insinuate a vintage charm. But the incorporation of parts taken from obsolete engines, metal handles, steel rivets, goggles and the like, plus paraphernalia of various kinds possessing mechanical provenance and rigged to suggest articulation, disclosed a contemporary steampunk influence. Intriguing, all bewitching and also fun to boot, take any one of these assemblages, hang them in your home and if until now you have felt that your home lacked a conversation piece, trust me when I tell you that this omission has been rectified.
In the Svetlogorsk we know today, cafes, bars and restaurants and places of interest to view and visit exist in appreciable numbers, but every once in a while one stands out in the crowd: Telegraph is that one.
It may have exchanged its wires and needles for coffee and for art, but the function of the historic building as a centre of communication lives on in its role as a meeting place, and the message that it telegraphs couldn’t be more accommodating: Sit a while, relax, enjoy a beverage and a piece of cake and let your sensibilities flow with the positive vibes that emanate from all that you see and all that you feel around you and from what can be bought and taken home, because the chances are that whatever it is that tickles your fancy in Telegraph, you will never find another like it; the chances are it will be unique.
After browsing, binging, basking and borrowing (borrowing from your friends to pay for the coffee and art, “I’ll see you alright, later …”), especially on those days when the craft-sellers’ stalls are active, when you finally head off home, you will say to yourself with satisfaction, what an enjoyable day I have had. I am so pleased to have visited Telegraph, and it’s all because of that Mick Hart, urging us to get up off of our … ah … to get off of the beaten track.
Telegraph ~ social and cultural space of Svetlogorsk.
Telegraph is a public and cultural space (a centre of urban communities), created by city residents for city residents.
We do not have a director, but we have a working group. We are a community of participants with common goals and values.
Telegraph is located on Ostrovskogo Street in house No. 3 (next to the Post Office).
There are four spaces here:
– a coffee shop (here you can try aromatic fresh coffee) – a living room with an exhibition of works by craftsmen (you can buy local handmade souvenirs) – a gallery (local artists hold exhibitions here) – workshops (pottery and carpentry) – a terrace and a lawn with the longest bench in the city.
Our space regularly hosts meetings of various communities. Any participant can propose an idea for their own project and find like-minded people who will provide the necessary support.
Telegraph exists outside of politics, outside of religion. We are open to new acquaintances/initiatives.
The Telegraph project team deals with city projects and development issues.
Co-working ‘Thoughts’ (Aptechnaya, 10); keys from the barista in the coffee shop; additional conditions by phone +79114839050
Promenade Apartments Svetlogorsk Showcase Stylish Living
30 May 2024 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History
At the point at which the new stretch of promenade on Svetlogorsk’s coastline meets the old, a broad canvas containing an evocative black and white photograph of the promenade as it appeared when Svetlogorsk was German Rauschen effectively softens the large metal fence behind which work is ongoing to upgrade the original walkway.
The photograph, which was taken in the early twentieth century at a time which we in England would call Edwardian, harks back to a quieter, more sedate and less populated period in the evolution of the modern world and in Svetlogorsk’s personal history. In those days, people dressed better (that is, those who could afford to do so), and life, at least in the pictures, had a better feel about it and seemed to move at a far more leisurely pace.
‘Oh! I do like to be beside the seaside! I do like to be beside the sea! Oh I do like to stroll along the Prom, Prom, Prom!’ ~ John H. Glover-Kind (1907)
Fast forward to the third decade of the 21st century:
Walking along the ‘Prom, Prom’ ~ as there are (or nearly are) two in Svetlogorsk ~ has not been the easiest thing to do in the Kaliningrad region’s coastal town for quite some considerable time.
First, there was the Sovietised prom left behind by the Germans; then there was a quiet, narrow stretch of beach left behind by perestroika; then there was the construction of a new promenade; then the promised construction of a sparkling, spanking new set of des-res apartments hugging the new prom coastline; and then … and then it stalled.
When the first stage of the new promenade reached accessibility, those of us who had not grown impatient and swapped allegiance for Zelenogradsk, strolled along the ‘prom, prom, prom’; some of us marvelling at what was to come and some, no doubt, bemoaning the loss of the rocky ribbon of beach, with its golden memories of long hot days, the basking bodies of former girlfriends, the odd kapoosta pie or two and a couple of tins of lager.
At this juncture in Svetlogorsk’s transformation from sleepy spa retreat to resort boutique, the old legacy prom with its cafes, restaurants, outside bars and amber-selling stalls was still firm favourite.
Then, possibly a couple of years ago (the memory grows dim), one evening, when the sea was particularly tantrum prone, a section of the old prom surrendered to its attitude problem and promptly fell apart, as old proms and seaside piers have the disturbing habit of doing.
The missing piece was soon replaced, but shortly afterwards came the announcement that the old prom would temporarily close for a period of refurbishment. And that is the way it has been for a proverbial month of Sundays and considerably more than a month of sunny summer days.
Behind the ubiquitous blue and white building-site fences, obscuring both prom and the sea, an extensive restructuring programme to defend the platform from the sea’s worst excesses labours on relentlessly, incorporating a face lift which, when it is finished, I should imagine, aims to bring the old prom cosmetically into line with its glossy, upmarket protégé.
The simultaneous reconfiguration of both of Svetlogorsk’s proms led to the loss of the beach from one end of its coastline to the other. The collateral damage was marked by a substantial tourist exodus from Svetlogorsk to Zelenogradsk, the Kaliningrad regions second resort, and indeed to the other resorts that share the Baltic coastline. Fortunately ~ for Svetlogorsk that is ~ stunning sea views from the uppermost reaches of the coastline’s steep embankment and a seamless stream of investment into the town’s inland facilities and its tourist attractions cushioned the brunt of the blow. And some of us kept coming back just to see how things were progressing. I was one of those someones.
Svetlogorsk Promenade a new chapter in its history
I returned to Svetlogorsk earlier this May, approaching the seafront via the Central Staircase, the great parade of steps that since 1974 has led to the giant sundial. The steps still go where they have always gone, but the sundial, including its brilliant tessera mosaic based on the signs of the zodiac, appears to have been uprooted.
Above: Svetlogorsk Sundial in June 2021 Below: The same location as it is today, photographed from the Central Staircase
In a less exuberant period, before Svetlogorsk was ‘discovered’, when a ‘permit’ was needed to enter the town by car, as it was then considered a health resort in which the ozone air was sacrosanct, the sun dial, designed by Nicholas Frolov, was counted along with the water tower as one of the town’s star attractions.
On an evening in the year 2000 ~ it was the month of December and blisteringly cold ~ I took hold of the sundial gnomon, the upright blade that casts the shadow. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I thought. “My hand is freezing to it!” And then I thought, “I am actually here. I am actually here in Russia!” That moment was quite symbolic; quite a personal moment. Let’s hope they put the sundial back. They ought to, don’t you think? If only just for me.
Svetlogorsk Promenade a new chapter in its history
As it is no longer possible to access the old promenade due to its debasement as a construction site, a temporary boardwalk filters pedestrians onto the new promenade (Novyy Promenade), where ~ lo and behold! ~ after what seems like a brief eternity, or the torturous interval we had once to endure between the opening times of English pubs, the foundations for a three-phase series of swanky new apartments are finally metamorphosising into the shape of things to come.
You can see what this stretch of coastline looked like in the earlier stages of the apartments’ construction by clicking on the following links:
This is the closet that I have been to a high-rise building site in years, and it must be said, for want of a better reason, such as getting onto the beach, it is worth toddling off to Svetlogorsk to see exactly how they do it, build buildings that high, I mean, and by becoming a casual observer catch history in the making.
Before gawping skywards, it is interesting to study first the full-colour canvas banners strapped to the baseline hoarding, each containing artist’s impression of how the built coastline will look when the job is completed. Then, when you have matched the buildings in the illustrations to their skeletal incarnations, marvel at the blokes aloft, hauling heavy and awkward building materials from one man to another up different levels of scaffolding and the audacity of those above them, who, defying the laws of gravity, precariously perch on slim steel girders, working away with hammer or drill some seventy feet above your head. It’s enough to remind you of what you could do, although you never would.
Looking upwards is sufficiently vertiginous without the encumbrance of climbing ladders. Best to look to the sea. It does not hurt your neck, and it can be therapeutic.
Above and beyond the promenade wall, which is hefty, tall and chunky, the sea is visibly seeable, but not without a distracting impediment. Someone, when no one was looking, appears to have gone and dumped thousands of tons of granite boulders over the seaward side of the wall, completely overriding what little was left of the beach.
