Da Boom Box Make Me Jive, Man!

Yes, it has finally happened – after four weeks of ordering parts, repeated visits to Halfords and no end of head shaking, my new car stereo has been installed and, so far, appears to be working!

I went as booked to Halfords, and Alan spent two hours working out how best to install the new head unit into a car that has nothing in common with any other car in the universe. Toyota do not want to you to take out their rubbishy radio (design one that works, then) and fit an alternative; so their units are cleverly designed to be either half the size, or a third larger, than all standard head units. But Alan at Halfords was not going to put off by that, and armed with British bulldog spirit of old plus several screwdrivers, a drill and my favourite handyman’s tool – a hammer – set to work. It wasn’t an easy task by any means, and a certain amount of compromise was needed. A flush factory fit was never going to be possible, but I assured him that I don’t spend my time looking at the stereo anyway, I just want to listen to it while I’m sat in traffic jams at pointless roadworks. I can bodge up a fascia at work; my main aim was to get the stereo installed and working.

Consequently, after four weeks, 3 visits and several phone calls, the unit is finally installed, and so far so good although I plan to give it a good work out on my commute tomorrow. Now I need to stock up on some wigglemytitsandbum music in case I see any nice hitchhikers on my way in.

I was pleased to get a stereo that blended unobstrusively with the car.

I should give credit to the staff at my local Halfords, because despite the problems this job encountered, I should say that everytime they promised to call me back they did so, and the people I dealt with - Jason, Nadine and Alan the fitter (automotive acoustical challenges manager), were helpful and always cheerful – not something you can take for granted these days. So well worth a mention and a bouquet to those guys.

Now where did I leave my Barry Manilow collection?

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Day 5 – 18th July

My all too brief holiday was coming to a close; this evening we would all fly back to Stansted together and resume life in Brown’s Britain. However, the flight wasn’t until late evening, which left a large chunk of the day to pack in a bit more activity. We were due to meet up around 09:00 to go into town, Jaworzno, which in reality turned out to be around 11. I kept myself busy during the long wait playing with Viki the gorgeous Alsatian in the garden. Finally, the car rolled up and off we went into town.













Jaworzno was formerly a major industrial provincial town in southern Poland, with five coalmines, a power station and all the necessary industry that serves them. Now all but one of the mines has closed, and in my 2005 visit the neglect as a town slides into depression had been evident. Four years on, the change is incredible. Aided by a massive EU grant, the town is being regenerated, and all around the centre signs of the rebirth were in progress. It’s incredible; other EU countries manage to bag these massive cash handouts, while all that Blair and Brown came home with from their beanos to Brussels were stupid rules about cucumbers, which are then enforced to the point of death.

The building work began with demolishing the pits, and building a new bypass around the town on the old railway line. The picture above is the site of the former Town mine, but you'd never know that now. The streetlights mark where the access road into town will come from the new and completed bypass.

Then work began on the town itself. Honestly, they’ve got no idea. Here in Britain we dig up the town first, cause 3 years of congestion and chaos, and ten years later, belatedly put in a bypass once all the work is done. The main thoroughfares in Jaworzno have been dug up, and roads, pavements, streetlights and even the sewers are being replaced at the same time. This revolutionary idea means that as soon as the road is laid, the water board don’t need to come along and dig it up to build new sewers – like I said, they’ve got no idea. Gordon, get over there and show them how to make a real pig’s breakfast of Government projects! And don’t feel obliged to hurry home, either.

Apart from the construction work itself the biggest single difference in town is simply colour. Previously, the town centre apartments were all finished in an austere grey concrete, presenting a dowdy and bleak appearance. Work is now well underway to repaint these buildings with pleasant green and yellow shades that blend in well with the surrounding trees and greenery. It makes the town much more attractive and welcoming. Here's an example:

Above: 2005, and the grey flats look austere and forbidding from the exterior.
Below: 2009, and with complete reconstruction going on beneath
them, the same blocks are now colourful and contemporary.

I continued walking around town and saw it looking more vibrant and prosperous than my last visit, it's surprisng what a lick of paint and a tidy up can do to brighten a place up a bit.

Another street undergoes regeneration.

The sombre grey has been banished under colourful exterior paint.

This photo shows the before-and-after effect very clearly. What a difference!

