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The Hartman Hotel Svetlogorsk reviewed by Mick Hart

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.

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 19^th early 20^th 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.

Hartman Hotel restored — 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.

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 Hartman Hotel — 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.

Relics from the Hartmann Hotel, Rauschen — Items from Hartmann’s original hotel include a restaurant menu

How impressed was I with the Hartmann Hotel?

See for yourself: I bought the place …

Essential details:

Hartmann Hotel, Svetlogorsk
Oktyabr’skaya Ulitsa, 1
Svetlogorsk
Kaliningrad Oblast, 238563

Tel: 8 (4012) 270-204 ~ Hotel Information
Tel: 8 (4012) 270-206 ~ Restaurant table reservations

Email: info@hartmanhotel.ru

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

HARTMAN HOTEL WEBSITE: https://hartmanhotel.ru/

Our first visit to Svetlogorsk Winter 2000

Репетитор английского языка в Калининграде

The Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk

27 December 2000

I recently visited the Hotel Russ (August 2019). It is interesting to observe what has changed in the past 20 years and what has not. The following description is taken from my notes of the Hotel Russ as it was on that celebrated day in 2000 when we first arrived in Russia, almost 20 years ago. Later, we hope to write a review of what it is like to stay in the Russ today. Meanwhile, this was our first experience …

Having passed through the main gate of the Hotel Russ in Svetlogorsk, we followed the path along the side of the building to the entrance. Two large glass doors opened up into a wide, airy and spacious foyer. You could not miss the reception area as it was elevated and had the word ‘Reception’ emblazoned across it, surprisingly in English.

Hotel Russ reception area 2000 — Reception area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

Previous article: Kaliningrad: First Impression

To get there necessitated climbing up two or three steps onto a wider platform and then approaching the bar. I do not mean the sort you get in pubs; this experience was rather more similar to approaching the bar in court (as far as I am aware).

The two young ladies behind the counter were, well, beautiful springs to mind, but it was a cold, unsmiling kind of beauty; the next word that sprung to mind was ‘’officious and, after that, ‘very’. Olga did the talking; we did the looking and the walking.

From our elevated position we could see that on one side of us there was, indeed, a bar. We both felt instantly better ~ who said ‘at home’?

Bar Hotel Russ December 2000 — Bar area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

The bar area contained the usual outcrops of tables and chairs, which extended down one side to the end of the building. The chairs were chromium backed and the round tables marbled topped. Indeed, marble ~ or simulated marble ~appeared to be the material of the day within the Hotel Russ. To the left of us, in front of the bar, stood a row of tall, square-section pillars, which fanned out in vaulted form before folding into the ceiling. One of the pillars was decorated with artificial shrubs and climbing plants and beneath it we could hear a water feature bubbling

The area beyond the pillars was effectively the hotel lounge. It was well appointed, with a bank of windows which extended along the entire side of the room and soared up into the heavens above. The ceiling was very high, and if you stood in this lavish area, with its reproduction antique furniture and comfy, cushioned divans, and looked up at the ceiling it was evident they had designed the Russ to look like an ocean liner, complete with curving staircase that took you up majestically onto the upper deck.

Hotel Rus, Svetlogorsk, Russia — Lounge area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

As grand as they were, we did not take the steps. Our luggage was extremely heavy and bulky, even discounting the Sausage, so we took the lift instead.

A tall, thin man, with a face he had purchased from Serious & Co, was summoned to help us with our luggage. He came across the room in a most peculiar way, but it was not until he turned back again towards the lift with a couple of bags, including the Sausage, which were far too heavy for him to manage, that my brother, with an alacrity of mind that was so atypical that he must have borrowed it for the occasion, identified the gait as ‘mincing’. From that moment on, our tall assistant would be known to us as Mincer and Mincer he became.

