Budapest

 

Many years ago, I was sent to the Hungarian capital for a couple of days to do a bit of work.  I had never been to Hungary before, and knew very little about it: part of the old Soviet  Bloc behind the Iron Curtain, but rebelled against it in 1956 which only resulted in much bloodshed when Khruschev sent in the Red Army tanks to quell the unrest; and a more than useful international football team, featuring the portly but brilliant "Galloping Major" Ferenc Puskas and Guyula Grosics, considered by many sound judges the best Goalkeeper in the World (above Russian legend Lev Yashin), that never recovered from losing some of its star players as a result of that Rebellion.  Oh, and the Danube river flowed through it on its 2000+ kilometer journey from the Black Forest in Germany to the Black Sea.  Not much really.

The airport, when I got there, was quite small and at that time a bit tatty - similar to other airports in the region that I had flown through: Warsaw, Gdansk and Prague.  There was a limited number of airlines serving the place, including the home airline Malev which at the time was suffering from serious financial problems and went belly up before the end of that year, and LOT Polish Airlines - I used LOT to get the air-miles on my Loyalty Card.  It was also a fair distance out of town, and the taxi ride, in, from memory, an old Skoda, to the MKB office in the city centre took longer than the flight down from Warsaw had done.  I remember passing the Ferencvaros football stadium (the biggest club in the country then and now) that doubled for the national stadium, and was surprised to be able to see through the fencing down onto the pitch, which actually looked in pretty good nick: the stadium was right beside the main road and sunk into a kind of bowl.  I remember too the splendid buildings in the city centre: the office was about 50m from St.Stephen's Basilica and perhaps a brisk ten minute stroll from there to the Intercontinental Hotel on the bank of the Danube.

It was an easy couple of days work.  One day I did nothing at all, since the interpreter I needed to discuss my subject with the bank staff was tied up working with one of my colleagues.  The second day I used the interpreter and completed all I needed to do by mid afternoon so was able to finish early.  My colleagues and I were staying in the some hotel, as was usual, and we met after work in the bar there, had a couple of beers then wandered into the Old Town for dinner both nights.  I have two main memories.  On the first evening, we sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the river, and across the Szechenyi Bridge loomed the plateau that is topped by the old Buda City and Palace, behind which the sun was sinking into a beautiful cloudless summer sunset (terrible attempt at some poetic writing, but what the hell: it was lovely!).  We sat there quietly, sipping our cold beers, relaxing in comfortable armchairs and watching the river cruise ships moving steadily up and down stream.  It was early evening, perhaps six o'clock, but still hot.  Nobody spoke for perhaps fifteen minutes, then my mate Andy drained his glass and put it on the table with a satisfied sigh.

"Not a bad way to earn a living, is it?" he said.  "I'm hungry.  Let's go for pizza."  So we did.

The next day another colleague arrived.  I knew him quite well, as we lived close to each other.  We convened on the terrace again, had a couple of beers, and headed out for some food: something local this time.  As we passed through the Reception area we paused, because there was a quite beautiful blonde girl playing a grand piano to entertain the guests checking in and out, and anyone else who happened to pass through.  She was very good, and we listened til the end of the piece, then joined in the applause.  My mate, the newcomer, walked over to the girl, and asked her to play a piece - Cry Me A River - but she didn't know it, so we wandered off to eat.  He remembers it - and her! - to this day, and is still smitten.

This time we walked up past the office to the square outside the Basilica, I think it's called Szent Istvan ter or something.  There are a number of small roads leading off, and many bars and restaurants.  We chose one at random: I can't remember the name, but I remember going downstairs into a big dimly lit space, where we selected a table and browsed the menu.  There were the usual burgers and salads and goulash, soups and desserts, and a lot of beers.  I went local (again, the name of the brew escapes my memory - it was at least 20 years ago...) and a main course of steak and fries.  The beer was excellent, I remember, and the food, when it arrived, quite special.  I remember a big pile for french fries, topped with thinly cut and grilled steak and onions, served on a wooden plate about the size of a large bread board.  I tucked in, and it was one of the best steak dishes I've ever eaten - before or since.  It's also one of very very few plates of food I've been unable to finish in my entire lengthening life - there was simply too much even for me to handle.

We all flew home the next day.  That was my Budapest.

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It's always been in my mind to go back, and have another look, but somehow I never got around to it.  Viktor Orban took power and remained there for 15 years or so, and under his extreme nationalist government and friendships with similar politicians - think Putin, think LePen in France, Salvini in Italy and Farage in the UK amongst others (not to mention the entire PiS government in Poland and of course that idiot Trump across the pond) - the country fell from being an Eastern European Rising Star to be the Bad Boys of the EU, blocking huge aid packages to Ukraine to help that country's war effort, amongst other transgressions....   Well, it seemed less attractive to liberal Leftie me.  

Nothing is forever, though, and the tide turned over the last few months of 2025 and the beginning of this year, and a new political party, founded by a former senior Fidesz (Orban's party) minister to challenge the dictator in this spring's parliamentary election.  Tisza (for so it was named) and its leader Peter Magyar ran on a specific policy platform - get rid of Orban and unravel the mess he had created.  The country was ready for change, especially the younger generation and the city dwellers, while the rural electorate from Orban's heartland, poorer and less well educated, remained loyal: a very similar pattern to that played out in Poland's last general election that swept PiS from power after more than a decade, replacing it with a progressive, pro-EU coalition headed by ex-EU President Donald Tusk.  Come election day, and Tisza triumphed in a way few people had expected.  Orban and Fidesz were swept from power by a landslide, with the new party winning 141 of the 199 seats available.  Cue dancing in the streets and much consumption of strong Hungarian beer and wine.  

Time to go back.

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In fact, I was there a couple of weeks before the election, for a couple of days with My Beloved to celebrate my birthday.  I think the timing was about right, given the possibility of some civic unrest had the result gone the other way: when we were there there was a definite buzz about the place, an excitement in the air.  Posters everywhere, hanging from every lamp-post, every traffic light, at every bus and tram stop.  There were many in questionable taste - Fidesz posted thousands that bore the face of Ukraine's President Zelensky, branding him incompetent, a war monger and an enemy of Hungary whose continued defiance was costing Hungarian lives (a lie of course): I would not be in the least surprised to find out Putin had paid for those.

We booked a room in a small, new boutique hotel that turned out to be perfect for us: the price was discounted, for a start, and it was located in the centre of city within a few minutes walk of St. Stephen's Basilica and the river, and a hundred metres or so from the last stop on the bus route in from the airport.  The reception staff were welcoming and stored our bags (we arrived early, in mid-morning, long before our room was ready) and helped us locate the major sites we wanted to see on a tourist map.  There was a decent sized dining room that served a very tasty and good value breakfast (included in the room rate) - nothing particularly exciting about it, the usual mix of hot (sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and baked beans) and cold (a good selection of fresh rolls, pastries, jams and honeys, with fresh fruit and yoghurts, washed down with good tea, coffee and chilled fruit juices or water) but it did the job and set us up for our daily exercise.  

