September 2005: Notes to a Ukrainian journey |  print |
Friday
Borispol Airport surprisingly welcoming in marked contrast to dire tales of motionless queues in various guidebooks. A large bear called Boris hustled us for a taxi – his persistence paid off and we were handed over to his alter ego, a small nervous ferret of a man who whisked us at breakneck speed into the City of Kiev. After crossing the Dnieper River – so broad it is no wonder the Tsars kept battle fleets on it – we followed it south, passing a line of woods that marks the edge of the old hillside citadel. We turned up the hill through Podmil, a district of brightly coloured 18th and early 19th century houses, once the homes of artists and artisans. The road became cobbled – Andreyevsky Ulitsa – and our hotel of the same name was tucked in on the right, half way up. It appeared to constitute one side of a four-sided courtyard of a 5-storied town house. Whether it had seen better times before I don't know but I certainly hope it sees them before too long. A stressed middle-aged lady checked us in.
Along side Andreyevsky Ulitsa as it winds up the hill are little stalls, selling an eclectic range of products –
peasant costumes, medals, combs, paintings and endless varieties of poorly painted Russian dolls. At the top stands the 18th century church of St Andrew (1762), a baroque extravaganza decked out in green and orthodox gold (Designed by the Italian architect Rastrelli who also designed the Winter Palace and Tsarskoe Selo.). A wedding had just finished and the bride – very pretty – and groom – nonchalantly smoking – strode down the cobbled street.Beyond the church, the road straightens out and leads towards the city centre. We passed the magnificent Church of St Sofia with its large stand-alone bell tower. Over one's shoulder, to the left, is St Michael's Monastery, destroyed by Stalin in 1937 and rebuilt in 2001 in a blaze of gold and blue domes. In the late afternoon sun, its cupolas burned with the intensity of altar candles. We stopped by the Golden Gate, the only remaining edifice in Kiev to date from before the Mongol invasion of 1225 (Kiev fell in 1240). Its structure reveals how the defenders manned the walls – three storeys high with a vigil way on the upper storey. Below it, expanding outwards towards the city, are two further floors for troops, stores and presumably animals. A wooden portcullis provides the main defence to the gate, although there are signs of a rampart, ditch and drawbridge. Dinner at a cellar restaurant "Za Dvoma Zaitzyami" on Andeyevsky Ulitsa.
Saturday
Dined at the Terrace Restaurant at the Vozdvyzhensky Hotel; a sweeping view over the city to the south, livened up by an impromptu firework display.
Sunday
Spent the morning preparing for the train journey south. Taxi to Central station, hired a helpful porter (the standard Ukrainian tariff of 8 Hrvs inexplicably rose to 50 Hrvs) and then boarded the Kiev-Sevastopol express. Our carriage was presided over by a jolly girl called Leona, a member of a team of burly women who were in charge of the train. Their uniform of grey skirt, white blouse and assorted badges of rank on their epaulettes (several appeared to be generals) was not becoming. The compartments consisted of two banquettes covered in Ukrainian chintz, cream curtains draped across a filthy window and a red damask cloth covering a small table. Before we boarded, I noticed the Moscow Express roll in on the next platform. The travellers look sick and shattered – was this an omen?
Stray thoughts:
Flat, featureless landscape, occasionally undulating. Strips of marrows and pumpkins along the edge of village stations. Village gardens all boast apple tress drooping under the weight of their red-blushed fruit.
The plumbing on the train was highly complex, not unlike that of a Victorian bathroom in an English country house. Tourists have the further challenge of coping with instructions written in Cyrillic. At the end of the corridor, a dull silver samovar dispenses hot water for tea.