Like so many European towns and cities, Poland devotes ample land to parks and open public spaces. Jaworzno has compact, but inviting parks with leafy green avenues down which numerous benches are provided for locals to meet and chat the day away. They are very quiet and restful, and with many riotous colours of the immaculately maintained flowerbeds to catch the eye. They are a great place to try and eat an ice cream cone before it melts and dribbles down your hand before dripping all over the ground in the +30°C heat. My hosts managed to eat their cones with quiet dignity and not a dribble to be seen; mine looked like I’d stuffed my face into it. I have no idea why this was; perhaps I had ultra-fast melting ice cream. I half expected an old lady to fish in her bag, bring out a hanky, lick it and then rub my face, as mothers are prone to do in order to embarrass you in your youth. This, is one of the worst memories I have of being 17.

Park Life

Fortunately, no old ladies took pity on me, and probably thought I was a tramp. I made it to the public toilets (remember those?) and cleaned myself up ready for a stroll around town. The northern end has not seen any redevelopment work, other than the building of a new library, and was much as I remembered it, with the large church dominating the triangular junction.




Just off this junction, my favourite tavern remains in business, calling itself simply Fart. I do hope that is a suggestion and not an instruction; I bet it gets lively on a Saturday night. If actions speak louder than words, I’ll give it a miss.

The biggest disappointment, although inevitable given the passage of time, was the virtual disappearance of quirky, classic East European cars and vehicles, and their replacement with standard Euro boxes. There was a time when you could be dropped into a city, and work out roughly where you were simply by observing the cars and buses. From Paris to Prague, or Manchester to Minsk, countries used vehicles that had as much national identity as the buildings and the food. Or do I just need to get out more?

In 2005, around every forth car was a delightful Fiat 126, built under licence and known as the Polski Fiat. These tiny, tinny cars were powered by a hairdryer on steroids, and came with such luxuries as … no, actually, they didn’t. Their introduction paved the way for mass-market transportation in Poland in the way that Lada’s did in Russia and buses did in Britain, unless you had all day to coax your Morris Marina down the street and back. Despite the flimsiness of the Polski Fiat – and we’re talking about the structural integrity of a yoghurt pot – the cars coped exceedingly well with Poland’s hot summers and bitterly cold winters, with temperatures regularly down to -30°C. That’s chilly enough for a monkey to re-evaluate where he places his spheres of brass. Basically, there was nothing to the Polski Fiat, so nothing could go wrong that couldn’t be fixed with an elastic band, a hammer and vodka. Not surprisingly, these cars outlasted their contemporaries by a couple of decades – not bad for a mobile food blender.

This was the best surviving Polski Fiat that I came across, in remarkable condition for its age.

Other stalwarts have all but vanished; I didn’t see a single Trabant, and even the homegrown Polonez has all but disappeared. Vintage buses with curtains at the windows have been replaced by large, modern, fast designs that look the same as everywhere else from Sweden to Spain. Of course, this kind of progress is as necessary as it is inevitable, but for the visitor, it is another example of encroaching standardisation that is chipping away at national characteristics across the continent.

The town tour ended up at the apartments of my hosts for a good pre-flight meal and drink to say goodbye. I really must say that despite some lethargic timekeeping and the odd strange decision, my hosts looked after me extremely well throughout my brief visit to their homeland, and I saw and experienced many new activities that I would otherwise have easily missed. Their families in Jaworzno were incredibly hospitable, warm and generous. Even after four years since my previous visit, I was received like a member of the family and greeted effusively on each occasion we met. Only my actual hosts spoke English, yet despite this, with a smattering of words and phrases plus sign language and facial expressions, it was possible to maintain an animated conversation.

Naturally, I wish to return, as there is still so much to explore, and so many places to visit, or even revisit. I would like to take some longer rail journeys while the older style trains are still running, as this is by far the best way to experience the passing scenery. I’d prefer to go out of season as the heat proved to be uncomfortable most of the time, and it would be great to see the country in a different season; say spring or autumn. So, with thoughts of a future visit already in my mind, I had to bid a reluctant goodbye to Poland; it was time to go home.

Water Difference a Day Makes

Day 4 - July 17th

After a very restful night’s sleep in the Hotel Liberta, I made my way to join my hosts for breakfast in the morning. The news this morning was that owing to a bad blister gained from all the walking recently, a hike through the Tatras to Morskie Oko was now not possible, but given the heat – already in the 30° region at breakfast time – this didn’t seem such a disappointment. So what were the plans now? I was informed that today, I would be taken to pussy heaven. Oh dear. Following a skin crawling experience last Christmas, I have developed a strong aversion to all things cat, so the idea of visiting what sounded suspiciously like a feline taxidermy emporium had all the appeal of having my head shoved down a public toilet with the chain pulled repeatedly. By a large tabby. In short, not my cup of tea.