I was asked, as if I was the prime suspect, whether these outsized chunks of stone would remain in their present location or be used to bolster the groynes (yes, I’ve spelt it right!), the heavy pole-shaped wave-breakers that march regimentally in parallel lines from Svetlogorsk’s shore out into its sea.
I knew the answer, of course, but I wasn’t about to let on. It could be that I was busy contemplating what it would be like to own and to live in a luxury apartment overlooking the Baltic Coast.
The sunsets along the Baltic Coast rank among the most spectacular anywhere in the world. Imagine sitting in your des-res flat. Would you ever tire of the spellbinding view? It’s doubtful.
Quotes from the appartment developers’ website “Promenade Life Health Resort A long-awaited project in which you can live, take care of your health, raise children, create and be proud of your heritage”
“PROMENADE is a hotel and health complex with more than 220 turnkey apartments with extensive infrastructure and a high level of service. It is located in a unique location – on the first line of the Svetlogorsk seaside – and occupies almost one and a half kilometers of coastal territory.”
“The Baltic coast is one of the most amazing and beautiful places on Earth. Both romantics and pragmatists will find refuge here. The first will be inspired by amazing seascapes, the second by the undoubted convenience of geography (the Baltic coast connects 9 countries). A place of power is a place where you can relax and conduct business in comfort.”
At present, the new promenade is serviced by one bar and one restaurant only, both integral features of the embankment lift. But when the residential complex is complete, apart from and in addition to the plush apartment interiors, nature in all its natural glory and everything else that Svetlogorsk has to offer ~ eclectic bars and restaurants, good shopping facilities, tranquil woodland walks, engaging cultural and social history, convenient road and rail links both to Kaliningrad and the region’s airport ~ those lucky promenade dwellers will have right upon their doorstep the use of a pump room, spa and clinic all wrapped up in a breathtaking view inside a great location.
You can find more about this desirable lifestyle by clicking the link to the developers’ website here > https://promenad-park.ru/
In the meantime, I will bide my time in the sure and certain knowledge that any day now I will hear the sound of keys dropping into my post box, heralding the arrival of a personal invitation to take complementary possession of a deluxe apartment on Svetlogorsk’s prom.
You have to admit, it’s nice of them. My thank-you note is already written.
8 October 2023 ~ Herman Brachert Museum Königsberg Sculptor
Otradnoye [German: Georgenswald] is a small, unspoilt seaside enclave on Kaliningrad region’s Baltic Coast. It sits, relatively obscurely, on a wooded escarpment between the region’s two main resorts, Svetlogorsk (German: Rauschen) and Zelenogradsk (German: Cranz).
Otradnoye is worth discovering for its wonderful woodland walks, late nineteenth and early twentieth century German architecture and its small but white sandy beach (now smaller still, since a couple of thousand boulders have been netted there to tackle coastal erosion).
Herman Brachert Museum
Another reason for visiting Otradnoye is to acquaint yourself with one of its most famous and charismatic former occupants, the German sculptor Herman Brachert (1890~1972), whose home and studio has been faithfully preserved as a biographical record of his life and as a museum for his works of art.
Herman Brachert, who originated from Stuttgart, worked in Königsberg and the Königsberg region for 25 years. From 1933 to 1944, he lived and worked in the country retreat of Otradnoye.
The Brachert’s family home was built in 1931 by architect Hans Hopp. It was renovated in 1992 and became a museum the following year.
Much of Brachert’s work perished during World War II and/or was destroyed in the postwar years. Even so, the museum contains more than 700 exhibits, more than enough to be highly representational of the concepts, materials, forms and compositions with which Brachert is associated.
The museum’s curators continue to track down original Brachert items, aided in their quest by photographs, letters, documents and diaries from the sculptor’s family archive. Fortunately, Brachert’s wife, Maria, was an accomplished photo-artist, and many of her photographs are included in the museum’s display.
Herman Brachert Museum
Herman Brachert was particularly adept in the creation of small items, as evidenced by the museum’s collection of plaques and medals, arguably the most valued being the 1924 medal to the 200th Anniversary of the Unification of Königsberg. He also worked with plastics and jewellery.
The quality and detail of his work also shines through his larger projects, of which perhaps the most impressive, or at least most loved, is the figural sculpture Carrier of Water. This forlorn but beautiful woman rising from her knees clasping a pitcher of water upon her head is said to be the Goddess of Fate.
Carrier of Water. Herman Brachert Museum.
In the winter of 2000, I made the lady’s acquaintance. She was quietly and gently decaying beneath the snow-capped trees of Svetlogorsk’s Larch Park.
Two years passed before a rescue party came and whisked her away to St Petersburg, where, at the State Hermitage Museum, under the direction of artist-restorer VN Mozgov, she was lovingly restored and later transferred to the Brachert Museum.
Another favourite among the Brachert exhibits is the goddess Demeter. A two-third figural composition of a young nude woman, produced by Brachert in 1939 and donated to the museum by patron of the arts BN Bartfeld, Demeter is said to personify strength, equanimity and feminine beauty.
In addition to free-standing figural sculptures, Brachert was also an expert in the field of bas-reliefs, fine examples of which can still be seen upon the surviving buildings of Königsberg.
In 2015, the Brachert Museum acquired two rare plaques, dating to the early 1930s, produced by students from the Königsberg School of Arts and Crafts, where Herman Brachert taught.
Herman Brachert Museum
The exhibits of the House Museum of Herman Brachert echo a golden era of Germanic sculpture and architectural embellishment, many strongly influenced by the Art Deco design concepts that were prevalent during the 1930s.
The same artistic principals resonated throughout the interior design of the Brachert family home. Structurally, the house is uncannily presented in almost every architectural detail, and though the fixtures and fittings that graced the original abode have long since disappeared, it is yet possible, using numerous family photographs within the museum’s collection, to see exactly what the interior looked like when the Brachert family lived there.
One photograph in particular [see above] opens a poignant window into the past. Stand next to this photograph and look towards the far end of the room in the direction of the Carrier of Water, and you can easily reconstruct the entire room as it appeared during the Brachert era, locating with pin-point accuracy every piece of furniture and even Brachert himself sitting at his desk.
For time travellers, this is one of those ‘hairs standing up on the back of your neck moments’. A similar sensation can be replicated by gazing upon the portrait bust of the great sculptor himself.
The bust’s likeness of Brachert is so finely executed that his features seem to come alive before your very eyes, inviting you to think, ‘Here, indeed, is a man possessed of singular intellectual depth and charismatic intensity.’ He has the face of someone you would have liked to have known in person.
During their time in Otradnoye, not only did the Brachert’s have a modern country home nestled above the Baltic Coast, but they were also the fortunate owners of a large and pleasant garden, which follows the fall of the land to the edge of the wood beyond. Poignant photographs in the museum’s collection reveal the Brachert family in their natural setting: a woman leaning casually out of the ground-floor window and a boy with a sleeping dog, sitting and laying respectively, upon the garden terrace. Today, the garden is a quiet oasis, a green and tranquil backdrop for a cornucopia of widely differing sculptures, donated over the years by various artists.
Former Brachert home as it is today [October 2023]. Herman Brachert Museum.
Wandering recently through this exotic landscape, I wondered perchance would I meet again with my old friends Lenin and Stalin. Eighteen years ago, on a very wet and very cold day in January, I thrilled to the sight of them languishing incongruously in a hedge at the side of the Brechert Museum. Sure enough we were reunited, but now they had a proper station among the other exhibits. The plaque, which shows the ensemble before it succumbed to distress and decay, presents an ennobling tableau.
Plaque (above): ‘Lenin and Stalin in Gorkah’. Fragments of sculptural group, constructed in 1949, were discovered during building work in Svetlogorsk. Donated to the Brachert Museum in 2003.
Skull sculpture in the grounds of the Herman Brachert Museum by Evgeniy Dolmator and Gregory Bogachuk, Moscow, Russia (2016). A symbol of the continuity of life and a reminder that life should not be wasted.
The House Museum of Herman Brachert
The House Museum of Herman Brachert showcases the work of a highly talented individual who produced legendary sculptures and architectural plaques in a wide range of materials and on scales both large and small.
In spite of Königsberg’s fate, examples of Brachert’s work live on, reminding us of the important role he played in the architectural heritage of the city and its provinces. In all, he was the progenitor of more than 20 outstanding sculptures made in and for the region of East Prussia.
Whatever material Brachert worked in, his breadth of imagination, elaborate detail and the innate energy of his compositions, exerts a signature brilliance.
I will stop just short of using a word like genius as through frequency of use it is fast becoming an unsustainable concept, and besides far too many of us today are deserving of the appellation. Perhaps, we should simply say that Herman Brachert, Königsberg sculptor, is the exception to our rule.