Mick Hart & Joss Hart at the Hotel Rus, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000 — From left to right: Joss Hart, a man from the Hotel Russ and Mick Hart , December 2000

For a big hotel the lift was little. It was also not very wide. Certainly not wide enough for Olga, Joss, myself, two hefty cases, the Sausage and Mr Mincer. We got in and were all squashed up, something like Dad’s Army when they all crowd into the vicar’s office. There was nothing for it, something would have to give. So Olga got out and walked upstairs. There goes another myth, ‘the typical English gentlemen’.

It was a small lift and it was also a very slow lift. It did not start moving straightaway. Titter ye not, I thought, but it was hard not to all cramped up like that with Mincer looking so serious. But we knew better than to laugh in Russia ~ thank heavens for the stiff upper lip.

Ping, went the lift, at last. I felt as if we had travelled to the top of the Empire State Building not just to the first floor. Joss and I squeezed out and Mincer followed, or he would have done had not the mischievous Sausage found another small door to straddle. We helped our hapless baggage boy out and relieved him of the obnoxious case.

We were now standing in a wide area overlooking the bar, three or four tables and chairs around the perimeter and a pool table in the centre. The rooms on this floor were arranged around an oblong balcony with the centrepiece open and from which you could look down onto the floor below.

The first room that we entered was the one reserved for my brother, Joss. It was not bad at all. A little formal, perhaps, by British standards, I mean not at all like Mrs Musson’s Guest House at number six No-Beach Brightlingsea, but lacking nothing in the clean, neat, tidy and comfortable department.

In addition to the usual appurtenances, Joss had a large, three-quarter size bed and a rubber plant.

Next it was our room, which was on the other side of the balcony facing the Rus garden. In we went, all excited, only to discover that our double room was smaller than Joss’ single and that whilst he had a double bed ~ of sorts ~ we had two singles?

My brother has always been a true gentleman, mostly by accident, and today was one of those, because he surprised us all, including himself (and that doesn’t happen very often) by making the supreme sacrifice: he was willing to give his room up for ours ~ to swap rooms.

Isn’t it obvious!?

Feeling altogether sensible Olga went downstairs to reception to request the transfer. She was back almost quicker than she went with the intelligence that we could not change rooms as Joss had a single room and we had a double, so any change was impossible. The exact response from the ladies at reception had been, “Isn’t it obvious: the single room is for the single person and the double for two people”.

To say that we were not perplexed would be an understatement and Olga, perceiving that her two English associates had been skittled, left them sitting on the bed in Joss’ room, to which we had retreated, sipping vodka thoughtfully out of a hip flask, whilst she went off ‘to see what could be done’.

Ten minutes later she returned. “It’s OK, they are taking care of it,” she assured us.

And they were, sure enough, but not in the way they might have done it back home. As we walked past the open door to our bedroom, we caught sight of the solution to the problem, in the shape of two burly Russian gentleman moving the single beds together and securing the legs at either end with two thick pieces of rope. This made us chuckle; Olga was not amused. She was also not very amused as in passing the upper extremities of the Christmas tree, which extended from the ground floor up through the oval aperture almost to the roof, Joss noted that there was no adorning fairy or star on the top. His suggestion to hang an old pair of underpants on it was a step too far in the smutty English humour direction for Olga, and she went from feeling annoyed to visibly irritated.

To take the wind out of her sails (my brother was also suffering from wind, and she was not too amused about that, either), I suggested a tour around the hotel to get ourselves familiarised with it. At such a time when many companies were still in the embryonic stage of website development, surprisingly enough the Russ was ahead of itself, and we had been able to appraise the quality of this 4-Star hotel by consulting its site ahead of our trip.

As we descended, this time by the grand staircase, we met Mincer on the ground floor, and Olga asked him if we could see the sports centre. “It’s broken,” he replied.

Joss and I shot a glance at each other: perhaps something was lost in translation?

Broken or not our guide continued. We followed him down a short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a typical sports centre changing room, wide and open with slatted bench seats around the wall. We then turned right into a passageway. Against the wall stood an exercise bike, its front wheel hanging off. Mincer said something. Olga translated: “Broken,” she said.