Further investigation elicited the information that we were crossing the border into Slovakia, and I would need my swimming stuff. That begged more questions than it answered, but I was delighted to be visiting a new country, especially Slovakia, even if it was to view a dead cat. Although I’ve not seen a dead cat in Slovakia before, I have, ironically, seen a photo of one – but I feel I’m going off topic here, so I digress.

Slovakia is not particularly well known, but I have a friend who used to visit the Tatras mountains region for winter skiing holidays, and he certainly talked with enthusiasm about the country. Generally speaking, few Brits can even name it, and fewer still could locate it on a map – although after ten years of New Labour ‘edukashun, edukashun, edukashun’, few Brits can locate Sheffield on a map so maybe it’s just asking too much.

My personal view of Slovakia’s position in Europe is that it reminds me of a small, polite but unassuming man in a crowded bar who can’t get served because of all the loud, macho, muscled blokes pushing in all around him. As that small, polite but unassuming man in a crowded bar who can’t get served because of all the loud, macho, muscled blokes pushing in all around him, I felt a natural affinity with the country. While the larger EU neighbours grab the headlines and EU funding for various projects, Slovakia doesn’t seem to warrant a mention, and has benefited little from joining the EU apart from being allowed to send migrants out to seek employment elsewhere. Consequently, Slovakia remains tucked away underneath dominating Poland and the western European countries, quietly getting on with it’s own thing in it’s own way. It hasn’t even attracted the Easyjet stag parties in a way that the neighbouring Czech Republic Prague has done, although no doubt the Slovakians breathe a sigh of relief at missing out on this particular EU ‘benefit’. There is no obvious tourist attraction, other than winter skiing in the Tatras, and Zakopane dominates this market. So, Slovakia remains largely untouched by the tourist hordes and pretty much undiscovered. That alone endears me to a country - quiet, unspoilt, going about it’s own business and no sign of Ronald McDonald for hundreds of miles.

We were heading for a town called Liptovský Mikuláš, which would be another 2-hour car journey – oh what joy! As the crow flies, it’s not that far from Zakopane, but then, crows can fly across the Tatras Mountains in a straight line. By road, we would negotiate the mountains by travelling around the steepest parts towards the pass which lies to the north-west of Zakopane, cross the border at Sucha Hora then essentially describe a huge semi-circle to negotiate the pass - she’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes, but in a Skoda Octavia and it won’t be quick.

The route from Zakopane, using Google maps.

The road from Poland provided pleasant views of the Tatras as we skirted the base of the range, before taking a left and heading towards Slovakia. I was surprised to see just how informal the border crossing was; a large sign welcomes you to Slovakia and that is all. The border post had gone, and all that is left is the rusty support that used to hold the barrier. Since joining the EU, Poland, Slovakia, Czech Republic and Germany have abolished border controls, realising that all the illegal immigrants come to Brown’s Benefit Utopia anyway (which has the strictest border controls in Europe, yet we also have the largest number of illegal immigrants – go figure) so why waste good money checking people who have every right to freedom of movement. The border town of Sucha Hora (it wasn’t such a horror at all, it was really rather pleasant) lies around half a mile away, and passing through I immediately noticed a huge change in style to neighbouring Poland. The biggest difference is the buildings themselves, Slovakian houses tend to be long and narrow, and although they all feature large angled roofs to cope with winter snow, many are flat at the top, giving them a chopped off appearance. A large number were constructed from logs or slatted wood, those that weren’t were often finished in grey, which gave them a dowdy appearance, offset by immaculate and colourful gardens. The change in style was surprising, I had expected a gradual blend of Poland and Slovakia at the borders, but this was clearly and definably a new country. I like this; it is fascinating to see such a change of style and contrast, and makes you feel that you are indeed, travelling 'abroad'.

The language changes considerably as well; although Slovakia uses the Latin alphabet, a significant number of letters have added accents or signs called diacritics (bet you didn’t know that; see, you’ve learnt something already) that alter the sound of the letter – making Slovakian a difficult language to learn. There’s not just the odd one either, the Slovaks liberally pepper these diacritics all over the place, such as our destination of Liptovský Mikuláš. God only knows how long it takes to send a text message. ĝř8 ĩńņīt Ĺŏl?

We pressed on, and as stopping wasn’t on the agenda, I fired off some random pictures from the car of the passing scenery. The road through the mountains was surprisingly good, with plenty of exciting hairpin bends with steep drops that reminded me of the Italian Job. I’d like to get a trio of old Sierras and film the budget follow up – The Slovakian Job; it would be an exhilarating experience. A brief toilet stop was made, er, somewhere – which I used as a brief photo stop to capture just some of the imposing views from the trip. Despite my protesting bladder, it was too good a chance to miss. Then the descent began, before long we were now round the mountains and heading along Route 584 to our destination. To experience this fantastic route in all its glory could only really done by bike, and indeed a number of cyclists were seen taking advantage of this option. It would hard labour climbing the pass, but the views and freewheel descent would make up for it.


