Torpo Gotenberg Copenhagen London Lancaster (1021)

A day and a night in Anthony and Julia’s hut I’m ready to go again. A gentle hop to Gothenberg, pausing for lunch in Restaurant Schroeder in Oslo. While Harry Hole may not be real, it’s good to find his favourite watering hole is. Must be said though, a Scandinavian dark and anonymous cafe still seems quite upmarket.

Over the border and Sweden is cheaper than Norway. Kinda. It’s kinda like deciding whether to have you foot taken off above or below the knee. I call on Anna who immediately offers a shower and use of the washing machine. Apparently the last week’s washing in lakes and streams hasn’t been as effective as I thought.

In a move that has potential for greater repercussions for global warming than all my miles, I insist Anna leave her research and act as my Gothenberg guide (sadly, a phrase that only alliterates with English pronunciation). We consider culture, but go for icecream and poking around the insides of a submarine. Gothenberg feels too big for it’s population. Sweden goes on holiday for June and a third of the town is away so those left rattle around, sweating in the 30+ degree heat. Too sweaty to attempt to beat them, we join them at the beach.

To get to Copenhagen I could take a ferry but given the option of a 7.5 mile bridge-tunnel combination, arcing it’s way over and under the Baltic the decision makes itself. This magnificent bridge, strong and confidence inspiring takes my mind off my chain which is currently neither of these things. Shortly after leaving Gothenberg a somewhat alarming new sound emerged. Coasting to the side of the motorway I find the drive chain to be hanging together by a prayer. A Latvian trucker’s hammer dives home a new link but the steel is disintegrating and the teeth on the sprockets are hooked and pitted. Slowly does it…

Denmark is Scandi lite. Still obviously leaps ahead of the rest of the world, a belt of Saxon influence means beer is affordable, acceptable and available 24/7. There’s less clean living too. The sun is out and the Danes are swilling Tuborg anywhere and everywhere there is space for three people to sit together. Parks, graveyards, low walls, slightly wider sections of pavement. For every Dane there is 0.3 of a car but 2 pigs. If you are building an average Dane in your mind, make sure you put him (or her) on a bicycle. That’s crucial. Marco and Virginia have a spare and we blend with the cycling hordes to tour the town and drink the beer. The chain falls off. At least I’m consistent.

Pulling out of Copenhagen, I’m suddenly hit by an impatience to be home. Five and a half weeks is enough. Though I have time in hand, I head straight for the ferry queue at Esjberg and join the line. A millpond smooth crossing, a gentle cruise to London broken by paranoid chain-checks and a homecoming BBQ round Oli and Cat’s house (It is possible the party was to mark their new house or engagement rather than my return, but I doubt it).

Then a final 236 miles up the M6 to Lancaster and it’s all over.

For the fans of Jo Nesbo, Restaurant Schroeder

Exploring the Submarine. Poking and prodding the switches and dials is encouraged.

If you like this then you’ll LOVE ‘Sensetive Tvatt’ washing powder.

Arse.

But this makes up for it.

Nihls Bohr, little mermaids, palaces and bars in Copenhagen.

Heading home.

Equally at home amoungst the mountains of north Russia or the bins of north London.

Done.

Nordkap Torpo (1413)

Norway is Europe’s supermodel. Tall, slim, expensive and can’t drag your eyes away beautiful. The crinkly western edge goes on for miles, with deep fiords and high mountains leaving villages accessible only by ferry. It rapidly becomes clear my morning reindeer wasn’t special. The place is teeming with them. Almost infested.

Supermodel beauty maybe, but much easier to get into. It’s a playground. Scandinavian towns empty for July and everyone is here. Every where that can have has a impromptu camp on it. On the roads, convoys of campervans grind along while bikes swarm around them. Loads of bikes. Everyone is represented. There’s the pirates on their Harleys, Ewan-and-Thingy wannabes on big BMWs and the fully leathered squids on their supersports exotica. Then the oddballs. The Danish retiree with crazy eyes, a flask of coffee and a whisk back from two years in the Australian outback. The Polish guy nursing an early nineties curiosity who it turns out I’ve been chasing down for the last two weeks. ‘How long do your think my tyre will last?’ ‘How far do you have to go?’ ‘3000 km.’ ‘Well, 3000 km then. But go slow, yes?’.

