Roll me over, in the clover...

After the last few days it is hard to believe that last year was such a washout. The air has been clear and fresh, the ground white with frost and the days filled with bright sunshine. The nights do, however, get a bit cold, but only just under zero, not the minus twenty Polish winter that was a feature of the last couple of years.

Because of all the moving that went on in 2007, my parents’ allotment got a bit neglected. So we said we’d take over half of it and try to help them out while, at the same time, get somewhere for our own produce and therefore reduce the risk of a crappy non-existent tomato harvest like we had over the previous summer. The last couple of weeks have been perfect for gardening. The sun warms the ground and, by the time we manage to get there in the early afternoon, the earth has warmed up enough to allow for some gentle digging.

How it looked before we started.

Last week we managed to plant most of our onions, and our garlic and they are sitting there neatly in the freshly turned ground. Trenches have been dug for the potatoes and were filled with some of the steaming great pile of dung delivered during the week. We have plans to add tomatoes and beans and also add a couple of patches of flower colour, to attract a few hoverflies – which eat aphids – and bees – which pollinate the flowers of any fruit and vegetables.

Sharing the plot is ok, but not ideal and there have already been minor clashes about what we’re doing and where, but a smile and a nod of agreement keeps things cool before we go off and do our own thing again. If the weather holds over the summer then I am sure we’ll spend plenty of time on the plot. Not ours, but enough to whet the appetite.

From the first weeks of digging. Agnieszka in her plastic bag overshoes before we bought some wellies.

2008 and all that...

Already it is February and I haven’t written anything here. I just don’t seem to have the inclination at the moment, and finding the time to sit down and churn something out seems pointless. Life seems to be a series of tasks to get from one to the next and plod along like that. No real excitement and no really interesting things to report.

Maybe I am being too negative. We do nice things. For me, work is a bind, a chore. I don’t like it. I am looking for something else but so far haven’t been successful. A couple of interviews, but nothing more. I need to concentrate my efforts. So the week tends to be a waiting game. Wait until Friday. At 3pm on a Friday I leave work, get the train back to Farnworth, jump in the car and go to Lidl, then Asda, then to Silverwell Lane to pick Agnieszka up from work. Then our weekend begins.

Saturday is a day for jobs. Trips to the tip or to the dreaded B&Q. It is also the day when we go over to my parents’ and dig on the allotment. We don’t spend a lot of time there, mainly because it’s an hour each way, but we do try to get an afternoon’s digging in. Last weekend we planted the onion set and some garlic but ran out of room. Reading up this week I think we planted them too far apart but I’m comforted by the fact that we can plant some carrots in between the rows and make a better use of the space. This will, of course, be commented on by Les, my uncle who has the plot adjoining, and my dad. I long for a plot of my own and was cheered yesterday by news that, after a year of mithering, I have now been added to the waiting list for one in Farnworth. Only another couple of years to wait I expect, before I become a plotholder myself.

So what have we done for the first six weeks of the year? A potted history:

• We celebrated Wigilia on Christmas Eve with barszcz and uchy plus some pierogi that we had in the freezer. On Christmas Day we entertained my parents and had our second dinner, giving them trout, boiled potatoes and veg as a mix of Polish and English dinners. On Boxing Day we went to my brother’s and had a third dinner, but traditionally English.
• A trip to Katowice at the end of January to celebrate Christmas again with Agnieszka’s family. A hectic time, trying to cram in business (trips to the town hall and bank) and pleasure (fizzy wine in a bar in Tychy), while at the same time relaxing. Not all achieved but it was good to get away. Not too cold either, although we did get snow on the Sunday, which was nice.
• We discovered a few new places to walk. A trip up to Sunderland near Morecambe to walk on the shore of Morecambe Bay, marvel at the size of Heysham nu-killer power station and watch black clouds drifting out at sea, spraying rain there rather than on us. Clifton country park, ok for emergencies. Heaton Park, bleak and cold but probably nice in summer with great views over Manchester. Chipping, which will forever be known as the muddy sheep walk.
• I took my beekeepers theory course, which was excellent. As we sat in the bowling hut in Heaton Park on the first morning, by a sign that read ‘no lobing [sic] or alehouse bowling’ and a table full of Nationwide Bowler, the snow streamed past outside turning the greens completely white. Needless to say by dinner time the sun was out and the snow had gone. But it was nice while it lasted. I will have a practical course at the beginning of March and am slowly collecting equipment. I bought a beekeeping suit in Poland for half the price of the cheapest one here, so that was a plus.
  

There are probably other things too, but they are the main ones. I’m going to try and update the blog a little more regularly this year, shorter pieces more often. If I get my act together and take some photos I might even put some on. As they say, watch this space!

Food glorious food...

Bolton has recently been commended for its ethnic inclusion strategy, which is nice to hear. It still has to address gang culture, drugs, homelessness and several other areas but at least different minorities are getting on quite well. As one celebration, the council runs a World Food Fair at Bishop Bridgeman school a couple of times a year. For the last one we were approached and asked if we’d like to contribute anything.

‘Sure,’ we said, ‘We can do something traditionally Polish, no problem.’

But then we were told it must be something cold, as health and safety won’t let us use any kind of heater on the stall, and it must be vegetarian. During the day, one young Asian lad asked Agnieszka if the salad we’d made was halal, without realising how much angst went in to actually making something without meat.

Because Polish food is heavy on the meat. Who cares what kind as long as it’s dead: kiełbasa, parówki, schab, szynka, indyk or kurczak. Practically every meal contains some sort of meat. Although that made it difficult, what made it almost impossible was the ‘cold’ criterion. Salad was all we could think of. In November. Finally Agnieszka hit on her vegetable salad and we made that, along with one of celeriac, pineapple and sweetcorn. Both went down really well, except in the case of one little girl who tasted and then, very slowly, let it re-emerge from her mouth. The offending mouthful of salad was deftly caught and hidden by her dad, who looked sheepishly at us but grinned when he saw us smiling.

People seemed to like the salad, were confused about where Poland was, but on the whole everything went well. It was a shame the weather was crap, lots of rain and wind, as this affected the turnout. It would’ve also been nice to see more variety as, after the last one, we got the feeling it would be all the same faces at every one of these gatherings. We’ll miss the next one unfortunately, being in Poland when it’s on, but I am sure we’ll get another chance to show the world some ‘Polish kitchen’.

A star shone in the east, right over Ikea...

O gwiazdo Betlejemska,
zaswiec na niebie mym.

What with one thing and another going to a continental Christmas market this year hasn’t happened. To try to make up for it, we decided to go to Manchester’s ‘famous’ Christmas market, to soak up the atmosphere and to sample a bit of glühwein whilst wandering around brightly-lit stalls selling all manner of marzipan-coated goodies, where red-faced jolly Dutch people sold Christmas clogs and stout German frauleinen proffered sausages long enough to knoblauch your knackwurst.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. By mid-afternoon the crowds were reminiscent of Köln’s horrendously overcrowded Weihnachtsmarkt as frustrated mothers pushed irritated toddlers through throngs of shopping-mad punters and light Manchester drizzle. Shopping isn’t my favourite thing, granted, but I do like to wander around a market, especially one full of interesting sounds (‘This garlic plate will save you time and energy!’), sights (man in Russian-style chapka pushing a pram straight towards the beer tent) and smells (sausages, burgers and generator diesel).

Manchester has a real snobbery, though, that masks a dark underbelly. I think this is best seen in the council’s choice of decoration for the town hall. For several years they had an inflatable Santa but, having patched and mended him, they decided this year they’d get something new. What they got is, without doubt, the most repulsive Christmas decoration I’ve seen in a long while – even worse than the gaudy red and black Christmas tree in the hairdressers on Market Street. It’s a big, fat, light-covered ‘Santa’ that looks vaguely like someone with a beard if you squint. It is foul. It is light polluting. It is as far from the true spirit of Christmas as it is possible to get. As a contrast, there is also a German decoration made of wood. Personal choice, I know, but to me the wooden decoration is so much more appealing than the light polluting Father Christmas plonked on top of the entrance to the town hall.

Watching all the shoppers pursuing the bargains made me sad. Yesterday on BBC 6 Music, one of the presenter’s sidekicks said something, hopefully tongue-in-cheek, about ‘Father Christmas’ birthday’ and, whether joking or not, made me realise how few people seem to know why we celebrate this feast. For me, the Polish way of family and meal with an exchange of token gifts is so much more appealing than the lavish shows of wealth here. As the one million Poles go back this year – some paying the extortionate prices, charged by easyJet, Wizz and the like, of up to five times the normal price – they will take a little of our commercialism back with them and slowly it will creep into what is still a simple, holy celebration of the birth of a life. I feel lucky and privileged I can celebrate the feast in this way and enjoy the experience whole-heartedly.