There was little point in arguing. But what about the swimming pool, surely the wheel could not have fallen off that.

It had not. But it had shrunk. On the photographs it appeared to be a full-size pool, whereas, in real life, it was a large, deep bathtub into which one plunged after vacating the sauna. Was the sauna working? Er …

Fully refreshed after our workout, we returned to our respective rooms. Olga had made arrangements to meet with her friend, Helen, the plan being that we would venture into Svetlogorsk for a drink, but what was needed now was a cup of tea and a refreshing bath.

Don’t drink the water

Spoilt by literally having drinking water on tap in England, Olga had alerted us to the fact that in the Kaliningrad region it was strictly a case of ‘don’t drink the water’. I wondered whether it could be as bad as we had been led to believe. The answer came when I began to fill the bathtub. To say that the water was black may well be an overstatement, but it was certainly getting that way. We called Joss in from his room to witness this hitherto unseen spectacle, and then we had Olga ring to reception to report the anomaly. Her reply was, “Isn’t it obvious? You must let the water run!” So, we did exactly that, until we feared that we had dissipated half of Svetlogorsk’s water reserves. Oh, well, we would have to forgo the bath. But what about something to eat? Something simple, such as a cheese and tomato sandwich prior to going out on the town? Our request, by phone to reception, was met with some confusion. The person who took the call had to consult with somebody else. Eventually we were informed that we could have two slices of bread, some cheese and tomatoes on the side of the plate, but they could not do a sandwich. Well, I thought, isn’t it obvious!

It was around this time that we received a phone call to reception from another of Olga’s friends. Olga telephoned the friend in return and was invited to go out somewhere for a drink. As we had a prior engagement, we declined, but Joss solved the double commitment by electing to meet up with the second party whilst we went ahead with our original plans.

Joss’ company arrived first. They were a couple, both persons of which were, I thought, most refined in dress and in manner. What would they make of my brother, I mused, as they whisked him away for the evening?

Olga’s friend, Helen, arrived a few minutes later: attractive, very sweet natured but, I thought, rather, and unduly, concerned about my first impressions of Svetlogorsk. I had no idea as to why this apprehension should constitute the status quo in these parts, although I realised later that in the year 2000, apart from Germans returning to the region to see where their family once lived, foreigners were quite a rare species and English men perfectly alien.

Out into the cold ~ very cold ~ and snow-laden night we ventured, retracing the route that our taxi had taken. We had difficulty walking, the snow was that thick and, where it was not, it was that icy. Also, as I had observed earlier, there were little or no streetlights of which to speak.

Sundial on Svetlogorsk promenade, December 2000 — Sundial sculpture on Svetlogorsk promenade during the winter, December 2000

Our pedestrianisation seemed to go on forever, until we took a right turn in the direction of the sea. We eventually reached the top of a steep bank of steps. I could hear the sea in the near distance and feel the sea air ~ it was as sharp as the proverbial razor blade! Carefully, very carefully, we picked our way down the gallery of steps until we reached the promenade. Directly in front of us stood a man-made and man height (sorry about the lack of PCism) sundial, the wedge-shaped blade reflecting what light there was as it cut its way upwards from the ground. I took hold of this blade, and, in listening to the rolling sound of the tide, thought to myself, “I’m actually here!” (Do not forget, dear reader, that having read or heard nothing positive about Russia since I was a child and, more recent to the time of my trip, having been the recipient of negative media coverage from, without exception, every UK media source available and, in particular official channels (no change there, then!) make no mistake that being in Russia was a truly awesome thought!)

It used to be

The icy blast across the Baltics rendered any further deliberation untenable, and we cut a hasty retreat. It had been somewhat easier descending than ascending, and we stopped at the top of the steps to catch our breath. To our left there were a couple of derelict buildings, about which Helen volunteered some information as to what they used to be. By the time we had reached our destination, a café-bar close to Svetlogorsk centre, ‘this used to be’ had developed into a catchphrase. We passed several collapsing or deserted structures all of which had been ‘Used to Bees’.