Mick & Daniel Hart with Brachert’s bronze Nymph statue, Svetlogorsk (2004)
Svetlogorsk, on Kaliningrad’s Baltic Coast, contains a number of Brachert’s works, the most celebrated being his bronze Nymph statue, which is framed in a giant shell surrounded by different coloured mosaic in a prominent place on the sea-front promenade.
(Above:) This gatefold advertising leaflet for the Herman Brachert Museum was produced in 1992, making it a collector’s item in its own right! The calligraphic script featured on the front page is the work of our friend and artist Victor Ryabinin. Victor introduced us to the museum in the winter of 2005, to be precise on the 12th January 2005, as written in his inscription to us by hand in memory of that occasion.
The Herman Brachert Museum caters for individual and group excursions. It plays host to exhibitions by Kaliningrad, Polish, and Lithuanian artists as well as from the collections of Russian and foreign museums, and has established itself as a favourite venue for concerts and creative plenaries.
House-Museum of Herman Brachert Svetlogorsk, pos. Otradnoe, Tokareva Street, 7
A summer’s day on Svetlogorsk prom (where there is a lift)
Published: 25 August 2022 ~ Whenever I need a lift, I go to Svetlogorsk
Look! Is that really me sitting outside a café bar in Svetlogorsk gazing out across the sea! I wouldn’t want you to get the erroneous impression that I have a peculiar Freudian obsession with lift shafts, but here I am back in Svetlogorsk again checking up on what has happened or not, as the case may be, along the prom extension of the Svetlogorsk coastline, at the base of Novyy Promenad lift. Perhaps I am just sitting there for the convenience of the location, enjoying respite and inertia and the pleasure of drinking beer. Will we ever know? And will the world stop turning if we don’t?
Approaching the lift on the uplands, we walked through the landscaped grounds of Yantar Hall, described by tour guides as a ‘modern multifunctional cultural centre’, a place where bold futuristic design meets pretty silver-birch woodland. What a juxtaposition! I cannot recall what was here two decades ago when I first came to Svetlogorsk. “Bugger all!” my brother cries. For once, he could be right. But we won’t split hairs about it, if only because as one gets older one tends to becomes more follically challenged. However, we will politely venture that a percentage of the ground requisitioned for this ambitious development consisted of hard-surfaced tennis courts and more of the woodland that surrounds it today. Should I be wrong, excuse me. (I know you often do …)
On a warm summer’s day, although the streets of Svetlogorsk are not exactly teaming with people, give or take several score more than there was twenty years ago, charting one’s course to the lift via the grounds of Yantar Hall is to court serenity. You mind knows and so does your soul that you are walking in step with nature, heading towards the sea.
It does not take long, in fact a surprisingly short duration, for new buildings to make their peace with Nature. Already, the headland entrance to the lift has begun the process of blending, or perhaps for the sake of accuracy we should say that the environment into which it intruded no longer baulks at its presence
The plate glass wall that perimeterises the outdoor viewing area and stops you from travelling down to the prom without the aid of the lift, could make you feel a little queer if heights are not your thing, but if you are feeling queer and heights don’t bother you, don’t fret, the only thing you need worry about is that there is something wrong with your gender. Viewed from a different perspective, from the crest of the bank to the ground below and out across the sea, it is the perfect place for people, who have forgotten to bring a cameraman with them, to take those all-important filtered selfies to post on social media. A picture is worth a thousand words, make no mistake about that, possibly more if you care to count them.
The view from the gallery inside the building, looking down on the construction site that hugs the coastline below, revealed within visible limits no dramatic alterations since my last reconnaissance. That luxurious premier apartment overlooking the sea has yet to box the space that it has been allocated, but I am sure that it is out there somewhere, somewhere in the future, complete and enviably occupied.
For the time being, however, I would have to be content with commenting on such changes that had occurred, and which could be seen and appreciated once we reached ground level.
Whenever I need a lift, I go to Svetlogorsk
The first appreciable development was the opening of a café bar at the front of the lift’s terminus, facing the prom and the sea. It did not take long to leave me here to enjoy a beer, or two, whilst my fully aquatic wife flirted with the Baltic.
The small forecourt at the front of the café is demarcated inside a rectangle of black metal planters, which would ‘good looks’ (as my wife used to say, until I put her right) as screening for a home patio. Craning over the top of the planters, I was able to observe that the adjoining area containing the retro fast-food vans, which had acquired two more in my absence and was beginning to look like a diner-vans’ colony, was also territorially enclosed with planters, but ones that resembled tubs on wheels. Their portability opened up all sorts of possibilities for mobile garden planning (see, my time as an editor on Successful Gardening was not entirely wasted), failing which they could be exploited as excellent roving ice buckets, eminently suitable for large-scale soirées or adventurous garden parties. They would also make good kiddie buggies into which to throw your children and tank around the lawn or, exclusively for my wife, a customised nomadic swimming pool. I could take one of these buckets on wheels, roll it under the apple tree, fill it full of water and my wife could go and sit in it. And I, of course, could take photos of her that she could then post to VK.
When my water-winged wife got out of the sea, any chance that I may have had to impress her with my notions were lost to a flurry of praise of how wonderful it was to swim and commune with ‘beautiful nature’. Now she was imploring me to take photographs of the ‘amazing’ sunset. Cuh!
Keeping my plans for the planters secret, I finished my second pint and fortified in stereo walked over to the sea wall not to take photos of sunsets but of the lift and its immediate surroundings from the perspective of the front elevation. Hmm, perhaps I do have a lift shaft fetish? But that is by the by. If I had not pursued my inclinations, I would not have been any the wiser that above the café where I had been sitting a restaurant had been installed. By no means the largest restaurant that the world has ever known, it does have long, broad windows through which you can gaze at the briny.
Eventually, I did take that picture of the sunset over the Baltic Sea and in doing so discovered an excellent example of utilitarianism that either had not been where it is now when I last leant on the wall or if it was, I had not been paying attention. Every three or four feet or more flat surfaced wooden rectangles, approximately one foot in width and two feet in length (I am an ardent supporter of the old imperial system ~ it really does make life just that little bit less simple) had been bolted along the top of the wall, creating, in effect, handy little table tops on which to stand your sundries. A man standing next to me placed his can of beer on one. What a good idea!
How well these table tops will hold up when the summer weather turns dramatically to winter is a point I wished you had not raised. Perhaps they are detachable? No matter, I am so taken with the concept of them that should they float or fly away I will return with one of my own.
Making off in the direction of the older promenade, where one would have been when Svetlogorsk was Rauschen, nothing leapt out at me like a mugger in Brixton to alert me to something that I may not have seen already. But when we reached the giant sun dial, the starting point of the old prom, sheets of corrugated tin barring further access reminded me of an article that I had read in the local news about future reconstruction work to the resort’s historic esplanade. That future was obviously now.
Not meaning to imply by the word ‘historic’ that the in-situ esplanade is the one that Germans once strolled along, most likely not even the foundations on which it stands is of German origin, nevertheless its Soviet heritage must retain nostalgic value for others not just me, but me included since I have sauntered along it many times over the past 20 years.
Following the diversionary tactics of other pedestrians, we ended up on a hard-surfaced path hidden inside the bushes, running parallel to the promenade, that I had forgotten had ever existed, and it was from this path and the bushes lining it that I was able to take a photo of the old prom (see above) looking rather sad and forlorn in its decommissioned condition. Whether the whole kaboodle is to be replaced or the framework preserved and a new plateau raised above and around the existing structure, your guess is as good as mine. But lured by my illicit love ~ my affair with Svetlogosrk lift shaft ~ I am bound to find out sooner or later. When I do, I’ll let you know.
Published: 30 July 2021 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade Perchance to Dream
Before the Baltic seaside resort of Svetlogorsk was Svetlogorsk, I mean when it was Rauschen, the promenade, along which smart and well-dressed German ladies and gentlemen walked to be seen, to socialise and to partake of the fresh sea air, was of the slatted-wood variety and ran from where the Soviet sun dial stands today to the corner of the access road that twists and curves from the town above.
To the right of the sundial lay a stretch of beach, three-quarters of which was covered in rocks and boulders interspersed with brief ribbons of sand. I walked along there once looking conspicuous in my brown Oxford brogues, like a failed graduate from English spy school.
This new and inevitably controversial development all but obliterated what little bit of sand there was, although in the last 12 months or more the sand has reappeared, shipped judiciously in from somewhere to quell the rising tide of discontent at nature’s loss for profit’s gain.
The promenade itself is both a luxury and convenience. It is nicely finished in variegated styles and colours of block-paving, as well as granite slabs and traditional wooden slats, providing plenty of space for perambulation both on foot and on wheels.