Nine bean rows and a hive...

A few weeks ago, as the summer started to wane, we went up to Coppull, near Chorley, to visit Mike Beazer, the secretary of the Ormskirk and Croston beekeepers branch.

http://www.ormskirkbeekeepers.co.uk/

We did this because I am thinking about keeping bees as a hobby-cum-small business and one of the things I have never done is get close to bees in their natural habit. There doesn’t seem to be much point in starting something if the first time you take the lid off a hive and a few bees buzz round you run for cover. So it seemed sensible to get in touch with a beekeeper and get him to show me what’s what.

Although Coppull isn’t that far from us, it seemed further as, after turning left at the huge Frederick’s ice cream shop, we made our way along the country lanes and back roads. The weather was perfect, a sunny and bright autumnal afternoon, the leaves turning different shades of yellow, orange and russet, but with the air slightly crisp, hinting at the winter that lies not so very far ahead.

After we’d (yes, much to Agnieszka’s surprise there was a suit spare for her to use) donned some protective clothing: green bee-suits with elasticated ankles and wrists, and the all-important veil, plus boots and gloves, we drove to the field where the hives were.

We were advised to zip up before we got out of the car, which we duly did and I was surprised to see the hives were just sitting at the edge of a field. There they were in a little row.

After taking off the roof of the hive I was allowed to inspect the combs of honey and I was really surprised to see how quiet the bees were. A few flew around and I was slightly nervous about one that decided to hover around my mouth but I was told they were just curious. I resisted the impulse to bat them away and instead tried to focus on what I was seeing and was being told. It was amazing to see the bees at work, concentrating on doing their jobs and taking pretty much no notice of us.
As it wasn’t too hot, despite the sun, we weren’t allowed to take the hives completely apart, but it gave me enough of an idea to know that I would like to keep bees in the future. I’d also like an allotment but that seems to be almost impossible in the current climate. Since going to Coppull I’ve been busy reading the definitive book on bees – A guide to bees and honey by Ted Hooper – and have found ever more questions to ask. Talking to other beekeepers has left me with the knowledge that it will be another year before I get to start, having first to go through a practical course, a theory course and a full year of shadowing someone else in order to understand what I should do and when, and how to look after bees properly. I’m keen to start, but understand how important it is to learn things in the right order, and I’m already looking forward to January when a course will start. No doubt there’ll be more on this…

The title of this post is, of course, from the William Butler Yeats poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree, the first verse of which is:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Bring your own sheets and bleach...

Having spent some considerable time travelling throughout eastern Europe one of the things I like the most is the presence of people at the bus and train stations offering rooms for the night. This is a great way of experiencing the way people live in different countries and also lets you have a good nosy at the inside of some of the faceless blocks that cover much of the area of a town. In some ways it takes all the pressure of finding a place to stay, almost as if the room comes to you, although on the other hand it does expose you to an element of risk: will this room be affordable / comfortable / secure / full of men smelling of onions? Does the person I am going to stay with have a big knife / criminal record / schizophrenic tendancies / onion fetish? Will I, indeed, live until morning?

In my experience the risk is far outweighed by the benefits and I have stayed with some lovely people: watched over by countless photos of the pope in Poznan; squeezed onto a sofa in Moldova; treated to a display of star jumps in Montenegro. I wouldn't hesitate to stay in this kind of accommodation again, subject to a look at it first and some basic negotiation, despite some of the people I've seen looking decidedly dodgy, even though they (probably) weren't.

Take these two, spotted opposite the railway station in Zakopane. Whether I'd take a room from these two, I'm not sure. They seemed more intent on chatting and watching the traffic than actually touting for business. I imagine there'll be hell to pay when they get home though, without any lodgers. Decide for yourself...

Szczęść Boże, my arse

After all the trials and tribulations of the past few months it was with a feeling of great happiness that I departed these shores for a week and a half’s holiday in Poland. Time to relax and spend with Agnieszka is indeed a precious thing and, although it was over much too soon, I certainly enjoyed it while it lasted.

After four days of almost solid rain, it was not without reservations that we set off from Katowice railway station around 9am on the Sunday. Here's the strange thing about PKP: no matter which train you take from there to Krakow, be it the express or the local, it always takes an hour and a half. Anyway, we were in Krakow half hour before our next train which was enough time to find the right platform before settling in for the three and a half hour trip to Zakopane. As we got nearer to our destination, and all mountains were hidden under low cloud, the train started pulling into stations, then leaving in the direction it had just arrived from. This happened half a dozen times and was a bit odd, but no doubt the driver had some time to kill and, trying hard, almost managed to get the journey time up to four hours.

It wasn’t raining when we arrived, but started not long after. After several attempts were met with shrugs from unhelpful drivers, we found a minibus to take us to Osiedle Krole, where we were staying at number 33a. No street name, just the number and area. Our driver was ok and let us out at the right place and off we stomped to find our accommodation. There were no signs and we were disheartened to find the numbers starting under ten and then, at a T-junction, no clue as to which way we needed to go. We asked at a shop and they helped us out and we walked along a narrow road, lined on both sides by large timber houses (and where, late one night we witnessed the aftermath of slaughter; several men standing round the carcass of a pig which had been strung up on a beam just inside the door) and accompanied by the smells of silage, sheep and resin.

We’d almost given up finding the house before it went dark but eventually we got there, entered the gate and were greeted by a small yappy dog, intent on harassing us. As I turned round, the dog tried to bite my ankle and as I let forth with a stream of expletives, one of the nuns (for it was with the sisterhood that we would lodge) appeared out of nowhere, smiling and trying to translate my flurry of four letter words. After reassuring herself that the dog hadn’t bitten me, and thus avoiding any adverse publicity, we were shown into our ‘B&B’. The line of pump bags on the wall started the bells ringing and this was not helped by the box of toys, miniature toilets and sinks and the news that downstairs is a kindergarten. Private, of course.

We were led upstairs to our room. ‘A very good room,’ I heard the nun say, as she opened the door and showed us in. ‘Good for what?’ I wondered as my gaze took in the room in a millisecond, because that was all you needed, it was so small. She left us to it and we dropped our bags on to the narrowest of single beds (of which the room contained two. We, however, squeezed into one. Partly to keep warm and partly because I was afraid of the crucifix over the other, especially after cursing their dog). The table and remaining armchair were soon covered with stuff and we then left to get into town to see what there was to see. You couldn't see anything from the window anyway as the cloud was too low.
Arriving back we realised that after dark, things could get a bit tricky. It was pitch black and there was the dog to worry about. But once inside things weren’t too bad. The old woman in the next room was very chatty and informed us that all the paths were muddy and that it hadn’t stopped raining for a week. Mountain walking holiday weather it wasn’t. There was, however, absolutely nothing to do so 9pm found us huddled together for warmth and falling asleep.
The next day we found no hot water in the bathroom and the most meagre of breakfasts – no coffee and only fruit tea. Where the hell was my morning caffeine? In addition, as we were sat nursing warm cups of weak tea, there came a thunder of sorts and it was several seconds before I realised it wasn’t a landslide or thunder, but the thump of little kids’ feet on the floor up above. Przedskole was in full swing. By the time we came to leave for a day’s walking I was fuming and calling the ‘hospitality’ all the names I could. Luckily for us, things moved up a gear and when we arrived back that evening, a different nun met us, said they’d been worried that we hadn’t returned, informed us there was plenty of hot water and wished us good night.

Although at first I was unhappy with the lodgings, they did improve gradually throughout our stay. Except for the singing and thunderous stomping. On our last morning we were brought a steaming dish of eggs and mushrooms and no-one said anything when they caught us making sandwiches from the breakfast offerings. We had, after that first night, plenty of hot water, no-one bothered us or tried to convert us to any kind of religion and when we wanted to pay for our stay it took twenty minutes to track someone down to give them the money. It wasn’t the most convenient of places to stay, but it was quiet and relaxing in a way. To get away was the most important thing, as well as to spend time with my wife, for this it was perfect and for this I definitely thanked God myself.

Roll out the barrel. Er... what barrel?

We saw the advert a couple of months ago and decided that Glossop beer festival sounded like a good idea. It ran over three days – Friday to Sunday – and promised a wealth of beer to sample, plus the option of a walk somewhere in the Peak District before, after or both. Due to other commitments we decided that Sunday was the day to visit. Waking to find a veil of mist over everything and a steady stream of drizzle, we realised that a good long walk over the hills may not be in order and as we drove towards Glossop a brisk short walk wasn’t going to happen either.