Small villages flashed past the car, all sounding like brands of vodka – Habovka, Zuberec, Huty before we arrived at a garish multi-coloured complex of buildings and tubes that looked like Star Wars meets Pimp My Ride. In the midst of all the outstanding unspoilt natural beauty, this seemed strange indeed. Despite the fact that in a 2-hour plus trip we’d seen around a dozen vehicles, the car park was packed, and I noticed that 80% of them were Polish registered. We had arrived! Yes, but where?

Ariel view from Travel Slovakia website.

The answer was Tatralandia, a large outdoor theme park with a difference – it was entirely water based. Tatralandia has a complete holiday village within its boundaries, and offers a diverse array of water-based entertainment, from saunas and massage to water slides, tunnels, umpteen swimming pools, dinghies and toboggans – you name it. On a searing hot day, it sounded fantastic. Quite how it came about is a very good question. You need some very lateral thinking to be driving through the Tatras mountains with nothing around you for miles and miles, when you suddenly have a eureka moment and think, ‘you know, what this place needs is a pink and green waterslide.’ It was inspired thinking indeed; the region sits on top of a natural source of 60.7ºC hot thermal water springing from a depth of over 2,500m. Consequently, all the water for the park is available – literally – on tap and preheated, thus saving the requirement to pump it all in and heat it up expensively. Because the thermals are naturally warm, it allows for the round-the-year operation of the water park, even in the snows of winter! Imagine lazing in a heated pool outdoors, with snow all around. The project even got EU backing and funding, which is rare for Slovakia – presumably the MEP’s thought that it would be a nice place to go to unwind after a busy day of making laws about straight cucumbers, and approved the investment. Come, come, our European Ministers wouldn’t be that self-serving, would they? They tell me that the thermal water contained in the pools is beneficiary to health. It holds a specific position among the waters of the Liptov region as it contains part of the seawater, which covered the area of the Liptov basin as early as 40 million years ago. All very educational; when can I go on a slide?

As soon as we entered, I got a nudge and a wink from my host. ‘Pussy heaven, yes?’ Now the coin dropped with an almighty clang that could be heard in Estonia. The coin dropped almost, but not quite, as far as my jaw. I had definitely died and woken up in a bikini paradise. This was my ultimate Shangri-La, and I was never going to leave unless they dragged me out by tractor. I was at the alter of the body beautiful, and was interested to learn that the finals of Miss Slovakia are held here.

If you need a judge for 2010, call me.

We entered Aquapark, which is the principle attraction with tickets for the park itself, plus a three-hour pass for ‘Tatra-Therm-Vital’, which sounds like shampoo to me. This was actually sauna world, and consisted of 16 steam, water and massage baths plus saunas. I’ve seen saunas on James Bond films but never been in one, and if it’s good enough for 007, it’s good enough for a grumpy old git.

No clothes whatsoever are permitted in Tatra-Therm-Vital, but your modesty is protected with an optional towel – an option I most definitely accepted with alacrity. Obviously cameras are not permitted, so the pictures to illustrate this piece – and believe me, it needs illustrating – come from the excellent Therm-Vital pages and are well worth a visit to find out more about this fascinating and different place. As you can see, the photographer is a man after my own heart. I tried every sauna going as they offered different temperatures and humidity levels to promote various health benefits, well being and eye candy.


As an example, the Salt Sauna (above) gently steamed you at 45°C with humidity of 100%, whereas as a session in the Liptov Sauna (below) marinates you in blistering 105°C temperatures, while cooking you in 20% humidity. How hot? My nose hairs caught fire. Quite.

I know what you're thinking and it's not going to happen.

Then the idea is to jump into a freezing cold bath to cool off, and hit another sauna or just relax on the thoughtfully provided heated and tiled stone slabs or wicker basket chairs. My advice - go for the heated slabs. With just a towel, wicker can have unexpected results in certain places.

So I said to Marek, and Marek said to me ...

The visit is rounded off with a dip in the relaxing Spa Bath Whirlpool – this claims to ‘Discover the mystery of small bubbles that will stroke every inch of your skin. This kind of micro-massage results in better blood circulation and overall muscle relaxation. Simply immerse into the bubbles and enjoy this pleasure.’ Oh, er, missus! So, I did.

I don't know where these bubbles are coming from, but I know where they're going ...