The street furniture combines traditional with modern exotic: crescent-shaped backless and wrought-iron benches in more than sufficient numbers take care of the bum department and matching black waste bins, black pendant lampstands and bollards, also in black, borrow for their style and class from classic designs of the late 19th century and the earliest years of the 20th.
The extensive hording behind which the pile-driving and foundation laying is busily underway for the ambitious sea-view development is brightly printed with artist’s impressions of what the strip will look like when the heavy plant machinery goes, the noise has all died down, the dust has settled and the buildings are up.
Svetlogorsk promenade extension under construction, July 2021
The scenes foretold are predominantly night-time ones. They present an attractive window-lit oasis of seductive commercial modernity. In this light, with the surf-rolling sea out front and the steep, foliated, tree-topped banks out back, Svetlogorsk has never looked so sensual. It’s Frankie Vaughan’s moonlight and Chris de Burgh’s lady in red all wrapped up in a silky-smooth smooch under the stars, on top of your dreams.
A computer-generated image of Svetlogorsk promenade
Down the road a bit in daylight, stands the already up and running replacement pedestrian lift. It’s a cut above the old one (more of that later), which could well have been an advert for corrugated tin had not sections of it in the fullness of time simply upped and blown away.
The new lift on Svetlogorsk promenade, 2021
The new lift is no such beast. It is a solid-looking affair, with its own concourse and a clean, no-nonsense interior. At the side of it, rather less spectacular but none the less fun, stand a couple of 1950s’ retro American diner caravans dispensing food of the fast variety, together with teas, coffees and ices.
A ‘diner’ fast-food wagon next to the lift on Svetlogorsk’s promenade extension, July 2021
It was whilst I was sitting opposite these on one of the chairs and at one of the tables provided drinking my tea that I had the feeling that I had seen this lift before, or something quite like it, in the opening credits of Stingray. Touched by Gerry Anderson, I half expected to hear that dislocated voice booming across the decades, “Anything can happen in the next half hour!”
It did. I finished my tea.
On the slatted wood just in front of the thick metal railings which allow you to see the sea, there are a series of very nice, heavy wooden recliners, which my wife had me photograph as she reclined away for Facebook. You also get traditional seats of the park-bench type, thoughtfully encased in a metal-framed and polycarbonate curvature, so perchance it should rain you can stay where you are, keeping an eye on the sea just in case it might do something different.
Sea view from Svetlogorsk’s new promenade
We walked to the prom twice in one weekend to experience the thought-provoking contrast between the sea that never changes and the Svetlogorsk coastline that does and is.
On the first occasion we left the prom the hard way, climbing the steep and finally zig-zagging metal steps to emerge all hot and sweaty and gasping for breath, but still pretending that we could do it again all day, at the top of the road where the Hotel Rus once stood, and indeed, still does, albeit now in a closed and in a somewhat lonely capacity. If I had not been so close to keeling over after climbing the stairway to heaven, I could almost have shed a tear. The Hotel Rus closed! Who would Adam and Eve it! Another piece of my personal history gone!
Having learnt our lesson the hard way, on the second occasion of leaving the prom, we paid our 50 roubles and took the lift.
I’ll tell you about that later.
Svetlogorsk promenade hotel construction with recently completed lift, July 2021
Willie & Greta Hartmann may still be drinking tea on the hotel terrace …
Published: 27 June 2021 ~ The Hartman Hotel Svetlogorsk reviewed by Mick Hart
I often wondered what was going on behind the plastic sheets and scaffolding, which, it seemed to me, had been there for years, and then, in the winter of 2020, the sheeting was removed and there stood this immaculately renovated building bearing the name Hartman Hotel.
As a portion of the hotel’s name was synonymous with mine, ‘Hart’, the prospect of not having my photo taken standing next to it was inconceivable. My wife would later use this photograph to create a Facebook post, the implication being that this latest addition to the Svetlogorsk hotel portfolio was under my ownership. How does the expression go? You wish!!
The Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk ~ a brief history The Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk, is the modern successor to the Hartmann Hotel, Rauschen, which itself succeeded the Waldesrand (Forest Edge). The Waldesrand began life in 1910 at a time when the small Prussian town of Rauschen, nestled on the Baltic Coast, was renowned as a spar resort and revered for the health-restoring properties of its fresh sea and pine-tree woodland air.
The name Hartmann was given to the hotel after its new owner, Willie Hartmann, acquired it in the 1920s. When it re-opened in 1925, it incorporated a restaurant, had undergone various interior improvements and had been remodelled as a year-round venue.
Willie Hartmann and his wife, Greta, took great pride in the running and the reputation of their new venture, and it was not long before Hotel Hartmann became a firm favourite, attracting people from far and wide as well as local dignitaries.
When the Second World War changed the course of history, the Hartmanns were forced to abandon their treasured home and business. Fate was kind to them in that they survived the war, resettled and continued to work in the hotel trade, but in 1945 Rauschen officially died and with it the Hartmann Hotel.
Destiny, however, has a strange way of intervening, sometimes in ways that are least expected. Who would have thought, for example, that 76 years after the war, through all the vicissitudes of change and temporality that it inflicted, not only would a hotel faithfully replicated upon the designs of its predecessor rise phoenix-like from the ashes of time but also would be restored to the standards of its former self and revived to bear the name of its most successful owner?
The answer, Willie Hartmann: “War is not eternal,” he told his wife, “… a hotel will always be needed … our grandchildren will still drink tea on the terrace of this hotel!”
What he meant by that in relation to the outcome of the war is a moot point. In early 2020, the descendants of Willie Hartmann discovered by chance whilst surfing on the net that their grandfather’s hotel had been restored, resurrected and eponymously named.
They wrote a heartfelt letter of thanks to the new owners, acknowledging their sensitivity to and appreciation of the hotel’s place in the history of the region, recognising that the new owners could quite easily have taken much of the hard work out of their new project by limiting the conversion to a simple contemporary makeover.
The extent to which the hotel’s exterior resembles that of its predecessor is clearly demonstrated by comparing our photographs, taken in 2021, with those taken in the 1920s, which appear in a booklet thoughtfully commissioned by the hotel’s new owners and devoted to the hotel’s history for the edification of guests and visitors.
The Hartman Hotel Svetlogorsk
My first encounter with the new Hartman (we shall, out of respect, continue to spell it the old German way, Hartmann), that is when the building resembled what it used to be and not a building site, occurred in winter 2020.
With its little red-lamp-shaded lights casting a warm glow through its restaurant windows, I was all for going in, but as we were short on time, and with my wife knowing from years of experience that once in a cosy licensed premises it would be difficult to get me out, we would have to wait until the early summer of 2021 before this avenue of pleasure could be properly explored.
The day that we had chosen to visit Svetlogorsk in mid-June was a hot one, and, unbeknown to us, it was a public holiday (there are many and they are hard to keep track of here!) Consequently, our train was packed, and when we got out I had never seen so many people in Svetlogorsk. It was, to use the vernacular, ‘rammed’.
We had planned to walk to the promenade and have lunch on one of the hotel or restaurant terraces overlooking the sea, but Svetlogorsk’s tourist invasion required evasive action. Almost at once and together we remembered the Hartmann Hotel and how stylish it had looked. It was old, had been restored and had an air of 1930s’ gentility; in other words, it was our sort of place. We would not be disappointed.
We could quite easily have been disappointed, however, since, whilst there were less people away from the front, the terrace at the Hartmann was not short of patrons. Fortunately for us, we had timed it right. On the way I had paused to take stock of my favourite Rauschen building, recently renovated to a high and attractive standard, and by doing so we arrived at the Hartmann just as a table came vacant.
The Hartmann, which is appealing enough in its own right, has added a touch of swish to pull the punters in. Last winter it had a 1930s’ style motor vehicle parked on the forecourt; now, it has a bright red and sparkling-chrome classic MG convertible.
Front entrance to the Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk
In the era of Visual Blitz, induced and exploited by Facebook and other social media, who could resist having their photograph taken next to such a swanky automobile parked out front of such a tasteful hotel? Certainly not my wife. Olga, given her Facebook obsession, was predictably one of the least resisting, and several photographs had to be taken before I could get down to the serious business of sampling the beer.
The Hartman Hotel Svetlogorsk
Having struck lucky with our seats, our pride of place position gave us a good view of the hotel’s revived façade.
