Spring has well and truly sprung

During and after the World War ll, while Russia and Poland were apparently allies, a paramilitary resistant group, known as AK, sprung up to try to combat the brutal Russian occupation of Poland.  They were former soldiers who now dispensed with their uniforms.  Fighting heroically they were insulted by the Russians who called them Accursed Soldiers. ’ (Żołnierze wyklęci)  The oppressors were still rounding them up long after the end of the war. The day, 1^st March, was subsequently chosen to commemorate the heroes as on this day, in 1951, one of their number, Łukasz Ciepliński (code name Pług), was executed.

As I read more I discover the formidable courage of so many Poles. There are many examples of their participation in battles not only at home but so often around the world, fighting either fascism or communism.  Their courage was evident since earliest times; successfully beating off the Teutonic hordes in the famous Battle of Grunewald; contributing hugely to the success of the Battle of Britain (and getting little thanks); and at home the Warsaw Uprising, with astonishing courage holding off the Nazis for a whole month, causing great damage in the process.

 I am trying to put myself in the position of a Polish citizen in the years after the war. I don’t know if people in the west could ever understand properly the kind of life people led under the Russians.  The Russians' aim was to destroy the country, and they came quite close. How the Polish resisted is a story in itself. 

Life was proscribed in every single detail. The Soviet system of authority was vertical; each boss answered to the boss above, like a ladder right up to the level of Stalin himself. This allowed no flexibility of any kind. Party bosses dictated every branch of existence, from work, social life, food supplies… anything you can think of. Should you show any independence of spirit at all, or the smallest sign of resistance, any inclination to question, you risked your livelihood and therefore your existence and that of your family. 

The domination of Poland was exceptionally cruel. Unlike in other communist run countries such as Hungary or Czechoslovakia, there was no possibility of escape to make a new start in another village or town. In Poland, moving to another village would find exactly the same system and information would be passed from Party member to Party member. News of your blackened name would be spread and your means of support taken away. To survive, to support your family, you had to be compromise your scruples, there was no choice.  

To keep the bosses happy, whether you worked in a factory, or as a teacher or anywhere, you were watched. From a young age you were fed opposing messages: the Russians demanded unquestioning obedience, no dissent of any description. You were a robot, as a citizen you were nothing; you and your family could be disposed of in a heartbeat.  Any idea of acting morally was irrelevant. 

But while your grandmother was teaching you to behave honourably, your parents said nothing, out of fear, and your teachers were telling you lies, as they had little choice.  The great Soviet Union. They dare not tell you any truth. Imagine what that would do to your head as you grew up.  What would that treatment to a country? And what strength they must have to come through that experience.

A day away to a picturesque town, Nowy Sącz, set in the south, amongst the Carpathian mountains. A trip to the local museum was full of carved, painted artefacts from the local churches.

Polish putti

In addition there was surprising show by Zbigniew Borowski, 1905-1966. I think his sculpture, finished in patinated plaster. is beautiful.

1957 Portrait of the painter Ewa Harsdorf

Borowski, nude

Busy municipal office corridor

Running around Poznan taking care of business when Stefan’s cousin, Anna, died, registering this that and the other, one of the offices looked like this. With a rather spiffy paint makeover this Communist era building had loads of atmosphere. Wasn’t that busy. 

One sadness of the country is the seeming inability to rescue what were once glorious buildings.  People die intestate, or go to prison or something, I don’t know what happens. There are countless examples of grand and not so grand but interesting and worthwhile structures just left to rot. It is terribly sad. This one in central Poznan was so beautiful; a true Miss Haversham of a building.

The 'brother' situation has meant we have had no help with the house at all. Apart from dotty Andrzej who would turn up for a pack of ciggies. Once they were smoked he was off, but he helped clearing snow. Looking after Henry, winter, short days, has left us pretty much where we were in the autumn. 

But now things have changed. Our faithful Ukrainian, Big Stef, is coming back very soon. He will bring a mate too, and not only that, we have a lady Ukrainian to make 3.  We told him we needed a lady to help us with Henry, cleaning, garden and all sorts. Behold, Halina arrived at 6.30 this morning! 

There exists a man who acts as a go-between, finding workers and bringing them to their new place or back again by car. Also known as traffickers. He is not reliable and not honest, but what can you do. We know about these people. BUT, he found her and she is here. And just in time. I needed help with Henry, he had not been out of bed for 3 days, he didn’t want to move. I won’t describe what I found but her help was a godsend. 