Life was peaceful until J befriended Andrei and Marina who arrived at the compartment with a bottle of Crimean cognac. Granny Olga from the next compartment heard the party and joined us. One and a half bottles later, the story was thus. Andrei and Marina were childhood sweethearts and were doing a runner to the Crimea. Andrei had left a wife and 14-year-old daughter behind, Marina a small baby, 'Tomas', which explained her constant reversion to tears. Granny Olga appeared unmoved by their story, hovering up any food in sight and quaffing whatever liquid refreshment was on offer. At one point we stopped for 20 minutes at a large station in the middle of nowhere – the entire platform was taken up by stallholders selling cuddly toys of all shapes, sizes and colours. Surrealistic. Tucked away to one side was a little cluster of stalls selling smoked fish, none of which I recognised. They were displayed, petrified, in the upright position as if something terrible had happened to them in the river as they went about their daily lives. I bought some fat crayfish for 2 Hrvs each and on return to the train offered one to Granny Olga, who devoured it in its entirety.
It proved impossible to end the party and it was only when the three visitors were momentarily out of our compartment, we quickly made the beds and adopted the prone position. Thankfully, on their return, this had the desired effect and it was time for sleep.
Monday
The train arrived in Sevastopol on time – 0610 hrs. It had been what I can only describe as a punishing night. In the next door compartment, Granny Olga's stentorian snoring had been punctuated by noisy nightmares, which seemed to involve shouting matches with a phantasmagorical taxi-driver. The compartment was stuffy and the fittings rattled incessantly. There were moments when I thought the train had:
- jumped the track
- collided with an express train coming from the opposite direction
- hit the buffers in a station.
Granny Olga, looking as fresh as a newly painted Russian doll, informed us this was journey's end and waddled off towards the town. It took a while to convince a taxi driver to take us the Hotel Ukraine. I think he felt that we should walk – it was a mere 2 kilometres uphill.
First stop was the Greek seaside colony of Chernosessus, about 3 kilometres North West of Sevastopol. Founded in 4th century, it has the unfortunate distinction of being flattened by both the Mongols and Catherine the Great but miraculously, some of the buildings have partially survived. For example the 6th century basilica although only the west wall remains standing and some columns, which originally supported the aisles, have been re-erected. I should mention that the Romans were also here and the first Slavic Prince, Volodymur, later raised to the Sainthood, was baptised a Christian here. Knee-deep in sunbathers and family picnickers, Chernosessus did not exude history.We returned to the town centre, a beautifully preserved 18th and 19th century city with fine avenues, shady parks, and an impressive opera house and theatre. It must be one of the best-kept secrets of the former Soviet Union. Lunch at a restaurant overlooking Artillery Bay was an unnerving experience due to an enormous Black sea cruise liner moored 10 yards from our table preparing to put to sea.
After lunch, we took the ferry to the North shore – it is the only way to get a feel of the magnificent natural harbour, which was the Tsar's pride and joy until the fatal Allied blockade during the Crimean War. It is a defensive anchorage with only one entrance, making it a trap as well as a refuge. On the North shore, old ladies sat in the shade, selling seashells, red grapes and pumpkin seeds. A young man had spread a jointed porcine carcass on the bonnet of his Lada. The lack of consumer interest suggested that either his prices were too high or the pig was too old. On the shoreline the ubiquitous Ukrainian sunbathers were toasting, roasting or cooling down in the clear sea.
After re-crossing the harbour on the next ferry, walked back along the Bolshaya Morskaya Boulevard, the elegant and up-and-coming thoroughfare that dissects the old city. Dinner at Kreschatik Restaurant.
Tuesday
Vladimir the taxi driver was waiting for us promptly at 9 a.m. and we set off for Inkerman. Another cloudless day with a gentle breeze from the sea. Before we left, Vladimir rummaged around in the boot of his car and produced an aerial photograph of Sevastopol in 1944 – "my father, pilot, took this in war". It was one of those familiar 2 WW photographs of gutted buildings standing in their rubble-filled shells.
We drove out of the city towards Balaclava, then turned north. Vladimir stopped the car and led us down a grassy track, over a small bridge that crossed a still river with tree-lined banks, until we came to a large white obelisk. This it turned out was the memorial to the minor Russian victory at Inkerman on 5 August 1855, not the decisive Allied victory of 10 November 1854. We continued by car to the bridge of Inkerman and then headed south to Balaclava Bay.