This was one of those marvellous, old German/Prussian buildings of inverted breakfront design, where flanking end sections project from the middle plane, thus recessing the central component. The orange-red brickwork that forms the window arches, cornerstones and lateral-running decoration are picked out pleasingly against the white painted background, perfectly in keeping with the architectural style of the late 19th early 20th century. The windows, are, of course, double-glazed units, but in order to conform as far as possible with the shape and impression of the more intricate design contemporary to the Hartmann era, they are predominantly curved in form, made up of sections separated by vertical and horizontal struts and with narrow vertical strips in the upper lights intended to resemble the more elaborate wooden frameworks of earlier periods. The rectangular casements in the upper storey are not a deviation. On the contrary, as the photograph of the hotel front taken in the Hartmann era shows, they replicate the original pattern, as does the long, central balcony and decorative half-timbered fretwork.
The Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk, celebrates its past
The front door with its copper, curved awning and embossed/carved detail is, I imagine, a lot more elaborate than the original Hartmann entrance would have been, but whomsoever chose it deserves top marks for gilding the lily that is the most deserving.
Standing next to this door of doors, at least on the day that we were there, in addition to two potted shrubs, was a fully-fledged doorman in complete vintage doorman regalia, his burgundy sleeveless tunic, conforming tilt hat and twin rows of silver buttons harmonising splendidly with the MG’s polished red livery and dazzling chrome work.
The Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk, doorman
Like many things, hotel observation can be thirsty work, and it was hooray when the beer arrived! As a vegetarian, and a simple food one at that, I do not feel that I am really qualified to comment on the quality of our meal, except to say that my salad was good enough. My wife settled for a good old honest portion of fish and chips but discovered that this was no ordinary plateful: traditional cod had been mixed with tasty salmon! For liquid refreshment Olga had a couple of glasses of wine, and I had two German beers. The tab came to about £20, which we thought was reasonable.
During our time at the Hartmann, the hotel staff were attentive and approachable and the service friendly and good. In fact, we were so taken with it all that although we live only a relatively short bus or train ride from the coast, we decided to take the plunge and book in for a night the following week, which would give us a chance to sample the hotel interior (and, naturally, more beers) and to take a few photos for the post I had planned.
Mick Hart & Olga Hart at the Hartman Hotel
Our overnight stay at the Hartman Hotel, Svetlogorsk
Check in at the Hartmann Hotel is officially 2pm. We arrived early, but this was no problem as the helpful receptionist stowed our overnight bag behind a closed door in a luggage area opposite the lobby desk.
When we had inquired about the possibility of taking a room last week, we had been told that the hotel was fully booked. This encouraged us to take the one room that was vacant, which was a family room, which we would have taken anyway as the extra space and additional seating that this type of room provides is always welcome. For a family room we had to fork out £80, which is not as budget friendly as some hotels in the region, but we were not unhappy considering the standard and ambience.
Room number 23 opens out into one of the end extensions of the building. The large arched window combinations to the front and one at either side makes this a particularly light, airy and pleasant space. It contains a bed-settee, two open armchairs, coffee table and second, wider screen TV.
The room itself is sensitively decorated. Although a dark-wood Gothic man myself, I had no quarrel with the light and pastel colours in this particular setting. The room’s facilities are modern and equipped to a high standard ~ it even has its own iron and ironing board, which is an absolute necessity for keeping one’s cravat in tip-top shape!
To enable en suite conditions, the combined shower room and W.C. has to occupy quite a narrow space, but this has been achieved with zero inconvenience. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention, and I was, and still am, in awe, as to how they managed to design this room to maximise space and sacrifice nothing.
The room’s door-locking system is one that Willie Hartmann and his wife, not to mention his 1920s’ guests, would find novel and entertaining. It is one of those electronic touch-card jobs, the card also doubling as an electricity activation key once inside the room. Me to the porter, trying not to look as if I was a backdated key user: “How do you work this?” And then when he’d shown me: “Ah, I wondered if you knew!”
These little plastic cards are all well and good, but since they negate the need to physically shut the door, turn the handle and use a key, early rising guests tend to let the door go slam as they toddle off to breakfast, which is a bit disconcerting if you are still in bed biding your time with a hangover. Jim Reeves: ‘I hear the sound of not-so-distant drums!’ Not a criticism, but perhaps some calibrated door-closers?
The Hartmann Hotel’s dining room, located on the ground floor opposite reception, also doubles as a restaurant that admits non-residents. We were out on the town in the evening, so we did not become acquainted with it until breakfast the following morning, whereupon it received immediately the Egon Harty seal of approval.
Breakfast was not wanting in any respect. The choice of food on offer, which is included in the tariff, is wide and varied, and you help yourself to what you want and as much as you want (always a dangerous option when my brother is around; I’ve lost count of the number of restaurants and hotels that almost went out of business when he discovered the invitation ‘eat as much as you like’).
Another bonus was that since it was a warm, sunny morning, we were able to take our breakfast and dine a la carte on the hotel terrace.
The Hartmann Hotel’s website states that Willie Hartmann and his staff laid great store on providing not just excellent service but service with a smile. When you are working with the public (and remember, we know, because we once ran an antiques emporium), remaining cool, calm, collected ~ and, in the hospitality trade, most essentially cordial ~ takes a certain kind of person and a certain kind of skill. I must confess that I never did quite get the hang of this and ran our antiques emporium as if I was Basil Fawlty!
Fortunately, or by careful choice, today’s Hartmann management can boast that its team possesses all the qualities that Willie Hartmann would have expected from his team. Without exception, everyone with whom we came into contact was cheerful, good humoured and helpful. The Hartmann service could not be better!
When it wasn’t the Hartmann or Hartman
It had taken me a while to remember what the Hartmann had been when I first came to Svetlogorsk twenty-one years ago. And then, suddenly, it flashed into my mind, or rather a giant bear skin did!
As I recall, in the left front-extension of the building, there had been a small, two-roomed bar, access to which was only available by crossing a rubble-filled patch of waste ground, the present location of the Hartmann terrace, and then by going through a side door located where the side door is today.
This bar was as basic as basic; it sold tea, vodka and very little else and had a big, flat, sad-looking bear nailed to the wall. As far as I can remember, the rest of the building was in a fallen-on-hard-times state, possibly no longer used and desperately in need of the kind of tender loving care which, thankfully, come the second decade of the 21st century it eventually would be blessed with.
I would not imagine that any reference to Hartmann existed then, but today the name is proudly sign written above the front entrance and on the gable end of the building; the letter ‘H’ appears on all the Art Noveau stylised lamps; and there is an even an ‘H’ incorporated within the embossed panel on the front door.
Inside, the Hartmanns are acknowledged again, with pictorial representations of their faces heading up an acrylic wall board on which an illustrated map featuring the Hartmann hotel in relation to surrounding tourist sights, the coastline and the sea creates an attractive display.
And, in the small seating area that extends from the reception, stands a glass-topped coffee table containing assorted memorabilia from the time when Willie Hartmann and his wife, Greta, ran the hotel. These include monogrammed silver cutlery, an original monogrammed cup and saucer and other period items all resting on a lace tablecloth contemporaneous to the Hartmann’s tenure.
Items from Hartmann’s original hotel include a restaurant menu
Airport transfers You can book a transfer from Khrabrov airport, and back if required, by telephoning the main reception desk: 8 (4012) 270-204 Regular transfer (minivan Hyundai H-1) – 2,000 rubles (approx. £19.90): one way VIP transfer (Lexus LX570) – 3,500 rubles (approx. £34.84): one way
Mick & Olga Hart celebrate their 19th wedding anniversary in Svetlogorsk, Russia.
Published: 5 September 2020 ~ Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day
31 August 2020 was our wedding anniversary. Nineteen years together and never a cross word. At least, I used to think so until I learnt more Russian and discovered that what for years I had presumed to be my wife’s words of endearment were in fact expletives. How does it go? Ignorance is bliss.
To mark the occasion of my good fortune and her bad, I suggested that we take a trip to Svetlogorsk, the Baltic coast seaside resort, and retrace our steps in time. There, we would visit the church where we were married and call in at the hotel nearby, Starry Doktor (Old Doctor), where betwixt the two ceremonies, the first at the church and the second at the Russian equivalent of the UK’s registry office, we had, with our guests, stopped off for a pizza and something light to drink.
Olga, my wife, had wanted a church wedding but in Russia church weddings are not officially recognised by the State, which meant that we would need to be married twice on the same day: first in the church in Svetlogorsk and then at the registry office in Kaliningrad.
Before I could be married in the Russian Orthodox Church, it was necessary for me to attend an orthodox church to seek absolution for my sins.
As I was in England prior to the wedding, and living at that time in Bedford, I had to travel to the Orthodox church in Kensington, London, in order to honour the obligation that the Orthodox church required. On hearing about the purpose of my trip, some of my friends opined that I would be there for a very long time.
