Shining towers of glass and steel replaced sandstone monoliths and hunched mountains. Deserted streets now ran busy with immersed people while thundering engines assaulted the ears of one used to nothing save the sound of babbling brooks.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I get used to the solitude of remote areas, and how a return to the hustle of urban life comes as a shock – especially when done contiguously.
As the 26th most populous city in the EU, it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise that Wrocław would be big. It’s also the second most prosperous city in Poland and its southern suburbs shimmer with modern buildings. At its heart though lies one of the most beautifully preserved medieval centres in Europe – and a confusingly named department store that made me think I was in Newcastle. Seriously, Feniks?! In a similar font?!
As with the grand old towns of the historic regions of Bohemia, Moravia, Galicia and Wielkopolska, this stunning Silesian city has a large, central square. In fact, Wrocław loves squares so much that there is another one trickling off its main one. Plac Solny with its flower stalls and attractive buildings would be good enough for most cities, but Wrocławski Rynek is spellbinding. One of the largest market squares in Europe, it contains not one but two town halls. The 13th-century Gothic redbrick Old Town Hall and the 19th-century white New Town Hall sit beside one another in the centre of the square, still providing wide open spaces between themselves and the cluster of decorative buildings gathered around the perimeter. More Gothic buildings try to impinge on the square, including the beautiful St Elizabeth’s Church with its damaged but iconic tower.
The market square and its charming surrounding streets reminiscent of Lviv might be attractive enough to captivate most travellers, but Wrocław isn’t done there. In the middle of the river Oder there is a collection of islands. The most attractive and popular of these isn’t actually an island. Confusing, but it is at this sort of playfulness that these regions of central and eastern Europe excel.
To be fair, Ostrów Tumski (Cathedral Island) used to be an island and is the oldest part of Wrocław, originally being settled in the 10th century. Picturesque cobbled streets are lined with colourful buildings and piercing church spires are never far from view. It’s also a popular tourist destination and many tour groups were being guided round its characterful sights.
As if it wasn’t charming enough, in the evening a lamplighter comes round and illuminates the original gas lamps. There’s also the ubiquitous lovelock area. But wait, there’s more. Right across Wrocław, you can find a series of miniature sculptures called the Wrocław Dwarfs. Like so many seemingly whimsical things in this part of the world, these small bronze statues are rooted in a dark past. During Communist rule, any anti-regime graffiti was immediately white-washed. To combat this silencing of peaceful protest, residents painted little orange dwarfs over the white wash aware that would have seemed ridiculous to supress something so daft. The first bronze dwarf was installed in 2001 to commemorate these protests that had become known as the ‘Dwarf Uprising’ and they now number in their hundreds.
With its beautiful streets, excellent bars and fine food – including a shashlik served over a small fire at my table – Wrocław had been the balm I’d hoped it would be. I was sad to be leaving this surprisingly large city, but I was about to head to one of my favourite cities. That would ease the pain.
If I could catch my train, that is. As usual, I arrived at the station at least an hour early. My plan was to see if I needed to reserve a seat on the train that takes 13 hours to get from Lublin near the Ukraine border to Świnoujście on the Baltic coast near the German border. I queued up and spoke to two women who couldn’t help due to language and/or not understanding Interrail tickets. I was down. I gave up and bought a doughnut from a stall, using my ‘best’ Polish. It worked, but the person behind the counter clearly picked up on my accent and started practicing her English. I was delighted I’d ordered something correctly, she was happy to practice English. Everybody happy. I tried one final time to get a seat reservation and it worked. It cost me an entire £1. After a last-minute hitch, Wrocław did what Wrocław does – make people happy.
The train pulled into the border town of Rzepin much later than I was due to make my connection. Finding my way to the right platform, I noticed a few other people presumably waiting for the next train. It turns out my connection was also late. It arrived about 30mins later and I achieved a long-held dream. I boarded the Warsaw-Berlin Express – in a corridor coach to boot.
This was the way to arrive at Ostbahnhof, formerly the main station of East Berlin. Dumping my bag in a locker, within minutes I was admiring the art of the Eastside Gallery, a collection of murals stretching along a remaining section of the Berlin Wall. I was already feeling as if I was coming home.