The little port is set in a beautiful natural harbour surrounded by steep, bare hills. It has a feel of the south of France 50 years ago. Vladimir guided us along a track, under the old Genoese fortress, until we reached a little promontory overlooking the entrance to the harbour. The sea was blue, the cliffs cascaded down in hazy outlines, small boats chugged in and out. The town itself is only on one side of the bay – opposite is a hollowed-out mountain, once the site of a secret submarine repair depot.
After a swim off the rocks at the western entrance, we took a boat trip along the canals inside the mountain, where the subs used to moor out of site of the NATO satellites. It had the atmospherics of a James Bond film set. Then, after a short stroll along the quayside – fishing boats, souvenir stalls – we met up with Vladimir again and headed back north, to the memorial of 7 May 1944 on the Suban Heights. This commemorates the successful assault by two Russian armies against the entrenched Germans. A dramatic panorama shows the battle inside the round museum. From the terrace, there is a fine view of the countryside from Balaclava in the south to Inkerman in the north (the city of Sevastopol is behind one to the west). To the front, in the east, is Tennyson's 'valley of death' – in reality, its sides are slopes rather than hills or escarpments. The battlefield of Inkerman borders that of Balaclava – though today it is forested and thus difficult to walk over.
On the way back we stopped at the new British memorial which was erected in 2004 to mark the 150th anniversary of the Crimean War. Already the gold lettering has deteriorated – probably picked off.
Victor told us he was a sailor – an engineer – who, as sailors are meant to, had sailed the seven seas. London, USA, Australia, New Zealand, even the Congo. "Terrible place. Malaria. We drink Gordon's Gin and tonic for one whole year. No vodka." The experience had left him unsettled.
Back in Sevastopol. A walk up the hill to the Panorama Building of 1905. This houses a spectacular 360-degree scene of the siege of the city (depicting events at and view from the Malakhov Mound) in 1854-1855 and is a sensational tromp d'oeuil. Brilliantly recreated after WW2 when the original was irreparably damaged by the Germans as the hapless city was besieged once again.
Outside the museum, photographers offered us the chance to dress up as Russian sailors complete with WW2 tommy gun.Dinner at Pierrot on Panorama Street. Al fresco in the courtyard, tree trunks painted garish colours. Watched throughout by two rabbits in their hutches.
Wednesday
Left Sevastopol early. Vladimir took us up the old road out of the city that follows the course of a narrow, winding valley. At the top, one rejoins the Sapun Ridge. Herd of white goats straddling the road. Deep-pile green carpets of vineyards on either side. Past turn-off to Balaclava, a lone white obelisk on left – it is the memorial to the Sardinian troops who fought with the British and French at Crimea. Sign post to Yalta.
Landscape changed from open valleys to steep limestone gorges covered with oak and pine. Willows marked the tortuous track of the river far below. After ten miles, back into a broad valley – mostly uncultivated with meadows choked with weeds – and then onto what Vladimir described as the 'Serpentine Road'. Twisting up through beech woods, the road abruptly reached the crest and 1,000 metres below lay the vast expanse of the Black Sea. We stop by the little Church of the Resurrection, built on a platform jutting out over a cliff above Foros village. It was commissioned by a grateful father – Baron Kuznetsov – to commemorate his daughter's narrow escape from death when her horse bolted and came to a stop on the very edge of the cliff. Sadly what should have been a recent restoration of this pretty 1892 church turned out to be a renovation and good as new it duly is.
The road then wound down the precipitous hillside to the coast where it became a riviera cornice. Everywhere was suddenly like an Italianate garden, cypresses, rocks and waterfalls. At Kastropol, a solitary onion seller at the roadside – big, shiny, red onions. On the landward side of the road, a steep limestone escarpment rose majestically into the heavens.
We stop at Alupka Palace, former home of Count Vorontsov, Imperial Governor of the Crimea. It is a mixture of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton and a Victorian Scottish pile – Churchill stayed there during the Yalta Conference. What saves the house from architectural oblivion is its location – perched above the Black Sea on a small promontory, the Palace has wonderful tropical gardens, which gradually descend into the sea.
