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.