Bialka, Poland - 10.8.1996
Dear All
I decided to paint and not to write this particular week but with only a day before we leave Bialka and having experienced so many different of perceptions of life here in rural Poland, I’ve decided to take advantage of a free morning to relax over a piece of paper with a pen rather than a paintbrush.
I’m resting the paper on a tablecloth apparently decorated with computer designed small squares but actually tiny people, flowers and patterns in red, black, yellow and blue, cross stitch, a local pastime. I’m looking out onto a meadow with a small stream babbling through it, beyond are trees growing up a hill, the upper layer of pine trees indicating that we’re quite high in altitude, the rocky peaks of the Tatras mountains of southern Poland.
A few thoughts on the journey, peopled already at Heathrow by the music of Polish, a soft, whispering language which emerges from words made up of many ‘cszyw….xkj…’ sounds. Odd, how the human brain has chosen to function around verbal communication in different countries.
Met up with fellow painters on the flight, Livia ended up sitting next to my friend Linda and I, whilst Rowena and Helen, identified by a large brush case when waiting at the airport, were sitting infront of us alongside a tiny bulldog puppy, banned to a cupboard during the flight. Flew into Krakow airport and, whist awaiting the arrival of our luggage, a large art portfolio caused a major luggage jam. We met Charlotte.
Ewa, looking glamorous in a purple linen dress with unglamorous black suede ankle boots indicative of the mountain life to come, was excitedly waiting for us. Strange to think that a summer painting course with Ewa at St Martin’s School in London a few years ago had brought us all to Poland, her homeland.
It was quite a long drive from the airport into Krakow, a huge town with an ancient ‘heart’. We were staying in an old hotel, The Wawel, right in the centre, there was just time for a late evening drink deep down in a cellar converted into a bar. Apparently, most houses have these deep, very large cellars, they were used for storing fuel and provisions. The next day we saw an old woman shoveling coal left on the street into two buckets and carrying them indoors. Many of these houses still have old heating systems.
Polish breakfast consisted of bread, salad with cheeses, chunks of butter on a lettuce leaf and, on a neighbouring table, someone eating strawberry jam with his scrambled egg.
We spent the first morning visiting the vast area of the castle in the centre of the old town. It was more like a vast fortified house than our Norman castles, beautifully decorated in Renaissance style with a few Gothic touches. Everywhere the walls were hung with Flemish tapestries, originally there were over three hundred but now there are only about one hundred and thirty. Most of them had been taken to Canada for safekeeping during the War along with other treasures to avoid pillage of the national wealth of previous centuries.
Over the centuries the Poles have been invaded by Russians, Swedes, Germans and others all determined to gain territory and the vast wealth of the Polish kings. The changing designs of armor from chain mail to total metal body protection showed the attempts by designers to keep invaders out.
The most unexpected sight was that of a restored battle tent used by the invading Turks in the sixteenth century. It was shaped rather like a very large Victorian bathing tent with fabric designs in exquisite soft greens, pinks, creams, blues made from natural dyes appliqued on, designs similar to those on the carpets which lay inside the tent. Really breath taking.
The wooden ceiling was divided into boxes in which, originally, was a carved head each representing different people in the court. Sadly, many are no longer there, used by an invader as fuel in the beautiful floor to ceiling tiled stove.
Another remarkable feature was the Chakra Spot, a mark alongside the wall of a courtyard more memorable for its double layered arches and dragon gargoyles. I can’t remember the full story of the Chakra, but I think Lord Buddha flung down a stone from heaven containing the energies of all the chakras combined. This stone now lies under the building but apparently, the power of these energies still resonates. People come and stand on the spot for hours, others come with their instruments to the energy emitted.
Something else rather unusual were the remains of some prehistoric animals strung together to form rather a precarious chain at the entrance to the cathedral, a reminder of the ‘dust to dust’, ‘ashes to ashes principle.
The cathedral was reminiscent of Westminster Abbey, packed with beautiful marble tombs and statues. Each new king added to it in an effort to outdo his predecessor. This whole edifice, plus the discovery of two vast squares a short distance away, were reminiscent of the fact that Krakow was, and still has, many trappings of a royal, capital city. It’s easy to understand the fury there must have been when the capital was moved to Warsaw.
Memories of a visit to Warsaw some years ago are of grey cement sameness, rows and rows of flats and houses, no gardens either private or public, and a ‘reconstructed’ old town. Actually, this was amazing. The original was totally flattened during WW2 but plans of the town and old paintings were saved and a new town was built, looking remarkably ‘old’ to the untrained eye. Now everything is dominated by an enormous tower, donated by the Russians. The Poles like it best when they are standing at the top of it viewing their town. Altogether, quite different from the European aura of Krakow.