Filling the gaps left by the motorbikes are the heavily laden bicycles. As I pull myself à la Ursula Andress from the sea, I get talking to a couple cycle touring. Like me, in the constant daylight their sense of time has slipped – when you’re tired you sleep, when you’re hungry you eat and when you gotta go, you go. Covering distance fits in about it somehow. By chance though we are in sync so share an evening and fiord-fresh cod, seasoned with garlic from the kitchen pannier and cooked in the fire.

My eight day day comes to an end at Trondheim and catches me by suprise. I’ve only just got up. I ride through the short night, slotting into a mini convoy behind a big truck to light the way and clear the wandering reindeer. Possibly foolish to ride in the dark but I am rewarded with sunrise as I climb to a plateau at 1300 m above Gol. An hour later I am enjoying breakfast in Anthony and Julia’s hut, weaning myself off canvas and easing back into a world of walls and windows. The exceptional home brew helps.

Bridges and ferries to get around fiords and glaciers.

The Dane and his whisk, the Pole with one and a half tyres.

Make like a fish then eat the fish near Narvik. The cyclist are smoking belly pork over the fire. You can take take the Pole out of Poland…

Civilisation rehab at Torpo. Time to interact with people again…

Murmansk Nordkapp (490)

It’s odd how the landscape seems to know to change in a new country. I suppose normally this is because a hill or river made a convenient ceasefire line as some war ground to its conclusion. Between Norway and Russia although there is no obvious divide, no lake or river or mountain, there is no doubt you’re in a new country. As I pass through the razorwire, cameras and massive military presence, I am greeted by a smiling Norwegian border guard, stunning in spite of (or perhaps because of) her Armalite. Scorched Russian earth is exchanged for lush green tundra. There are lakes full of fish and hill full of reindeer.

Why the stark contrast in flora? My money is on the huge nickel strip mines and refineries, built by Stalin in his industrialisation drive and still belching smoke. On my way to the crossing, I had paused in Zapolyarny to blow my remaining Roubles on contraband. The town is grim and grey even by industrial Russian standards. Slag heaps dwarf the town and continue all the way to Nikel and the border. For miles around the trees are twisted and dead and as I took photographs, passing cars slowed to stare at me.

In Russia, camping had been marked with vodka toasts, blazing bonfires and Ladas chugging to power stereos churning out Russian rap. In Norway I find a quiet spot by a gently lapping fiord. There are cod drying in the midnight sun and I am woken when a reindeer comes nosing by my tent. I think it’s still 2014?

A slight detour takes me up to Nordkap, the most northerly point of continental Europe. Except it isn’t. The next headland across is, but that demands a 9 km walk from the road and there is no visitor centre to charge you £16 so they keep that quiet. Of course, both points are actually on an island, connected to the rest of the continent by a 7 km tunnel so neither are really the most northerly point of mainland Europe. I feel a little cheated by the legend of Nordkap, outdone by a couple of Germans on 125 cc bikes and totally emasculated by the cyclists. The only way is south.

The singular joys of Zapolyarny. Best viewed with cold dead eyes.

Into Norway and lush green wonder.

Morning wake up call.

The tunnel and Nordkap. Is this it? Time to head home.

Rabocheostrovsk Murmansk (376)

The ride to Murmansk takes me into the arctic circle and though I don’t know it, I have the last night for almost a week in a hurried camp at the side of the road as the rain starts to fall. It is also my last night surrounded by pointy trees for quite some time as beyond 66 degrees north on the mountainous Kola peninsula I enter the arctic tundra. The change in scenery is sudden as I ride up over a ridge, the forest is left behind and everything opens out. The trees are smaller, scattered and mostly birch. Out of the dark green pine canyon I can see for miles. There are mountains.

The natural resources of the Kola region are fuelling a regional boom. I’ve already seen the logging, but much more lucrative are the metals that fill the mountains and the gas under the sea. Dragging them out requires investment and infrastructure. New roads are being built and Murmansk is full of cranes. While it is undoubtedly a town of heavy industry, the investment and growth gives it an air of positivity rather than slump and decay. In a bar I spend the night talking (and drinking) with Konstantine and his girlfriend.

