Catching the bus from Dilijan to Vanadzor

I bought my ticket and sat outside the small bus station in Dilijan. This pretty Armenian spa town quietly markets itself as Little Switzerland & is perched high in the green hills, far away from the dusty earthquake-battered capital, Yerevan. It was the final bus of the day and the sun was dipping into the horizon. It was also twenty minutes late and the driver, in a bid to recover time, accelerated past the terminal. I stood up, flapping my arms around. Two staff from the bus station came out, also flapping their arms & then disappeared back into the station. The bus turned a corner and left town. If I didn’t get to Vanadzor, I couldn’t get to Tbilisi in Georgia. If I couldn’t get to Tbilisi, I couldn’t get home to London. I was travel-stained & tired. So, I did what I always do in situations of utter hopelessness. I kicked my rucksack.

Concrete Beauty

But then the two bus station employees reappeared & ushered me into a mud-splattered minivan. We raced off in pursuit, running red lights and leaning on the horn to scatter the traffic.  Luckily our target was an old American school bus and we glimpsed its taillights a mile out of town, crawling up an incline in first gear. The minivan shunted past and drew to an abrupt stop in front of the startled driver. There followed a further series of arm signals until the bus door hissed open and I climbed the steps waving my ticket and pointing back to the town trying to explain the situation in the absence of shared language.

 

After this unlikely start, the bus inched up a narrow ridge riding above the beautiful villages belonging to the Molokans. Rejecting orthodoxy, the Molokans are an ultra-conservative group who face away from the modern world and live in steep green valley settlements like Fioletovo.

The bus crunched through the narrow passes with the valley spread out below; patterned by hayricks and smoking chimneys & populated by men on horseback and women in black headscarves. Lilac dusk dropped across the valley and as the light diminished and the senses readjusted, the tang of woodsmoke drifted into the bus and I slept the final miles into Vanadzor. This is how I will always remember Armenia; a beautiful journey made possible by a spontaneous act of kindness.

Lake Ohrid, Macedonia

I took a stroll on my first morning around the rim of Lake Ohrid, photographing the sun as it filtered through the reeds. A local fisherman, fluent in English and pushy in business, tried to sell me a 50 euro boat ride to Albania. I thanked him and kept walking.

Around the headland the path dipped to the rocks below and a controlled stumble brought into view a half-moon of sharp white stones; a hidden beach! I came back each morning, slowly building a tan.

Ohrid’s beauty is characterized by a single church; St. John Kaneo; set high above the lakefront. The spare beauty of this 13th century church & the power of its position have made the site famous across the Balkans. I walked this way just after dawn, in the heat of the day and then in twilight, just to see the church and lake in different lights.

I bumped into the Ohrid fisherman again. “Albania, 40 euros” he said. I spread my arms in a “why would I wish to leave here” gesture. “No problem” he smiled and I brushed past.

Ohrid was a tourist hotspot but also an architectural town. Layers of history were woven into the fabric of the place; A classical amphitheatre, Byzantine churches, an Ottoman bazaar. On the waterfront were pizzerias, ice-cream parlours and tourist tat shops. The Cyrillic language developed in Ohrid but since Yugoslavia broke up the young people have schooled themselves in English and spoke it better than I did.

I stayed longer than I intended, relaxing on my beach, planning the next step to Kosovo and enjoying the lazy days. On my final night, I photographed the church in moonlight and headed home to pack. A recognizable figure barred my path. This time it was 30 euros, “final offer.” “I really don’t want to go to Albania” I pleaded.

Pristina Newborn

The Republic of Kosova isn't universally recognized but it winked at me from across the Macedonian border and represented the final piece of my Yugoslavian jigsaw.

I boarded an old diesel bus which crunched up the hill from Skopje, joined at the border by KFOR-trained dogs, who sniffed and snapped at my rucksack but found nothing more dangerous than dirty underwear.

My highly visible Kosovan passport stamp virtually rules out any further visits to Serbia, it's non-acceptance of the succession territory pivotal to the Serbian Government. So be it, Belgrade. Once into Kosovan territory, the green border hills looked stunning and alive in the November sunshine.

The bus dropped to a dusty plateau, a countrywide construction site as Kosovo rebuilds. The capital, Pristina was a typical Balkan mixture of Ottoman market and Soviet slab-blocks. I walked through graffiti heavy streets as traffic noise competed with the call to prayer and followed Bill Clinton Boulevard, flanked by giant posters of Tony Blair; "Leader, Friend, Hero". You won't see these in England. In the centre of town sits the National Library, a boxy defensive building, dressed with chainmail. Perhaps the weight of history has forced Kosovans to protect their literature or maybe it's just another architectural adventure in post-modernism from central planning.

Although never too far from a bullet-scored wall or a weed-filled plot of blasted masonry, Pristina was full of life. Half of its population is under 25. The cafes and bars were full of smart teenagers, talking into phones on borrowed mobile networks and able to flip to fluent English in an instant. A concrete sculpture spells it out; NEWBORN. Pristina is finding a new voice and the young carry it.

Reszel Castle, Poland

An atmospheric wood-paneled apothecary stood near the main square. A tiny bell chimed as I opened the door. High on a shelf rested black iron scales. The language barrier was a problem so I just pointed at my head and said “Boom!”, the universal expression of headache.

Armed with a couple of tablets I walked back through the old town to the castle under a deep blue November sky.

Then, the mist rolled in. That deep blue sky from a paragraph ago quickly blanked and smudged. From a clear view of smoky chimneys, you suddenly couldn’t see the hand on the end of your arm. The mist lay thick and low and as the streetlights flickered on, dim yellows swirled into the mix.