Back on the road to Yalta, Vladimir pulled up by a row of tented stalls stuffed with trinkets – his reason? A view of The Swallow's Nest, a 19th century folly built by a German Baron for his mistress. Must be one of the most over photographed view in the Crimea. The house is not that impressive although I am told later that it should be seen from the sea. We reached Yalta, "City of Health and Tourism", just after midday. The Hotel Massandra was in a quiet and leafy cul-de-sac, screened by a tall row of pines from its mighty neighbour, The Yalta, which boasts 2,000 rooms and every sort of entertainment.Down to The Yalta's beach – polished pebbles and torsos, some magnificent beer-bellies and a pesky microlite aircraft with pontoons attached to it. To get to this spot involved another James Bond film set experience – lift shafts dug into cliffs, tunnels galore and sentry posts of stout ladies manning barriers to relieve one of ones small change. Russians, Ukrainians seem to love the beach – it must be a reaction to all those cold winters. Lenin declared this place as a 'home for the recuperation of the working classes', hence the proliferation of sanatoria. Touchingly his statue in the town centre remains intact and undefiled.
Strolled down to the harbour in the early evening. Dusk falls slowly here like a series of veils. The Promenade is impressively broad, edged with neat, tree-lined gardens. The favourite tourist occupation seems to be photographed either as a Hells Angel seated on a Harley Davidson or as Catherine The Great/Potemkin seated on a velvet chair surrounded by Adams-family candelabra. The ferries plied their way to and from the quayside, then the microlites landed like geese at twilight and the air became still and quiet.
We wandered slowly back, past a Russian singer captivating a crowd with a mournful love song – this took place under the statue of Lenin. Dinner at La Mer – excellent food, London prices. Entertained by stylish Ukrainian quartet, piano, drums, two guitars and male vocal who sang perfect Parisian love songs. Walking back in the dark, the mood was Mediterranean – a half moon lighting up a patch of sea with tiny silver slivers of shimmering luminescence, cicadas chirping in the cypress trees, a whiff of lavender in the cool night air.
Thursday
Set off in search of Chekov's house, using Yalta's bus system. Peremptorily told to alight from Bus No.1 – "you need Bus No.8". In the end, it was quicker to walk up the hill where we found the villa at the top. Miraculously it has survived the ravages of war and cultural dictats of communism, mainly because old mother Chekov lived till 93 and sister Maria even older. As long as they were alive, Stalin did not dare touch the dacha.
Set in a triangular shaped garden – roses, bamboo and a birch tree Chekov planted to remind himself of his real home in Russia – the dacha is modest, consisting of four smallish rooms on each of its three floors. Simply furnished, it is an intimate memorial to this great man of letters, prose and theatre. Riddled by consumption, Chekov spent the last five years of his life here, penning the 'Cherry Orchard' and short stories, including the enduringly popular 'The Lady and the Little Dog.' Olga Knipper, his actress wife, brought the entire Moscow Theatre Company to Yalta in 1900 to celebrate his plays. Four years later, he died aged 44.
The Dacha houses a marvellous exhibition of photographs and theatrical memorabilia – including shots of A.C. with Tolstoy, Gorky; Olga in the 'Three Sisters', 'Uncle Vanya, 'The Seagull' and 'The Cherry Orchard'.
From Chekov's little dacha to the grand palace of Livadia, a turn of the century Italianate mansion built for Tsar Nicholas II. Architecturally it is bland, built of white stone with scant external decoration but as with all the great houses of the Crimea, it redeems itself by virtue of its location, situated high up on the hillside overlooking the Black Sea, its gardens linking the house to the sea over a 500 foot graduated drop.
Livadia was the setting for the Yalta Conference in February 1945. It is ironic that this seaside holiday home of the last Tsar was the scene of the greatest diplomatic triumph of the Russian Communist party. The conference table is still there as are the three chairs sat in by Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill. Photos on the walls show an ailing US President, an oddly distracted Churchill without his usual penetrating gaze and an alert Stalin with an enigmatic smile.
