Bardejov was a tale of two towns. The first was an initial impression, a beautiful square surrounded by renaissance buildings and watched over protectively by UNESCO. The blue skies had followed me from Košice and I squeezed up the church tower for a panoramic view.
The bright facades hid museums and restaurants but also fast food and an Irish pub, although it wasn’t obvious from first glance. Bardejov was as beautiful a town as I’ve seen in Europe, architecturally similar to Telč in the Czech Republic but quite unknown to western tourists and shielded by its remoteness.
The second Bardejov appeared in the early evening. The afternoon cold had driven me indoors and I closed the blinds in my pension and turned the radiators up. A desire for coffee forced me out some hours later and the whole town was covered in snow. Few people were about and the only sound I heard were church bells ringing the hour, muffled by thick snowy skies. I explored the town afresh, its beauty transformed. Even when my fingers could take no more and the silent freezing air had drained my camera battery, I found it tough to head back to my room. Twice in a day I’d been charmed by Bardejov and the next morning I photographed it yet again, enticed back to the main square by the chatter of locals on their way to mass
I dragged myself away eventually, and for such a pretty town it had a less attractive Soviet-era bus station. No UNESCO protection here but a true statement of the layers of history. The dim station café was home to a group of morning beer drinkers. I headed away, the bus skirting the outskirts of town as if it too, was reluctant to leave.
The second Bardejov appeared in the early evening. The afternoon cold had driven me indoors and I closed the blinds in my pension and turned the radiators up. A desire for coffee forced me out some hours later and the whole town was covered in snow. Few people were about and the only sound I heard were church bells ringing the hour, muffled by thick snowy skies. I explored the town afresh, its beauty transformed. Even when my fingers could take no more and the silent freezing air had drained my camera battery, I found it tough to head back to my room. Twice in a day I’d been charmed by Bardejov and the next morning I photographed it yet again, enticed back to the main square by the chatter of locals on their way to mass
I dragged myself away eventually, and for such a pretty town it had a less attractive Soviet-era bus station. No UNESCO protection here but a true statement of the layers of history. The dim station café was home to a group of morning beer drinkers. I headed away, the bus skirting the outskirts of town as if it too, was reluctant to leave.