We left the city mid-afternoon in a small bus which had been hired for us and headed for the pine covered hills. Apparently, the weather has been uncharacteristically awful for two weeks so on this day of sunshine people were out haymaking. No combine harvesters here, no vast fields just small fields divided into strips, each family in a village seemed to own a few strips of land.
Old men wielded giant metal scythes, like Old Father Time, and portly women, sometimes aided by younger family members, wielded wooden rakes, dragging the cut grass into increasingly tall piles built around strong wooden sticks from which many smaller pieces of wood jutted out. So the countryside was covered with neat rows of grass ‘standing stones’.
As the bus climbed higher into the hills, the rooftops of the houses along the road changed dramatically in steepness swooping downwards from fourth floor attics to first floor. There were many different designs, all quite different from the wooden chalets of the Alps.
Ewa was so upset. For months she’d been telling us about a beautiful wooden house with a wonderful sun balcony that she had hired for our stay but, on arrival earlier in the village, she’d discovered problems. When she went to check the inside of the house, she discovered it was more like a basic cabin for mountaineers. She also realised that the fifteen to twenty minutes climb up the hillside on a stony path from her own home to ours at night in the rain was really not a good idea.
So, she went looking for a dwelling at a lower level and eventually found somewhere suitable. A few days before our arrival she went to double check it out and discovered it was already in use! She was very concerned about her last-minute choice.
She needn’t have been. It’s a lovely wooden house with five large bedrooms upstairs, it’s basically furnished but clean and comfortable, which seems to be the pattern for ‘letting’. The family who owns the house live on the ground floor whilst in the basement there’s a large kitchen and a dining area which has four new chunky white wood tables with benches and lace tablecloths imprisoned beneath strong plastic covers. This is where the guests eat their meals. Only the tiny shower room with an ill-functioning toilet have been misconceived.
Noticing a large calendar displaying a scenic winter wonderland, we belatedly realise that this a winter mountain sports area and we are actually staying on a ‘nursery’ ski slope. That’s why there are so many houses with rooms for rent.
Ewa’s own house is in two parts, the living area and an attached barn which has been converted into a painting area. Hope the weather stays warm.
Ewa’s husband Kelly, American, crafts beautiful wooden furniture in London, and has used his varied skills to convert their house here which is not without its hazards. He’s currently nursing a bandaged finger, the end was sliced of in some wood cutting activity, and their young son Adam, as lively as ever, was nursing a broken arm. Ewa’s nerves are further shattered from dealing with local builders, plumbers and other tradesman who seem more intent on carrying out work in the autumn when she and Kelly won’t be around to supervise them.
Our main eating arrangement has, unexpectedly, remained in the abandoned hill house which is close to Eva’s, we’ll eat lunch and dinner there. Last night the meal began with warm cherry juice. Apparently, liquid is always drunk warm never cold, considered better for the health in this region. This was followed by a rather bitter milky soup hiding shredded vegetables and then, something which looked as though it had been on a long journey by post, rice with mushrooms in quantity wrapped in a cabbage leaf and cooked. More attractive to taste than to look at.
Saturday
I’m just off to lunch now and, to find out where the others explored this morning. Apart from Ewa , who seems to have boundless energy, I’m probably the eldest in the group and, after carting a hefty case for two days, I’m feeling it physically.
Lunch consisted of hot pale pink fruit juice followed by beef and gravy, potatoes with coleslaw. There was no dessert, we headed straightaway to Eva’s barn to paint.
The theme of the day was familiar, ‘The Positive and the Negative in Oneself’. I felt uninspired, just played around with red and yellow paint getting used to the palette knife again. Two and a half hours later, it was ’Crit’ time. Everyone had painted in quite different styles.
We strolled back to our house, dogs a little less yappy now along the path, we’re being accepted as part of the neighbourhood. For supper, a few slices of salami with tomatoes, dessert, cold rice over which, or rather into which you stirred a shaving-cream like substance, a mixture of sweet and sour, different.
While eating we watched TV, black and white, impossible to comprehend other than snippets of foreign news and the weather forecast.
In the evening our own small bus took us higher into the hills where some special festival was taking place. We found dozens of other people walking through the darkness along a muddy track to a vast clearing in the pine forest. In the centre of this clearing burnt a magnificent bonfire built like a wigwam out of huge tree trunks. Giant sparks blew up into the sky, great orange swirls unlike anything ever seen before, up towards dozens of stars twinkling in the Milky Way, absolutely breath-taking.
Some distance from the fire, separated from it by hordes of locals, was a stage crammed with an odd assortment of people. Ewa explained that the men were village dignitaries, in colourful robes and high hats, the women were in pretty local costumes, puffed sleeve embroidered blouses and dirndl skirts, and finally, there were seven men, each in turn seemed to be going through some kind of trial. Everything was being filmed by two TV cameramen and a photographer weaving around the stage.