And exercise we had in abundance.

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After dropping our bags, our first port of call was St. Stephen's Basilica, situated a couple of hundred metres way.  Of course it had hardly changed at all, apart from probably a good clean or two since it was much brighter than in my memory.  Ticketing was a little confusing: we had to cross a side street and find a poorly labelled window in an old building to get our admission passes, but it was worth it.  The interior is absolutely stunning, in my view surpassing the splendour of London's St. Pauls and Westminster Cathedrals, and the beautiful edifice of Canterbury Cathedral: the only places of worship I've visited that are better are probably the magnificent St. Peter's in the Vatican City and the (then still incomplete) Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. We spent an hour or so just wandering around marveling at the construction of the place, the exquisite stained glass windows and paintings in the main body of the cathedral and its many tiny side chapels.  Pride of place goes to the Hand of St. Stephen: literally, his right hand severed at the wrist and preserved, allegedly miraculously, and now protected by a dimly illuminated glass case.  It took some time to find, but we did eventually - it's at the door to one of the smallest side chapels that only has a handful of seats: we had probably passed it two or three times already.  

The surrounding area, however, had changed quite a bit.  The square is now pedestrianized and the global chains like Starbucks and the California Coffee Company and Radisson Hotels now had premises within a few yards, mixed with Korean and Japanese restaurants and Italian Gelato bars.  The traditional Hungarian restaurants seem to have moved on or closed down, including my basement steak & chips venue: the building I recall it being in is now a decent looking pizza parlour with, as far as I could see, no basement level.  But at least the bank I worked at is still there.

From there, was ambled down to the river, via Hercegprimas and Jozsef A. Andrassy streets, that brought us out by the little waterfront park straddling the entrance to Szechenyi bridge.  Despite being the end of March, it was a warm sunny day, and the area, including on the promenade itself, was full of tourists and students - and there was a strong scent of wacky baccy in the air.  There was a definite buzz  there, and animated conversation going on in the various groups, I'm assuming about the election due the following week.  I rather think most of the people were very much anti-Orban, and much of the discussion about the advantages getting rid of him would be to the jobs market and the economy and relations with the EU: all of these were very important considerations to the youth and city dwelling Hungarians, as they had been for the same demographic in the Polish elections that swept Tusk's Civic Coalition into power a couple of years previously.  Given the Tisza landslide I think I was correct.  We sat there for a while watching the river traffic and the Buda skyline across the river, then walked further downstream as far as the Marriott hotel, then turned back away from the river and made our way back to the hotel.  

Next door-but-one there was a small supermarket so we ducked in there to pick up some vital supplies - wine mostly, and beer and some snacks like biscuits and crisps which we then took back to our hotel room and put in the fridge to cool.  By this time it was early evening and growing dark, and we decided it was time to eat.  An article on Google (the usual Seven Things To Do In {city name here} for Budapest) recommended an area known as The Ruins as a good and vibrant place for food and drink, and we had already decided to pay it a visit: the guy on the Check-In desk had shown us roughly where it was - only a short walk, no more than a kilometer, from the hotel - so that seemed a good place to start.

We found our way there, a bit of a zig-zag walk through increasingly shabby streets, until we found it.  It was well worth the effort.  The Ruins is an apt name for the neighbourhood: most of the buildings were just that, left over and unrepaired since the 1956 invasion, and some still pock-marked by bullet scars, and all of it in the old Jewish Quarter.  But step through the doors and gateways and there is indeed a vibrant food and drink and club scene opening up before you.  We entered The Ruins off Kazincyi at a place called Szimpla Kurt: it was a narrow walkway into a bombed out building, and lined on each side with street food carts - there were stalls selling burgers and pizzas and kebabs, plus more local dishes like goulash soup and langos (thick crust pizza bases deep fried and topped with a variety of meats, cheeses and vegetables and absolutely delicious - and filling!) - that opened up to a larger space with three or four bars selling a wide range of local and foreign beers, wines and spirits.  The space was roofed with glass panes and interlaced industrial piping painted in a variety of garish colours from which hung all kinds of weird and wonderful fabric and scrap metal art work, streamers and things like Chinese lanterns.  At one point open metal stairs led up to a kind of balcony area, accessed through the back half of an old Trabant car, painted bright red.  There was a mix of techno and hip-hop music playing from all the bars and some of the food stalls, not too loudly to prevent conversation, but loud enough.  It was crowded with mostly young, mostly local people and more than a few tourists like us (we were clearly identifiable by the way we were trying to look in every direction at once, with awed expressions or broad smiles on our faces).  We loved it.  We ate a couple of langos, choosing and sharing different toppings, and sampled three or four local beers.  The great thing was that, in all the bars, you were served in brightly painted and decorated half litre strong plastic glasses, and paid a surcharge of 50 forint for each one.  Return the glass intact and you got a refund, or if you preferred just keep them as souvenirs.  We came out with four, one each for the whole family.  What a great idea!

From there, we followed Google Maps to find another recommendation, the name of which escapes me (Mazel Tov, perhaps?) that was described as a sports bar with big screen tv's, dartboards and pool tables as well as a wide range of beers.  We found it easily enough, no more than a couple of hundred metres from The Ruins.  It was markedly different: smaller and scruffier and one corner stinking of piss where (I hope!) the toilets simply needed a clean, and pretty much empty - there were no more than a dozen people there when we arrived.  The pool table was there, as were the dartboards, and one of the tv's silently transmitted a football match.  The food menu was mostly burgers or pizzas, but there was indeed a wide selection of local beers.  As usual, we selected a different brew each and swapped half way through drinking them: they were both pretty good and pretty strong.  But we were getting tired after a long day's travel and tramping, so we settled for the the one beer and headed back to the hotel to rest.

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We slept well in a comfortable bed, and woke to another warm and sunny day.  The view from our (thankfully well soundproofed) window was of the narrow side road passing us by, that carried not too much traffic but many pedestrians, and just along the street the busy junction that held the bus stop from the airport and other routes serving the area, plus a tram stop serving a couple of lines, and a lot of traffic including delivery vans and taxis.  It was busy most of the time we were there, and noisy when we left the hotel, but not at all a disturbance when we were inside.  The buildings, including ours, were old and mostly renovated, but still had character including little juliet balconies at many windows.  The building opposite us seemed to be apartments still, and immediately across from our room and one floor down we were able to see into the room.  We had to double check: clearly visible were two very sinister looking men, sitting motionless, and staring across towards us, one directly at our window and the other at the pavement below.  We looked closer - and burst out laughing: they were both clothes shop mannequins, dressed in old fashioned clothes and bewigged and looked very realistic indeed - they certainly fooled us (or maybe that was the last of the previous evening's alcohol intake taking us in).  Either way, I take my hat off to whoever came up with the idea: they have a great sense of humour.  