She has exceeded my expectations; I had NO IDEA who she would be. She is a nurse, as well as a worker who wants to get stuck in. In my dreams.... And she is a very loving person. Its only the first day but bodes well. Watch this space.  She has already helped with Henry, washing him all over most tenderly. 

Language: she understands Polish, and speaks Ukrainian of course, which is harder for me to understand; I could sort of manage if it were Russian. But between us will get there, I have no doubt. Unfortunately, for all Henrys’ linguistic skills he does not know any of the Slavic tongues. But he is happy. She massaged him his feet and all is well.

Our new family member, Halina 

He took to his bed over 3 weeks ago. He knew that if he did that, that would be it, but he wants it to be over. It will take as long as it takes. He is getting thinner and weaker, of course.  I can see the changes every day; as that wretch in the White House would say, sad.

Events of the winter

Life is quiet, though busy, but winter is pretty uneventful.  My London friends  seem to be gallivanting all over to concerts, theatre etc….. seems a long way off.   But on a recent visit, staying with Sandra in her 50’s? period flat, I was SO cold!  The winter in the UK is damp, as we know, but friends who always complained about the English winter now have my understanding. They just don’t know how to build houses there! 

We are very toasty in the house.  The winter here is profound. There is nothing green, but in the sun the landscape is beautiful. In the UK there is always some green, but here I can only imagine that when spring eventually arrives, the whole place will burst to life.  Looking forward to that very much. I love the snow but the icy is treacherous and scares me when walking.

Quince tree with feeders for birds

Winter mist, from the bedroom

Garden with well

Senior group at it. Lovely ladies.

Senior group

I had given it up. I couldn’t stand the playgroup stuff; though the ladies are clearly intelligent, and very welcoming, for some reason they think playing with plastic and wire for two hours is ok.  I had skipped some meetings but this time I was told they would be, wait for it, painting on glass!  I had to go. Who knows, maybe I could pick up a few tips.  I packed up my computer with the 5 min. video I had made, my book, a few examples and showed up. They immediately set the computer up in the hall where there was a large screen, and obediently watched the video, twice. Much applause and smiles, no questions.

Back upstairs they looked at the book and the examples I had brought. Again no questions.

Then we set to work. Each were given a wrapped sheet of plastic, straight from the shop with hanging clips and card, the whole business. Horrid brushes and tubes of the most disgusting glass paint (no solvent and spit didn’t work). Then we were given what is known as a Riss, that is a pattern or template. They were icons or flowers or some such. The two ladies in the pic had the same as each other; I had an icon. This was placed under the plastic and we were to paint on the plastic following the template. I just took the outlines as a guide then dispensed with the pattern very soon, but the ladies kept going, colouring in. I was so uncomfortable, I really did not know where to put myself.

I left as soon as I possibly could.

What is going on here? In the UK or the US the same ladies would be learning French or be members of a book/knitting/cookery club/group/open university or volunteering……..   still a lot to learn.

A death in the family

We have made the 5 hour (each way) trip to Poznan several times recently. One of Stefans many cousins, Anna, did not keep in touch with anyone much, but Stefan is good and we always visited when passing through. She was a heavy smoker and didn’t stop even though she latterly needed an oxygen tank. One day her former neighbor and good friend called us to tell us there had been an emergency and she was in hospital.  She lay in an induced coma for 6 weeks, then was revived and she lasted some 3 weeks more, and then she died.   Her organs had all failed. So we visited at each stage, and then we had to get the immaculately clean but smoky flat redecorated and all her stuff sorted and removed. There were tons of sheets, blankets, knickers, irons…..every cupboard jam packed.  She had her sick mothers stuff, and her dead brothers stuff, receipts from 1996, you name it, all in a one room flat.  Stefan organized the funeral and went with his sister last week. Just one night away. I had a cold, which we all have now, so got out of it.  But a lot to do!

We should go next week to continue, but I am not sure if it will happen.

The cat waits at her door, in the warm, and then pounces. 

Henry has been increasingly short of breath over the last 6/8 weeks; he is going down. His heart is giving out and he has some other stuff not working properly.  Now he is in bed with a cold, quite cheerful, but we all know what will happen.  I am beginning to send out warning noises to family. We had booked (reversible) a holiday in Lanzarote for 1 March. I cancelled it. Oh joy.