Konstantine is an economic migrant. An engineer up from St Petersburg, he is in this frontier town to build bridges with his team of Ukrainians. He is also a major Anglophile, is puzzled why anyone would come to Murmansk on holiday and is concerned that I am finding Russians scary. ‘You see,’ he says, ‘Russians are nice! We don’t all want to kill you!’ This would be easier to believe if he wasn’t pouring out measures of rum that may do just that. A tip, if you plan to drink with Russians is to join the party at about 11. This gives them time to get started by themselves and you have a chance of keeping up for the rest of the evening. As the night progresses, we talk politics. Konstantine had a pen friend in England who would send him tapes. A lot of Blur, Oasis and britpop, but also the Sex Pistols. He says now is Russia’s time for punk. Time to say fuck you to Putin and nationalism and war in Ukraine.

Industry may drive Murmansk, but there is scope for touristing. Though in the regional museum, it is mainly industry based. Most of the three floors tell about minerals, about oil, forestry and exploration with a section on the hero city status awarded for its resistance and the port’s crucial role during the great patriotic war. More exciting is the MV Lenin. Murmansk is home to the worlds biggest (and only) fleet of atomic ice breakers. The worlds first is now a museum and at certain times on certain days it is possible to tour the ship. You are encouraged to push the buttons on the bridge and sit in the plush chairs of the wood panelled officers mess. The first of its breed, the MV Lenin was built as a flagship to show off Russian technology and ability. The detailing and finish are superb. The tour ends with a presentation by an Atomflot man about how safe nuclear power is. I don’t ask about where the original three leaky reactors were encased in concrete and thrown into the sea. It’s time to make for the border.

Odd thing to find in a playground.

The pointy trees are gone.

As is the good petrol. The label says ‘Nyet’. Like ‘no’, but more so. Time to sart burning the low octane stuff.

Yep. I’m sharing the car park with a submarine.

Murmansk wears its hero city medal with pride.

Exploring the MV Lenin

St Petersburg Rabocheostrovsk and the Solovetsky Islands (629 miles)

The M18 runs from St Petersburg right up to Murmansk and the top of the Kola peninsular, but I’ve done long straight roads between tall pointy trees so I mix things up a bit. By looping clockwise round lake Lagoda through the narrow passage between the water and Finland, I get onto the network of small roads linking villages and serving the loggers.

As I head deep into the forest, the sealed surface stops and I’m left with about 250 miles of nicely graded gravel roads. The surface is often better than the main road out of St Petersburg. The villages I pass through vary from a couple of decaying dachas to small towns. There is no obvious correlation between village size, how far away it will be signed from and whether it appears on my map. Mostly, navigation is a dead reckoning approach, with the occasional location check when the village is marked. Every time I ask someone for directions they are drunk. Sometimes functioning, but mostly not. Quite bizarre is the guy in military uniform who keeps standing sort of straight up and saluting me. Luckily, traffic is light.

Light but interesting. Mostly I meet Kamaz logging trucks, grinding along raising dust. Head to head, it’s not so bad. I aim for the gap, have a disorientating second of blinding white and things start to clear. Overtaking is more difficult. The first sign I’m catching up with one of the monsters when the air starts to thicken. By the time I’m 50 meters behind it the clouds are choking and it’s getting to be guesswork. Suddenly as I pull level, the view clears to reveal a nice clear, straight stretch of track. Hopefully.

There are less adrenalin fuelled encounters too. At a small bridge, I meet three boys out picking up water on their dad’s Ural sidecar outfit. I’m not sure who was more impressed with the others machinery as we compared and contrasted in gestures and words. You have two exhausts but one cylinder? Oh but we have two cylinders and one exhaust! An electronic speed thing! As one of the boys launches himself at the kick starter and the Ural wheezes, clatters and thuds into smokey life, the cruel would question if laying claim to an entire exhaust system is a touch bold…

It takes me two camps to reach Rabocheostrovsk and the ferry for the Solovetsky Islands. With a glowing endorsement from Putin, religion is fashionable in Russia today and the orthodox monastery on the islands is a popular pilgrimage. Most of the others on the ferry are with large groups planning to camp on the island and there is a lot of guitar strumming. Worryingly, one of them has a didgeridon’t. Thankfully he doesn’t.

I’m not really here for the monastery though I do enjoy its impressive Kremlin. Between 1923 and 1931 the monks activities were suspended and the islands became the Solovetsky detention camp – the first of the gulags. Solovetsky was the Mother Camp. In just this camp in just eight years, 71,800 prisoners were processed. Solovetsky spawned hundreds more camps and the gulag program lasted decades.