Bordered by the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad to the east and buffeted on the north by the Baltic Sea, this remote Polish region of lakes and giant brick churches is quiet in the winter months. The castle dates back to the 14th century but battered by wars and requisitioned by Prussians and communists, what’s left is a medieval keep surrounded by crumbling stone walls. The remaining rooms have been converted into a lovely hotel.

Our room was an atmospheric circular guard tower. Wooden stairs twined around the inner wall and each floor had its own microclimate. Old arrow slits looked across the town’s twisting river and a squadron of mosquitoes hiked over to feast on us at night. The castle’s furniture had been carved by the Polish sculptor Boleslaw Marschall and fitted snugly against the curved tower walls. A television and downstairs toilet muted the medieval atmosphere and we bathed our six month old baby in the Jacuzzi.

In the evening, branches flitted against the skylights and threw shadows around the walls. We walked to the church. Inside a lone figure rocked back and forth in the pew, eyes closed, hands clasped. We tiptoed out, passing a woman in rags poking into litter bins with her walking stick.

The last woman hanged in Europe for witchcraft supposedly haunted the castle, but we never saw her. Instead we bolted the door and watched a scarily bad Jean-Claude Van Damme film, dubbed into Polish. We drank Hungarian Tokai and cheap Latvian sparkling wine. In the morning I was back at the apothecary, pointing once more at my head and saying “Boom!”

Pixel im Hof, Linz, Austria

“It is an unusual room,” says my contact at the Pixel-Hotel in Linz.

I’m a little flustered having missed a bus connection from the airport and then losing my way in the evening drizzle.

I collapse onto an uncomfortable wire chair as she demonstrates keys and lights. “Don’t forget the cloakroom is in the industrial elevator,” she says. “Bye!”

Linz, in Northern Austria, is 2009’s European Capital of Culture. PixelHotel is a project running in tandem with the city’s moment in the spotlight, converting a cluster of urban spaces into unusual accommodations. There are more conventional hotels in Linz, but given the choice why not stay in a garage, or an art gallery or even a tugboat?

The Pixel im Hof is a former workshop & garage set around a courtyard dating back to the 18th century. A square low double bed is pressed against one wall and a green mosaic bathroom lies tucked around the corner. To complete the scene, parked at the bottom of the bed, is a 1960s caravan.

The caravan retains the musty smell of an old-fashioned holiday. I feel as if I am stepping back into my childhood with its concealed cupboards and squeaky-hinged bedding. The only nod to the caravan’s post-modern life is an espresso machine and minibar. I bounce on the seat and decades of dust dance around me.

A wall of lights runs behind the caravan; three rows of 12 white bulbs set behind a screen. Each bulb has its own switch for guests to suit their mood. There is a television in the corner, but why watch TV when you can create light sculptures or drink beer in a caravan?

It doesn’t stop raining for a single second during my time in Linz, but hunger eventually drives me out and I find a vegetarian restaurant; a totally unexpected discovery. I check with the waitress that the bratwurst is really vegetarian. “Yes,” she says, after a pause, “this is a vegetarian restaurant”. I blush and eat.

I walk home past the Mozarthaus where a bust of the composer guards a buttonpress which erupts with the opening adagio of the Linzer Symphony. I cross back to the main square, circle the plague column and cross the Danube. The rain defeats me and I scurry back to the Pixel-Hotel; a bottle of Grüner Veltliner tucked under my arm.

For breakfast there is a folder containing three things; a voucher, a local café list and a map. There’s no room service, of course, because there’s no room; just a former workshop with a caravan parked at the bottom of the bed.

Wrexham & Shropshire Railway – Journeys in Manners

Sometimes traveling is about the destination and at other times it is about the journey. Ryanair is pure destination travel; scrumming for seats, fending off scratchcards, unjustifiable card fees etc. But it’s direct. Direct & unpleasant.

Wrexham & Shropshire Railway isn’t direct, but if you’re not in a hurry, it is very pleasant.

The southern terminus is Marylebone, rare in London in that it looks like a real railway station rather than a shopping mall with trains. The 6.45am to Wrexham service was hidden away on Platform 5 as if the big franchises can’t even bear to look at it. I took my reserved seat but there were plenty of spares. The staff apologised for the buffet car being the wrong way round and then we were off; out through Metroland and into pretty Midsomer country, all wrapped in morning mist.

We skirted the Cotswolds, rarely stopping and then only to pick up the odd passenger. There are restrictions on which stations the company can use and where they can pick up and put down. It became more apparent that W&S is a small player when we hit Birmingham. We creeped around the rusty outskirts and sat outside Villa Park for a while. “Scum of the earth” muttered a Brummie voice in the seat behind, referring, I think, to the Villa rather than inertia.

The delays are due to a pecking order established by the franchises. Our service is bullied down the signal queue by the other train operators. In fairness, these delays are factored into the timetable and both legs of my journey were on time.

Once clear of Birmingham we cruised through middle England. Lapworth, Dorridge, & Widney Manor flew past and I’d heard of none of these places. My destination was Shrewsbury, a tudor town currently drawing visitors through a Darwin anniversary theme. As we neared the Shropshire border, announcements were added in Welsh.

On the journey back the Marketing Director came through the carriage asking passengers if the journey met expectations. It’s a good question, what expectations do we have for our railways now? By traveling on a service like this that you realize what’s wrong with them, they've become dehumanized with their complex fares that are often undercut by the brash budget airlines.

Press articles on the W&S service regularly namecheck the Titfield Thunderbolt as if good manners and personalized service is something that can only be found in an Ealing studio.

W&S receives no government subsidy and has a simple fare structure. The sachets of mayonnaise were free and they stocked peppermint tea. The steward from the wrong-way-round buffet car bought my [freshly made] sandwich to my seat. In Standard Class! It’s tiny things like this that make a journey.

Slovakia - Bardejov

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.