We breakfasted, then filled our bottles (one with white wine and one with water) and headed off to visit the opposite bank of the Danube, the Buda side, from whence we expected stunning views, from its elevated position, up and down the river and across the Pest city and Parliament building.  We knew how we were going to get there - a stroll down to the river and across the Szechenyi Bridge, then up either a footpath or a ride on the funicular railway to the Old Town and Government quarters - and then a stroll around the relatively small summit.  There were, according to the guides on Google, some stunning churches, old office blocks, gardens and narrow streets lined with coffee shops and restaurants, and superb views.  All of this was very true, but neglected to mention the buses and taxis that thronged those narrow streets and made crossing them a bit risky.  But what the hell, we were tourists and were not going to miss a thing.

The first highlight turned out to be the funicular.  The excellent You Tuber Scott Manson from the Trains, Planes, Everything channel has a thing about funicular railways (and tunnels) so he would love this area.  This particular railway, all hundred or so metres of it, is very well preserved, very efficient and reasonably well priced, so for that alone gets top marks.  But it has another claim to fame.  There are a couple of scenes in Wes Anderson's excellent Grand Budapest Hotel movie where certain characters are being ferried up and down a mountainside in a beautifully varnished wooden funicular carriage - we took the same carriage here: it connects the Danube promenade to the Buda Old City and is nowhere near any mountains.  The magic of cinema....

At the top we were faced with a whole range of buildings, some hotels, some apartments, but mostly offices like the Ministry of War, outside of which a pair of armed and traditionally uniformed soldiers performed a carefully choreographed drill, marching forward a few paces, perfect left and right turns, crossing the distance (15 or 20 paces) between and past each other, then perfect right and left turns and a few paces back to their starting points.  Then rinse and repeat - the whole manouevre took a minute or two.  We watched for a quarter of an hour and saw it several times, and the soldiers performed it flawlessly every time.  It reminded me of the Guardsmen patrolling the offices in Whitehall, or those minding the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior in Warsaw's Ogrod Saski park.

Close by we found our first stunner: the church of Matyas-templom (St. Matthew's Church).  It's a beautiful white church, with a  narrow and pointed steeple towering above the body of the building.  It stands on a square, and across from it is an arched bridge that contains viewing paths and stone viewing areas with those stunning views across the river.  There was also a Starbuck's at the top, with a seating area where admittance was chargeable (over and above the cost of your coffee and carrot cake) - we gave that a miss.  But we did battle our way up narrow stone steps to the viewpoints (and I'm not exaggerating: gaining access to the best was a case of elbows at the ready) and the view was indeed spectacular.  

To the left, upstream, was the imposing Margit- Szigert island in the middle of the river, itself a tourist attraction that can be visited by ferry (highly recommended, says Google) and is pretty much 100% public park: for us it's one for a future visit.  The Parliament Building lies on the opposite bank, the Pest side, and about halfway to the island and is the most stunning building in a city of stunning buildings, in my opinion.  It's massive for a start, with a St.Paul's Cathedral sized dome amidships, and constructed of white marble. Facing the river there are walkways and colonnades, presumably for the use of MPs during tea and lunch breaks, or entertaining guests.  In the evening, when darkness falls and the lights are switched on, it is even more impressive - it glows.  The Palace of Westminster, with Big Ben towering over Parliament Square and Westminster Bridge is impressive enough.  But the Hungarian Parliament Building takes architectural excess to another level.  I love it.

We ambled back towards the funicular, past a small and leafy park where a kilted Scotsman was playing a set of bagpipes (never my favourite instrument - my mum always called them agony bags, a good description) very well, at least to my Sassenach ears.  Then came the second stunner.  We noticed a lot of people coming out of a narrow side street close to the ministries and next to an excellent looking (but expensive) patisserie and coffee shop, and wondered what was there.  It turned out to be one of the best museums (or amusements, I'm not sure which...) I've ever visited.  Oddly, it doesn't appear on our Tourist Map, but a Search on DuckDuckGo (and probably any other Engine) comes up with Dracula's Labyrinth beneath Buda Castle.  It has only the one small, inoffensive entrance door in this little side street (that I hadn't realised until now is right next to the Castle) that leads into a small entrance and ticket office.  The sign hanging over the door says simply Labirintus, and you could easily walk right past and not notice it.  We already had.

It leads to a vast network of damp tunnels that honeycomb the rock on which Buda City was built, and where the temperature remains a steady 16 to 18C - chilly and wet  Not all of them are open to the public, but narrow tunnels lead you through a network of dimly lit and misty thoroughfares, up and down slopes and stairs, with a guide-rope attached to one wall for you to follow.  Here and there are caves, sealed off with glass, and containing mannequins that represent the prisoners (and often their families) that were incarcerated there, often for many years and sometimes to their death.  There are, too, some side passages that lead nowhere except back onto themselves, and if you let go of that rope it's very easy to become disoriented - as we found out.  And there are also places where, as you turn a sharp and dark corner you are suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by an ugly distorted face (think the Orcs in the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit film trilogies) or by a cobweb spread across at head height, or black bats hanging from the tunnel roof, just above your head.  The Romanian Count Vlad the Impaler, a.k.a. Dracula, was the most famous tennant, and his grim and dark cell takes pride of place, the deepest one on your tour.  We lost our way at one point in the depths, and bumped into another couple, Americans, who had done likewise.  We tried to agree on which way to go and set out together, but somehow became separated again - we could hear their voices fading away, and they could probably hear ours - and I still don't know quite how it happened.  We doubled back and it seemed we had reached a fork in the path and each taken a different one without realizing it in the darkness.  

We found our way out eventually, but our various detours lengthened the expected duration of the visit from about 20 minutes to over an hour.  It was brilliant and frankly terrifying - but well worth the money and for me a Budapest highlight. But I'm not sure I'm in any hurry to go back!

After that little adventure, we decided it was time to eat, and headed back across the river.  Rather than use the funicular we strolled along a network of sometimes steep footpaths through the parks at either side of it (and very pleasant they are too), then back across the bridge to our stating point.  In one of the side streets we found a very old but reasonably priced cafe and stopped there for some delicious eggs - I had eggs benedict with salmon and My Beloved an omelette and salad - both delicious.  But we still had one more Must Do trip that day.