We found the pub where the beer festival was to take place with minimal fuss and even got a parking place on the road outside. We’d noticed there was some sort of fair in town and thought it would be a good idea to check it out before going to the beer festival and sampling some brews in the warmth. It turned out that Glossop was having a Victorian weekend. The main street was closed with a selection of old lorries at one end and a couple of steam rollers at the other.

Along the rest of the street, at various points, were the kind of fairground stalls I thought had disappeared: knock the cans down with a bean bag, stick a dart in the playing card, hook a duck… All the ones I remember from being a kid. Also included were the swingboats, where you sat in a little wooden boat and each person pulled a rope to make it swing, a bloke doing magic tricks and a woman showing anyone who cared to stand there how to make lace. All the while the drizzle came down, softly but relentlessly.

We took refuge in the museum, a collection of pieces from aircraft that had crashed in the local area, complete with a map showing exactly where the sites were and how many people had died. Outside the brass band started to play the theme from All creatures great and small. We knew then it was time to go to the beer festival and we made our way round the back of the Star Inn on Howard Street to where the marquee was. A glance inside made our hearts sink. Two racks with no barrels on them.

‘Has it all gone?’ I asked a chain-smoking, bobble hat-wearing bloke clutching a plastic beer glass.

‘All what?’ He replied, in complete honesty.

I just tutted and we went back round the front of the pub and into the bar. We were told there that there was something left but not very much. So back outside again and into the marquee. On the tables there were five 20-pint barrels of cider and on the floor, one barrel of Wren’s nest from the Howard Town brewery. That was it. ‘We had a very busy day yesterday,’ the bloke behind the counter said, ‘it was really sunny and we sold almost everything.’

So we sampled what they had left. Here are the results:

Bitter: Wren’s Nest – 6 out of 10. Tasty

Cider: Dunkertons – 9 out of 10. ‘appley’, ‘real’
Hecks – 7-8 out of 10. ‘ginger’, ‘lemony’
Brook Farm – 3 out of 10. ‘mass produced’, ‘smelly’

And so ended our trip to Glossop beer festival, the one with no ale.

Basin, bath, bog and Tommy

I think when we bought the house the one thing I wasn’t fussy on was the bathroom, mainly because it didn’t have a shower already fitted. After the work of damp-proofing the downstairs and replacing the boiler with a model that didn’t need wood shavings and newspaper to get it going, and one that actually supplies hot water on demand, without the pilot light going out, I felt it was time to get going with the bathroom. It was intended to be a job for the autumn and winter months but the plumber, Tommy, who fitted the boiler, seemed keen to get it done, despite his whinging about wanting to retire.

When I first asked him how long it’d be before he could come in and do the boiler he said he had so much work that it would be ‘about this time next year’. Then, when pressed, said, next Tuesday; about six days later. The same happened when I asked when he thought he might be able to come and do the bathroom.

‘I don’t need the work really,’ he admitted. ‘I want to retire,’ he added, before telling me he would be back the following week to rip out the old suite and plumb in the new one. He’d roll up about 9am, work until 12, go for an hour’s break, then return and work until about 4pm before clocking off for the day. Having said that, he did a good job and we’re happy with the kitchen and bathroom stuff he’s done for us. Before he could start work I had to. I had to strip out all the old tiles, wallpaper, lino and floor tiles and dismantle the old cupboard that was in the corner – a home for dust, spiders and dead flies. This sounded easy: a couple of hours with a hammer and screwdriver in one hand, cup of tea in the other. The reality was a four day extravaganza of going to work during the day and then spending five hours chipping, hacking, poking, chiselling, sawing and swearing. I managed to chop half the top of one finger and skin the knuckles on the rest, as well as bruising my stomach and ribs (don’t ask me how, I have no idea).

I went to bed exhausted and woke up not much better after hours of dreams involving splinters in the eyes from cutting tiles, getting soaked removing water pipes, sawing through electric cables and being trapped under plasterboard when the ceiling caved in. A week of this before we were ready for stage two – tiling everything up again. Tommy came in, removed the old suite and drilled the holes for the new shower, plumbed in the new sink and toilet temporarily, then left me to tile as much as I could before he came back and finished the job a few days later. Back to the fifteen hour days…

Once I’d completed the tiling Tommy came in and removed everything to allow me to tile behind sink and toilet and finish the floor and then he finished everything off and it all looked very nice, very clean, very new. Except for the tap. The tap leaked. Tommy said he’d taken it off three times to sort it out and started to get knarky about it when I asked why it was still leaking. He took it off to show me and I couldn’t see what was wrong with it, it all seemed to work ok. Later I heard him talking to his side-kick at one point:

‘I don’t know why they have to change things,’ Tommy said. ‘All this modern thinking.’

‘What was wrong with a washer?’ Les, his aide-de-camp asked.

‘Washers are fine. If something’s not broken, don’t fix it,’ Tommy added.

‘Aye, a washer’s so simple, what could be easier?’

This went on for several minutes, like a plumber’s loop. I got onto the supplier and they arranged to get some more valves. Needless to say, the day before they rang to say the valve had arrived, the tap stopped dripping. I’ve kept the valves, but not changed them. Just in case.

If I’d had more time during the day the job would have gone much easier, but cramming it into the few hours at night after work was a nightmare. I ached all over and slept badly. I didn’t see Agnieszka for weeks it seemed, just at the odd tea break and mealtimes and then it was back to work. I borrowed a tile cutter off my uncle and that saved a fortune in broken tiles although I did manage to cut a further two fingers on the tiles’ sharp edges and almost burnt out the motor on the cutter by not cleaning out the dust from underneath. We over-estimated the number of tiles (six boxes over) and ran out of tile cement with only a dozen left to fix. I knew we’d spent more than enough time in B&Q when I started recognising the staff and I hope that, in the future, the trips there will be few and far between.

So what of the finished result? Now that all the tiles are on the floor and the walls and the shelves, towel rail and shower curtain are all installed and in use? I think I did ok. Yes, it isn’t perfect but for an amateur I don’t think I did too badly. We have a clean, white bathroom with nice furniture and a shower that blows your socks off – not that we wear socks in the shower you understand, it’s just a reflection on how strong the shower is.

Anyway, see for yourself. Tips and comments welcome.

Controversial for a Monday?

Quite a lot of noise has been generated by the rant given by comedian Marcus Brigstocke on Radio 4’s Now Show and, having listened to it again, I decided it was worthy of being included here. No further comment, read and decide for yourself. The views expressed are not necessarily those held by me, I just like to think I can see both sides...

It’s mainly the extremists, obviously, but not exclusively it’s a lot of mainstreamers as well…

Muslims – listen up my bearded and veily friends – calm down. Stop blowing stuff up, not everything that’s said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out.

Christians – you and your churches don’t get to be millionaires while other people have nothing at all. They’re your bloody rules, either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you’re celibate as a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce.

Right, that’s two ticked off…

Jews – I know you’re God’s chosen people and the rest of us are just, whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent psychopathic bully and someone mentions it, that doesn’t make them anti Semtiic and, for the record, your troubled history is not a licence to act with impunity.

All of them will be convinced that they’re the ones being picked on. The Abrahamic faiths are like Scousers, they all believe they have it harder than everyone else…

If you want to hear the whole thing, then go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UY-ZrwFwLQg

and make up your own mind.

Tomatoes are not the only fruit...

The barrels of blue potato-spray

Stood on a headland in July

Beside an orchard wall where roses

Were young girls hanging from the sky.



The flocks of green potato stalks

Were blossom spread for sudden flight,

The Kerr's Pinks in frivelled blue,

The Arran Banners wearing white.

From Spraying the potatoes by Patrick Kavanagh

I know that the poem should be about tomatoes, but there don't seem to be that many about. You put 'tomato' in Google and all you get are references to The return of the killer tomatoes which isn't quite the same. The link, of course, is that tomatoes are related to potatoes and can sometimes suffer the same fate in terms of disease. With the 'summer' that we've been having here, the back yard where I grow all my tomatoes has never properly dried out and warmed up. The result being plenty of damp air circulating around the plants. It's meant I haven't needed to water as often as normal but also increased the likelihood of tomato blight, the same disease that devastates potatoes and cured by the same copper sulphate mixture.