Today, 31 August 2020, the plan was to call in at Starry Doktor first, for an old-times’ sake pizza, and from there walk to the church.
As well as being our wedding anniversary, another anniversary of almost equal proportions was about to be enacted, which was that this would be the first time that I would eat something and drink beer in a restaurant, discounting one bottle outside a beachside café a few weeks back, since the coronavirus air-raid siren sounded, which for us was sometime in March this year.
The masked traveller
We travelled by train, as we were in the mood to do so, equipped with regulation coronavirus face masks and antiseptic hand wipes, both of which became progressively useless as normal life took over.
It is difficult, if not perfectly ridiculous, wiping hands, wiping the top of bottles, wiping, for example, a sweet wrapper and in the process of doing so forgetting what order you are doing it in or whether you have done it at all. The best anyone can achieve in normal circumstances is to go through the motions and then give up.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
Arriving in Svetlogorsk we found that the number of visitors, which after a very heavily subscribed summer season due to the Russian state’s incentive to boost domestic tourism in the wake of coronavirus restrictions, was at last diminishing. Autumn was on its way; holidays were over; school term was about to resume.
Nineteen years ago to the day, the weather had been superb. Mr Blue Sky had garbed himself in his best robes for the occasion and his friend, Mr Sun, although as bright as the proverbial new penny, had turned down the heat with respect to the presence of autumn.
Summer, like the madness of youth, was fading fast and as it ebbed away was being replaced by that distinctive autumnal tinge. In autumn the air becomes thinner and our senses more finely attuned, especially our sense of smell. Summer is the time of noise, laughter, exuberance; autumn the soft and mellow fragrance of yellow and auburn leaves, of mossy dampness and that enticing nip in the air that tells of winter’s imminence. It is the seasonal ante-chamber, the last stop for quiet reflection, before the cold embrace.
When we left for the coast by train this morning, it had just stopped raining, but upon our arrival in Svetlogorsk (I can hear Victor correcting me ‘Rauschen’) the sun had broken through and someone up there was being kind to us on our anniversary as the temperature was perfect. We are autumnal people.
We walked the short distance to Starry Doktor, and I was both pleased and discomfited to see that my favourite property, the old Mozart café, had at last been bought and was now being renovated. Whatever you do, please do not spoil this wonderful example of Gothic Rauschen, I heard myself whisper.
We passed the smallest antique shop in the world, thankfully not open today or we would have bound to have been in there buying something, and found ourselves opposite the newly constructed and open Hartman Hotel, a resplendent establishment if ever there was one, which, with its imposing vintage automobile swishly parked outside, is bound to give Svetlogorsk’s Grand Hotel and Hotel Rus a challenging run for their money.
Information board outside Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Starry Doktor, we were pleased to find, had not changed. And neither can it, as the information board outside the building denotes. There was no change inside either, not to the layout and décor or in the reception that we received, which was rather Soviet in kind.
“We’d like to order a pizza. Can we eat outside?”
“No”
“But we can order a pizza?”
“Yes.”
Olga looks through the menu.
“What sort of vegetarian pizzas do you have?”
“You will have to look.”
“OK. Can we have cheese and tomato?”
“We don’t do that. We do cheese with tomato paste.”
“OK. We will have that.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Cheese and tomato paste?”
“You need to look in the menu and tell me which one that is.”
Back to the menu.
“Margherita.”
Smiling and being ‘mine welcoming hostess’ was not apparently on the menu either and as we were the only patrons, we found ourselves acting in that strange way that one does in cafés and restaurants when the atmosphere is not quite to one’s liking, ie talking in low whispers. Nevertheless, this was all part of the traditional service and being us, odd, the nostalgic input was strangely appreciated.
When the pizza arrived it was not thin crust; it was very thin crust. If I did not already have a pocket handkerchief, I could have folded up a piece and used it as such. However, it was not without taste, and putting behind me almost all notions of misapprehension regarding coronavirus and drinking from a bar-room glass, my first beer for yonks on a licensed premises was greatly appreciated.
Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia; August 2020
From Starry Doktor we walked the short distance to the small church where we had been married. On the way we were dismayed to find that one of our favourite houses had been swallowed up by a new, totally out of scale, brash ‘look how much wealth we’ve got’ refit. I could not be sure, but since our last visit in the spring of this year, it looked as though another gargantuan villa, again completely off the scale chart, had sprung up between the pine trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Will they ever stop building?” Olga grumbled.
Just for us, or so we would like to think, the weather was getting better by the hour. Our little red-brick church, resting on top of an eminence, with its three or four tiers of steps leading up to the entrance, peeped through the birch and pine trees; the sunlight peeped through them too, impressing the surface of the church with dainty twig and leaf patterns, whilst the sky above smiled bright and blue and the air about us blessed our senses with that first cool note of autumn.
Svetlogorsk Church, Russia, August 2020
If you were watching my words as moving images on a screen, we would now defer to the cinematographic technique where everything goes wavy, the implication being that we were going back in time. So let us do just that, and ripple away to the day of our wedding in August 2001.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
On this day, 19 years ago, we were residing, with our wedding guests from England, at the Lazurny BeregHotel ~ alas, another victim of Svetlogorsk’s build ‘em big and build ‘em high development. Lazurny Bereg, which was a mid-sized building and a nice hotel with bags of character, has since been replaced by something high-rise. I am not sure whether the new-build is an apartment block or a block of flats for holiday lease ~ c’est la vie.
The church service was set for 11am, so it was breakfast at 9am, and togged up and ready to go by 10am, but first we had to run the gauntlet of a series of Russian games, pre-wedding reception frolics, which, to be quite frank, as I was as nervous as ~ you know the word ~ I could just as well have dispensed with.
My wife to be was being waited on by friends, who were helping with her make-up and dressing her in her wedding apparel ~ well, that’s what she told me they were doing? Meanwhile, at an appointed time, I was instructed to go to the front entrance of the hotel with my brother David and our friends from England, then, when the word was given, I was to enter the building and proceed upstairs to the first-floor hallway where our hotel room was situated.
The word was given and in we went. As soon as we reached the first flight of steps we were met by a delegation of my wife-to-be’s, Olga’s, friends. Two of these could speak English, otherwise the scenario would have been considerably more complex. As it was, we worked out fairly quickly the nature of the first game. Apparently, I was not allowed to see my fiancée unless I crossed the palms of those before us with rubles, ie I had to pay a levy!
After a great deal of banter about would you take a cheque or how about an IOU, I offered two and six, but the Russians were having none of it. We had to pay and pay in rubles.
Never mind whether my wife was worth 200 rubles, about £1.30 at that time, unfortunately I was ruble-less in Russia. As luck would have it, my brother David’s wallet was better endowed than mine, and he handed over the requisite notes. He reminded me about a year ago, however, that I never did pay him back and that technically my wife was his, a subject on which I will say no more …
Having stumped up the cash, we were then escorted to the first-floor hall. Neatly laid out on a table in front of us were a series of family photographs featuring children. I was asked to guess which one was Olga. I think I was on the verge of getting it wrong when one of our friends blurted out the answer, who then shouted “David’s paid the money and I got the photo right, your claim [on my wife] is looking more dodgy by the minute!” This is what happens when you let Londoners come to your wedding!
Now it was time for Olga to emerge from the room in all her finery, but instead, the hotel door opened and there stood a large man dressed in women’s clothing. He gave me a Goliath hug, informing me as he did that if I did not pay a ‘ransom’ I would have to marry him instead. He would not have dared to suggest such a thing today, given England’s queer reputation! But back in 2001 things were not so very far gone.
If only she’d have shaved!
Once again it was down to my brother to make good with the rubles, who by this time was protesting that my lack of rubles was clearly a fix.
At last Olga appeared. She had decided to forsake the Russian trend for large, voluminous and pleated wedding dresses for something less ostentatious, and she looked lovely. Mind you, Andrew, the man in drag, was not a bad second.
It was only a short journey from the hotel to the church, but a mini-bus had been hired to get us there. As the church service was to be presided over by an Orthodox priest, who naturally would be speaking Russian, I had been given cues and, acting on these cues, instructed as to what my responses should be. So nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I love Orthodox churches. The richly painted and opulent icons together with the mist from and smell of wax candles intermingled with incense creates the most hallowed of atmospheres, and our church, although modest by big city standards, had an ethos all of its own.
Englishman married twice in Russia in one day
The ceremony required us to walk in circles at given points in the service and to have two people standing behind each of us holding gold-tone crowns above our heads. One of Olga’s friends did the honours for her, whilst my brother held the crown above me. He complained later that his arms had ached considerably and that the task had not been made easier by the tight fit of his jacket. If I said it once in those days, I had said it a hundred times: avoid cheap suits from Hepworths.