A lot of the long boats cruising the river are not actually cruise vessels at all - no cabins, no restaurants or on-board entertainment - but simply sight-seeing boats.  We had booked a ride on one of them, timed for after darkness fell.  We spent an hour or so just wandering around various side streets window shopping (but buying nothing) and enjoying the exercise.  We stopped at a Starbuck's on the river for a coffee and cake, and watched the sun sinking over Buda Castle on the opposite bank, and then walked back across the tram tracks to our boarding point.  We were there in good time and were able to secure good seats at the front of the top deck cabin and settled in for the ride.

It wasn't a long one, taking perhaps an hour at most, but after nightfall with the Castle and  Parliament Building illuminated, as well as the Big Wheel on the Pest side close to the Intercontinental Hotel (not as big as the London Eye but still a decent size) and of course the many office blocks and St.Stephen's Basilica, plus the the other river traffic (ours was not the only sightseeing cruise) there was plenty to see.  We headed upstream for about 15 minutes, past the Parliament and close to the tip of the island, then did a u-turn and headed back on the Buda side, past our start point before another u-turn by Szabadsag hid bridge (across the road from the Central Market Hall) and back a couple of hundred metres to the quayside.  

It was certainly money well spent: all passengers were given a glass of champagne on boarding and refills were available throughout at no cost, and there was much laughter and a good atmosphere on board as well the spectacular cityscape to enjoy.  I thoroughly recommend it.

But enough for that day - just under 20km walked according to the fitness app on my phone (which took me by surprise: I had figured about 15 or 16, the same as the previous day).  Back to the hotel and sleep.

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The following morning was a little cooler and damp, but still pleasant, to finish our trip.  We had another good breakfast and headed off for a final tour, this time aiming to visit the Market Hall, another highly rated attraction according to Google.  We strolled along the promenade, past our cruise boat quay and the Starbuck's we had used the previous day, then turned up a pedestrianised side street full of souvenir and bookshops, pubs and restaurants (open even mid-morning when we passed) until we reached the Hall.

Well, it didn't disappoint: the place was massive, football stadium sized but older: all red brick, with baroque towers and gables, and huge oaken doors and window frames.  Inside, the ground floor contained hundreds (no exaggeration) of stalls laid out in aisles, selling possibly every item of food known to Hungarian man.  Cheeses, white yellow and indeterminate, in huge wheels or cut into manageable triangular slices.  Racks of sausages of varying sizes and colours, smoked and unsmoked.  Dead pigs and portions thereof.  Hams.  Veal and lamb cutlets.  God knows how many varieties of salami.  Fresh breads and rolls.  Every kind of vegetable.  The place was packed: tourists like us of course, but locals too, including little old ladies buying their daily shop.  We bought some cheese and salami and hams to take home, and My Beloved got it all from the stalls the old dears were shopping at, on the basis that they knew what was the best quality and best prices.  I have no doubt her judgement was spot on - it was all delicious, when we got home and ate it.

But that was not all.  There is an upper level, similarly laid out with aisles of stalls, but these were selling clothes.  Most of it was the typical tourist tat ("I 💗 Budapest" t-shirts, others with pictures of various buildings like the Palace, the Parliament, and St. Stephen's , others celebrating bands like Pink Floyd, AC/DC and Nirvana, replica football shirts from Liverpool to Barcelona via Ferencvaros and the Hungarian national team, a thousand different varieties of fridge magnets and bottle openers, baseball caps, newsboy caps and stripey bobble hats....) but others sold more conventional shirts and trousers and knitwear.  There were stalls selling glassware from flower vases to vodka shot glasses (plain and decorated) via beer glasses (half- and full-litre sized, emblazoned with "Budapest" in a variety of colours), whisky and wine glasses.  Others sold coffee cups of varying styles and sizes (again Hungary or Budapest branded).  There were stalls selling beautiful hand-crafted chess sets, paintings and prints, CDs and vinyl records, leather belts in various styles, and jewellery stalls from the cheap and nasty to diamonds and pearls.  

Without a doubt, it's the biggest such place I've ever visited, and we could easily have spent the whole day exploring it and still not seen everything (did I mention the cafes and kebab stalls and coffee shops?  And the cake stalls and sweet shops...).  Absolutely loved it.

But we had a flight to catch.  We headed back to our hotel and collected our bags, then hopped on the bus out to the airport.  It was mid afternoon and traffic was building, so the ride out took longer but we were there in plenty of time.  Being Schengen there were no passport formalities (I will never in my life understand the British government's aversion to the Schengen Zone back in the good old days when we were EU members...) so we had time to settle down for a drink and a snack before our WizzAir flight home.  (Incidentally the low-cost carrier is effectively Hungary's flag carrier now, since Malev went bust, and is by far the biggest user of Budapest airport with its own sparkling new terminal for its exclusive use; other airlines like BA and LOT Polish and Czech Airlines etc use the scruffy old terminal.)   

There was however one last piece of excitement.  Some numbnuts left a suitcase unattended in one of the duty free outlets, and the alarm was sounded.  We were all ushered by security to one end of the Departures Hall and cordoned off by armed police as the offending bag was attended to.  I have no idea whether numbnuts came to claim it (and hopefully take a verbal flogging), or the bomb disposal people took it away, but whatever: after about 15 minutes it was all over and we were allowed back to our waiting area.  The drama, such as it was, made no difference to our flight: it was on time, short - the flight time between Warsaw and Budapest is something like 35 minutes - and comfortable.

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So that, too, was my Budapest.

Our visit was no longer than my business trip all those years ago, but we packed a whole lot more into it.  It's a beautiful city, scruffy in places (the Jewish Quarter and The Ruins, for instance) and stunning in others (Buda City and Palace is beautiful, the Parliament building stunning and the Central Market Hall extraordinary).  The people we met were unfailingly polite and friendly with excellent English - that at least hadn't changed in the intervening years; if anything it was more widespread.  The public transport has improved, the quality of roads is better than I remembered, and the old Skoda taxis have gone, replaced by the ubiquitous Toyota and Opel saloons (plus the odd Tesla) as in any other European city.  There is a wider variety of eateries, as many bars as I remembered, and many more international brand shops and hotel chains.  Most of all, there was an excitement in the air, and optimistic buzz about the place - but perhaps that was more to do with the forthcoming election that finished Orban.  

I want to go back again sometime: partly to try some more of their excellent local brews, but also to visit the park on the Margit Szigert island, have a proper tour of Buda Castle and indeed check out some of the other attractions on that side of the Danube.  In an ideal world it would be fun to link that to a Danube cruise - the river is one of Europe's most popular routes and there are various 10 to 14 day itineraries with different lines that call there - but I probably need a lottery win to afford that.  Still, WizzAir is a great option, and we would certainly use the same hotel.  So it's do-able for sure.