I really got into Sauna World; I have never felt so relaxed or cleansed in my life. It was a fabulous experience, and if it knocks a couple of years off my appearance then so much the better. I emerged from Sauna World looking as young and fresh as this:

I wish!

We left Sauna World and headed upstairs. Entry into Aquapark is provided by jumping into a large tube that twists and turns before dropping you into a lovely warm pool. You’ve arrived!

Welcome to our world.

Aquapark is fantastic. The various rides are cleverly designed, and there are areas in the complex for all age groups to enjoy the facilities. A pictorial gallery shows it off best; once again these pictures are from the Tatralandia website as I was hardly in a position to take my own snaps.

A general view across the main complex.

The children's play pool with plenty of interesting facilities to play with.

The adults play pool, with, again ....

Three of the fastest tunnel slides, icluding the Black Hole - over 100 metres
covered in around 15 seconds, with a high speed ejection into the pool below.

Grab a mat and slide head first down this exciting slope.

This was easily one of the best slides, especially when descended by an
infaltable rubber ring that would skid across the pool at the bottom.

Another helter skelter that is descended by dinghy, great fun.

The dark blue and purple slides are awesome; the blue slide is almost a sheer drop whilst the purple version has a jump half way down so that you take off. Is is a bird, is it a plane? No, it's a grumpy git on holiday.

With all that frenetic activity, wind down by the water in the hot sun and
admire the view - of the distant Tatras, what did you think I meant?

Should mental as well as physical exertion be required, you could always
work out how to mate with these fine pieces - whoa, enough already!

In such fashion we passed the action packed day. I cannot recommend visiting this place strongly enough, and there are enough facilities on offer to last a week – there was so much we couldn’t fit into the day before we reluctantly left at 8 pm to start the long drive home.

The Long Road Home, from Google Maps.

We’d be heading back to Jaworzno on a different route, roughly north all the way. This entailed another glorious view of the Tatras, and as they receded behind us we travelled through various small Slovakian towns until we came to the shores of a huge lake near to the town of Námestovo. The sun was setting and the lake looked beautiful, stretching away to infinity. In reality, it isn’t a lake; it is the Orava Reservoir and was completed in 1953. Námestovo citizens haven’t had an easy ride, though – the town was burnt down at the end of World War 2 by the departing German army of occupation. The place was rebuilt, and then someone decided to flood ⅔ of it to build a reservoir. No doubt those citizens who escaped fire and flood are now looking anxiously at swine flu bulletins.

Calm and serenity after an action packed day.

Still, the reservoir looked stunning as it shimmered under the setting sun, and it really made a perfect end to a great day and rounded off my holiday nicely. All I can say in conclusion to this trip is - water wonderful day. (You may groan).

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Day 3 – July 16th

Barely had my head hit the pillow when my alarm went off. No, no, no, no, no! Well, yes, actually – rise and shine – if not capable of shining then a dull glow would suffice – because at 07:00 we were due to leave for the long car journey to Zakopane, located at the foot of the Tatras mountains that form the natural border between Poland and neighbouring Slovakia. It would be a long trip of around 3 hours, so I got some hot tea and a bit of breakfast down my neck and waited for the car to arrive. Despite last night’s terrific thunderstorms, there was no evidence of this anywhere. The sky was blue and clear, and already it was 25°C and humid.

The car duly arrived at 7-ish; well, let’s be honest here – 8:00. I clambered into my allotted space in the back seat, which contrived to provide even less room than a Ryanair 737, and by the time we hit the motorway that would take us the first part of the trip, the combined effects of a stuffy car, late nights and occasional imbibing meant I drifted off to sleep, waking up briefly during particularly exciting driving manoeuvres to see if we’d crashed. Having ascertained we hadn’t, I drifted back to sleep until we bounced off another lorry.

Snapshot of route, using Google Maps.

In this fashion I passed the first hour and a half, by which time we’d bypassed Krakow on the motorway and were now heading south on Route 47 towards the Tatras. There were few notable towns along the route, so progress was steady; although traffic built up steadily the further we went. The scenery began to change as well; the rolling plains and undulating countryside that I could see at the start of the journey were becoming progressively more hilly, with mountains visible in the distance. Small villages flashed by, all with well kept postcard types houses and immaculate and colourful gardens. From my vantage point in the back seat, which equated roughly to travelling in a wheelie bin, I couldn’t see an awful lot, but what I could see certainly looked attractive.