Newer pieces replaced older ones, but crowds gathered at the most popular exhibits as the Trabant burst forth while Honecker and Brezhnev smooched.
Crossing the iconic double-deck Oberbaumbrücke with its elaborate towers, I found myself in the cool part of Berlin, Kreuzberg – the hippest of all former West Berlin territories. The plan was clear: visit as many awesome hostelries and do a bit of sightseeing on the way. I was booked in a seat on an overnight train, so I was keen to ensure I could sleep, but there was a clear balance to be made. Leaving one of Berlin’s best craft-beer bars, I found myself at Warschauer Strasse. This was the fourth visit to Berlin as an adult and on each of those I had found myself here. It was rough, raw, racey and busy on a Saturday night – just as Friedrichshain should be as the centre of counterculture.
Strolling out of Alexanderplatz station, I immediately knew where to head. This pleased me no end. I could see the towering Radisson hotel and walked beneath its 37 floors, past an admittedly new Asian supermarket, admired the iconic Fernsehturm TV tower and walked into a traditional pub where the pleasingly surly landlord smoked while a waitress delivered foot-long schnitzels and gnarly knuckles to surprised tourists.
At a stylish neighbourhood craft bar near Rosa Luxembourg Platz, two expats were comparing dogs. The cockapoo was rightly winning plaudits, while a tiny sausage dog was causing mayhem. All this occurred amidst a living example of beautiful multiculturalism. The internationalism continued into laidback Prenzlauer Berg, especially as German and Albanians conversed with the bar staff at an Italian craft bar.
It was here I began to feel like a proper Berliner. Being from Berlin isn’t necessarily to do with nationality or language, it’s about personality. This introvert from northern England was opening up and conversing in the multitudinous lingua franca of Berlin. So geil Berlin, ich bin zuhause.
The feeling of homecoming only increased on my way to the S-Bahn. At a junction, I noticed an M10 tram was heading clockwise. Catching this would be even better than the S-Bahn. I slinked myself between the closing doors. Ich bin Berlin und Berlin bin ich.
The tram was heading straight for Friedrichshain. If Xberg and Prenzlauer Berg were cool, F’shain was the ultimate. Home to the world-famous Berghain club, the area around Boxhagener Platz (Boxi) is awash with cool bars, art spaces and interesting cuisines. I was sat at a window pew in a bar looking out at a pop-up gallery and realised I had probably completed Berlin, before, at the next bars, I was approached by wonderful bohemians on a different level to anyone else I’d met on my journey.
Standing at Ostbahnhof as Union Berlin fans caught the last trains to the suburbs, I was prepared for an uncomfortable overnight train journey across Germany. Boarding the ICE train more than an hour late, I knew it wouldn’t be great. Shoeless feet hitched and squeezed across the spare seat, I finally dropped off to sleep at 2.30am.
The train pulled in to Magdeburg shortly after and we were told we had to change trains. It was a busier train and I didn’t have the luxury of a spare seat. The older guys behind me chatted all night. It was not ideal.
After an endless dawn chug through the Ruhr cities of Dortmund, Essen and Düsseldorf, we pulled in to Cologne very late, too late for me to catch the early train to Brussels. I explored the old town of this fine Rhineside city, especially its striking twin-spired Gothic cathedral and its Alter Markt, glass-strewn after a clearly raucous previous night.
Returning to Brussels, I had completed the circle. I left the continental rail network and found myself back at the Eurostar terminal. The train to St Pancras was suspiciously empty with just me and another couple in a carriage. The conductor came through and jokingly asked if it was too busy. We laughed. He gently told us to make the most of it because, at Lille, hundreds of rugby fans were getting on. This was the day after England played Chile in the World Cup. True to his word, at Lille, the carriages filled up. Mercifully, the northern French town must have provided a great evening as the new passengers were incredibly docile and sleepy.
At St Pancras I sneezed for the first time in a week. Why do I only get hayfever in the UK? It was great to be back home, my love for Czechia, Poland and Berlin increased.
Black Tar Rivers 