It's' a great place, a great destination and I thoroughly recommend it.

The Square Mile - some memories from an old hand

 

London.  The Smoke.  The Capital.  Heart of the Empire. Best city in the world.  The Original.  That shithole.

There are many names and epithets given to my homeland's capital city - some less polite than others.  There are many Londons in the world as well - my Phillips World Atlas, paperback edition, from 2005, lists 3 others in the USA and Canada, as well as Greater London and the three "London" airports (Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted: Luton, City and Southend have all since been designated as "London" airports despite being nearly as far out of town as Gatwick which is 38.2 miles by road from Parliament Square).  There is also Londres (the French translation of London) in, strangely, Argentina where Spanish is spoken....  More current editions may have even more listed, who knows?

But proper London, the one sitting on the Thames in southern England, marking settlements that have existed there since pre-historic times, and recognised as the biggest and most important city in England (and latterly the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland) since at least the Roman invasion c.44 B.C. - they named it Londinium - and perhaps still older, is the one I'm familiar with.  And writing about here.

Not about all of London, of course - I know it well enough, but not that well.  I'm telling stories here about the City of London.  It's been the financial centre of London, Britain, and for a long time the entire world, for centuries, and considering its historical might is astonishingly small - hence its long standing nickname: the title of this piece.  It remains one of only a very few cities within a city in the world - the only other one that springs to my mind is the Vatican City in Rome (I've worked there too....).  Other suggestions would be welcome.

I've spent a big part of my life working there, been to inner and outer city areas to play and watch sports, driven through areas I wouldn't (then) have wanted to walk through.  But most of these were in Greater London, the metropolis that grew up into an urban sprawl on the wealth and opportunity offered by the emergence and continued financial genius of the City.  Everywhere I've seen the skyline change, as skyscrapers have smothered the lovely old Regency and Victorian and Edwardian blocks that were often born as upmarket residences and morphed over time into office blocks, places of trade like the Stock Exchange (itself now transformed and migrated to a modern tower of glass and concrete and stainless steel cladding).  I've seen the transformation of crumbling riverside wharves and warehouses into luxury shopping malls and dining areas, old and dingy markets into designer stores and museums and art galleries.  It changes every time I go there.  I wouldn't say I exactly love the place, but still after all these years I feel its pull, my connection to it.  It still fascinates me.

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In 1970, when I started work as a filing clerk in the back office of a venerable old stockbrokers, to the delight of my working class parents who viewed it as a job for life (I wish....), the office I was based at was in just such an old Victorian block in Finsbury Circus, on Moorgate, within walking distance of the grand old Stock Exchange building, the Bank of England, the Royal Exchange and that maze of little lanes and alleys that still make up a big part of the Square Mile.  Salisbury House (for such was its name) was - and still is - a lovely old building, one side of it curved around one quadrant of the circular gardens in the Circus, of 5 floors.  The offices and meeting rooms came in all shapes and sizes, linked by a maze of corridors, and all of the rooms, even our long and narrow, scraggy back office with big windows overlooking the gardens, were flock wallpapered and carpeted in the old style with heavy wooden doors and window frames, all dark varnished.  No open-plan floors for dear old Grieveson Grant & Co, the sixth biggest broker in the country at that time. The desks were proper wooden desks, the chairs we sat on proper dining room chairs, again dark wood and upholstered, and only the department manager's chair had arms.  Every desk was equipped with a couple of wire baskets, (named In and Out), and a big gray metal ashtray (everybody, me included, smoked and it was perfectly acceptable to do so: there was a constant fog in the room).  Oh, how times have changed!

The lifts in the building all had somebody operating them: they were open fronted with a concertina door that was opened and closed for you by the operator.  The one I used to use, that opened across the corridor from the door to our room, was operated by a little Jewish guy called Lou.  He was no more than about five foot five or six tall, balding, wearing tortoiseshell spectacles, and was probably about 60.  Despite wearing a very smart dark uniform with epaulettes on the shoulders, a yellow waistcoat, white shirt and black tie, he always had a smouldering cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth and sometimes another, unlit of course, tucked behind an ear.  They were hand rolled, I remember.  He never said much: "Morning, Sir" and "Have a good day" about the limit, at least with me - but for a seventeen year old country boy, in his first job, fresh out of school where deference to adults was expected, being called "Sir" by an adult, was something I never really got used to.  It was possibly my first real exposure to the class system that was still clinging on, especially in the City.

But my main memory of working in Salisbury House had nothing to do with the work, nor the people I worked with (although I have clear and fond memories of both), nor even the fabric and decor above, but something incredibly trivial.  From my window I looked down on the gardens, and on the corner of the road that led in from Moorgate to the Circus and outside one of the doors of our building was one of the old red pillar boxes where in pre-internet times we used to post letters.  It was one of the double sized ones, with two doors (one for UK mail and another for Foreign mail) and stood perhaps five feet high.  There was nothing special about it at all.  One day, there was a stir of muted excitement in the room, and people started lining up and looking out at the letter box so of course I took a look too.  You could only see the base, the first foot perhaps, of the structure, the rest of it was completely hidden by a melee of people, men and women, all young and clinging onto each other grimly, the whole pack wobbling precariously.  They were surrounded by a crowd of other people, some of them holding clipboards and cameras, and everyone cheering and clapping enthusiastically.  At which point, the people on the post box started separating and dropping down to the pavement to much back slapping and hugging.  Show over, we all simply got back to work.  It turned out (we saw in the tabloid papers the next day) that the people were students from - if memory serves - the London School of Economics who had just set a Guinness World Record for the Most People Standing On A British Post Box  - I can't remember how many it was: certainly more than 30, a ridiculous number anyway - that stood for years.  It might even still be in there, because I can't see that many people would want to have a go at breaking it.

I went back there last summer, on one of my family visits, and the building was unchanged, at least outwardly, as was the post box, as you can see in the picture above.  It quite made my day.

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Salisbury House wasn't unique.  At that time the City was still full of low-level Regency-looking blocks, typically no more than five or six floors high.  Many were fronted by a variety of shops - stationary stores, newsagents, and clothes shops (pinstriped suits and camel hair overcoats, brogues and bowler hats the most common items on sale). There was also a huge selection of sandwich bars where the food was prepared for each individual customer using fresh ingredients while you waited in the queue.  There were no cellophane wrappers, no "sell by date" stamped stickers, and no lists of ingredients with nutritional values: you got a simple sandwich according to what you asked for, wrapped in plain white paper in a simple white paper bag (the bigger shops had their names printed on this).  And to me at least they looked and tasted infinitely better than anything on offer nowadays at Pret a Manger, Subway or any other of today's chain outlets - and way WAY better than anything in Boots the Chemist or WH Smith.  Only a few of the sarnie bars (as we used to call them) also did coffee, and then it was a simple black coffee or with milk (sugar was help yourself with a teaspoon - not a skinny wooden stick - from a china bowl) and none of this skinny latte or oatmeal milk or even semi-skimmed nonsense.  Proper tea and coffee and plain, filling grub.  I miss it.

