Poznan

The Capital City of Poznan, to give it its full title (although no longer the capital), is Poland’s fourth largest city and one of the oldest, with a core population of around 0.5 million, but extending to 1.4 million if the scruffy industrial suburbs and small connecting towns are included. I did read a potted history of the city, but like much of Poland, it has been pulled backwards and forwards by many different competing countries: Czechs, French, Prussians, Germans, all have had a go at possession at one time or other, but it still retains a strong feeling of pride and independence. I have a more traditional hostel (by that I mean it is in an old, traditional, four storey building, with worn wooden bannisters and hand rails, creaky wooden floors, stair treads partially covered with old linoleum and it is full of lots of noisy young people, Americans mostly, working in an orphanage close by). It is clean (and cheap, at £8/night) and located in the Old Town, just a short 10 minutes’ walk from the Town Hall.

The Old Market Square is enclosed by a number of tall, gabled houses, similar to the Dutch design but wider and consisting of lots of different colours – pink and white, buff cream, burnt umber, blue and gold, mint green. They surround the 16^th Century Renaissance Town Hall, which is a very strange mix of architectural styles, Byzantine verdigris domes, Italianate decorations and motifs, Northern European brown brickwork sections, (unless this is a style in its own right, which I've not come across before). A network of cobbled streets leads away from the square and they are full of intimate bars, clubs, pubs and restaurants. It is like a stag weekend destination, which the stag weekends have failed to discover. My favourites are the cellar bars, which have a single, small doorway opening onto the street from a steep wooden stairway, so you can’t see what the place is like until you enter and descend to the bottom of the steps where you are suddenly right in the middle of a brick-work cavern. Of course, it would then be impolite not to have one drink, so it’s amusingly hit and miss. They are mostly full of students, counting out change to see if they can afford another shot and who are curious about how and why I've ended up in Poznan.

Beyond the Old Town itself is a busy commercial and industrial city. Apart from the many churches and museums I visited, I did go and visit a newish shopping complex called Stary Browar, which has won some sort of award as the best shopping mall in Europe. Well, the former brewery building is certainly a pretty impressive, albeit almost empty (soulless?), cathedral to consumerism, with glossy, designer shops in a vast, industrial brick and glass space. On my way to the real Cathedral, I pop into a much older, smaller, concrete shopping mall to get out of the rain for a bit. It is full of people shopping for things they might actually need. The coffee shop here is a place where friends meet, old couples sit, content in their silence, business men kill time before a meeting somewhere, a student, with very good English and piercing blue eyes sits revising. (I realise that all people, almost without exception, have blue eyes. I spend the rest of the day looking to see if I can see any people with brown eyes, but there are none, apart from a single Japanese couple. Strange.) An older lady next to me gets up to leave, says something and then leans across and grasps my arm warmly for a few seconds, smiling, and gesturing to the fact that I’m making notes in my notepad. I have no idea what she says, but I think I prefer the mentality of the old shopping centre rather than the new and I’m left pondering how long the city will remain as it is. Having said that, if the Czechs, French, Prussians, Germans et al have all tried and failed to change the place, maybe consumerism will fail too?

Old Market Square

Town Hall

Market Square (Again)

Hostel Stairs. Hmmm. This might be interesting

But a nice, bright, airy room..

...with a view

Stary Browar

Outskirts of the city. Yes, it was cold, wet and 'orrible

Poznan Cathedral

The Gold Chamber

The Kings of Poland

Humanity 4, England 3, Germany 2. What will remain of us is love.

The Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, was opened in 1791 and has become a cipher of Berlin city pride and, by extension, of the German nation. Marched through by a conquering Napoleon and later, in 1933, by SS Storm troopers and later still by conquering Russians after some of the bloodiest and intimately brutal fighting of the 2^nd World War, it has been both a symbol of triumph and defeat. I was expecting something imposing, frightening, a stark demonstration of German national might and the symbol of an empire that would last a thousand years. Instead, with its soft yellow stone mellow in the March sunshine, surrounded by Hotels and restaurants, bars, Starbucks and milling tourists, it actually seems a lot smaller than I’d imagined and quite homely and inviting.