The First Winter

I have visited in the winter but had not experienced the daily changes through the seasons. It is quite different to feel the gradual loss of the sun's heat and for the cold to creep in, day by day. I love the weather here. There is such a lot of it!

Christmas over, now in that vacuum waiting for the NY celebrations and then we can get on and see what 2017 will bring. I am quite happy it will soon be over.

Stefan just now, as I write this blog, has had a very well meant telling off from my dad that was right on the button. For all my study of Polish with books etc, Stefan still talks to me in English (very bad English at that). And in no time we are not speaking Polish, but English. Henry had finally to speak out. He knows about learning languages and knows this sends me right back to square one, again, so he told us both this was no good.  Stefan has to forget his English except for talking to Henry, and has to help me!  Not very comfortable for me, but I have to learn, it has been long enough. I am so grateful for that lesson. Lets hope there will be great leaps forward.

The holiday was fine, but we lacked the usual, somewhat overwhelming, number of visitors. I personally don’t mind a bit, but it was hurtful for Stefan. There are deep rifts in the family that are painful and I feel sorry for him. He is a strong man and a positive one; he wouldn’t dwell on hurts, but they are there. Next year will be different.  I am reading one of Trollope’s Barchester novels.  Could be us! Human nature in all its glory.

Henry is short of breath and has other probs that need to be investigated. Whether his pacemaker is wearing out or what we don’t know, so to the doc tomorrow. We would like to get away for a few days over New Year but this will prevent us if he needs tests.

Stefan mounted a mirror to see who is coming.

Preparing the carp, which was fabulous. Stefan hadn't made it before, and I had ever eaten it before. What a delight.

This quite dreadful meal was served at an unexpected Christmas celebration for the Senior ladies club.  I haven't been back since; what with the Playschool activities, I can't take it.

At the restaurant for the Christmas dinner. Much singing.

From our bedroom. 

Final pretty picture

A family concern

Compared to Rob Tichener of The Archers, or to those scumbags the Underwoods, for that matter, this is hardly a life threatening situation. However. 

A couple of weeks after arriving here we discovered Stefans' brother and wife had been cheating us. His brother and his son, Stefan's nephew, had been employed by us for three or more years. Asked to leave our property, forthwith, they disappeared and together with the wife, who had been a daily visitor, have been hiding ever since.

For me, only child brought up in the anonymity of London with barely any family, well... my dream of ideal family life in the country has undergone a slight shock.  Stefan is considerably more hurt by this than I, of course, but he is wise and I am following him: put it away out of mind. Seems to work, but I am fascinated and wonder how long they can keep it up.

A week in Geneva livened things up. I did the grandma thing and helped with the family while my daughter-in-law was away. A strange kitchen and different family habits were all taken on board and the week went swimmingly. Its not actually Geneva, as they live right on the border, in France, and son Laurie commutes to the city. Their town is Ferney-Voltaire, where Voltaire had his chateau which is now a museum. It is a delightful area and I hope they will have many happy years in their new home. After eight years living amongst Bavarians with their unique Bavarian manners, the family deserves to be amongst people of like minds with healthy, welcoming attitudes to newcomers of all stripes.

Grischa getting dad ready for work

Grischa ready for school

Lauries birthday with Grischa and Alice and fabulous French pastries

Back in Stopnica the quinces have ripened and I am busy, busy trying out every recipe I can think of. Some things work, some don’t. I didn’t like the boring compote I made last year, but I have new recipes, the best so far being a yummy Nigel Slater cake.

Invited to join a Ladies Seniors group on a Tuesday afternoon I found a welcoming circle of ladies.  It is held in different rooms in Stopnica Castle, a beautifully restored building serving the community in diverse ways, not least doing splendidly for us. The first Tuesday I arrived late to find them sitting at a long table, as if for a wedding party, with cake and drinks and food, the lot. The vodka came around and the tea and the sausage, and I thought, I like this group. I’m going to come again.

These are my ladies. Back row at the ends are the Director and assistant. To my left are 2 cousins, Henya and Irena.