Around five miles outside of Zakopane we hit a traffic jam, and spent the next hour or so in a queue of cars and coaches that inched forwards foot-by-foot. Zakopane is a major tourist destination in Poland, and attracts 2.5 million visitors a year; not just from Poland but practically everywhere. That’s a lot of people for a town with a population of 28,000 to support. The locals do not want their only road into Zakopane from the north (which is more or less the only way in) widening to dual carriageway status, which is totally self defeating. They want the tourists and their money, in which case – provide the infrastructure. The answer seemed to pass us by as we gently steamed in the immobile car – several trains trundled past on the railway that runs parallel to the road, each depositing it’s wise passengers into the town a good hour before we arrived. If I have the chance to visit the area again – and having only scratched the surface, would love to do so in the future – I’ll come in by train and use public transport to get around.

Eventually we arrived in town and parked up. At last I could get out of the confined car - oh, the relief! For all the tourist invasion, Zakopane is a pretty town. It is busy all year round, as it hosts winter snow sports such as skiing, snowboarding, ice-skating and, for the romantically inclined, horse drawn sleighs. When winter ends, visitors pack away skates and skis, and explore the other opportunities available in the region – mountaineering, hiking, cycling, river rafting or just good old fashioned sightseeing. It was the latter that we were starting with, ascending nearby Gubalowka Hill. There was a choice of walking up (about an hour) or taking the funicular railway. To get to the station meant negotiating a tourist market, selling all the expected tat, plus hunting equipment, homemade cheeses and pickled mushrooms. The cheese is strong and rubbery, but the mushrooms are nicely flavoured, and indeed I brought a jar home. Rather bizarrely for a tourist town, a number of sellers are hawking real live puppies, many of which are St Bernards, a breed that has links to the mountains in the area. I can’t think of anything less appropriate to sell to tourists, but presumably the ‘Ah, it’s so cute’ mentality kicks in. Can’t wait to see some idiot trying to get a St Bernard onto a Ryanair flight as hand baggage.

Being devoid of feelings, I was able to brush these sellers aside and arrive at the station without buying anything. The funicular railway looked inviting, and during the four-minute journey to the top, we glided through a row of fir trees that provide a natural avenue. Views from the car were excellent, as it features large windows all around. There is no driver, so a wonderful view is possible from the front as you ascend.



Gubalowka is another tourist plaza, selling everything that is available at the bottom, but as you may have forgotten to buy a fridge magnet, or missed the traditional Polish dolls, or had to think twice about a wooden spoon with ‘Zakopane’ written on it, here you are presented with another opportunity to purchase them. How thoughtful is that? Should you stride past all this onto the terrace, you are rewarded with the real reason for the ascent – magnificent views over the valley, 1123 metres above sea level (3684 feet) with Zakopane nestling at the bottom.

The weather was now starting to turn, with thick grey clouds rolling in over the mountains, just when I wanted some good scenic views. Thanks a lot. Here's a selection from a brief walkabout.

Picture perfect view, looking towards Zakopane and Poland to the north.

To the south, Slovakia lies across the Tatras.

Several mountain trails begin at Gubalowka for the more energetic type of tourist, and these are the best way to see the great views as well as work off some of that Polish hospitality! We had other plans, though, and joined the queue for the Rynna, a 750-metre downhill toboggan ride; essentially a dry bobsleigh run. Each person has their own individual toboggan that has a single control, simply being a brake lever that is centrally mounted in the floor. Pull up to slow down; press down to release and go faster.

This is the start of the Rynna; speed and adreneline soon pick up as you descend.

The brakes are a little past their prime on some toboggans, so don’t expect anything adventurous like slowing down or stopping – but you are guaranteed a fast and exciting descent around the twists, turns and hairpin bends of the circuit. Toboggans reach up to 40 kph, which is incredibly fast when you’re sitting on what amounts to a plastic tea tray hurtling down a metal chute. At the bottom of the course, you’re now halfway down the mountain (or all the way if your brakes failed completely). It’s a long haul back to the top, but not to worry – you remain in your toboggan and an attendant hooks you up to a sort of chair lift that tows you comfortably back up the hill adjacent to the funicular. At a bend at the top, the cable is released allowing you to crash into the toboggan in front. The trick is to extricate yourself and leap clear before the next toboggan rams you from behind. Otherwise, you emerge from your toboggan in an undignified display of flailing arms and legs, and end up falling flat on your face in front of the chortling crowd who are waiting for their turn. Do I really need to tell you about my egress from the toboggan? No, I didn’t think so. Just as long as I get my share of the royalties when the clip ends up on You’ve Been Framed Making a Total Idiot of Yourself, we’ll say no more about it.