Chatting casually to an English guy and his American wife (now a UK citizen, after much effort and having to answer some silly questions, including one on Torvil and Dean, for God’s sake), I discover by accident that England are playing Germany in a friendly at the Olympic Stadium. Now that will be something to see, so I walk some 8 kilometres to the ground, eventually get a black market ticket, have a few beers and wait for the game. I’m a little on edge, as I sit in a bar which is crammed full of German supporters, keeping myself to myself, but people are very friendly, one group buying me a ‘special’ dark beer which is only available at limited outlets, apparently. I did watch it being poured, just in case! All good. My fears are allayed temporarily, but stirred again by the extensive police presence of blue and silver riot vans, windows protected by wire metal frames, some with barking police dogs. The police seem relaxed though, hanging around in groups, chatting with each other whilst casually watching passers-by with nonchalant languor in the warm early evening sun. It takes around 45 minutes to queue to get into the ground due to the security and it feels a bit disorganised, but I get to my seat in the German supporter’s end. The stadium is actually the same one where Jesse Owens won 4 Olympic gold medals in 1936, the first black man to do so, under the unamused gaze of Adolf Hitler. Fantastic to be in such an architecturally and historical important monument. I find myself next to 3 lads from Wolverhampton and two from Leeds. We cheer the team on and of course, we are 2 goals down in about 20 minutes. It could be another of those dire England performances! What transpires, however, against all the odds, is an extraordinary second half performance, including a brilliant side-step goal by Jeremy Vardy and within a few minutes of the end of extra time we are 2-3 up. Unbelievable and fair play to the German supporters who didn't react at all to the triumphant singing at the end! What a performance, what a game, what an atmosphere!

‘Against all the odds’ has a different but similar type of resonance after visiting an incredible exhibition at the Menschen Museum today by the anatomical artist Gunther von Hagens. The exhibition consists of plasticised bodies and body parts, or put simply, dead people, whose bodies have been donated to science and subjected to a 4-part process of dissection and embalming which takes around 1500 hours over the course of a year for each body. The captions of the displays describe how we work mechanically and how unlikely our being here, right now, really are, as the people we are. An ejaculation contains within it some 200 million to 500 million sperm. Only around two hundred reach the site of fertilisation, the fallopian tubes. Only one, sometimes, enters and fertilises an egg. If another sperm did so, that would produce a different person. The chances of us being here are slim. Simply to be, is an act of defiance, against all the odds.

The once alive bodies, partly stripped to reveal the delicate, complex interweaving of muscle and sinew, the fragile filigree of tendons and ligaments are in various poses, both funny and awful: ballerina, skate-boarder, archer and, most amazing of all, an entwined pair of lovers, perpetually frozen forever in an interlocking, almost desperate embrace. It reminds me of the Philip Larkin poem, ‘An Arundel Tomb’, where the hands on the effigies of a dead husband and wife gesture towards each other but never quite touch, in an ambiguous image of eternally frustrated, emotional and physical longing. The exhibition is poignant, touching and moving almost to the point of tears.

Leaving the exhibition, I’m confronted with the bustle of Alexanderplatz, full of people, who I now see as beautiful, diverse, complex, funny, intelligent anatomical structures. The terrorists who strive to destroy this beauty have no beauty in their souls. That, in part, may ultimately save us. To quote the last line of the Larkin poem, ‘What will remain of us is love’.

Hostels are useful for drying tents

Holi-Hotel Berlin. Described as a hostel, but absolutely fantastic!

Utilitarian East Berlin. I like it! Reminds me of Cavendish Square, in Swindon.

Berlin Cathedral

Errrr, name a gate beginning with 'B'. Think Hitler and rallies.

1930's Art-Deco Olympic Stadium

Come on England! Minute's silence for victims in Brussels.

Extraordinary. Is that what we are?

Ode on Vanity?

Skate Board Dude

Is this what love is? Is it both as much and as little as this?

Does it both join us and tear us apart?

Is that what will remain? I hope so.

I Amsterdam and Dual-Carriageways with Mythical Properties

I wake up early to the light and the sound of a mess of animal noises; bellowing cattle, sheep, the rasp of geese, the repetitive song of blackbirds developing a singular audio seed into expanding, Bach like variations, rippling ever outwards in complexity, the playful squabble of sparrows, who fight to gain purchase on the outer metal frame of the tent, depositing sticky globules of shit on the outer covering. It is a nice sound, but much too early! Off to Delft, which I arrive at in about 2 hours. Camp-site closed. Hmmm, that’s what comes of having a campsite book published 15 years ago. Hey Ho! Off to Amsterdam then. It was sort of inevitable!