The following week they were in a different room, sat at a long table again, but this time they were folding paper.  No vodka, no tea, no cake. They were making paper flowers. I still don’t know what for, but I joined in.  It turns out the first meeting was to send off a staff member. The second  was back to normal, it seemed, with some sort of playgroup activity. Was this was how it was going to be?  Reading the schedule I was given I thought the following week would be a kind of photography workshop, maybe a step up from folding paper. It said something about being prepared. As usual I was in a rush doing too many things, so turned up late, not prepared, and there they were, around the table, but looking terribly smart. I could see there was no funeral, nor wedding for that matter, but they did have rather good stuff to eat, again, and vodka. It looked as if every one of them had been to the hairdressers and all looked very well washed and were now very jolly. We were to have our photographs taken.

She's a good photographer!

So there was I in normal get up, having rushed in from the kitchen or the fields or wherever, while they had just rushed in from the beauty parlour!  The local photographer was amazingly efficient and got very good results for us all.

I have to say I am having a ball. I have just come in from the yard, which is large, after an hour of heavy hoeing, clearing stones and weeds. I am not sure what we are going to plant, more fruit most likely, but the process of clearing the land to be ready, after so many years of neglect, is immensely pleasurable. Now my back has got used to it, the fresh air, exercise and general peace suits me down to the ground.

Concrete fences and their charms

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Forgive the inadequate editing of this blog. The pics have appeared before the text,which was not the idea.  I have yet to master the intricacies of Blogger .

Detail of the variety of painted and unpainted concrete and metal railings property known in these parts as 'Blenheim Palace' in the background.

Part of our new wall, nearly finished, adjoining our neighbours' gates to the left: 'Buckingham Palace'. What were they thinking?

Our own gates with as yet unpaved drive

Old, maybe abandoned, property opposite Blenheim Palace. But they have a letter box.

Another immediate neighbour, 'Next Door', and part of their fence. Part of our property in the background.

'Blenheim Palace', one of our new neighbours with incomplete boundary wall.

Looking at the houses in this region tells me something about both the history of Poland and its economics. So many of the houses appear to be new builds, and many more have been and are being refurbished. Great care is taken these days defining property boundaries with a variety of fence and gate styles. These range from painted cast concrete fences, one section after another around the whole property, to a variety of communist era metal fences, quite pretty, which tend to be attached to older houses. Our own gate is from that period, and I am keeping it. But here we are bounteously surrounded by painted concrete that Henry says are made of pastry.  

'Next Door' with pastry fence and our yellow house and 'Buckingham Palace' in background

From our upstairs terrace looking over the as yet unpaved drive, the unfinished well and my new garage. In the background is 'Blenheim Palace'.

Again from upstairs looking over the land between 'Blenheim' and 'Next Door'. This has been bought and we will have yet another palace and yet new neighbours.  In the distance is the new boundary wall for 'Blenheim'. We tried green for our side of the concrete but I am not sure. Plants will soon cover it.

As for the economics: there are so many really rather extraordinary properties built in the last 10-20 years that peak my curiosity. Before, Polish migrant workers could not return because of war and then because of communist rule, but now Poles can not only return home but they have good money to invest in their palaces in which, presumably, they will retire. 

A little house in our town. This is not one of the palaces built for retirement.

I can’t complain about all the cooking. For one thing, I love to eat. And eat well.  Here we have the freshest ingredients that I can’t let go to waste.  Plus having started on the bread journey I am determined to work at until I have got it. Following a few disasters I decided to go back to basics. It is all about taste, and though former loaves looked pretty they didn’t taste of much at all. Now I am working with starter dough and learning all I can about natural fermentation and how this effects taste, in a big way!  Never mind all the fancy recipes with poppy seed and what have you, right now I am trying to get a really good basic bread, (every time!) that is fluffy and tastes great.  So, today’s lunch was borscht with bread. I thought this loaf was far too dense, so judged it a failure BUT, it tasted great.  That same evening family dropped in and scoffed the lot, so can’t have been so bad.

The borscht was made with our own beetroot, of which we have tons. And they are so sweet!  Not like the Sainsbury’s crap.

I was struck when in San Francisco by the West Coast attitude to Europe, viz. their architecture, Hey, we are 6000 miles from you guys… (or from civilization, as I thought of it) so who’s to say its wrong to, say, top an Egyptian column with a Corinthian capital? We think it looks good, so it’s staying. After my first shock and prudish horror I could appreciate their view. Similarly with baking, or with anything else, they do it their way and it can be good. Not that a mix of Corinthian and Egyptian is the best idea anyone had. However San Francsico bakers did come up with the original sour dough bread, which is a unique, rather strong taste. I didn’t actually like it that much but using starter dough definitely adds flavor and interest.