We’d now exhausted the possibilities of the Gubalowka, apart from another tourist rip-off. Should you not wish to purchase your own St Bernard puppy, you can compromise and have your picture taken standing next to a fully grown one (here’s one we prepared earlier) with a small child who had clearly just come straight from an audition for Oliver. The photo is then digitally modified, so that you and the St Bernard, plus the Artful Dodger, are standing halfway up the Tatras in deep snow; presumably awaiting the arrival of the helicopter rescue or possibly Fagin. It’s difficult to work out what’s going on, really. Instead of this, we adjourned to the funicular for the descent. This time I was prepared, and nabbed a front seat to have a go at videoing the ride down the mountain. I’d not used video on my camera until this holiday, but it seemed as good a time as any to start, as I was trying so many new activities this week. (Position mouse over video screen for controls).

How relaxing was that? At the bottom we once again negotiated the souvenir stands, Andrex puppies and a new type of con that hadn’t been seen previously – card trick ‘magicans’ who were conning the crowd for cash, with the help of several easily identified fixers placed within the crowd pretending to be tourists. If you’re going to pretend to be a tourist, it’s a great start to look and dress like a tourist, and not as though you’ve just finished a 12 hour shift on an oil rig. Just a thought. They wouldn’t last five minutes against Del Boy; honestly, talk about amateurish ways of extracting cash from the gullible. After ten years of New Labour Government, I know when I’m being fleeced.

A new sort of entertainment now beckoned – finding a room for the night in town. This wasn’t easy, akin to pitching up in the Lake District in the school summer holidays looking for a nice B&B. The huge crowds evident in the photos with this article demonstrate the problem. We approached the task scientifically by calling at random guesthouses and asking for a room. This got us nowhere, so my hosts began phoning the numbers of each place we passed and making enquiries. Eventually, we got one – it was tucked away from the main road down a long drive, but still very close to the centre. Now this worried me. Firstly, I have a knack of finding truly awful places to stay overnight – the kind of place run by Nora Batty with light switches on timers, baths only permitted on Fridays, notices saying ‘One sheet of toilet paper per day, per guest, use both sides’ and the sort of mattress on the bed that you never, ever, inspect too closely; you know the sort of thing. Secondly, I was concerned that with every hotel absolutely heaving in this busy town, why would one so near the bustling centre be empty? Could it be because it was run by the Polish arm of the Bates Family, or maybe Basil Fawltsky? We’d soon know.

Well, it turned out to be a charming place, called Hotel Liberta, and I can thoroughly recommend it. The room was basic but spotless, en-suite and breakfast was included. There was also a communal room where you could make tea and coffee etc should you require it. We went to retrieve the car, although irritatingly, my hosts kept phoning around trying to secure a better deal. This was madness; it’s not Dragon’s Den! Honestly, some people just don’t know when they’re well off. We had a lovely hotel, in a great location and time spent trying to do pointless deals to save a couple of quid on an already cheap (by UK standards) hotel was wasting time that could be used for seeing things. Get over it. So, the car was recovered from the car park, and brought to the Liberta. After a quick clean up, we set off on foot to discover the town itself.

Zakopane has a principle tourist orientated street, Krupowki, so you can guess what it was filled with. I soon narrowed the entire street down to just four types of business:
Eateries, of every conceivable variety.
Shops selling ski equipment.
Shops selling tourist tat.
Shops selling ski equipment and tourist tat.

That was it. The street is pedestrianised, and was absolutely packed with jostling visitors. Street entertainers performed at regular intervals, ranging from mildly interesting to the bizarre. My favourite was a seemingly ordinary busker playing a guitar and singing. He had a large sign that I had translated and which read, ‘I am mental. I need psychiatric help. I am saving up to go to a special hospital. Please help.’ Now that was just inspired, and, regardless of his state of mind, he was an accomplished musician. He was no more mad than I am, but that’s not much of a recommendation, really.

The sight of all the on-street eateries made us all hungry, so we stopped at a pleasant looking café with an outside terrace for a late lunch. I wanted traditional Polish, and ended up with a large potato pancake stuffed with a sort of stew that was as filling as it was tasty. All food is made from fresh ingredients, and you could certainly taste the difference.

After lunch, we ambled back down Krupowki and headed towards our next adventure – a trip to Kasprowy Wierch. I wasn’t sure what that entailed, but it involved walking around for half an hour looking for a bus station, followed by a manic mini bus ride to somewhere a short distance from town. As we alighted, I spied a cable car station. Ah ha! This looks like fun. In one day I’ve done a funicular and a bobsleigh for the first time; now I was to make my debut in a cable car. Which just goes to show how full and exciting my life has been to date.

Preparing to depart on a magic carpet ride to the sky.