My brother, David, crowning me
All things considered, the service went well. Yes, it was a pity that when the priest asked me if I had another wife as an impediment to getting married that I answered yes instead of no, but I think I got away with it!
The wedding ceremony (blurry pictures courtesy of pre-digital photography, although the originals are sharper than this)
Outside, after a good round of photographs, this was the point at which we walked across the road to Starry Doktor, where we congregated outside for a drink and a pizza. I stayed on non-alcoholic beverages as we had a heavy itinerary in front of us.
Pizza time was essentially a way of killing time. In Russia, as I mentioned earlier, church marriages are not officially recognised by the State, and in order to be officially married, to have the marriage registered, we had to travel into Kaliningrad and get married a second time at the official registry office.
Forty minutes later, a cavalcade of cars whisked us off to the city, about 25 miles away. It was quite impressive, even allowing for the gallows humour about fleets of black cars and funerals.
The registry office functioned from inside one of Kaliningrad’s big old concrete monoliths, which has since been given a face job, but back in those days it was a daunting sight, all weather-stained and pock marked.
From a small portico the entrance led into a hall of typical marble effect. We had first to cross this hall into one of the small offices at the far end and get ourselves ‘booked in’. However, my passport, which at that time I should have been carrying with me day and night, was back in Svetlogorsk in the hotel. This omission caused something of a bureaucratic crisis in spite of the fact that the young lady in the office had seen and spoken to me half a dozen times the previous week, when we had visited the offices to ask questions about procedure. Just as it was beginning to look as though we would all have to come back next month, the issue was finally resolved upon the discovery that I was carrying a photocopy of my passport, which was accepted under the circumstances, but only after I had received a jolly good telling off ~ pity I could not understand what the young lady was saying.
All sorted, we were then ushered into an adjoining room, an antechamber to where the main event would take place. This was the ‘red room’. Why? Because it was; the walls were maroon and the furniture reproduction Louis something, the rather loud nature of which caused one of my compatriots to draw parallels between it and a bordello. He should know, I thought.
All looking amazed about something in Kaliningrad registry office’s ‘red room’ (31 August 2001)
We ambled around in this room for about ten minutes before being called into the official wedding chamber. This was a vast room indeed, highly ornate but empty except for a table and chair at one end, above which hung a large example of the Russian coat of arms. At the centre of the desk stood a small Russian flag and behind it a large ledger, which was waiting for me and the witnesses to sign.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding in Kaliningrad registry office, Russia, 31 August 2001
When it came to the crucial moment, the placing of the ring upon Olga’s finger, the music that was playing in the background was intercepted by the Beatles singing, of all things, ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …’ This, obviously, set the British guests rocking in the aisles, whilst Olga’s two female friends cried bitterly, not inspired by the romance of the moment but by the inconsolable belief that they were losing a friend forever, who, once married, would be whistled off to degenerate England never to be seen or heard of again.
From the ring and Paul McCartney, it was off to the front desk. I took up my position on the seat in front of the ledger and to the solemn refrain of the Russian national anthem, which thundered around the room, duly signed my name in the book. Olga then followed and the witnesses came forwarded and scribbled their monicas in the space allocated for this purpose.
Signing the official wedding book … Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The music changed to something full of glad tidings and amid the congratulations that we were well and truly spliced, and the kisses and kind words (Clive, my London friend, “Well, you’ve done it now!”) large bunches of flowers appeared and at last a tray of alcoholic beverages.
Outside, under the portico, the tradition of throwing the bride’s bouquet mirrored that in England and was caught by one of our English friends.
Now, all the official gubbings done and the church service completed, you would have thought that we would be off to the reception ~ not so. First, we had to honour the tradition of being driven around the city, a trip culminating in a visit to Kaliningrad’s principle Soviet war monument, where, in front of the eternal flame and at the steps of the commemorative obelisk, we would pay our respects with flowers.
The photographs that were taken here are among some of the most potent and memorable of that day and also reveal how lucky we had been with the weather.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding. At the Soviet war monument, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Before joining our other guests at the reception venue, we had one last call to make. This was for wedding photographs to be taken outside of Königsberg Cathedral and in the pillared vestibule containing the grave of Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.
You can be sure that by the time we arrived at the reception hall, I was ready for a drink! But there were yet two more Russian wedding traditions that had to be observed before we could indulge.
The first was biting the loaf. Both my wife and I were assigned to this task, one after the other, the idea being that he or she who took the biggest bite would be awarded the role of dominant marriage partner. Olga went first and, always up for a challenge, I followed making sure that I took a massive bite. Whilst everyone was congratulating me on having taken the biggest bite, as with most things marital I had bitten off more than I could chew. Fortunately, the next act involved gulping back a glass of wine, which saved me from choking on the bread, and then we chucked our glasses over our shoulders and into the street behind us. One glass broke and the other glass bounced, but I never did ask what the symbolic significance of this was.
Our reception was held at what was then known as The Cabana Club, a restaurant/café bar with a Latin American theme. It was a good choice, an attractive venue equipped with three large rooms. One room served as the wedding reception area, the other as a dance hall and the one at the back a very large and quiet lounge, with comfy seats and soft music.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding reception at The Cabana Club, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Alas, The Cabana is no more. It appears as if the building has been parcelled off. If I am not mistaken, a portion of the premises is now occupied by a small bar frequented by students and young folk, but as the interior of this latter bar is rather small, the rest of the old Cabana Club must have been subdivided for other purposes.
The reception
In essence, Russian wedding reception rooms are not so very different in configuration from their English counterparts. A table is placed at the head of the room for the bride, groom and other officiating ceremony members and the guests occupy either a chain of tables leading from the principal along both sides of the room or, as in our case, owing to the shape of the room, are dotted about here and there in groups. I believe there had been the usual head scratching about who should be sat with whom, and some license extended to unusual combinations, but at the end of the day concord was achieved.
One departure from British formality is that whereas in the UK it is customary for the best man and groom to speechify, in Russia everyone has a go. The food is served, and each guest in turn interrupts the eating process by standing up and delivering a speech as a precursor to toasting the newly wedded couple. Another significant difference is that whereas British tradition swerves heavily towards the jocular, speeches typically embroidered with satirical tales of lurid happenings from the stag night before and often inter-sprinkled with a ribald confetti of innuendos and smut, Russian speeches are characteristically deep and philosophical, well-meaning and sincere. They are also very long and made longer in our case as those guests who were bi-lingual acted as translators for their Russian companions so that we, the British contingent, could understand the sentiments expressed.
Among our guests was Sam Simkin, esteemed poet of the Kaliningrad region, and, of course, our dear friend Victor Ryabinin, artist-historian. I can see him now, peeping out from behind a picture that he had painted especially for us, delivering his speech with customary sincerity and humility. His presence was, as always, a source of warmth and reassurance. Sam Simkin presented us with a landmark book which both he and Victor Ryabinin had composed, The Poetry of Eastern Prussia.
Many guest speeches later, the dreaded moment arrived when I had to perform my speech. The content of this speech had been a bone of contention for months. I had to produce something which Olga could translate effectively to the Russian contingent, but the idiomatic nature of my speech and its typical recourse to innuendo made it difficult in this respect, and there had also been some controversy between Olga and myself about the tone of the piece.
The props that I would be using had also fallen under the critical spotlight: there was a doctored image of President Putin and the then Mayor of Kaliningrad with caption saying something about British invaders, a photocopy of one of our British wedding guests wearing a German helmet and, the pièce de résistance, a pair of hole-ridden and ragged Y-fronts. Whilst I had no doubt that the turn and tenor of my speech would have gone down well at a wedding party in Rushden, England, I was not entirely convinced, given the criticism aforehand, that it would be as well received, or for that matter understood, in Kaliningrad 2001.
Go for it! So I did. But all the way through I felt that I was on very shaky ground! In the event, I pulled it off ~ and I am not just talking about the underpants ~ better than I could have hoped for, but I was glad when it was over.
It really was time now to sit back and just get drunk, but Russian wedding parties are not like that. Before we could even think about relaxing in the traditional sense, we had a whole afternoon of games to contend with.
I will not go into detail about all of these, but restrict my comments to two. One had me wrapped in a blindfold. In front of me sat a row of ladies on stools with their legs crossed. My job was to walk down the line and fondle each of their knees and by this process, whilst blindfolded, identify my wife. I was not complaining and, yes, I did get it right!
The knee-feeling game: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The second game was one we had played when we first came to Kaliningrad in 2000, at a New Year’s Day party. This game is one which we later exported to England and used to good effect at some of our own parties.
