On Polska

A overly long and ruminative piece on Poland.

We swept into Poland just as we had into Germany and Czech Land, on a motorway without the faintest hint of a border control. Within twenty miles we had a blowout on the motorway which destroyed the tyre and terrified Carolyn and shortened my life by a unit or so. Tiresome for sure but fixable and providing an opportunity for further insight into modern Poland.

If you are my age your vision of Poland is coloured by your childhood. Then Poland was a dark place, a shadowy communist blot, whose misfortunes seemed to hint at carelessness, but were perpetually without resolution and seemed at odds with the defiant, brave and resilient population.

The images were always black and white, (like those of trawlermen in the North Sea) and that’s how the country seemed; black mostly, with trudging miners set against a bleak backdrop of something grey. Or perhaps a port with leaden skies or a power station belching smoke. The white came from snow and hoar and a sense it was always freezing cold, but did nothing to levitate the bleak timbre, or bring any warmth to a chilly place.

But set against this were the Poles one met or knew. The stories of the fighter pilots, the -owski, -owitcz or -oska kids at school, mostly children of Poles who had stayed on after the war, the patients one met and treated. These were by any measure an exceptional bunch. The extraordinary dignity of the elderly Pole, the sole survivor of her family who had walked for a month through the Silesian winter and somehow escaped the Nazi persecution. The immigrant working in a lowly job sending home his hard-earned pounds to support his mother and sister. The committed student working all hours to get the good degree because self-betterment was the way out of the communist sump. Always opinionated, strong willed, and tough as basalt, nationalist – until death, loyal, but also difficult and belligerent and a danger to all if there was vodka within reach, but we loved them.

And then there was Solidarity, and we were reminded of a different Poland, a population who stood for something that no amount of trampling could squeeze out and who were prepared to suffer even more to try to attain their proper nationhood and re-establish values they had never lost. We supported them and gradually saw a reinvigorated nation emerge from the embers of communism. Here was a country that stood by its essential principles as it became part of the bigger European community. Then of course we met a different kind of Pole, not in character perhaps, but in vocation; the plumber, the cleaner, the builder, who all worked damn hard and earned our respect and who didn’t get up themselves and mostly still charged a reasonable rate for a job well done. And then there was Donald Tusk, whose suit was too shiny but was probably ok, just doing the wrong job.

So how entertaining that when we arrived at the campsite serving Auschwitz, we were told that although the site was open there was no water because of a plumbing problem! Once explained even the charming concierge could see the funny side.

To get there we had driven perhaps 100km from the border through an unappetising landscape. I was surprised at how developed the area was. I know 40 million people have to live somewhere but for the most part we drove through unappealing urban sprawl. Nothing old or beautiful and nothing new to suggest taste or values other than that of expediency and commercial development. The buildings uniformly functional, unappealing and without merit. The supermarket stuffed with bargain processed food, affordable but unhealthy and of no allure or variety and nothing foreign or adventurous. There was nothing of any charm or character. The housing mostly shouting communist utilitarianism, the few bars or restaurants hiding behind dull facades and closed doors, the factories terrifying in their scale and grime. All in all, the vision is of a communist country liberated but left with no cultural values or aspirations to embellish an improving wage and better quality of life for its masses.

We couldn’t visit the Auschwitz museum as it was COVID closed, but nevertheless breathed in the sombre miasma of its intent from the shape of the blocks visible from the roadside. We sat in Lupetto and wondered what music we should listen to on Spotify.

A difficult choice.

Then I heard a train and remembered Steve Reich’s Different Trains. This is a remarkable piece, written on the realisation that while his powerful childhood memories of train travel were of from the US, (gained from criss-crossing the country between his divorced parents) had he been still in Europe, with his Jewish heritage his experience might have been of a very different train journey. The piece specifically voices survivors experiences of train travel to Auschwitz.

We listened to the piece intently

The nice lady in the campsite pointed us to a tyre repair facility, but predictably they took one look at Lupetto, and even in the absence of any English, realised they couldn’t help. The problem, that I knew but didn’t let on to Carolina, was that the tyre was fucked and that the chance of us finding a 6.50 x16 truck tyre in a local garage in central Poland was minimal.

We were directed to a much larger establishment specialising in truck tyres, but the reception was similar; detatched, dismissive and wary. This seemed to be a recurring theme; initial distance, but on this occasion with gentle dissolve as our predicament and harmlessness emerged.

No tyre. The suggestion try another garage nearby. But by now some the crew were interested and Tomas emerged, he the keeper of the tyre store, clearly an ancient role of great importance, who knew of just one tyre possibly the right size. A search in a cavernous store revealed the dusty item. Two hours later and with a great deal of graft and attention to detail, we left with smiles all round and a new tyre, inner tube and crucially the lining to the split rim wheel. A marvellous result and hugely reassuring for the next thousand miles.

We motored on to Krakow with renewed confidence and found a pleasant campsite just 4 km from the city. The sun was shining, we off-loaded the bikes and pedalled into the city that King Krag had founded on a curve in the Vistula River (presumably just after he had played the dragon).

Krakow redefines all ones preconceived ideas about Poland and refutes all the paragraphs above. It is a joy and a marvel. How this wonderful city, with its huge historical heritage and vast cultural endowment somehow survived intact the ravages of the last 150 years is indeed miraculous. It is beautiful, lively yet mysterious, serious but light-hearted, multinational yet essentially Polish.

We had unpacked our bikes and cycled the 4km from the campsite into the centre to the pedestrianised medieval quarter with its 4 acre central square. Like most of the cities we had visited it was deserted. We dawdled through stylish streets and squares, around every bend another Renaissance tower or sturdy Gothic buttress, statues everywhere (none being desecrated that we could see). There is hardly a new building amongst old but where there is it is sympathetic and cohesive. Doorways and arches entice into mysterious interiors. a cafe, bookshop, boutique, charity action group or something indecipherable in Polish. The comprehensive museum under the Cloth Market tells of the multi-layered history in vibrant detail, and hints at why this city has survived as it has - because it was just too important a centre in European history not to. We loved the story of Lesley the White, king of Poland who excused him self from joining one of the crusades as there was no beer in the holy land, and he couldn't do without it.

The old Jewish quarter is less spectacular but just as interesting. We could only see a fraction of what was on offer but vowed to return. We found a delightful restaurant (from amongst the hundreds) and were served by a Mihal a thirtysomething proud of his heritage and that waiting at table well was his life’s career. And he did it very well single handed.

Cycling home in the gloaming, with the swifts screeching low over the Vistula, the air still warm and clear, the domes and towers silhouetted in relief against a reddening sky, I could see why so many Europeans want to make this fine city their home. The winters may be harsh but there is always vodka and the snug intimacy of a jazz bar perhaps with Kennedy improvising with his mates.

The dozens of other cyclists travelling with us all stopped at the red signals on the cycle path, nobody crossed before the green in spite of empty roads. And there was no litter either.

Is it possible that the two are linked?