One floor up, one suddenly finds oneself in the pre-1WW life of the Russian Royal family. Pictures of the girls – Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia – and the young Tsarevitch, either altogether or individually with their parents. The Tsar's study, the Tsarina's family room, the library, the Music room, the School Room – all on a modest scale like any other well-to-do family of 7. There is something terrible and pathetic in matching these youthful faces with the events at Ekaterinaberg a few years later.
Livadia's gardens:
- A cloistered Italian quadrangular garden of roses
- A tiny Moorish garden set in a 'well' with a fountain and an Arabic inscription.
- The estate landscaped garden – cedars, cypresses, firs, oleanders.
A visit to the Yalta Hotel in the evening. It lies like a great liner with 2,000 passengers on board, washed ashore by the currents of capitalism. The entrance resembles Terminal 4 at Heathrow plus slot machines and a cocktail bar. No less than 7 restaurants await one inside. We decided on a drink in a lemon-grove bar, complete with post-modern fountain, canned music, and rude water spouts cascading from a steel contraption lit by orange lamps.
Friday
To Massandra high up in the hills to the east of the town. Started by a Vorontsov, finished by Tsar Alexander III, lived in by Stalin, this tasteless 19th century copy of a French Chateau is Russia's Balmoral. The interior has white stuccoed ceilings, wood panelling and parquet floors. A mediocre collection of old paintings, none of merit. Once again as in all the Crimean Palaces, it is all about position and Massandra is no exception, having a glorious view to the West over Yalta Bay. The gardens have been well restored with lots of roses and properly clipped yew hedges. Twin cedars stand about 50 yards from the house, marking the boundary of the formal garden. Beyond are fields of lavender.A Crim tartar called Alisha drove us at breakneck speed to Sinferopol. The journey was a blur with smudged glimpses of honey, onion and nut sellers by the roadside. The city lies in a plain and judging by the pretty 18th century facades of the houses, it must have been founded by Catherine The Great. The station is grandiose, a mixture of neo-classical, Italianate and triumphal. Incredibly busy with hundreds of people shuffling back and forth. Babouskas selling bunches of lavender, spivs touting taxi rides to Yalta.
Rather than Platform 3 as advertised, our train The Tabriz Express left from Pootz 5. We just caught it in time. We appear to have bought two second-class compartments in their entirety and I shout "Niet, Niet" at all the freeloaders who attempt to enter my compartment.
Saturday
A better night than the Kiev-Sevastopol experience – life on the top bunk cushioned some of the concussion from the gaps in the track but still there must have been at least half a dozen cacophonic jolts during the night as we shuddered to a stop at stations en route to Odessa.
Arriving at Odessa at five to six in the morning had few charms. However it gave me the chance to inspect a sample of the city's inhabitants at the station cafe – baboushkas, harlots and drunks! By 7, we were able to check into the Passage Hotel, billed as 'once Odessa's finest hotel'. Vast parquet-floored corridors, high ceilings. The neo-Renaissance building forms three sides of a covered arcade that groans under the weight of stucco, statues and balustrades. My room was decorated in pebble-dash wallpaper, two Soviet-style armchairs. The front desk had a sign announcing "We are sorry but there is no hot water". Fortunately my room had an immersion heater which delivered a supply of scalding hot water; unfortunately it did not work with the cold water system, so it was a question of freeze or fry.Odessa was founded by Catherine the Great in 1789 and is built on a grid of avenues lined with plane, sycamore and chestnut trees. It has an almost Parisian atmosphere, particularly along the cobbled pedestrian street of Devibasovskaya where cafes occupy every corner. Walked to the Opera House circa 1890 – nothing was on as was also the case with the Ukrainian Philharmonic off Rishelyevskaya – only "Jazz sevodnya." Behind the Opera is Chekov's house (1889) and next door, Tchaikovsky's rooms (1893). From the Opera House it was a short walk down the chestnut avenue of Primorsky to the famous Potemkin steps. Statue of the Duc de Richelieu (the governor from 1803 to 1814) at the top of steps.