Some of the buildings, Salisbury House included, had cafeterias in the basement.  Ours (and I assume the others were little different) were scruffy with peeling paint and the ever-present tobacco fog, long formica topped tables and stainless steel and wood chairs, and self-service.  I used to go there most days because the value-for-money was ridiculous.  I could (and usually did) have two beefburgers (not in a bun with salad and stuff as in today's McDonalds, just simply fried and greasy), a couple of sausages, a big helping of chips fresh from the fryer, a spoonful of peas or baked beans, the whole topped off by a couple of fried eggs.  To wash it down, a mug of tea.  The whole meal cost me no more than about five  shillings (25p) - in today's value that's about five pounds.  And I could offset that with a luncheon voucher (the only employment benefit I received then) for 15p.  So call it about two quid a day in today's money.  Not bad.....and not that healthy, either, probably, but it was filling and set me up for the afternoon's work (afternoons were invariably busier than mornings) and the commute home.

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Ah, yes....the commute.  

Edenbridge, my home town, was on the border with Kent and Sussex, and thus about 30 miles as the train clattered, from there to London Bridge Station (the closest terminus to Salisbury House).  The line, which extended south from Edenbridge Town station, a ten minute walk from my council house home, as far as Uckfield in Sussex, was not a main line, so there were very few fast - i.e. limited stops - trains and no express - non stop - at all.  Most trains stopped at every station (there were seven after mine) as far as East Croydon, then ran fast through the south London suburbs to the destination. Most trains went to Victoria, but one an hour ran to London Bridge.  Coming home it was a bit worse: the last direct service left London Bridge at about 6:15 so if you were a bit late (overtime or the pub) you had to make your way across town to Victoria to catch the one evening train an hour, which was divided at Oxted - half going to East Grinstead, the rest to Uckfield : a longer trip all round.

The trains weren't fast at all: they comprised two, sometimes three, three-car diesel units that were cold, drafty, loud and slow.  The morning run took just under an hour, the home run a little longer (if you went from Victoria a good bit longer, factoring in the time it took to divide at Oxted).  They were also very crowded, and most mornings by the time the train reached Oxted - so two stops up from Edenbridge Town - it was standing room only.  What made things worse was the majority of commuters, at least on the services I had to use, worked like me in the City of London or the Victoria/Westminster area and were thus stockbrokers or insurance  workers, or civil servants, which meant they read a newspaper on the journey (remember this was over 50 years ago, long before the internet put everything on-line to read on your mobile).  And because of their work and it has to be said the traditions surrounding it, reading The Times or the Daily Telegraph (and occasionally The Guardian) was expected, the papers of choice: broadsheets, not a tabloid.  It added to your education: how to fold up your newspaper so as to be able to read it without knocking the elbow of your seat neighbour (who was doing likewise).  It was an art form not unlike origami that I never mastered.  I used to read books, paperbacks I could stuff in my coat pocket or (later, when I started using one) brief case.  And that I have continued to do ever since - it's turned me into a voracious reader but rarely of newspapers.  I never travel on train, plane or bus without one.  

Sadly, physical newspapers are a rarity nowadays, having moved online like everything else.  It's a shame: in my later working life I used to buy (or pick up at the aircraft door) my Monday copy of, usually, the Telegraph (that's before it went totally downhill, becoming rampantly Right wing and deranged) with its Sports, Entertainment and Culture supplements, and it would usually keep me going for the entire week away.  I spent many an hour sitting in the sunshine at a pavement cafe somewhere, enjoying a coffee or two, perhaps a cold beer, and a pastry of some kind, and reading the paper.  

I remember one lady, very well spoken and smartly dressed, who used to travel to Victoria with three gentlemen - they all boarded one stop further out, I think, at Hever (as in the Castle).  They would sit on the same four seats together, two facing two, on the off-side of the train so they weren't disturbed by other people getting on.  They would then carefully fold their papers (all of them took the Times) to the page carrying the daily crossword puzzle, and then at the count of three start a competition to see who would finish first (or in the rare event of none of them doing so, who had the most clues completed).  The lady, I remember, always donned a pair of white cotton gloves to avoid smudging the ink on the paper's pages, and would complain bitterly about having to do so.  They were probably the happiest people on the train, in their own world, like characters out of a P.G.Wodehouse story. 

Alas, something else the internet and smart phones seems to have killed off....

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A final recollection: how different everything looked.  Yes, yes, I know it's half a century ago, so of course everything looks different.  But on this last trip it struck me even more than usual, probably because I was trying to explain it all to My Beloved.

For a start, the people I saw every day, at work and walking across London Bridge to and from the office, all looked by and large the same.  The majority - the vast majority! - of us tramping across London Bridge (and all the other bridges that served the Square Mile) were white Caucasian males.  There were very few dark skinned people, whether Afro-Caribbean or of Indian extraction, amongst the teeming crowds: there were for sure plenty living in Greater London but not many, at least that I can recall, actually worked in the City.  There were certainly none at all working at Grievesons in any capacity.  As far as I am aware, this was not because of any anti-immigrant bias by the firm's management, simply that none had at that time been employed.  It didn't strike me as being in any way odd: I'm not sure I had ever seen a dark face, anywhere, in my life at that point.  It was just....normal.

Most of the men wore dark pin-striped suits generally with a waistcoat, white (or perhaps with a blue-striped pattern) shirt and a dark tie.  Sometimes cufflinks and tie pins were worn, and there was a decent number of regimental or Old School ties, even the odd MCC striped one (especially in the summer and on Test Match days).  In the winter a dark or camel-hair overcoat or raincoat would be added, and a tightly rolled umbrella with a bamboo cane handgrip.  Many of the men also wore at all times a neatly brushed black bowler hat: it  identified the bearer as a senior manager or partner at one of the many stock- and insurance-brokerage firms that made the City's wealth.  Brief cases were invariably of dark brown leather and expensively finished with shining brass catches and locks: these carried the daily paper and, I assume, Important Investment Papers and Reports.  Possibly cheese sandwiches too - who knows?