If you put 'tomato blight' into Google, then you get plenty of references, none of it particularly good news. A typically joyous piece of news came from thegardenhelper.com:

Picture your tomato vines looking robust and full of fruit... Within 3
days, your vines AND fruit turn black and withered, THAT is tomato
blight.

So I cut off as many leaves as possible and have been going out every day checking the plants. Slowly but surely, however, they have been getting worse and worse and now look like this:

I fear we won't be stuffing our faces on tomatoey pasta and eating salad until we look like it. On the other hand, the cucumbers - after one was devastated by a slug eating a hole in the end and then hollowing it out completely - are doing well. We have three or four now that are the right size to eat and, thanks to tesciowa, have the right ingredients to pickle them. Those ones look like this and we have high hopes for a pickling session soon:

Lifting them off the floor should have been done much earlier, but I didn't think. It was only slug damage that made me aware of it. Still, every day is a new learning experience and next year I hope to do better.

Rainford Walking Day 16 June 2007

Living abroad for a while and then bringing a non-Brit back to live in England has really brought home to me the traditions and activities that go on in this part of the country. I find that I’m very fond, and pretty proud too, of the industrial heritage of the area and, despite being a lover of all things green and quiet, find myself defending the north west’s scummy factories and ‘dark satanic mills’. There’s a real joy to be had in looking at canal bridges, viaducts, railway embankments, chimneys and mill buildings, to marvel at the architecture, the achievements, the Victorian gung-ho attitude and, at the same time, to ponder what they would have done without cheap labour and a lax safety at work policy.

One of the traditions that survived in my part of the world is the Walking Day. This is where all the schools, churches and community groups get all dressed up and parade from the church to both ends of the village and back again. This year was the first year in many that I’ve actually attended and it was nice to see it hasn’t changed much. Head of the parade is always the parish church dignitaries, the warden and vicar and assorted church staff. When I was a kid, in the 1970s, we weren’t allowed, as a school, to walk (because we were Catholics – oh yes, sectarianism, albeit mild, was alive and well here) but it’s nice to see the rules have now been relaxed now and anyone can participate. This year there were representatives from all the village schools, plus nursery groups – lots of bewildered kids in their Sunday best wondering why they were being force-marched two miles before getting a goodie bag of sweets – the ladies circle, cubs, scouts and brownies, and three brass bands.

As a child, Walking Day was a high point in the year. The whole village would turn out and line the main street. I don’t know if it’s getting old (me, not the parade) or it’s just less popular now, but there definitely didn’t seem to be as many people there watching everyone go past. Probably they’re all worshipping at the altar of Ikea or in the shrine of M&S, giving thanks for all day opening, but that’s their choice, and loss. When we were kids we would have to wait for what seemed like an eternity. A mass was first, then everyone would emerge into the daylight and the milling chaos that is the organisation of a march would take place. A lot of under-10s as well as several other groups of people led to frayed tempers and barked commands but eventually things got moving and everyone would slowly take their places and head off to the Star Inn, where they’d turn round and march back to the Bridge Inn, turn around again and return to the church. Once this had happened we were allowed to go to the fair, which you could always hear, thudding and thumping away on the field behind the church, but couldn’t get to until the procession had finished. This was always the hardest thing to bear, especially as you’d see classmates armed with candy floss and small goldfish in plastic bags, the life expectancy of any generally under a fortnight.

It’s a tradition that goes back many years, and one that’s nice to revisit and I certainly enjoyed going back to witness it again after a break of many years. Unfortunately, all the people I went to school with like to come and watch too, which makes it a bit of a hide and seek kind of day. Well, let’s face it, I’ve lived the last 27 years without speaking to most of the people I went to school with, so I don’t think I’ve got that much to talk about with them. Misery eh?

Anyway, here’s some photos…

The head of the procession, representatives of the parish church.

The band walks through the village one way…

…and then comes back again.

Bardzo dziękuję za moja słodeczka na zdjęcie.

A stranger in a strange land

After all the problems of the last few months we finally got keys and moved into our little house in Farnworth. It’s a basic two up, two down, with a little back yard. It’s a nice house though, big enough for the two of us and quiet, warm and somewhere we can unpack the boxes that have been in my parent’s garage for almost three months. It’s been like Christmas, opening packages and unwrapping things, putting glasses and cups into cupboards, finding clothes, books and cds that we thought we’d lost or left behind, reading the newspaper stories from Poland four months ago. All the plants are now in the yard and the slug war has begun, so far with the removal – two to the bin, two launched into space towards the opposite houses – of some of the biggest monsters. Having said that they don’t seem to have touched any of the tomatoes, beans or ogórki, so that’s ok. Biggest job now is to clean, strip the rest of the wallpaper and paint the downstairs and landing area. That should be finished this next week or two but has proved to be a more demanding job than either of us thought.

So what of Farnworth? Well, it isn’t the nicest, most picturesque place in the world. It’s a fairly deprived and poor-looking place, with a high street full of takeaways and pubs that look like you’d get knifed in them (as, indeed, someone did recently after an altercation on a dance floor). There are plenty of cheapy shops, pound shops, bargain shops, an Asda and Lidl, a post office and a library so it has everything for our needs right now. On Sunday we took a break from stripping to go for a walk in Moses Gate country park. To get there we go through the cemetery, where there’s an interesting mix of Irish, Italian and Polish graves, hinting at the diversity to be found in this area. From there a small path wound down through a cool green canopy of trees to a series of ponds where swans, coots and geese could be found swimming around lazily. We’d just missed the brass band so we took a stroll around the outside of the biggest pond and back through the park to home. It will be nice in autumn, particularly if there are mushrooms available for picking.

I feel like an emigrant in my own country. I don’t feel like I belong here any more. I miss my life in Poland and would like to return at some point in the future. It’s something to work towards. But for now, it’s back to the grind of the decorating and tidying and cleaning. Tiring, but in a pleasant way.

It all comes out in the wash, usually.

Sometimes life can be likened to the activities of clothes in a washing machine. Firstly you sort all the different things out, delicates, wool, colours, whites and arrange them into piles. Then you load the machine with your chosen laundry. Add some water and a sprinkling of white powder (interpret that as you will) and turn on the switch to start it going. The cycle starts slowly, gently turning from one way to the other, things visible, not too mixed up, moving in an organised way. But then things move on, this continues for half an hour, moving gently all the time but gradually everything gets mixed up, jumbled around and thrown all over the place causing all the items to get intimately tangled together. Then, when you think everything has settled down, it suddenly speeds up and spins so fast you start to lose your way, lose sight of that precious t-shirt, that favourite pair of socks. You stand and look at the goldfish bowl door, hoping that everything will settle down and stop spinning soon so you can begin to unravel the clothes, your life, and find the missing socks of your career and generally get on with hanging all the different bits out to dry.

So maybe I spend too much time in front of the washing machine and not enough time actually living. That’s just how life feels sometimes. At the beginning of the year life was just sloshing around nicely but as time has gone on it has got more and more jumbled and swirling round. The last two or three weeks feels like the spin cycle, but one where you’re actually inside the machine rather than sat on top, if you get my drift. But now the hassle of getting a mortgage seems to be over, the man has been in and done the damp course repairs and we’re all set to move in. I feel more positive than previously and look forward to writing some more entries here, with a reason to do so and things to report. Even if no-one reads this any more, it still feels like some sort of diary, where different aspects of life are noted and recorded and I’m glad that I have the opportunity to get things down.

It will soon be summer, or at least what passes for summer here. We’re hoping to go back to Poland in September but there’s a good few weeks between then and now, and there’s plenty of work to be done too. I’ll try to keep it interesting, so watch this space…

Life rolls on...

It's been some time since I posted anything here. Reasons for this are varied but I think the main excuse is that events have overtaken me. It's been, in many ways, a traumatic few months and looking back, hard to put everything into perspective. So what has been happening? In simple point form, this has been my life since February.

• Secure a job in Manchester, moving to the UK at the beginning of March.
• Agnieszka goes into hospital on 27 March with stomach pains and at 17.42 gives birth to our daughter, Ewa. Too small to survive at only 20 weeks. No words can describe the emptiness and upset this caused.
• In the process of buying a house. Aided, hindered and generally messed about by all walks of people. I can only hope that the purchase goes through.

So that's life as we know it, up to now. I am hoping that, if and when we finally get the keys to the house, I can start more regular writing about life in the UK. There's certainly plenty to write about, but for now it's back to the storyboard...

Man's best friend

The last few weeks have been among the most frustrating, worrying and downright stressful of my adult life and I don't think that here is the place to go into details. To cut a very long and beaureacratic story short, we have had something of a battle with the Polish medical services and their incompetent, intelligence-free staff and institutions.