Recognising the islands’ significance, the monument stone to the gulag prisoners in Moscow was sourced on the island. Here though the only tribute is a wooden cross deep in the forest and a small museum (which has been moved out of the monastery complex and into a shed). I find it stunning so little is made of such a huge historical chapter, especially when just a few days ago I was walking through the holocaust memorial in Berlin.

Leaving the Big Road

Don’t mess with the Kamaz.

Three on a Ural

Lakes and camps in the forest. Not a bad view to wake up to. There wasn’t really a night, just a heavy twilight as the sun played peekaboo with the horizon.

I was never actually going to dip my bike in salty water… A jetty above it will have to suffice.

Inside the monastery

The memorial cross in the forest. It is outside a small church 9 km or so from the monastery complex that was used for solitary confinement. Not exactly on the beaten track.

Interval – Moscow

If we take the European City Tour to be Act I, and the Northern Wilderness Tour to be Act II, then it is time for the intermission. A chance to stretch out legs and have an ice cream. In living this metaphor, the leg stretch becomes a train ride to Moscow. The ice cream of course remains an ice cream.

Russian trains are a world of there own, and in my Moscow jaunt I got to sample both the new high speed Sapsan (peregrine falcon) and the old sleeper type. I was quite excited by the Sapsan and it was certainly plush, but when I did the conversion from kph to mph I realised it was barely outpacing a pendalino. Still, at a shade under four hours the journey time is half that of the old type. Quite a jump forward and I imagine the novelty of a bunk on a train wears off after a few morning meetings in crumpled suits.

Eighty five percent of Russia’s cash is in Moscow and for sure the city is a lot less flamboyant, a lot more business like. I didn’t see a single Ferrari. At the sights there are less domestic tourists – I suppose this where they all come from – so I blended in with the international crowd. Without the bike I was just another backpacker. I realised I missed arriving on a conversational icebreaker. Red square (until it was closed for a police parade), St Basil’s church (colourful) and Lenin (looking waxy) were swiftly dispatched before heading out on the chandelier bedecked metro to the all-Russia exhibition park. Sort of a Sovietworld Fair, where each of the USSR states got to show off their best.

Then, I stopped touristing and took a break from holiday. I spent an afternoon flopping around a bookshop, stocking up on reading material. It felt a little like I was wasting Moscow, but it was relaxing. A good sleep on the train back to St Petersburg, breakfast and a shower I was ready to go again.

High speed Sapsan

Warsaw capital of culture… No. Riga institute of science…? Nope. Another one in Moscow. Actually, the are several here. I hope they got a bulk discount.

Red square and Lenin’s mausoleum

St Basil’s and the Kremlin

The all-Russia exhibition park

Modest decorations on the metro

Considering this is a monument to the millions upon millions who died under the soviets in the gulags, it is a touch modest. The building looming in the background is the Lubyanka prison – the KGB’s HQ and special place. Now home to the successor organ, the FSB

Sleeper train. Four bunks to a cabin, ample space for 6’5″ me.

St Petersburg

Since until now my experience of urban Russia has been limited to Rostov on Dom, a place that makes Blackpool feel happening, St Petersburg isn’t really what I was expecting. I know it was built out of a swamp by Peter the Great as a dream city, a super capital with canals for roads and the finest architecture in Europe but since it’s inception, the place has been industrialised, flattened and rebuilt by the soviet regime. It’s changed its name three times in the last century to keep up with the zeitgeist. In short, I was expecting a couple of old buildings and a church surrounded by a lovely if token rehash of an old town.

But it’s huge. When rebuilding, they resisted the temptation to go all modern but instead replicated the pre-war style. Not only that, but given it was the kernel of the revolution, there is a surprising lack of both hammers and sickles. Perhaps calling the city Leningrad was enough. Or maybe the people that had kicked it all off didn’t need to be told to appreciate the soviet dream. There’s bits that look like Northern France, bits that look like the Netherlands and squares full of monuments to great men on horseback. In fact, there are no huge concrete tributes to the workers to be seen. Odd.

My brother has seen it all before but does it again helped out on the details by Lira, the daughter of his host family who moonlights as an real city tour guide. With her help, we sample both the oldest doughnut shop in town and a frankly bizarre underground bar decorated with gas masks and mannequins, channeling a Mad Max/Beyond Thunderdome type vibe. The entertainment program begins and we have a brief encounter with a moaning UK expat. As we slide out into the light of the evening, this gives my brother chance to teach Lira the word ‘chump’.

