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.

Slovakia - Košice

I nearly left my winter coat at home. How cold could Slovakia be? In the end it was colder than Antarctica; minus eight, and my rucksack was as light as a feather as I needed to wear all my clothes at once.

Things didn’t start too well in Košice. I opened the door to my pension and the handle came off. The room faced an internal courtyard where a wedding reception was in full swing. Wind of Change bellowed from the speakers and shook the cabinets by my bed.

The filmy rain and cold made for an uninviting perception of the city as I walked around later that night. I heard shouting behind me and saw a man running in my direction. My heart jumped but he quickly smiled, returning my umbrella from the pizzeria where I’d eaten dinner. A musical fountain played the Beatles’ Yesterday and the gothic cathedral looked sinister as I hurried back to my pension with its noisy revelers and handleless door.

The following morning brought blue skies and what had appeared threatening in the dark now looked imposing and elegant in the sunshine.

Cantabria, Spain

Santander was full of places to eat. Even vegetarians could dine in public. It reminded me a little of Brighton; the royal-patronised seafront shielding lanes of bars and cafes. In front of the town hall was a shock though; a large statue of Franco astride a horse [admittedly Brighton doesn’t have one of these]. Red paint splattered the horse’s flank, so perhaps not everyone was happy with it. I only stayed a single night because Santander didn’t have the atmosphere I was looking for. Instead I headed west through rural Cantabria, and back in time, to medieval Spain.

The bus dipped among hills of snooker-baize green to Santillana del Mar. Jean-Paul Sartre thought Santillana the loveliest village in Spain. He wasn’t alone; coachloads swarmed through the cobbled streets and perhaps Sartre’s hell is other people quote was also formulated here. I walked to the caves at Altamira; an expertly presented recreation of the original, yet minus the thrill of walking through ancient history.

I stayed in Santillana’s honey-stone Parador [my tenth!]. Across the plaza an English wedding was in full flow and later that night the Parador’s lounge was full of sloshed relatives. I headed to a local bar to watch the Madrid derby; drinking Asturian sidra with the aid of a small pump-barrel to oxidize the bubbles. It looked daft and tasted great.

West of Santillana lies Comillas, a seaside town full of outrageous architecture. The Casa Capricho had an extensive menu, quickly whittled down to a single vegetarian option. The waiter seated me out the back and round a corner just in case my vegetable dish frightened other diners. In any case, I didn’t really come for the food. The Casa Capricho is an early Antoni Gaudi building; swarmed in tiles and turrets, and topped by a minaret.

I walked off lunch along the beach, rolling up my trousers and dipping my toes into the ocean. Cantabria is heavily promoted as Green Spain but today the autumn skies were blue and the sun hung in a haze over the coast. I fell in love with Spain all over again.

Albania - Gjirokaster

From Sarande we folded ourselves into a stuffy bus for the journey to Gjirokaster, high in the hills. Our hotel was a restored Ottoman house, full of charm and cheap as chips. Stone arches, carved wooden ceilings and lacy white covers ran throughout. Our room, unfortunately, had none of these things, so we moved our books and music into the lounge and made ourselves comfortable.

The old town had a brooding presence, swamped in mist and rain. Steep cobbled streets plus sharp corners equaled exhausting walks and juddering taxi rides. The call to prayer drifted over the wind from a rare surviving mosque squeezed among houses. In Enver Hoxha’s time Albania was officially atheist and the country’s brand of nutty communism had its origins in Gjirokaster. A huge statue of the dictator has been toppled, replaced by a restaurant car park, but fresh pro-Hoxha graffiti was sprayed in the streets.

Perched above the old town sat an Ottoman castle. The silver shell of a US fighter jet was on display in the courtyard, ‘shot down’ in the cold war and left as rusting propaganda. Beside the plane but tucked inside the castle was a bar selling Turkish coffee in espresso cups.

There’s no clearer proof of Hoxha’s paranoia than the thousands of concrete bunkers which freckle the landscape. Regimented lines of these grey domes strike across the valley floor between Sarande and Gjirokaster, ready to repel invasion from Albania’s enemies [of which there were plenty]. Yugoslavia, Russia and China were Albania’s only cold war mates. Hoxha then fell out with all of them. Shops in Gjirokaster sold miniature bunkers converted to paperweights and ashtrays; the whole surreal spectacle reborn as tourist tat.