So, where does that leave me? I am combining US and French methods and attempting to get the best from each of them.

A gate in the wall of the Stopnica monastery

Still life with exercise machine. As if we dont have enough, we were given these beautiful pumkins. Quince tree in background

Twenty-six years ago this month, my son Tom died of leukemia.  He was 18. I have a friend who’s son, Ben, was friends with Tom. Every single year on the day, 16^th  September, Liz emails or sends me a text. For 26 years!  Sometimes I had forgotten. Then I felt bad and had to work it out with myself, to forgive myself. Sounds daft.  As I write this it seems so long ago that I had to do the sums again.

I was right.  My father at 97 is in the last months of his life. Then it will be my turn to be the oldie.

The Trip

We did it; 2 weeks of travel from Poland to Vienna to Slovenia to Italy to Geneva and finally, finally, home.  Henry spent the most time in the car, only emerging to eat and to go to bed. A different bed almost every night. Poor old boy got pretty sick of that but was gallant and not once complained. He couldn’t walk, could see precious little but could see the landscape, which he loved. He wanted to make the trip (and probably regretted it) but never let on.  The main thing was seeing Vienna once again. With most things he doesn’t know what he wants, and this was no exception. ‘No, I don’t want to go to Vienna….’   then very glad that we did.  It has been decades since he was there. 

Not all the memories were bad, happily. But he did tell his great granddaughter when we saw her in Geneva how he was thrown out after 3 years of medical school and firmly believed his world had come to an end. But he survived that and much else. Quite a good lesson for a 15 year-old who is convinced there is nothing as important in her life as facing exams.

We went for Henry to see one last time, and for the food and drink. On the last we were not disappointed  as Italian coffee for some reason is like no other, and the wine divine. But the pasta of which he and I have fond memories, was very poor.  My Australian cousin and his wife are always posting fabulous pics of food they eat on their many trips to Europe, but they eat at the best places, fearfully expensive, and the food is first class.  We are too mean in our family to do that, and still think we can do it on the cheap.

Back home and I am feeling overwhelmed. How can we get such a large plot and the house under control in one lifetime?  We seem to have mountains of STUFF. 

Being summer (as I write) most effort is dedicated to the garden, which is producing faster than I can cook and freeze! Let alone bottle. So who said I would be bored?

The Dolomites

Yet another pasta

In Vienna with my cousin. She is 80, can you believe?

Lake Garda, Italy

An Italian fountain, somewhere!

Off to Italy

Henry, former travel guide who once visited Venice 14 times in one year, reckons we are dicing with the weather if we delay, so we are off on Tuesday.

He doesn’t see the need for a wheelchair, though we thought it a good idea. He doesn’t want to see anything, he says, happy to sit in cafes with a glass of something and soak up the atmosphere. Sounds ok to me.

But he is weak which means taking it very slow.

Apart from his stint as a tour guide in the country, his childhood summers there gave him the language and the taste for the country.  As a child we took off for holidays in the car driving across endless France, finally reaching either Austria and the mountains or Italy and the Med. My parents were used to low planning and going where they felt like. My mother did all the driving; even non-stop one time when Henry was struck by  a recurring complaint, Rotlauf. It is a the fierce infection. The name means redrun, which says it all: beginning in the lower leg it moves up the body to finally kill, once it reaches the heart. His mother had it, before penicillin. She had to lie quiet in a darkroom for days, he says.   On this occasion mother drove from Austria straight to London for massive doses of antibiotic. Father in the back, quietly terrified.  It recurred recently; we had to go to Emergency and get the penicillin. It seems to be working, but it laid him a bit low.  It was fairly early on a Sunday and the place was deserted. Not like St Georges, (London) which never sleeps.

The 'guest house' got well and truly used with the party of 5: son, Laurie and family came for a week. It was really good.... they were exhausted from all the changes in their lives, so were happy to chill. It made the world of difference for them to have the house and spread. It is very comfortable and I am happy to be able to offer it as a sort of free hotel to friends and family.

Finally son cut off his pony tail which was not his best feature, and got a Polish haircut! 

All the men

Grandson Grisha and his cousin Vanya exploring the garden.

The cat feeling at home

Family dinner, pre haircut. Note Henry's masks on the wall,