A welcome sight was a little neon sign marking the spot where a café-bar stood. As we drew closer, I could make out a single-storey building with a glass door. There was nothing else around the building. Today, as with most of Svetlogorsk, this area has been developed, but the little café into which I first took refuge on 27 December 2000 is, I am pleased to say, still there and still functioning and nothing much, if anything, has changed!

Inside, the café was a simple rectangular room, tables ranged down either side and in the far corner to the right a small semi-circular or curved bar. The establishment was neither grand nor overtly plain. The lighting was just right ~ not too bright, not too dim ~ and the walls were conservatively decorated with framed pictures of the Svetlogorsk coastline and town. Most importantly, on a night like this, it was cosy, comfortable and warm ~ and, of course, it was also licensed.

I cannot remember what lager I drank that evening. I did not really bother. As a seasoned real-ale drinker, I had made my mind up in advance that anything lagerish would be poor, but I drank it all the same.

My one abiding memory of this establishment, and one that would stay with me for a long time, was that there was only one toilet, and it was unisex. This perplexed me a little. There were only three other people apart from us in the bar, but, when the establishment was full, how did a one-toilet system work? The other thing that surprised me about this odd Russian toilet arrangement was that you were unable to use the facility unless you asked for a key from the bar. I would learn later that this inconvenient convenience was by no means a one-off and in some places today the tradition has not moved on much!

I also learnt this evening that whenever I spoke English in a café or a restuarant I would be looked at ~ and I do not mean in the sense of a casual glance! As I noted earlier, foreigners were a rare thing in ‘these ‘ere parts’ and when you were looked at you were really looked at. I believe that throughout the 45 minutes we were in this bar, the other inhabitants, bar staff included, never took their eyes off me, not for a single moment.

We moved on, not because of this, but to pastures anew. If anything, our brief sojourn and the comfort afforded by it, had rendered the great outdoors even more hostile, or perhaps the temperature was dropping even further.

Café Mozart , Svetlogorsk

Luckily, we had only walked a short distance before another neon sign glowed its way into our vision: in a purple-red flowing script, it identified the building on which it was erected as the Café Mozart.

I will never forget that first encounter with the Mozart. The building was well lit on this extremely murky but atmospheric evening, a large picture window flooding the ground with light outside, whilst other lit windows and external lamps threw patches of light onto this and that aspect of the building and wove shadows above and around, picking out and hiding at will the nooks, crannies, decor and detail of what was unequivocally a fine example of the Gothic Revival style. As we approached, the wooden slatted and clad exterior put me in mind of early 20^th century American Romanticist architecture, but it was far too chilly a night to bring this contemplation to a proper conclusion.

Inside the building, large and spacious as it was, there was a traditional dance floor to the right, complete with revolving glitter ball, and to the left a good-sized lounge with a welcoming fire. Although this was not a real log fire but a gas-fired replica, it made the interior very cosy indeed. Comfortable bench seats lined the window, with armchairs and sofas scattered here and there inviting you to sink into them, an over-mantle mirror hung above the fireplace, which may or may not have been authentic antique, and various framed pictures adorned the wallpapered walls, the mood lighting from a combination of pendant and wall-mounted lamps making this habitat the perfect choice for reasonable refreshment and good conversation.

As for the latter, most of that revolved around what it was like to live in England and the English way of life. I would soon learn that the Russian vision of Merry England was as quaintly outdated as our authorised version of what it was like to live in Russia today.

Sad to say, the Mozart, which had affected me with such appealing and positive vibes, closed shortly after this visit ~ at least it was closed when I returned a year later, never to re-open in the same style. Six months ago, the building was up for sale. It has been on the market for a long while and may still be for sale today.