It goes like this. Three or more male players have a long piece of string attached to their trouser belts. Attached to the end of each string is a banana. Lined up in front of the players are three empty matchboxes. On the word ‘Go!’, all of the men have to thrust their hips in order to swing their bananas. As their bananas make contact with the matchboxes, the boxes begin to move. Each player has to move his matchbox in this way, the winner being the first to propel his matchbox over the finishing line by the powerful thrust of his hips and the decisive way he handles his banana.
David Hart prepares his for the ‘banana game’: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
To this day, the controversy persist over who won the contest and who cheated. In the final analysis, I think we agreed to compromise. The summation was that whilst the Russians may have had the biggest bananas, the British contingent had the best hip movements.
Cue wavy lines across the final image.
That was 19 years ago. This was not the first time we had returned to the little church on top of the hill in Svetlogosrk, but it was possibly the first time we had made the definitive connection between our wedding and the life we have had together since. The first time we had returned on the day of our anniversary.
We stood before the lectern where we had stood 19 years ago. We had a cuddle and kiss and Olga took the mandatory photographs for her Facebook account. And then we lit two candles and placed them in the sand-filled stand in front of one of the icons.
“Let us say thanks to God for each other, for the times we have had and hopefully have to come,” says Olga.
We also said thanks for all the experiences we had shared and for the people we had met along the way, including thanks for Victor ~ especially for Victor.
Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was radiant. It was a glorious day in Svetlogorsk (‘Rauschen, Mike’), as perfect as the day on which we had been married.
Mick & Olga Hart outside the church where they were married in 2001. Photo taken 31 August 2020. Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) Russia, the Kaliningrad region.
Although I am still prone to headlining this series of articles as the Diary of a Self-isolator, I have begun to wonder whether the relaxation of coronavirus restrictions warrants a change of name, say, for example, the Diary of a Social Distancer, but have come to the conclusion that in the interests of continuity the original appellation should persist.
You can see the etymological crux of the issue in the revelation that recently, whilst self-isolating, I accepted the invitation to emerge from the homestead to stay for a couple of days at a friend’s dacha in the heart of Zelenogradsk.
Zelenogradsk is considered to be the second principal seaside resort in the Kaliningrad region, the number-one slot invariably reserved for Svetlogorsk. Whilst it is widely accepted that Svetlogorsk wears the crown, in recent years that crown has been tarnished by a controversial extension of the coastlines promenade in preparation for an extensive building programme that has decimated the resort of what little beach it had.
Zelenogradsk, on the other hand, has a beach par excellence; acres of white and golden sand stretching across the curving coastline for as far as the eye can see. On a good day, that is under a bright blue sky with plenty of sun to boot, the Zelenogradsk coastline is a beach-lovers paradise and the rolling waves and surf from the sea a scintillating superlative for all that is loved about swimming and sailing about on the briny.
Natural sandy coastline: Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
Today (3 June 2020), the weather conditions could not have been better. And for reclusive comfort combined with close proximity to the front, the old German house in which we were lodging could not have been more inviting or better located.
Before heading off to the beach, we decided ~ my wife, our friend and I ~ to buy a pizza and a few edible accessories from one of the seafront bars. This was the first time since coronavirus began that I had eaten in a restaurant or been to a restaurant to buy food, and although we were sat outside on the decking and the waitresses were bemasked, the entire experience seemed strangely illicit and fraught with a sense of risk.
On paying for our order there was a poignant moment when one of the girls who had served us, possibly the manager, not only thanked us for our custom but almost begged us to return again, such is the devastation that coronavirus has wrought upon the café, bar and restaurant business.
We did not eat in the restaurant’s outside seating area, choosing instead the comparative safety of limited social numbers in the conservatory of our temporary German home.
Before eating the food we had bought we of course observed all of the risk-decreasing procedures handed down to us from the world’s health industry, which is to say that we washed our mitts and swabbed the polystyrene packaging with antiseptic wipes before opening it and then used cutlery to eat with.
I have to admit that it was good to sample fast food again, even though the preliminaries had knocked it down a gear or two.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Victually resuscitated, plus a bottle of white wine later, our friend departed, leaving Olga and myself to make our way to the sea.
I wondered, as I walked towards the beach, if the low numbers of people present was a coronavirus consequence. If so, it was the perfect tragedy, but the volumetric increase in visitors on the following day, which was a Saturday, assured me that the comparatively low turnout had been the product of a working day.
By 12 noon on Saturday the numbers of people in Zelenogradsk had swelled enormously, but not to such an extent as to render social distancing ridiculous, as it had in England when people had flocked to Brighton beach in such appalling numbers that it was all they could do to find enough room in which to stab each other.
As we walked along the widened footpath with its pedestrian section on one side and its mini-road on the other, along which whizzed all kinds of two- and four-wheeled mini traffic, and with its astonishing eclecticism of man-made buildings on one side and the rolling sea and sand on the other, I hoped for their own sake that there were no representatives of a certain American media organisation lurking around in the undergrowth. From what I have read recently the western media seems to have a neurosis regarding ‘ethnic Russian families’, ‘smiling Slavic couples with children’ and ‘traditional family values’, all of which was refreshingly evident today. It is a peculiar point to ponder on, is it not, that what matters to some is of no matter to others.
Take the preferences of my wife and I, if you will: My wife swims; I drink.
Under the Old Normal, we would find a spot that was mutually suitable. An outside drinking area for me to relax in; a section of beach close to the sea for her to get sand in her toes and completely drenched in salt water.
Under the New Normal, however, this was not to be. Although the seating areas outside the bars were reassuringly patronised, the interiors being off-base, I had decided aforethought not to frequent them but carry on social distancing. So, whilst my wife dunked herself, I simply went for a stroll, and when I had strolled enough waited for her on a bench like the perfect husband I am.
Example of brand new old: Neoclassical building on the coastal path, Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
My fascination along this particular pedestrian thoroughfare is with the architectural anomaly. It is so outrageously ~ in an entrancing sort of way ~ diverse, with no two buildings the same either in scale or point of style. It is not visually unheard of, for example, to have a brand-spanking new hotel ~ all curvilinear, porticoed, sleek and slick in metal and glass and conspicuously erect ~ rubbing shoulders, I should say, with a great, grey giant of a building, a sad and sorry-looking concrete block of flats, neglected, uninhabited, windows open and vacant like the proverbial eyes in skulls and next to it, abstrusely, a red-brick castle pastiche, festooned with mini-turrets, or a vast building in magnolia-coloured stone boasting all the attributes of neoclassical architecture in its most defining form standing next to a humble shack, a distressed-brick and weathered wooden domicile with its roots in Eastern Prussia but with the added Soviet enhancements of an asbestos roof, steel railings and bulwarking metal sheets. I could walk up and down this road all day marvelling at these sites, which are far more interesting, and infinitely more imaginative, than anything you would see today on the fashion-circuit catwalks.
This lovely old building overlooks the sea along the Zelenogradsk coastline. Its much sought after location almost certainly means it will be demolished to make way for a palatial new residence, or, more likely, hotel. Myself, I would go for renovation. There is nothing like restoring heritage and making it your home.
Our excursion to the beach tomorrow would take me even further along this road, to a place of architectural extravagance the likes of which I have never beheld before, but more of this in a later post.
The sea and my wife having been reacquainted, it was now time to walk into town and purchase some bottles of ale from a well-stocked shop on Zelenogradsk’s high street. I would like to include these delights in my bottled beers of Kaliningrad appraisal, which I started compiling last week, but notwithstanding that they were not bought in the city itself, a minor point that could be overlooked, I have limited my bottled beer review to include brands that are generally available in supermarkets, so I will possibly leave the ones I tried today for a future specialist category on craft and imported beers.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Now, coronavirus has brought about a number of changes both in attitudes and lifestyle, some seemingly seismic, others more subtle. Like Nigel Farage, who on his Facebook page posted ‘103 days since I last drank a pint in a pub’, it has been 106 days-plus since I drank a beer in a bar or restaurant. Drinking at home is not my cup of tea, although that is what I drink there, and I have to say that sitting on a park bench and drinking ~drinking alcohol that is ~ is one of those dubious pleasures in life which up until now has passed me by. Today, however, as my wife wanted to go swimming again, and as I would rather be outdoors than in, whilst she got ready to swim this evening I packed up my beer in my old kit bag ready to find that bench.
To be honest it was not as bad as I had anticipated. All in life is relative and when you have been cooped up for the greater proportion of 106 days, a park bench and a bottle of beer is paradise. As the song goes, ‘the bare necessities of life will come to you!’
Mick Hart, in the company of a bottle of beer, happy to be on a bench on Zelenogradsk beach (July 2020)