After getting hopelessly lost on the Amsterdam ring-road, I think, Sod This! I know the city pretty well and I can get my bearings from the inside, so I head to the centre and manage to find a parking space on Rokin. Perfect. I scout around and find a cheap hotel. Sorted. They have an arrangement where someone picks up your car and delivers it back the following day. Dubiously I agree. Ahmed from Iraq turns up. Giving someone 31 Euros to steal your car sounds like a good idea, so that’s what I do.

Amsterdam at any time is just great. At night it is pure street theatre! The bars, the coffee shops (a few less than there used to be, but still 180, so I’m told), the fantastic architecture and the Red Light District, with prostitutes of all shapes and sizes in windows, framed by red lights, gesturing provocatively to Le Flaneur, in a mechanical, enticing, somehow compulsive and well-practiced theatrical performance. Everything is choreographed, from the clothing, to the glances, to the increased movement of hips and legs as someone becomes interested. In truth, the most attractive women are the ones on the street side of the glass who openly ogle with friends or as part of a couple. Their male companions pretend not to look really, although they do, furtively and with a pretence of not being that interested at all. It is all a performance, of course, onlooker and looker upon (and the observational roles become interchangeable, after a time) and it is not clear who is performing the most. I wander the streets, meandering from one bar to another and chatting with various people in each, constantly losing my bearings and then suddenly finding them again, although not always quite from the direction I was expecting, which is always a pleasant surprise! Cosmopolitan, sometimes raucous, easy going, friendly, picturesque, seedy, open and honest, pungent, humane, quirky, full of vitality and energy! I really like this country and this city!

After a couple of days on the north coast in the rain, at Sint Marteenszee (I realise I have to choose a type of rain to like, because if I don't like any types at all, I'm going to be in trouble), I pluck up courage. I’m both nervous and excited. I used to look at maps and atlases and wistfully imagine myself in those far off places. One of those places was the thin ribbon of land, that windswept road, the A7, battered by the elements, that runs from Den Helder, across the Ijsselmeer to Harlingen. It is a straight road that looks no thicker than a hair pulled tight and perhaps about to break. Just the sheer audacity of it! I used to imagine what it was made of: pontoons lapped by water, a great dyke, a bridge, a thin strip of concrete at sea level, barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass each other by and which, when the weather is rough, occasionally get washed off the road completely by the towering grey waves, never to be seen again, oak barrels tied to planks by thick ropes? It has mythical status in my mind. I can see the start of the road in the distance and the hairs on my arms and neck rise in anticipation. I don’t care if I’m washed away! Suddenly I’m on it, a perfectly straight road, a dual carriageway, with a raised dyke wall, seawards to the left and the vast Ijsselmeer to my right, just a stone’s throw away, in cool, hazy March sunshine. How fantastic is this, although a little tamer than my wildest imaginings! There is a coffee shop half way along, so I stop and drink strong Dutch coffee whilst looking at this inland sea, the point that all Dutch sailing ships from Amsterdam would have passed on their way to travel around the world. I press onwards, stopping at the other parking places along the way to savour the experience and then suddenly it is over; the inland sea gives way to flat, green fields. I have a strange sense of elation, like I have achieved something very special. A lifelong ambition has been realised? Well, yes it has and, as if on cue, the CD begins playing ‘Lucky Man’ by The Verve. I certainly am! With fire in my hand. I am expecting the world to have changed, but it still looks the same: large, wide grey skies (with many different shades of grey), the occasional church spire on the distant horizon, willows at the side of the road, with all their branches removed, looking like defiant forearms and fists resisting the sky. Nothing much has changed, but also something has changed. That’s dual-carriageways for you. Some have mythical and mystical properties.

A cold, wet North Sea beach

Naval Museum, Den Helder

Blimey, 20 people are supposed to sleep in here. The smell must be unbearable!

Dam Square, Amsterdam

Night-Life, of a sorts

My favourite part of the city, hidden down a narrow alley, the Begijnhof

An artist's shoes

Old fashioned automatic door closer: pulley, rope and a bag of sand. It is nice to be amazed at the obvious!

Groningen

Well, what can I say?

The first 1000 miles!