As the weather was closing in and it was getting quite late we had the car to ourselves. Already the top of Kasprowy Wierch was shrouded in cloud, but that just added to the excitement. Our driver appeared and we set off. I was surprised at just how smooth the ascent was; the sensation was of gliding and the only time I felt motion was when the car would pass one of the huge gantry supports. We ‘flew’ up the mountain, most of which was densely forested. In some areas the lumberjacks had been in and cut down swathes of trees, presumably for construction, as wood is widely used for housing in southern Poland. Hats off to the men who do this work, by the way. It certainly isn’t for the faint hearted. With no vehicular access whatsoever, a long and arduous climb is required just to get to your patch. Then the trees must be chopped down, trimmed up and fastened to horses for the descent. If, after all that, you find that you left your sandwiches at home, you’re going to be more than a tad upset.

The station appeared more quickly than I’d expected, but this wasn’t the terminus, it was merely the way station at Myslenicke Turnie – a sort of halfway house. Here we alighted, crossed the station and waited for the second cable car that would carry us to the top. It wouldn’t just be taking us, however. We watched in interest as a crewman fitted a thick hose to the bottom of the cable car and began pumping. It transpired that all water supplies for the restaurants and meteorological station at the top are supplied by the cable cars. Water is pumped into the first car, and at Myslenicke Turnie, pumped across to the second car. On arrival, the water is then pumped again into holding tanks. Ironically, all the water that undergoes this journey fell as rain on this very summit and had made it’s own way down to the bottom. If they left the lid off the tank, maybe they wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble.

Once watered, we climbed aboard and headed for the top of Kasprowy Wierch. En route, I filmed segments as we rose inexorably to the clouds and present them here:

The clouds slowly swallowed us up totally, and it was quite a disembodied feeling to be floating in a sea of absolutely nothing until the station gradually appeared out of the murk. Upon exiting the car, we were greeted by a sign announcing that we were now 1959 metres (6427 feet) high – to put this in context, Ben Nevis is 1344 m (4409 ft).
And still, we weren’t at the summit, although this was a mere 28 metres further up. Having got this far, it would be rude not to. Halfway up, I was panting for breath. The air was very rarefied up here, and not something I’ve experienced before - I live in Lincolnshire, so altitude sickness is reasonably rare. It was a while before I got used to it, but finally, we had reached the top. It wasn’t the end however; nearby a chair lift vanished off into the gloom, although it was shut by now. In good weather it must be awesome.


We now stood on the very border dividing Poland and Slovakia, and the frontier is marked by small white posts with ‘P’ on one side and, yes, you’ve guessed – ‘S’ on the other. Welcome to Slovakia! Not that we could see it. Some pictures were taken, followed by more polite gazing out into the impenetrable murk, before we decided it would be a good idea to go and get some dinner.


Now, I mentioned earlier that during the walk up Krupowski, I’d observed that there was a huge choice of places to eat. By the time we got back there, it was night and the place humming. Many cafes and restaurants had terraces, and those that didn’t opened their doors and picture windows to entice diners inside. To help you decide, many offered live music in many genres from traditional Polish folk with dancing to Country and Western via Kareoke. I have never been so spoilt for choice in my life when it comes to dining.

As the host seemed to know exactly where we were headed, we strode purposefully up the street, passing each restaurant that seemed even more inviting than the last. Zakopane really comes alive at night, when Krupowki changes gear from selling tourist tat to becoming the place to party the night away. Almost at the top of the street, we were led into a square full of outdoor tables and chairs, and surrounded by individual stalls selling all the sort of barbeque stuff that we’d made ourselves not 48 hours earlier. Except that whereas we’d used good quality meats and cooked them properly, the kebabs (yes, really) that we were served consisted of the cheapest, gristle-filled lumps of meat that were more chewy than chunks of tyres served in a warm condom. It was inedible, and I was absolutely incredulous that in a street packed with restaurants, we were ‘dining’ at the equivalent of a Friday-night-after-pub-kebab van. To add insult to indigestion, we had to walk back past all the thriving, vibrant places that been rejected – all filled, I noticed with a touch of envy, with happy, contented and sated diners, listening to the music and watching pretty dancers. I could not have been less impressed as we returned to the Liberta and formulated the next day’s plans.

Some of the Polish folk dancers we didn't see.

The idea was to take a hike through the Tatras on one of the trails to Morskie Oko, a walk of around 6 – 8 hours but not unduly taxing – well, not all of the time. The views were said to be stupendous, and I could believe this, having climbed to Morskie Oko three years previously, but by an entirely different route. So, with that in mind, I took a much needed long and refreshing shower before retiring to dream about cable cars, funiculars, bobsleighs and of course, Polish girls. Which I might have done, had I not spent the night dreaming about food. Please sir, don’t give me any more!