This was a way of identifying their importance.  The hat would of course be removed in the office, but donned whenever the bearer left the office to head to the Stock Exchange (or, for insurance brokers, the Lloyds of London) Floor itself to do some business.  But there was one exception to this rule: the Government Broker.  At this time (and it may have varied from administration to administration) he was the senior partner in the firm of Mullens & Co. But whichever the firm, his job was to buy and sell shares and UK Gilts (government securities) as instructed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer for and on behalf of the Government of the day.  As an unmistakable means of identification, when he went to the Floor to do this, he would replace his bowler hat with a black top hat.  I remember watching from the Visitor's Gallery once the frisson of excitement when he strode purposefully onto the floor and began a circuit of the Jobbers' boxes to place his orders (which were never executed and were confidential between he and the jobbers used until he had left the Floor to return to his office).  I apologise for the terminology I've had to use there: I will have to pen another short essay to define it and explain how the business was done then (now of course it's all automated and online - the more's the pity!)

Anyway, we plebs, the back office wallahs, would dress similarly, but our ensembles were clearly of a cheaper and off-the-shelf variety rather than tailor made, from a chain store like Hepworth's or Burton's, and our umbrella would be less tightly furled (another trick of the trade I never really mastered) with a mock leather handle not bamboo.  We never wore hats: that was definitely a Bad Show, unless you were of an older age group and wore a grey trilby. Similarly our briefcases - at least for those of us pose-y enough to carry them - were typically a bit frayed round the edges from hard use at school and again of a lower chain-store make.  

The women I recall (and there were relatively few, mostly secretaries, receptionists and shorthand typists) were dressed smartly: invariably, it seemed to me, in floral dresses or swishy blue or grey pleated skirts (VERY rarely black pencil tight ones!), tights (I assume: but maybe a smattering of stockings and garter belts too....) and sensible shoes, which is to say black or brown, slip on, low heel: not a stiletto in sight.  Nor for that matter a pair of trousers (sorry: slacks). In spring and summer a thigh length light jacket or fine-knit cardigan would cover the white blouse and in winter this was replaced by a variety of longer, mid-calf affairs (some like macs, some trench coats and some like the men's overcoats).  And of course their jackets and coats always, but always, had the buttons on the opposite side to us men.  Why is that?  I've never been able to work that one out!  Any ideas?

What we very rarely encountered as we tramped across London Bridge to the office (and I'm sure it was the same for everyone coming into Fenchurch and Liverpool Street stations from Essex and East Anglia, and the various Tube stations) were tourists.  In those days, the City was a busy working place, with very few tourist sights to see: St. Paul's Cathedral was just beyond the City limits, the Tower of London and the Monument (to the Great Fire) were deep within, and that was about it.  HMS Belfast hadn't been moored up across from the Tower yet, and Tower Bridge was a proper working bridge, without a museum, bookshop or expensive pub under the south Tower, as today.  Of course at that time too tourism was not really A Thing - package tours to European destinations were just taking off (if you'll forgive the pun) and Citybreaks, so popular now, I don't think had even been thought of.  The only people likely to visit the City of London were there either to Do Business, or schoolkids on a day trip to visit the Stock Exchange, the Royal Exchange or Lloyds of London as part of their school Commerce or Economics courses.  I had done that myself a couple of years before,  and never for a moment thought it would lead to a career that, one way or another, kept me (and my families) in beer and bread for fifty years.

The hordes of Chinese, Japanese, Malaysian, American - let's be honest, the United Nations! - of excited people snapping away with their smartphones at everything while munching on Pret sandwiches or slurping Starbuck's finest, blocking the footpaths and shouting gibberish (to us Brits, anyway) just did not exist in 1970.  

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But the skyline: oh, my word, how different is that!  When I started there, on my first excited tramp across London Bridge, looking this way and that as I tried to take it all in,  Adelaide House at the northernmost point of the Bridge was the tallest I could see at I think seven or eight storeys.  It's still there, swathed in tarpaulin and developer's advertisements as it undergoes a complete refurbishment.  Beyond that, where King William Street (leading off the Bridge) meets Gracechurch Street was another fine old building, about the same height, with I recall a dome at the top.  The address, 42 Gracechurch Street, was one of the main City branches of, from memory, Midland Bank, but Google Maps now only lists it as The Folly, an expensive looking eatery. To the left, the view was dominated by the dome of the Central Criminal Court (a.k.a. The Old Bailey) and slightly closer its bigger and bolder cousin at St.Paul's Cathedral.  To the right lay the Tower of London and Tower Bridge itself, and Custom House on the north bank between the two bridges.  Looking beyond Tower Bridge, there was nothing but grubby looking semi-derelict wharf buildings on both banks of the river: the futuristic Wall Street On The Water business district of Canary Wharf was still twenty years or more away (thank you to the Divine Saint Margaret of Grantham for that...).

Closer at hand, again on the right (Tower Bridge) side, The Queens Walk linking London and Tower Bridges and thence along as far as Blackfriars and the new Millenium Footbridge didn't exist, and the various wharves and warehouses, including Hay's Wharf and Cottons Wharf, were semi-derelict, crumbling and deserted.  Now they have been totally redeveloped into a selection of tastefully modernised offices and high-end shopping malls and food courts.  And, my word, is it an improvement!  

In The City itself (remember, it lies on the North Bank of the Thames, so the developments I've just described aren't truthfully part of it - merely its southern gateway), the change has been if anything bigger.   I don't recall seeing skyscrapers at all in those early days.  The Barbican Centre, a few minutes stroll from Salisbury House, was still in the first stage of its construction: a low rise development of shops and a redeveloped (and still excellent) City Library, theatres, concert halls, galleries and cinemas and some outlying service buildings for the Stock Exchange.  The adjoining Barbican Estate, comprising some fourteen housing blocks of half a dozen floors each, surrounding a lake and parkland, was built as "social housing" - but a bit better than the council house I grew up in!   Next to that was a further luxury development comprising four towers (the first opening in 1971) that rise to 42 floors and 123m (in old money that's just over 400ft).  Not bad for 1970s London, and still among the tallest in the country.

But look now at the photo above.  As you can see, the buildings I remember are still there along Lower Thames Street, between the two bridges, but now the view is dominated by a series of new - some unfinished - offices that match, often exceed, the height of the Barbican Estate that has now disappeared from view, at least from the riverbank viewpoint.  Behind these waterfront blocks, and again obscured, are some of the older skyscrapers like Angel Court, just behind the Bank of England, where I spent an unhappy six month spell with a bunch of American sharks - the view from my 16th floor window towards Liverpool Street Station was probably the best part of my time there.  