The Low, Watery, Windy Countries

I start my tour in Gent, an architectural gem in Belgium, and I’m the only tent on the campsite! The slow puncture I discovered in the UK is getting worse and I have to stop twice a day to inflate the offending tyre. After a reasonably warm night (it is crisp, clear and cold, with a layer of soft, wet frost coating the car in the early morning sun), I travel by foot along cycle paths to the centre, around 7 kilometres, visiting the majestic St Baafs Cathedral. Here is the famous triptych by Jan Van Eyck, The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, which I don’t visit this time around (It costs around 20 Euros and part is being restored, but the Cathedral itself is free). Instead I marvel at the souring, vaulted, Gothic beauty of the place, with it’s tall, angular knave and alter giving slender, sinewy praise to God, reaching almost reach beyond reach to Heaven and away from this low, watery place. The strenuous confidence is certainly inspiring, complimented by muscular Renaissance paintings and intricately carved effigies of long dead Bishops, with eyes looking longingly skywards.

Wandering around, looking unsuccessfully for a for a foot pump, I stumble across a bar called the ‘Dulle Griet’, which roughly translated means Crazy Lady and which sells over 350 different beers. Now that’s the sort of watery substance I like! It is an ancient, tall building, consisting of stone block floor and bar and wooden walls, with small, rough, round tables looking as they belong in a Van Gogh painting. I ask for the menu and then, thinking I will do this another way, ask for the beer with the craziest glass! What arrives is 1.5 litres of beer at 7.5%, in a tall, elegant glass with a bulbous base, supported in a wooden frame, looking much like a miniature yard of ale. That will do nicely. The barman lowers a small basket from the ceiling and I have to put in a shoe as a deposit.

In the evening I chat periodically to a very nice chap called Adam, from Sheffield. He is on a tour of Europe, partly on a tour of remembrance, as his Wife died of cancer not too long ago and he has been following at some points the route of a previous journey with her, surreptitiously depositing her ashes along the way. After leaving the tent and then returning later, I find he has left a very hot, hot water bottle inside the tent flap. The following morning we chat a bit more before I set of and I give him my blog details, so, on the off-chance that you are reading this, thanks Adam, Top Man! :-)

Right now I’m in Holland, at a very small, friendly, farm campsite which I have to myself, Camping SVR Victorie, between Meerkerk and Almeida. People are surprised that I am camping and the owner took a photograph which she said she’d post on their Facebook page, to show people that camping at this time of year is possible! It is the ‘Green Heart’ of Holland and is quietly agricultural, with cattle, sheep, horses, tractors and quad bikes with trailers. Yesterday I visited a place called Kinderdijk, which is a UNESCO world heritage site, following a road that sits on top of the dyke. It is a strange experience, driving on a road which is around 30 feet higher than the land and thatched cottages, with small, burnt brown oblong bricks and creamy white mortar and brightly coloured window shutters of green and yellow and red on the left and the river Lek, with its procession of large Dutch barges, on the right. Kinderdijk is an area of around 19 windmills and polders, in a flat landscape of wetlands and geese. Seeing the windmills, I stop in a small layby and walk over the fields to have a look and take pictures. Some are still private houses, with bicycles leaning against the brick walls and freshly dug vegetable gardens. After walking around for about an hour without seeing another person and trying hard (unsuccessfully) to avoid the copious wet, dark green cylinders of goose shit, I get back to the car and drive some 500 metres, to discover that there is actually a visitor centre, which I also visit, going inside a couple of the mills and watching a fascinating film on how the complex series of windmills, the first constructed in 1738, work in unison, pushing water uphill in 3 stages, before it is deposited into the river. Around 40% of Holland is below sea level, up to 6.75 metres at its lowest point. I like it here, amongst the small, neat, friendly towns, which seem isolated from the usual busy, cosmopolitan Holland, with its proud cities and very busy motorway networks seemingly a long way distant, but in fact they are less than 10 miles away in each direction. And yes, I have actually seen a few people wearing clogs! Really!

Ready for the off

Home Sweet Home

Ghent Town Hall

St Baaf's Cathedral

Canal-side

Ghent Graffiti

The Pub

Now that's what I call a proper beer!

Thanks for that. After the beer, I was wondering!

Camping SVR Victorie, near Almedia

Kinderdijk. Well, it is Holland, after all!

Slanted church tower in Gorinchem (pronounced Gorcum)

 

Another coldish evening, but lovely sunsets in the crisp, dry weather