I arrive at a strange place in the woods. A sign says it’s Raststate Rosenhof. The door’s unlocked so I push it. There are tree branches inside decorating it, so it still seems like part of the forest. There’s nobody there. Places are laid out with bowls and spoons, as in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I shout out ‘Hello’. A bouncy-looking man with gleaming eyes and a jolly expression appears, introducing himself as Jurgen. He treats me to coffee and produces a tray of freckled eggs in front of my eyes, carrying them off to the kitchen and personally cooking me a delicious breakfast: eggs, bacon and sausage, better than Goldilocks’ porridge. It stops raining and I get going. A car comes roaring up behind me on the country road. It’s Jurgen. As it’s early in the morning he’s dug his wife out of bed to meet up with me. He’s wrapped a blanket around her and brought her curlers and all.
They have come because his parents have both died of cancer. They embrace me and wish me ‘gut speed’. The warmth with which they say it keeps me going a long way.
Bruel is desolate and very windy when I get there. I wash my thermal vest in the Ladies (Damen) in one of the cafes, put it on wet as usual to be dried by my body—I’m my own clothes-horse. Drying is helped by the blast of the slipstream of passing juggernauts. The only problem is I haven’t rinsed the apple shampoo out of my clothes so everything smells of apple. Talk about ‘Cider with Rosie’.
It often occurs to me that running as a way of travelling is a mixture of practical things, myths and unspoken laws:
Say thank you to the ground you have slept on.
Pick up any litter as if it’s 50 euro notes.
Never miss the chance to be happy.
I’ll never get over the feeling of climbing a hill and seeing the red roof of the first house in the next village. In this case it’s Grobraden, where there’s an old Slavonic castle. There are two languages, just like in Wales, and the history goes back thousands of years.
I carry on over the next 150km to Usedom, a historical spot with a thin strip of land binding the Acterwasser or lake along the road that runs to Poland. I am tempted to stay longer in Usedom. There are breathtaking old oaks and beech trees among frosty, feathered pine trees. I see a sign beside a footpath saying there are wolves here, but don’t see any. There are no campsites open so I stay in the woods, tidily and quietly.
Lying awake listening to the noises of the night when most humans are asleep, I think nobody on earth knows where I’m sleeping tonight except the owls and silent creatures who may be watching and the little black beetles that become rainbow-coloured when you shine the torch on them. I’ll always remember Usedom for its tranquillity and wildlife.
From here, on 1 December, I cross the border to Poland.
CHAPTER 7 Rip Van Winkle in a Snow-hole
Poland, December 2003
Everything is black. There’s a crushing weight on top of me. I’ve gone to sleep with the torch in my hand, and flicker it on to see the inside of the bivvi filled with a huge tangle of frayed rope.
It’s not rope at all. It’s actually my half-frozen breath that’s been recycled, melted and refrozen, as there’s so little air. I grab the zip and have to force it open. A heap of snow comes in and mixes with my frozen breath. I burrow and dig my way up.
The full moon is shining down on a totally white landscape and I’m in a snowdrift, 5ft deep. Again! The stars gleam into my snow-hole. Inside the bivvi, the sleeping bags and saucepans are covered with ice, my black bag with precious items has turned into a white bag. I can’t believe I just camped here last night. It’s as if I’ve been here for a thousand years and I’m Rip Van Winkle who went to sleep in a cave for 1000 years.
I make the hole larger into a kind of cave, then get the stove out. I had it in the sleeping bag to keep warm as I’ve been having trouble lighting it. I stick the lighter down my front inside my clothes to warm up a bit too and lose it for ever. Luckily, I’ve got waterproofed matches in a tin. I chip ice from the saucepan, triumphantly making snowy porridge for breakfast.
When the stove won’t go I spoon coffee powder into the mug, topping it up with cold water, thinking of it as Starbucks. It isn’t bad—great training for the imagination.
Most things have to be done differently—most important, the chamber-pot. In eighteenth-century England even the grandest homes had potties under the beds. Nobody wished to walk down icy corridors in search of facilities in the middle of night. My pot is more of a mountaineer’s emergency pee tin, but has a good lid, which is its most important feature. I can’t wriggle out into the darkness and snow at −15°C, freeze my bottom and bring all the snow in with me.
Vivid human encounter and deep solitude alternate like movements in a symphony. I love Poland. After the loneliness I find the people are so warm and full of fun, with the laughter and spirit of those who have known harsh times throughout their history but have never been conquered inside themselves.
There were two days of golden autumn just before the blizzard. These last moments seemed brighter and stronger as if to give a memory for the winter that wouldn’t fail during the months ahead.
The wind flying in ebullient little whirlwinds makes a merry-go-round of golden leaves. The last colours before the snows come are blazing scarlet, crimson and orange in the forests. The last dance of the leaves.
The first town I reach, Swinouscie, is an Aladdin’s cave of markets, an extravaganza of life and colour. Hot-water bottles dangle above stalls in their dozens, top of the range in the colder weather, along with thick socks, batteries of all sizes, spicy-smelling sausages, vegetables brightly displayed, exquisitely etched glassware. People hug each other, laugh a lot, wear big furry hats. My heart is lifted by hundreds of beautiful little horses pulling taxi carriages at a canter, with bells jingling merrily, or standing with faces deep in fat nosebags. I’ve fallen for a bright bay pony with a wild black mane and four white socks.
I’m patting the horse when his owner comes up, a white-haired energetic old man. He gets out his accordion and sings me a song. I don’t understand the lyrics, but it sounds great. I haven’t expected to arrive in Poland and be serenaded. I’m huge in damp coats and think my face is muddy from the lorries coming through the customs. The next thing he does is to get out a big clean white hanky, reach out and tenderly wipe my face. He then declares I have to marry him, he needs a wife and apparently I’m just right. I think he’s only asking me to make me smile, as I’m cold and lonely, but it does cheer me up. I imagine it’s typical Polish gallantry. He speaks in English but can’t understand anything I say to him. I’ll always remember the first words I string together in Polish with the help of the phrasebook: ‘Thank you very, very much, but I’m spoken for.’
He kisses my hand and vanishes. He’d mentioned he was nearly 90, hard to believe, and glad to be still working. I never discover his name, but he’s wonderful and leaves me feeling all made up.
I head off across the Wolin, practically an island linked by a tiny strip of land and bridge at a place called Dziwinów to the west of the north coast. There’s a spectacular nature reserve with majestic forests. The snows begin hitting hard. Deep winter arrives overnight. The holiday village buildings and campsites along the coast are ghosts. Buildings roar and shake in the blizzards. Doors to tourist cafes with tantalising signs for ice-cream and hot coffee are locked and barred, but the local farming community hang out in occasional cafes. I’m able to take off the wet kit discreetly and wring out my socks and vests. Nobody asks me to leave, even though I’m making puddles on the floors. Of course, the proprietors and customers are brilliant to me, as they have to be out themselves tending the farms. I buy pickles, black bread, wonderful sausage full of calories, and am fed hot beer—the locals say it’s the finest cure for the cold and everything else too.
I’m