This story, however, concerns the return leg of a trip one Sunday after we had travelled down to find out exactly where the Institute of Genetic Medicine was in readiness for a visit the following morning, at 8am. A trip we had to get up at 6am to make and which turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This institute / hospital is in a leafy suburb, not far from the palace at Wilanów, but not that easy to get to. We decided to do a reccy a day early so that we knew where we were in our sleepy stumblings the next day. Unchallenged by security, we were allowed to enter and ask directions from the woman on the desk who was dressed as if for a shift cleaning toilets which, should I ever get chance, will be her job for the remainder of her sad and pointless life, along with several doctors who shall be named for incompetence and general unhelpfulness just as soon as I get their names from Agnieszka.

Position of the required office located, we came back outside and crossed over a crumbling and rusty footbridge to sit in the weak winter sun, eating homemade sandwiches and speculating which bus to get. The first to come was no good. The second while we were still eating our sandwiches and couldn't be bothered to get up. So it was that we got the 519 back to the centre of Warsaw. We managed to get a seat fairly near the back and settled down for the ride into town.

On the seat opposite a woman was holding a small dog, a Yorkshire terrier or other such rug rat and on the back seat a middle-aged man had a small white dog on a lead. About five minutes after we got on, the man stood up and started to talk to the woman, his little mongrel watching patiently from the doorway of the bus. The man was obviously comparing dogs as he asked a few questions and stroked the little terrier. His dog continued to stand patiently by the door, waiting. The man said something to it and it wagged its tail.

"Are we getting off?" he said. The dog wagged its tail a little harder.

"Are we getting off?" The man bent down and ruffled the dog's fur.

"Are we going for a walk?" The little white dog's tail was wagging now and then, with a final "Are we getting off?" he let out a short, sharp bark that echoed round the bus and caused a few passengers to look round.

It must have been the bark that did it. Got the poor little dog so excited he couldn't hold it in, and let go with a small but deadly doggy guff. A few seconds after he barked, an invisible cloud enveloped us, causing our eyes to water and the sensitive hairs in our noses to curl up or wilt. The smell was phenomenal. There are military men in the world who would pay a fortune for this kind of biological weapon. If the driver had opened the doors, the bus would have emptied in seconds. But we were sat at lights and had to wait until they turned green - rather like many of the passengers - and the bus crossed the junction and pulled up at the stop. The doors opened, the man and his mobile methane machine got off - and I'm sure I saw, through my tear-filled eyes, the dog smirk. The welcome freshness of Sunday afternoon traffic fumes helped to slowly dispel the reeking poochy pong. You could actually hear sighs of relief as people were able to breathe again. Eyes were dried, noses re-emerged from behind hands, scarves and hoods.

It was the first time we'd laughed in what seems like weeks. All we want to do is check that this baby is healthy and at every step we have met with a wall of paperwork, of petty and officious pricks who think it is their duty to stall, to confuse, to give out false information or hope. I'm fairly sure that this paper trail has contributed to the fact that several major hospitals here in Poland are on the verge of bankruptcy, and it isn't helped by doctors who play God or are arrested for taking bribes to perform surgery, or others sit in offices so full of "presents" (Cognac, watches, pens...) there's hardly any room for themselves and the basic care that should be provided to so many is an after-thought, if it's thought about at all.

Bocian, baking and pips

This year will be one to remember. Just before Christmas Agnieszka told me she was 'late'. A week of waiting followed. She just got later. So we went to the chemist. We bought a testing kit. Another week of waiting. We did the test.

Positive.

We checked dates. Five weeks. I found a website. It said at this point, the embryo is the size of an apple pip. It has a heart the size of a poppy seed. We like the garden associations and wonder what size it will be in a couple of weeks. A cherry pip maybe, a plum stone? For now, and I suspect for the near future, it's known as 'the pip'.

We're going to be parents. I'm happier than I ever thought possible, despite the slight undercurrent of worry about the future, and a concern over how I will provide for 'my family'. So far that hasn't taken first place above the joy and excitement I feel, we feel, about becoming parents. One thing is certain, I'm with the most perfect person and that makes everything so much easier. It may be difficult ahead, but I know we'll cope, get on with it, and be happy.

I'm going to be a dad! What more can I say?


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The in-flight Wizz Air magazine said that in Poland, if you look at a stork, bocian, you can get pregnant. So that's how it happened...

Christmas comes but once a year...

Actually, this year it came twice and if any proof is needed, the stretched-to-the-limit trousers are there on the washing line, blocking out the daylight.

I had two Christmasses this year, a Polish one and an English one, both lovely. We left Warsaw on the Friday afternoon before Christmas to go to Katowice and spent four days there. As with last year the Wigilia feast was immense, with course upon course making the eyeballs pop and the table creak. Barszcz, cabbage and mushrooms, pasta and poppy seeds, carp, compote and potatoes. Four completely full people, sitting saying very little, just bloated and content. Watched this year by two dogs, four cats and a guinea pig. A walk the next day took us to the mine, Wieczorek, and a stroll around the purpose-built 'village' of Niszowiec to marvel at the creation of a Victorian-style housing complex, complete with shops and, of course, church, but one that was built in the 1920s. Several foul-mouthed urchins were scooting about a car park playing hockey, while we strolled about the sun-washed streets marvelling at the graffiti and brickwork. The notice board described it as a 'picturesque' area but I think whoever did the translation got the word mixed up with 'bleak'.

The English Christmas was slightly different, in a pet-free, freezing cold house, but with the same huge amounts of food although this time very heavy on the chocolate and cake. Roast potatoes, carrots, turnip, sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and something I haven't had for ages: a Linda McCartney vegetarian deep country pie (which for some unexplained reason had been turned upside down on my plate by my mum). A trip to Pennington Flash for a walk and a bit of bird-watching and a disastrous trip to the rain-soaked Great Orme and Llandudno prom completed the holiday which was rounded off quite spectacularly by one of the bumpiest flights I've ever been on. Strong winds and storms leaving Liverpool and more windy weather in Warsaw made it a white knuckle ride for me, exacerbated by the decision not to have a drink at the airport (I mean, five pounds for a G&T is a bit steep isn't it?).

So now it's getting back to normal, settling back into work, getting used to the chilly weather. No snow yet, but the temeprature is dropping more now and looks set to be cold for a few weeks. A bit of snow would be nice, but I won't complain if we suddenly get warm spring days and plenty of sunshine. At least the river isn't frozen over. Yet.

Nie mam czasu!

I can't believe how quickly the last three or four months have gone by. It doesn't seem five minutes since the summer and already here we are in January of a new year. One of the things I miss is writing entries here and I hate to use the excuse, seeing as how every Pole I meet uses the same one for not doing whatever they're supposed to, but I literally don't have time to write things.

I got a new job in October and now work for another school doing 'afternoons' which means I finish work as late as 9pm (8pm on a Friday for crying out loud) during the week. They're different levels of ability (the most arrogant and lazy being the advanced) and big classes (of 15 students) and I have found it extremely stressful. Some days it's hard to sleep after 5am and I seem to spend all my waking moments planning, thinking about planning or looking for lesson stuff. After three months I now know that I am not, and never will be, a teacher. I 'lack assertiveness' and give the impression I 'don't know what I'm doing' according to the observation report. It has been a long and difficult way to find this out, but I think it's been a valuable lesson and I've learnt a lot in terms of time management and communication skills, not to mention more patience and a honed sense of piss-taking irony.

The thing I miss more than anything is having any sort of home life. I spend hours during the day at home, working of course, and then evenings at work. The weekend has become so precious now, and seems to be getting shorter every week. No sooner than I've got up on Saturday morning than I'm off to bed on Sunday night. This is no kind of life, although I know for a fact many ex-pats work much more than me (and complain about it endlessly) but then that's their choice.

I'd like to write more on the subject but it bores me now. I have to follow my own advice and when something happens I don't like, I must change it or shut up...

Cheap is the word...

Everyone likes a bargain, me included, and the Poles are no exception. When I go shopping for anything, I like to feel that I've got a good deal, or value for money. When the Poles go shopping they like to feel they bought something cheaper than everyone else, regardless of quality. his is a constant source of conversation and, as the English discuss the weather, so the Poles will discuss the price of goods and consumables at great length.