The frequency of coffee shops in Russian cities makes a Starbucks in Kensington seem exotic. Over our breakfast, my brother and I muse over how the antagonism between Russia and America lasted so long, why they didn’t bond over their shared love of deep fried batter rings and caffeinated drinks. Could be a thesis, but we’ve both had enough of those, so we get our Bond on and catch a hydrofoil for a short ride down the coast to Peterhof, the palace-dotted gardens of Peter the Great and his dynasty. The boats haul themselves out of the water with a deeply pleasing diesel growl that sounds fantastically pre-1990.

We sign off St Petersburg with some beers near the station in a fine establishment. The evening was spent at the bar with the barman and the musician regulars. Conversation flowed around custom motorcycles and Manchester Scum United. Apparently, this is Chelsea territory.

The standard St P picture (The Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood)

Hermitage (in particular, that’s the Winter Palace) behind the column

Canals. Streets are for losers.

Ok, so one of them is on a big block of stone, but delicate statues nevertheless.

As night falls (or tries to. It’s not that dark) they open all the bridges as the crowd cheers. Best not get stuck on the wrong side, as the metro also stops.

While I’m not the BBC and have no remit of impartiality, I felt I had to show some ugly buildings too.

You’ll have to imagine the growling diesels.

Peterhof

There’s something singularly appealing about racing – and beating – jet skis in a 200 seat hydrofoil.

Narva St Petersburg (98)

According to international protocol royalty, diplomats and motorcyclists are exempt from queuing. At least, that’s what I assume. I certainly didn’t. In Estonia, I breezed first through the holding pen, the traffic lights at the gate, the line at the customs shed and into no mans land. In this case, a bridge spanning the river Narva between twin castles. Compared to the shallow ditch separating Latvia and Lithuania, this is a real border crossing. There are red and white stripy barriers and everything.

Under the gaze of many beady eyes, I decide it is not the time to start taking photos so there is nothing to do except start the process of entering Russia.

I’m given the paperwork (err… In German?) at the first shed but before I can start to fill it in, I’m again waved passed the line of cars and campervans and under the customs canopy. My passport is stamped, my wash bag carefully inspected and panniers ineffectively prodded. When I present myself to the final desk with a still blank (German) vehicle importation form, the lady takes the path of least resistance and points to the boxes to tick. After all that fretting, no one has asked for my insurance. At the first shed in Russia, following a brief game of charades, we hit on the shared language of ‘green card’ and I get fully legal.

I fill up with 50 p a litre petrol and collect my thoughts over a hotdog. Russia, all the way to the Pacific Ocean, is my oyster. I show restraint and stop at St Petersburg.

Entering St Petersburg is a bit like sliding onto the set of Goldeneye. It begins 15 miles out with a ring of heavy industry then with no real transition you’re in the photogenic bit. Growling Kamaz trucks, smoking Ladas and smoked-glass autobahn cruisers dance together up the boulevards and along the canals. Filtering through the gaps is a school of bikes, thumping and howling through open pipes. As Bond scythed through this circus in his T-72, they weren’t chasing him. They were racing him.

It’s initially a bit intimidating, but I soon work out though it’s louder and faster the rules are basically the same as in London. Don’t actually hit anything and no one really cares. I reach my hostel and rendezvous with my brother without drama.

I think I’m getting closer to Russia.

The Estonian holding pen

Oh no sir. You come to the front.

Looking back. Border castles and queuing trucks waiting to get out of Russia.

My insurance shed.

Yep, this bloke filled his boot with water bottles full of diesel.

Tucked up safe in St Petersburg.

Border facts:
Leaving Estonia cost €2.30, payable by MasterCard in the holding pen. Entering Russia cost nothing. I needed to show passport, visa and the bike’s registration document (V5). The whole thing took about two hours. Buying insurance needed V5 and UK drivers licence – the international driving licence was dismissed. 15 days cost 700 RYB. A month would have been 1000 RYB, cash only. An MOT certificate would have made filling in some boxes easier, but I invented some numbers from the tax disc which went ok.

Warsaw Vilnius Riga Cesis Narva (313 + 237 + 76 + 234)

The last four days have been moist, and not in a good way. Grey skies unleashed frequent heavy showers and had me guessing where my waterproofs would give up the battle first. A well-gusseted groin has removed this classic chink in the weather armour and the new weakness appears to be a slow seep through the bum. It is as unpleasant as it sounds.