On to Pushkin's house where he behaved very badly in 1823, not only having an affair with the governor's wife but with a second lady as well. The museum is run by three old ladies who sole purpose seems to be to prevent one from taking photographs. It was like grandmother's footsteps – every time I tuned around, one of the old ladies was two foot behind me, still as a piece of furniture. Pushkin seems to have spent most of his time in Odessa drawing charactitures of his friends and crossing out verses. However he did start on Eugene Onegin here which, given his frantic love life, must have been some achievement.
Back towards the old port, past the old residence of the Governor at the NE end of Promovsky – in the process of careful restoration. From this direction, one can see the palaces and town houses of the old merchants, all with ornate 18th and 19th century facades. Called in at the Londonskaya hotel for a drink, former guests include R.L. Stevenson and Isadora Duncan. A jazz festival gets underway in front of the Opera House. The neighbourhood literally starts to tremble as the Bass guitars go off the Richter scale. Most of Odessa's police force has turned out. Baboushkas have all packed up their displays of pumpkin seeds and fled to quieter alleyways.Back to the Passage Hotel along Devibasovskaya. The monkeys who had been wrapped round tourists all day posing for photographs, now asleep on their owner's shoulders.
Sunday
Beautiful autumn morning. Back down the Potemkin Steps. Pause at bottom to remember the 2,000 strikers who were cold-bloodedly gunned down by Tsarist troops in 1905. To the Morsky Voksal where matins is being celebrated in a little modern church at the end of the pier. A young priest in gold robes with fine chanting voice. Congregation all women. We board the good ship "Sevastopol" which will take us to Arcadia. Moored alongside us is the Yalta-bound catamaran which has been unable to sail since May due to the high price of fuel. The stone mole hosts hundreds of cormorants, all facing into the sun. We never got to Acadia since the 'Sevastopol' cruised around on a elliptical course and disembarked us where we had started. To Privoze market, a huge, bustling hectare of commercial life. Fish, vegetables, meat, cheese, honey, seeds, clothes, fancy goods. Country people with red, weather-beaten faces have brought their products to town.. Images:Three wars visited Odessa in the 20th century. Heavily bombed by the Germans in WW1, it was fought over by competing factions in the Russian revolution (General Denikiv's White Russians held on to the bitter end). Seventeen years later Odessa once again found itself in the front line, this time against Marshal Antonescu's Romanian divisions. It held out for 73 days before surrendering.
Despite all these upheavals, much of Governor Richelieu's city has survived intact. Dinner at the Steakhouse. Outside a charcoal cloud smudges a full moon as it lazily crosses the night sky. Leaves propelled by a brisk breeze hurry across the cobbles. A man crosses the road – blue cap, blue jacket; he has no legs below his knees and shuffles slipper-like with the help of a small stick. Chestnut leaves float down on him.Walking back to the Passage, four young people canter by on horses and disappear into the night.
Monday
To the station where we joined the Black Harbour Odessa-Kiev Express, tastefully painted in blue-tit blue with a sailing ship and seabird motif. Inside the train was a revelation – hanging baskets in the corridors with plastic flowers, stewardesses dressed in Soviet air force style uniforms, TV in the compartments, white linen table clothes with a posy of more plastic flowers, two real glasses with paper napkins and an art-deco oval mirror.
Tuesday
I wake early and try my luck in the restaurant car. It is draped in sleeping bodies. The glasses hanging upside down over the bar gently knock together, making an unusual wind chime. In the half-light of dawn, the pumpkins glow like Chinese lanterns on the dark earth patches outside the villages. Mists rise over the etangs. The tops of the birch tress burnished gold by the autumn sun; as it rises, they mutate to silver. For me the Ukraine is now known rather than unknown but she has many more secrets to reveal. We have not been in Europe but neither have we been in Asia. I sense the Steppe warriors are never that far away – Cossacks, Crim tartars. In the cities, there is a Western veneer imported from Austria and Poland – and 18th and 19th century Russia – but the soul of this country is Slav, fatalistic with a tendency to excess. Therein lies its charm.