Shops and supermarkets have, of course, latched on to this and many now feature the words in their bylines. Here's a few examples:

Carrefour - tanio i wygodnie (cheap and comfortable)
Geant - wszystko i tanio (everything and cheap)
Leader Price - zawsze tanio (always cheap)
Leclerc - bliżej i tanio (closer and cheap)
Lidl - jest tani (do I really need to translate this one?)
Praktiker - prakticzne i tanio (practical and cheap)
Tesco - tanio, tanio Tesco (cheap, cheap Tesco; no longer used as they're now one of the most expensive here)
Top Market - bliżej, taniej, lepiej (closer, cheaper, better)

In addition, other places talk about dobry ceny (good prices), niskie ceny (low prices) and zer dla skner (not for skinflints).

This is how businesses compete and it's amazing how narrow these advertising slogans are. Like the disposable income of most of their customers actually...

Do as I say, not as I do...

Recent weeks have seen an upsurge in the ridiculous behaviour by the government here. Finance Minister Zyta Gilowska, forced to leave after (unfounded and unproved) allegations of collaboration with the secret police, has been reinstated into government and her first task has been to announce that becikowe - the payment of 1000zł to new mums brought in earlier this year - will be stopped. The reason? Not enough people have had children and so the incentive will be cut. Maybe the incentive is too small? Or maybe all those of child-bearing age are now romping and frolicking on distant shores, where 1000PLN works out at less than a week's wage.

Further to this, hidden cameras 'caught' Samoobrona MP Renaty Beger attempting to trade support for office. She was offered, by Adam Lipiński (a member of the prime minister's office), a ministry if she defected to the Law and Justice party in order to ensure a continued Kaczyński-controlled run in government. When the film hit the news, the government said it was perfectly normal, that this kind of thing happens all the time. We're in the right, said Kaczyński, this is nothing unusual. So the party that was elected because it promised to get rid of corruption from office has been found guilty and now refuses to admit it is wrong. Instead of sacking Lipiński as an example, he was held up as a model of a good politician and the heat has been turned onto the news station, TVN, which first broadcast the incriminating film. The newspaper Gazeta Polska has now accused TVN of taking the advice of an ex-secret police mamber to secretly film the interview. In turn, Gazeta Polska published the wrong guy's photo. The journalist's association that firstly supported the Law and Justice side is shocked (and so it should be, when it should be on the side of its members and the side of free speech).

The government is now trying to accuse the press of victimisation while, at the same time, continuing to claim that Poland is a free and democratic state. I always thought that democracy involved freedom of the media, or at least the media were allowed to say something about government without politicians taking it as a personal insult. Recently a front page news story highlighted this to a pathetic new height. According to reports, a homeless man said something derogatory about the president. The next day the 'whole of Poland' was out looking for him. When you're a public figure you have to expect this kind of thing and if a German newspaper compares you to a potato then you have to either accept it or leave office, not feign illness and snub the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, as Lech did. Last week the EU once again warned Poland that its xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic stance was unacceptable and it was treading on dodgy ground. When you joined the EU, it went on, it wasn't solely for your own benefit. You joined for the greater good of Europe, not just yourselves. Here I paraphrase but you get the idea.

So, now we have a situation where the government struggles to stay in power, desperate to make coalitions with anyone equally depserate for power. Kaczyński is, as it said yesterday: 'too weak to govern and too strong to stand down'. Cynics would say this reads too stupid and too stubborn. For fifty years Poland lay under communist rule and when it was overthrown there must have been so many tears and sighs of relief. But what price was that freedom? It seems those on the frontline in 1989 are now taking their lead from pre-89 leaders and trying to recreate that society. And the opposition? Where are they? Perfect opportunities to highlight the government's mistakes are left untaken. Tusk sits in his ivory tower saying nothing. He appears to oppose nothing, to offer no alternative, to suggest no way forward. Political stalemate or just simply stagnation? No wonder people in their millions (estimated at 3 since 2004 and Poland's accession into the EU) are leaving for a life za granica - beyond the border or, depending on your translation, beyond the limit.

Sunday sees a march against the government. We'll be there, adding weight. Maybe one voice can't change anything but without trying, you're as bad as they are.

26 August 2006

This photo was taken on 26 August 2006 at the Urząd Miasto, Plac Bankowy, Warsaw, the day I married Agnieszka. I have never been happier. She is the most wonderful girl and I am very proud.

From left to right: My mum Jean, Agnieszka, Alicja (Agnieszka's mum), Anna (Agnieszka's sister), me, my dad Norman.

Foraging in the forest...

Autumn is my favourite season, the richness of the colours, the chill mornings that give way to sunny, hot afternoons, the twilight and colours of the light as evening approaches, the flocks of starlings to be seen like clouds of smoke above the flats or by the river, the apples and plums on stalls by the side of the road.

It’s also a favourite season because it’s the time when mushrooms appear. I’m a great fan of fungi and a couple of weeks ago we took a train out to Podkowa Leśna, a small town whose hospital was made famous by the soap Na dobre i na złe. We were intent on picking some mushrooms of our very own. The journey takes about 40 minutes, although the hard plastic seats of the rumbling, lurching, thundering WKD train make it feel longer. We passed through Pruszkow, famous for its gangsters and out into the countryside, alighting at our stop in an almost different world, where sounds are more natural instead of the constant roar of Warsaw traffic. An old train was sitting at the platform but we weren’t interested in that and headed off – after a brief glance at a map – towards the forest.

At first I thought it was going to be a let down, the road we followed allowed cars along it and was dusty and noisy but as soon as we reached the forest proper it got infinitely better and we followed a path that wound along the edge of the trees. After a while we struck into the forest itself and all the sounds from the town gradually quietened. A woodpecker was calling, a dog barked in a far-off garden, a plane rumbled over head, but the best sound of all was the gentle breath of the wind in the treetops, the movement of branches and, above all, the silence of the outdoors.

Collecting mushrooms isn’t as easy as it sounds. For a start, all the ones you find immediately, the white ones, the tall ones, the red and white fairytale ones, they’re all deadly poisonous. If you do eat one that's a bit dodgy you can look forward to symptoms that include stomach ache, vomiting, high temperature, heavy diarrhoea and muscle ache. Obviously, the safe ones, the ones you can eat grow low down, in shady places and they’re coloured green and brown, khaki and grey to blend in with the undergrowth and leaf mould on which they grow. In the dappled sunlight of a September afternoon they’re bloody hard to spot. After a while, and after you’ve found the first few, you get used to looking, and it becomes easier. We moved deeper into the forest to find more, I got really excited that, for probably the first time in my life (excluding blackberries and Mrs Orrell’s apples) I was foraging for something I would later eat. Every so often we’d meet other people, some old men pushing bikes, big plastic buckets full of mushrooms, or a family with little wicker baskets, all gathering for the winter like connoisseur squirrels. For me, the delight of the day was being in the forest, searching, in the peace and quiet. Lately we’ve talked of moving to Gdynia, or somewhere else on the coast and I realised that it isn’t just the sea I miss, it’s the silence of the countryside, away from the roar of traffic, the smell of fumes and the crowds of people.

We stopped to eat our sandwiches on a gate, seeing as there were absolutely no benches to be found. An old woman shuffled past, taking an even older-looking dog for a walk. She disappeared into the distance, muttering and shuffling along in her slippers but the dog grew tired and wandered back the way they had come. She never even noticed and the last we saw, she was stood at the edge of the trees, looking for something in the undergrowth. A mushroom maybe, or a long lost jewel, or a memory.

At some point in the afternoon, the foraging stopped being fun. I think it was when we decided that we didn’t know exactly where we were, that the afternoon was wearing on and we had no idea how long it would take to get to Otrębusy for the train back. The last hour or so was a - still enjoyable but slightly less so - brisk walk, along some fairly unpleasant roads full of drivers trying to beat land speed records and it was with some relief that we got to the station to wait for the train. The seats on the return were much comfier, due mainly to the train being a new one, not one of those old bone-shakers we’d travelled out on.

Back home the mushrooms were sliced, threaded onto string, draped over the clothes horse and left to dry. The next day they were put in the oven to dry them further as they still seemed to be damp. It turned out that what we’d picked (a full carrier bag full) were fairly wet and of course when they dried, they shrank. So our carrier bag of forage is now down to a couple of hundred grams in an empty mayonnaise jar. One day I’ll make some soup with them but for now I’ll remember the afternoon I became a hunter gatherer again and went into the forest to pick mushrooms. As the weather is still warm and sunny we may get another chance to forage for provisions, before the cold, dark days of winter leave us snuggled in front of the television.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside...

Sometime earlier in the year, June I think, we queued at Central Station until one in the morning in order to buy cheap tickets to go to Gdynia, on the coast. They were ridiculously cheap, 15zł or three quid, each way. We booked a place to stay and then sat back and waited for the weekend to arrive.