Between Vilnius and Riga, I took to the network of trails. Normally, well graded winding tracks that bimble through the countryside are glorious, and given decent weather I’m sure I’d be enthusing about them. Not today. The incessant rain had turned the surface to a slick paste that clogged my tyres and frankly made things rather alarming. If things get exciting when riding off road, the trick is to stay relaxed and keep on the gas but I was cold, damp, tense and just couldn’t get into the groove. After plunging through a ford that came well over the front wheel, I couldn’t kid myself happy anymore and I scurried defeated back to the tar to keep heading north into Latvia.

I’m going to need bike insurance to enter Russia. The elusive Green Card. I want to get my paperwork together before presenting it to the border guards and according to the internet, the banks in Latvia are the place to get it. In Riga, my secret weapon was Kitija. Deploying her Latvian, Russian and local knowledge, we toured the banks and insurance offices with no avail. As Latvia looks westward, the banks ties with Russia have been severed. Great for them, but as we gave up and went touristing the insurance question continued to hang on my mind.

In Cesis though, things perked up. That evening after three damp days, the sun came out. The sudden clear evening felt like stolen time. I put on my driest trousers and rendezvoused with Aleks. If you are ever exploring Cesis and the national park it nestles in you will come across English translations of the signs and leaflets. This is Alek’s work, making her the perfect guide. As we rode around the sights in the town and forest, the insurance question couldn’t have been further from my mind.

The next day, the sun lasted until Narva and the Russian-Estonian border.

Welcome to Lithuania

Hiding in a petrol station

Back lanes (slippery when wet)

And heavy industry

The holiest hill in Lithuania. That it’s called a hill says how flat it is but it’s certainly the holiest. The pope said so.

Welcome to Latvia

Riga’s institute of science is suspiciously similar to Warsaw’s Palace of Culture…

Cesis and it’s cliffs.. So not flat. So not raining. So totally brilliant.


The church, and the view from the top


The road to Narva


And over there is Russia. The buoys down the middle of the river are not to be crossed and there are towers to watch you don’t.

Warsaw

A week since Lille, and it’s really nice to stay in a real flat. Gosia, a friend of my brother, made me feel incredibly welcome. I barely made it into the flat before food, showers and laundry were thrust upon me. With only a weekend to see the city though, there wasn’t time to waste. Claudia joined us and the touristing could begin in ernest.

Warsaw is full of contrast. In the centre of town a zombie flash mob takes turns for photograph opportunities with wedding parties while above, the soviet era palace of culture shares the skyline with the glass and steel towers of international banks. If you’re after entertainment, there is music in the pop-up bars on the banks of the river or weekly recitals of Chopin in the park to choose from, though why pick one when you can do it all? Have your cake and eat it. The locals do. It’s the same crowd eating pierogi and beetroot soup until they burst for loose change in milk bars as going for artisan cakes and hand roasted coffee in independent coffee shops. I’m not quite sure how the giant plastic palm tree or rainbow fit in to this picture, but they certainly don’t jar with the overall optimistic feel of the city. They didn’t have to put a botanical garden on top of the university library but they could, did and I like it.

The symbol of the Polish wartime resistance was a P growing out of the centre of a W, and appears frequently about the city. For the back story, there is the museum of the Warsaw Uprising.

The Second World War has marked all of Europe, but the legacy in Poland is very different to at home. In the UK, it is all about Our Finest Hour. Sacrifices were made but upper lips were stiff and everyone played by the rules, shame about the holocaust. In Poland, the war is remembered as six years of brutal occupation by a force that considered them sub-human, of starvation, of deportation, of extermination. Then, as the end was in sight and the Nazis were in retreat the Soviet radio stations encouraged the poles to rise up and fight. Help is coming… but instead of crossing the river Stalin stopped the Red Army short, leaving the retreating forces to grind out the most patriotic poles and deport the rest to prison camps, all to ease the future installation of a communist regime. Of the pre-war Warsaw population of 1,300,000, less than 1000 remained in the ruins.

The omnipresent Palace of Culture

Towards the old town

The symbol of the resistance – on a zombie hunter’s shoulder flash


On top of the library

Back to the milk bar for some milk plus to sharpen us up for some ultra-tourism.

Everyone needs a fireproof plastic rainbow

Chopin in the park

To remember the doomed uprising

And liberty

Lime flavoured Austerity juice

Making movies downtown. The nazi troops were hiding whenever they weren’t being filmed.