The audience, except us, were laughing uproariously, though it wasn’t at all clear what was going on. Thank heavens for Ewa with local knowledge and, of course, a native Polish speaker. She explained that the ceremony dated back centuries, was some sort of pagan ritual which had become bastardised by crude humour.
We also saw some lively dancing by the local woodsmen’s group, the men brandishing axes which they used so skillfully in their daily work. Their leaping and jumping were very reminiscent of Ukrainian dancers I’d seen previously. Discovered today, that Poland actually borders Ukraine.
The most interesting part of the ceremony came at the end. The fire had burnt down leaving just embers in some parts which men were now leaping over. Alas, it was too late in the night for us to linger but one of our group passed on details of Bonfire Society Rituals in Lewes!
As we were leaving, a magnificent firework display exploded above the forest canopy beneath the stars. Our little bus free wheeled downhill moost of the way home, the clutch had gone! We could have picked up some choice language had we been more awake.
Sunday
Awoke to sunshine and a day without painting. Apparently, the majority of Polish people are Roman Catholics, are devout followers of the religion and Sunday is still a special day.
So, a day of sightseeing for us. Eva had suggested we walk about two kilometres to a neighbouring village to visit a beautiful little church once the morning service had ended. As we arrived it was overflowing with people but many of them soon moved to the small bar close by or headed elsewhere so we were able to visit the church.
The outer walls of the church were made of strips of darkened wood arranged in layers rather like the feathers of a bird. Inside was a total contrast, traditional Polish patterns were painted over the walls but the altar was of Italian baroque design. Exploration over, we too moved on to the bar. Only one type of fruit juice was available but there were plenty of different beers.
Whilst walking we’d noticed an old carved wood signpost ‘MUSEUM’ pointing to a dark wood, obviously old, house and went to investigate.
Inside was a wonderful example of how to use a small space most efficiently. A quarter of the room was taken up with a floor to ceiling tiled stove designed for heating the house and for cooking. Alongside it was a wooden bed decked with a heavy lace cover and two large lace covered cushions. On the other side of the stove were cooking implements and dishes, plus a man’s clothes made of thick white embroidered felt and a beautiful thick sheepskin coat, rather like the one I bought in the bazar in Isfahan.
Up until about fifty years ago the men wore their hair at waist length and greased it with lard. Even in winter shoes were rarely worn. The secret of their hardiness? Not evident. More clothes were neatly folded in a large wooden chest alongside which stood a spinning wheel and a wooden container holding wool awaiting spinning.
In the adjoining small barn there was space for a cow with enough hay to last the winter, and another section with implements for making cheese and butter, a self-sufficient unit. Actually, rather reminiscent of small cottages in the Welsh Folk Museum at St Fagans, near Cardiff.
Apparently, the people in this mountain area had little to do with the Communist Government, they didn’t need to, they had all the essentials to survive, plus secret trails over the mountains to useful connections in Czechoslovakia and Hungary.
But in one way the Communist Government did succeed, it banned the building of the traditional wooden houses in favour of larger buildings made of brick and cement. The people still made wooden interiors but gradually the traditional wood carving skills are dying out. A man with the strength of a bull had sliced tree trunks into planks for Ewa and Kelly’s house. Now, a few years later, he’s washing up in a hotel restaurant to make money.
In the evening we walked from one end of the village to the other. During the half hour walk we passed one tiny shop and nothing else but huge square-built houses. The ground floors were made of enormous round stones on which were built four storeys made of wood and plaster, ending in a pointed roof on each side. I’ll have to try and sketch one, they really are a special design.
We thought that the buildings were divided into flats but no, they are mostly owned and lived in by families, with an increasing number of rooms to rent out to winter sports and summer visitors. Apparently, the locals themselves have little interest in travel abroad unless it’s to make their fortune in Chicago, where there’s a large Polish community.
At the end of the village was a disco, probably an innovation to meet the expectations of the young winter sports visitors, but we failed to reach it as darkness had fallen. We headed for home. There were no pavements along these country roads and the houses were all fronted by a fifty yard field, so we trekked back in single file causing dogs to park all along the way.
I had also taken a short walk in the afternoon from the field beyond Eva’s house, up the steep slope, apparently in winter the location of a drag ski lift, up towards the wooden chalet which was originally intended as our lodging. I stopped three times to gasp for breath, feeling very relieved that we didn’t have to run up and down the slope daily but understanding Eva’s choice of dwelling.
The wooden house was perched on top of the hill with an extensive view of the surrounding countryside. The wide wooden balcony looked down onto a meadow filled with brightly coloured summer flowers alongside strips of fields with potatoes and grass awaiting harvest, other strips of bright green freshly cut grass already built into the strange monument-like haystack structures and out across the countryside. Dark brown cows scattered between fields quietly chewed the cud until the need to be milked set them all bellowing to be led home at six o’clock.