So it was on Saturday morning that the alarm went off at 5.30am and we got up, showered, coffeed and out for the 6am bus to town. I assumed it would be quiet, being Saturday and all, but the bus was packed with people obviously, judging by the number of bags and suitcases they had with them, heading for the station. We were crammed in a spot by the door and being rocked by the motion of the bus when I spotted a space and we headed for it. This was our first mistake. We were rewarded by the stink of an unwashed, or possibly never washed, body. No wonder there was room near the man dozing on the seat. He reeked. I mean, really hummed. He was possibly homeless but was not badly dressed so it isn't definite. We had to endure the pong for almost fifteen minutes before the doors opened and we dived off the bus at Centralna, gasping great lungfuls of slightly fresher air.

Inside the station was the usual chaos but our train was at the platform and we were able to board it and found our seats quickly. That's where we stayed for the next four and a half hours as we trundled across the northern Polish landscape towards the coast. The recent rain had turned the withered and yellowing fields into a rich, lush green and now and again we were able to see the tall white figure of a stork, standing watch in a field. When we reached Gdansk the train pretty much emptied, but we remained, only alighting a half hour later in a wind-swept, drizzly Gdynia.

The weather didn't look up to much, cloud and some wind-blown dampness, but we decided to walk to our digs. We took directions off a friendly old woman, and headed up a small lane, wooded on one side. The sound of the sea reached our ears and seagulls were mewling overhead. After a couple of minutes of checking numbers, we found the place we were staying and rang the bell. The guard dog watched us intently, its tail wagging slowly. A big, walrus-moustachioed man in shorts and sandals waddled out and gruffly greeted us. We were taken round the back of the house and, as he unlocked a door in the wall, I had a fleeting vision of being housed in a coal cellar, with no lights or windows and only the mice and spiders for company. As it turned out, it was a large basement room, complete with small bar in one corner and two sofa-beds, made up for guests. There was a small kitchen with a washing machine (which would later rumble and chug its way through a very long washing cycle) and a bathroom. A small portable tv sat in one corner. We would later find out it had only one channel and was showing footage of the Sopot festival, taking place only five miles away. A smell of damp wafted through the rooms but it was clean and, after a small argument about how long we were staying, we were given a key and left to our own devices.

As soon as we ventured out we got wet. The rain started to come down heavily, so we went back inside and waited while the shower eased. After ten minutes it stopped and we took a small path down to the front. That's when the heavens opened. And I mean a deluge. Within a minute or two we were completely soaked and had to make a dash to a nearby restaurant. The girl on the desk was obviously amused at our soggy state, but we dripped all over the nice clean floor and the coffee was good so we didn't mind too much. As we drank we watched the rain lashing down and then, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped. A line of lighter sky showed under the grey clouds and while the sun didn't come out, it stopped raining. That's how it stayed for the rest of the weekend.

We trudged soggily up the front to the pier at Gdynia and after a walk on the beach, amused ourselves with the sign on one boat, the gunship 'Błyskawica', which had a post office on board. This was, the sign said:

"Open in the hours of ship's accessibility to visitors. Retail of post stamps at the ships booth. Stamping the postal matter with an occasional date marker."

I wanted to get my postal matter stamped with an occasional date, but it cost too much just to do that, so we just sniggered at the sign before moving on. We heard the beat of a drum and saw that some boys were practicing in their Dragon boats. Two boats attempted to race, but half-heartedly, the crews wishing they were with the others on the quay, standing around drinking beer. Taking that as a cue, we decided it was time for food and repaired to a small cafe on the front, sheltered by a plastic screen so we could sit outside. We got fish, chips and stung. The menu said the fish was 6zł per 100g but I think they must have weighed it when it was still in the boat as the bill came to some astronomical sum. It was nice though, despite the bones.

On the Sunday we walked down the beach to Gdynia Orłowo. It felt good to be near the sea, to hear the waves and to listen to the screech of the gulls: no cars, no sirens, no buses... At one point we had to go into the woods that back on to the beach as the tide was too high to get around the headland. Almost immediately on heading into the trees we saw an owl which silently glided off a tree stump and flew deeper into the woods. This was probably my favourite bit of the whole trip, the walk along the beach (marvelling at the strange frutti de mare which had been washed up by the storm: apples, onions, a cauliflower, a leek...) and then through the forest, views from the crumbling cliffs and then emerging once more onto the beach. The only downside being the amount of litter that is strewn along the sand: cigarette butts, bottles, plastic cups and other assorted debris. If the Baltic resorts want to attract more visitors then they need to address this problem quickly and efficiently.

After a quick coffee we jumped on to a train to Gdansk to see the Dominican Fair, held every year in August. What a disappointment. The last time I visited this fair it was amber, amber, wood crafts and amber. Now, it seemed to be a cheap version of a crappy Sunday market: bras and knickers (do Dominicans wear thongs?), jeans and other clothes, plastic crap and odd 'crafts' that are mass produced in some sweat-soaked Chinese factory. On one street there were some nice, homemade glass pieces, some carvings and, of course, amber jewellery, but on the whole it was cheap plastikowy gowno and full of pushing and shoving Warszawiaks, not looking where they're going. All in all it put a bit of a dampener on the day. Gdansk has changed so much in the few years since I first arrived on an overnight train from Berlin (again, to cascades of rain). Then you could get real coffee and toursits were still a bit of a novelty. Now, they're everywhere and Gdansk offers fifty variations on a cappuccino instead of a standard cup of pick-me-up. The one cafe we did find that had regular coffee on the menu had a broken machine. They could offer us tea only. What good is that when you've been tramping round a market for a couple of hours?

Before we left we bought huge doughnuts, covered in icing, dessiccated coconut and filled with white cheese. Sounds weird, but very tasty. The train back to Warsaw seemed to take forever, but there were more storks, a couple of deer and plenty of green fields to stare at, thinking of the sea, the sounds and the smells and wondering when we'd be back there again. Maybe next time for good?

Holidaying Polish-style

Now that we're in the thick of summer, with temperatures reaching the low 30s and clouds a distant winter memory, all thoughts have turned to holidays. Every day on the tv come reports of holidaying Poles (the ones not desperate to leave the country and work abroad, that is) who are packing the Baltic coast beaches and queuing up to buy tickets which will allow them access to the top of mountains. However, you'll find most people on their summer break heading down to Castorama or Leroy Merlin, the do-it-yourself superstores, where the aisles are choked with men in t-shirts and shorts - and, naturally, socks with sandals - trying to explain patiently to their wives or girlfriends why THAT colour is no good for a bathroom and why EVERYTHING should be painted magnolia. Emulsion, and its application to interior surfaces, is big business for Poles in July and August.

I am, of course, no exception and have myself made several trips to the above-mentioned shops to buy DIY accessories. The result is that I have spent the early part of August painting the hall, kitchen and bathroom. I've put in a tiled splashback behind the sink and cooker; I'm in the process of fitting new lights to the bathroom and I'll finish by changing the bare bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway to a proper set of spotlights to illuminate the bookshelves. I've cleaned up any mess I've made and have removed any rogue blobs of paint from floor or walls where they shouldn't be and I'm pretty pleased that the flat looks clean and presentable.

For the first summer, this is a novelty, but I'm a believer in traditional summer holidays spent at the beach or in the mountains, not in the paint aisle and up a ladder. Next year, it's the Baltic!

Shop till you drop

Shopping is an experience in Warsaw. We are lucky to have a new, modern shopping mall within easy reach of the flat but sometimes we don't have time to go there and it's necessary to call in to the Carrefour supermarket in the Wileński mall in Praga. I like this mall because I know it's safe. I know it's safe because there's a little sign on the entrance: a pistol in a red circle that tells people they're not allowed to bring their guns in. Comforting.

Outside, when the Pope came, the supermarket set up a stall selling the most holy of accessories: water and biscuits. Other people sell strawberries, cherries, potatoes from stalls, or hang around waiting for buses, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes and scratching equally rancid armpits. Only 58% of Poles aged between 18 - 24 have a shower on a daily basis. This rises slightly for the 34 - 44 age bracket and then falls sharply to only 16% for the over-65s. Why? Communism. That's the usual excuse. Communism is the reason people don't wash. As logical as anything else here really.

Shoppers too, are worthy of note. Like the guy in the small supermarket near the flat. Dressed in paint-splattered white overalls, completely bald and with a huge walrus moustache he passed through the checkout, before ten in the morning, purchasing a French stick, a litre of tomato juice and a three-quarter pint bottle of vodka. Once through the till, the loaf was snapped in two to fit the carrier bag and off he went. Presumably back to work and several Bloody Marys...

On another occasion, I was behind a woman, at 8.30pm, in a city centre supermarket. She was middle-aged, well dressed. She had a small dog in her shopping bag and in her basket? One Domestos toilet freshener. At Wileński there is a woman who uses a green, plastic clothes peg as a cigarette holder...

The land that music forgot

After almost two months of hot, sunny, dry days, this morning was grey and chilly and rain has been seeping down from a leaden sky for the past couple of hours. I don't know where the time has gone since I wrote the last entry here. June was a blur, culminating in a trip to Katowice, and July was taken up with a teacher training course which, hopefully, will get me a better, more secure job. I'm not holding my breath though.

With the summer months comes the festivals. All the greats of yesteryear are now struggling to make a living, have to drop their fees and so make their way to Poland for gigs. So far we've had Guns n' Roses, The Cult and King Diamond. INXS are due in October. Star of the Sopot festival is Elton John. Who says dinosaurs are extinct?

So why this love of oldies? Is it because Poland can now afford to pay for these acts? Ticket prices aren't cheap, though, with most on a par - or more expensive - than they would be in England or Germany. The radio is partly to blame. Whichever station you tune to you get the same music. Like each station only has one cd - a compilation of 80s hits, plus a compilation of Polish singalong tunes. Favourites, played once an hour, or more, include: Remixes of the Police - Message in a bottle, Roxanne - Vanessa Paradis' abysmal Joe le taxi, the irritating singalong choruses of Finnish scrubbed-faced oiks, The Rasmus, Eurythmics, Jimmy Somerville... In a recent edition of one of the free morning papers, a survey was carried out asking who people would like to see in Poland. The results were frightening:

Lukasz, aged 20: 'Shakira.'

Katarzyna, aged 26: 'Jon Bon Jovi, Celine Dion or Eros Ramazotti.'

and Konrad, aged 21: 'The Rolling Stones.'

Thankfully, after Keith Richards, for reasons of his own, dived out of a coconut palm, the Stones cancelled their trip to Poland. But every day brings a new set of posters, advertising new acts, long forgotten in England, about to appear in Warsaw. It's only a matter of time before dinosaurs live again here...

Pass the parcel, eventually...

In a recent report, Poczta Polska admitted that the number of items they were unable to deliver had increased. The reason for this was due to the increase in the total volume of items they handle. The emphasis here was not on their failure to improve their service, but to redirect blame onto customers who had, inconsiderately, sent even more letters and parcels than previously. It was their fault, the article implied, that Poczta Polska had been able to not deliver, or lose, even more letters and parcels than ever they could previously. In PP's favour, though, it should be remembered that at least the percentage remains constant and that their consistency in achieving this figure - in respect of the heavier workload their workers face - is, indeed, commendable.

In a possibly unrelated incident I received a letter from my mum, posted in England and which was wandering about for two weeks before it arrived in Warsaw. When it finally limped into the flat, there was a clear postmark on the back which said: Lisboa. Unfortunately, it is impossible to lay the blame on anyone in particular. Did it get put on the wrong plane - by accident or on purpose - in England by a dyslexic, or just plain numty, sorting office employee?

Hmm, Poland. Name looks a bit like Portugal. Same difference...

Or was it mischievously redirected once it arrived in Warsaw by a similarly literally-disadvantaged space cadet? Who knows. The main thing is it arrived and now we have enough sudoku to last nearly two weeks.

But I digress. Another letter, this time posted in the city - but on the other side of the river - was returned to the sender. It seems the postcode was wrong. I've never had any trouble before but apparently if you put the wrong postcode on an item, it goes to the wrong post office and hence cannot be delivered. This is despite the fact that the street where we live is the only one of that name in the whole of Warsaw, and that the beginning of the code - 03 - is for this area only. All the post goes to the main post office which is round the corner from the flat. If I was, heaven forbid, a cynical type of person, then I would hazard a guess that the letter was never posted in the first place and the post office got the blame. Because, as everyone knows, they couldn't post a letter up their own backsides in the dark, but it's a convenient excuse and one that most people believe.

If a non-delivered, or re-delivered letter is irritating, it's small potatoes compared to the non-payment of wages and here the number-themed problem gets more absurd and surreal. My wages are now ten days overdue (nothing new there, after six months with this company I still haven't been paid on time) and when I called to find out why I was told I hadn't signed my contract for April. Having to sign a contract every month is, in itself, ridiculous, but it's what the employer insists on. I went to the office to find out more. There was my contract with the first two pages initialed by myself and the third page without a signature.

I signed this. I remember. And you should too because you were sat there watching me.

Ah, yes. I do remember, and I found out what happened.

Please, do tell, I can't wait for this month's excuse.

Well, the accountant was going through the contracts and she noticed that the first two pages were in 12-point font, while the third page was in 14-point. So she reprinted the last page in 12-point to make it the same as the other pages.

And threw away, shredded, whatever, the page with my signature on. Nothing if not original. So I had to re-sign my contract and am still waiting for the money. You may laugh at the absurdity of this, but it's a daily occurence here.

To give one further - wouldn't it be nice to say final? - example of this absurditiy, the farmers in Poland, along with other EU nations, are allowed to make claims for European Union subsidies. To do this they must submit a claim together with a map of the land they own and intend to farm. The deadline approached and the farmers panicked because the company that prints the maps they need wasn't going to be able to finish the job in time for the claims to be submitted, which would result in the loss of millions of Euro in subsidies. Instead of meeting the problem at the source, i.e. getting the maps printed more quickly, which would have involved some common sense and some 'joined-up thinking', the Agriculture Minister, the tanned and silver-haired Andrzej Lepper, had to go to the European Union and ask for a deadline extension. A month's grace was granted, but it is a fairly safe bet that it will be the same scenario next year. Why? Because in Poland it appears that no-one is responsible, no-one takes the blame and no-one looks further than the profit they can screw out of everything.

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Aside: A supporter of Roman Giertych's ultra-Catholic LPR, 'League of the Polish Family', party was quoted as saying that 'anyone who opposes Giertych is gay, and all gays are paedophiles'. I may be wrong, but I thought we were in the 21st Century now and that the Dark Ages were far in the past. Here in Poland, it seems not.

When plus comes to shove...

As with so many things here in Poland it seemed an simple task, to change cable tv providers. How naive we are. When will we ever learn that nothing here is straightforward or easy?

Firstly, the contract is renewed by the company in yearly instalments, which makes it difficult to remember the exact date you started and, before you know it, they've signed you up for another year. So the only option was to give, in writing, three months notice. Three months. On something you pay for monthly. Ok, it's a nuisance, but that's the terms of the contract. The CONtract.

So that's done. A week later a letter arrives, expressing great sadness that we're leaving the company. It looks like they really care, they've even highlighted part of one sentence, of what is otherwise a standard photocopy, in bold. A phone call follows, offering a discount if we decide to reconsider and stay.

What discount?

Well, for the next three months, half of what you're paying now.

And then?

Then it will go up by a quarter, then after three more months up a further quarter.

So inside six months I'll be paying the same as I am now? Fantastic. Can you ring me back tomorrow to discuss the finer details?

Er, no. Can't tomorrow, have to do it the day after...

Some incentive to stay that was. So thanks for trying so hard to keep our business.

Returning the equipment made an even bigger joke of the whole situation. If it wasn't so ridiculous it would be laughable. No wonder people put the decoder, cables and card in an envelope and post it back to them.

We rang the company.

You can take it to Targówek shopping centre and leave it at the customer service point there.

You mean the cardboard cutout 'office' place, where the girl sits on a computer chatline all day? Looking bored and sighing loudly if you ask for any help?

That's the one. Just leave it there.

But they don't accept it. They can't. Because the girl on the desk has cat litter for brains and doesn't know what to do. So we have to bring it back home and try again. Another phone call. Another address. Another part of the city. Another pointless journey. Another feckin' refusal.

We can't accept it.

Why not?

Because it's a day early. We can't accept it before the end of May.

But today is the 31st.

No, has to be tomorrow.

Can't you write a receipt for tomorrow?

No, it's forbidden.

Can I leave it?

No, it's forbidden.

I'll have to take it home and drag it back here at my own convenience and expense again, then?

You'll have to.

So we still have the equipment. As the new company can't connect for a week or two, we're using it to watch the Vicar of Dibley. We get to keep the satellite dish though. I think it'd make a nice bird bath. Or it would if I'd let the pigeons anywhere near the balcony.