There were children playing all over the place, trim, slim bodies with blonde hair, haven’t seen a plump one yet, playing independently far from home. Adam, Eva and Kelly’s young son, was enjoying life away from London, building a tree house with his cousin. Others were damming the little stream below our house, brought back memories of my childhood in Dinas Powys. Some are walking their cows back home to be milked. Dogs don’t seem to get walked, their duty in life is to guard property.
Monday
Awoke to sunshine and clouds, twenty-four degrees predicted on the weather forecast last night, one of the few things we can understand. We’d hoped to enjoy an American film on TV last night, but the voices were tuned too low, and a male voice spoke the parts of all the characters in Polish, standard practice for all foreign films.
Homemade plum jam with soft rolls for breakfast, unfortunately with margarine, and harder bread to eat with sausage or cheese.
There’s a farmyard symphony outside, cows mooing, sheep bleating, crowing cockerels and clucking hens, the clattering of horses’ hooves as they pull ramshackle wooden carts up the stony tracks to the fields to collect the dried hay, dogs, all mongrels with tiny legs and small bodies sometimes get taken to the fields too. More often they stay tied up in the barn right next to a little hole cut into the wall leading to their ‘kennel’, making them so frustrated that they fly into a rage and bare their sharp teeth at every passerby.
We’ve now discovered several different paths to Eva’s house, along a narrow lane past a few houses and a farm where tall and short children try shooting goals with a basketball. Or along a driveway leading past a new hotel, its garden filled with gnomes, plaster elks (still found in the high mountains, also bison), and pretty pale and dark pink flowers wafting in the breeze. Ewa was furious when she arrived back one summer and found this monstrosity of a hotel totally blocking her view of the Tatras Mountains.
But given the dry weather, the shortest way is up a grassy slope commencing opposite our gate, along the edge of someone’s potato strip, along a strip of clover, across a strip of freshly cut grass, the now-familiar hay ricks neatly laid out and onto the uncultivated land around Ewa’s house.
Her barn looked very colourful with our paintings from the previous day, each mounted on white paper and hung across its walls. Apparently, the neighbouring children had been in the previous day viewing all and voicing their opinions. Their favourite was a local landscape with fir trees and hay ricks, they had less interest in abstraction.
The subject for today was a landscape with oneself in it. Found myself oddly uninspired, more inclined to sketch the wealth of detail around rather than delve into ‘unconscious’ realms.
The lunch routine is now familiar, the warm fruit drink, a’ compote’, (nicer as a dessert), followed by a light soup with traces of carrot and parsley floating above a particular vegetable flavour, cabbage today. Then chunks of meat, origin unknown, with mashed potato. Potato is obviously a staple part of the local diet given the number of potato plants we’ve seen growing in the strips. Dessert? More for the evening meal.
In the afternoon we strolled down the main road through the village past a little shop, into the meadows to trees fronting a wide river rushing around granite boulders, towards a distant island. The water racing down from the high mountains must be freezing cold, but we’ve been told that there are quiet spots where people swim. We just sat and sketched the fir covered hillside downstream.
People take little notice of our group wandering around the village; however, Kelly says the locals are extremely shrewd and nothing is missed.
We gathered back at home for hot sausage, very tasty, and blackcurrant jam with bread also very tasty. Our landlady is very friendly and does her best to communicate. She once lived in Chicago and had the same difficulty with English that we are having with Polish.
She and her daughter had also been very helpful earlier in the evening. We’d arrived back in our room to find that Linda had lost a sock and I had lost a pair of knickers which had been drying on the windowsill. There was no immediate sign of them, thought maybe they’d been eaten by a passing goat or were choking a fluffy lamb in the neighbouring field when shouts came from mother and daughter looking down from an upper window. They’d pinpointed the missing items hidden in the well-fenced in flower and vegetable patch hugging the hillside beneath the house. She directed us to an unexpected gate into the garden and the lost items were retrieved. She indicated that we should use her long washing line in future.
Thinking of washing lines, no little rotary lines here, every house has about four rows of thirty feet long lines ready to hold the household sheets and clothes on a suitable drying day. Don’t know what they do in winter, maybe there’s drying space in the barn alongside the ‘wintering’ animals. It really is annoying not having an interpreter with us permanently.
Don’t know whether it’s the change of air or the increase in exercise but by nine o’clock each evening we were in bed and soon asleep until the alarm rang at eight o’clock in the morning.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Apologies for the blue-tinted sketches, I obviously pressed something. What??
Google: Ewa Garglinska - Polish Artist
Google: Krakow
Next Week - Poland Part 2
Yorumlar