Close to that stands the NatWest Tower, headquarters of the National Westminster Bank, and built to resemble from above (not that most people would ever see that view) the bank logo's symbolic triangular shape with rounded corners of slightly different heights.  It remains an iconic building, and won awards when new. Then on St. Mary Axe, close to Fenchurch Street, you have the Gherkin, a circular  black tower that narrows at the summit to give it its nickname.  I stands on the site of an older tower that formerly held the Baltic Exchange but was severely damaged by a terrorist bomb in 1992.  The old block was pulled down and replaced by the current 180m (that's 592ft) 41 floor tower.  It's unmissable, and in my view one of the more innovative buildings - some of the new ones, like the Cheese Grater at 122 Leadenhall Street (228m/738ft, 48 floors), or the Fenchurch Building (a.k.a. The Walkie Talkie because of its shape) at 20 Fenchurch Street -  relatively short at 160m/525ft and 37 floors, but topped by a three storey observation deck called the Sky Garden: a spectacular space apparently) to my eyes at least merely look a bit gimmicky.  But then I'm old school.

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To be sure, the City of London has changed immeasurably since my debut there 56 years ago, but under the surface retains some of its old charm.  Many of the pubs and restaurants I used to use are still in business, little changed inside and out and often serving the same food menu and range of beers: why change a good thing, after all?  There is still a buzz about the place, people dashing hither and thither, to work, to lunch, to a business meeting, even if they now increasingly wear jeans and trainers and tee-shirts rather than three piece suits, shirts and ties.  To be honest, that makes me very pleased: it always seemed to me that the important, crucial ingredient was the person inside the outfit, their knowledge and skills and attitude and simply not the Armani suits and Gucci loafers.  Sharing that view often got me into trouble... 

Culture changes, the same as everything else; it doesn't always work but clearly it has in the City, still a leading financial centre despite the nation's problems (that are rife and made worse by political mismanagement over the last twenty years...).

The little lanes and alleys are still there, and look the same as I remember, even if the brass name plates by the doors have different names now.  And the grand old buildings, the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange, across from each other on Threadneedle Street, right above Bank Station on the underground, are outwardly unchanged, solid grey granite monuments to Empire, with their pillared steps and oaken doorways, statues and gargoyles.  The Royal Exchange isn't an exchange any more, since 99% of the city's business went online, but remains home to a number of financial companies including the Bank of Italy, but the BoE remains what it's always been: the nation's lender of last resort, it's central bank - no tenants there.  And quite right, too!

Even the traffic, always appalling, has lightened now.  In my early days there was a non-stop procession of black cabs, red double decker buses (the classic Routemasters with an open platform at the back that allowed you to jump on and off at traffic lights or simply when the vehicle was stationary in a traffic jam), single deck coaches, delivery vans - you name it.  Upper and Lower Thames Streets, running along the north bank of the Thames from Westminster and out to Blackwall Tunnel and Docklands, was like a race track, especially around the turn of this century, when commuter coaches formed a viable alternative way for workers from Kent and Essex to get to and from work.  The whole length of the road was crammed with a fleet of multi coloured coaches of competing companies racing each other, and diving through gaps to the side of the road to pick up or drop off passengers, horns blaring and lights flashing - great fun for their passengers, less so for other drivers.  Now the inside lane, where the coach stops were (at least through the City) has been converted to a paved cycle lane and closed to all motorised traffic and when I was there not a coach in sight.

Many of the roads in and through the City have also been narrowed with specific bus and cycle lanes, and a new one-way system introduced, and this has reduced the amount of traffic too.  And of course there are now expensive (and unpopular) charges for all road users (buses and taxis excepted) who use the system to reduce the amount of traffic and hence vehicle emissions pollution - too little too late in terms of fighting global warming perhaps, but from a worker's or visitor's perspective probably making the place safer to navigate on foot and maybe more pleasant?  It seemed so to me, at any rate.  

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But for all the changes I've described, the City of London is still a unique place, not only in Britain but I would suggest the world.  I can understand (though not particularly like) the change in focus inevitably resulting from increased tourism, and decry and laud in equal measure the physical changes I've written about.  But it remains a business centre, and for all the trans-Atlantic bluster from the Wall Street crowd, or the claims from other important European centres like Frankfurt and Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels, or global outliers like Singapore and Tokyo and Beijing, there is absolutely nowhere quite like it in either value and importance or, for want of a better term, vibe, on the planet.  I'm not sure I'd want to work there now, nor spend more than the odd day there, retracing my ancient footsteps, to scribble about in essays like this.  

But it seems to me a year without doing so at least once is a wasted year.  The Square Mile gets you like that.

Venice

 

Venice is a place that has always held an appeal to me, a place to visit at some point.  An Italian jewel on the Adriatic coast, a destination on the Orient Express back in the golden days of luxury train travel that various nations and operators are trying to re-create (though not, it appears, dear old Blighty).  A major Mediterranean cruise destination all year round, depositing on most days tens of thousands of loud Americans, manically smiling Japanese and wealthy Chinese, all frantically scrambling through the narrow streets to get the obligatory gondola trips (and squabbling over queue jumping), madly snapping selfies with or without sticks to hold their iPhones, and blocking the bridges (and everyone else's chance of crossing the canal) while they do so.  Meanwhile harassed tour guides, waving little flags and/or umbrellas, yell incoherently in multiple languages as they try to keep their groups together and interested in the commentary.  Little back street bistros and bars, selling enticing plates of sea food snacks, pastas and aperol spritzers, sometimes surprisingly affordable and sometimes ludicrously expensive -  as a rule of thumb the closer the place is to one of the tourist hotspots (like St. Mark's Square for instance) the pricier the place will be.  Go to a little back alley, look for one packed with customers speaking Italian and the better and less expensive the place is likely to be: catering for the locals is always better value.  Street hawkers and stalls, mostly staffed by Indians and Tamil and Malays nowadays, flogging the usual selection of replica football shirts from Italian and Spanish clubs, fridge magnets, a variety of copied traditional face masks from the balls the city is famous for, and assorted tourist tat at exorbitant prices further block the narrow streets.  And let's not forget the bigger stores, the international outlets like Starbuck's, and Nike, Chanel and Desigual and the rest.

All life is there, for good or ill.  But there are quieter places, often stumbled across as you try to get from one tourist attraction to the next and avoid the cruise-ship crowd.  Within a ten minute stroll of the Sta. Lucia rail and bus terminus there is a small courtyard-cum-though lane, perhaps a hundred metres long, with narrow tenement buildings four and five storeys high, small balconies and high shuttered windows open and net curtains flapping in the light breeze: apartments all.  There were small gardens before the front doors, packed with trees some the height of the buildings, their boughs overhanging the balconies and providing more shade from the hot Adriatic sunshine.  The hustle and bustle of the island city was muted by the surroundings, and few people were passing through (mostly locals with shopping bags and  the odd lost - or more adventurous? - tourist).  As fine a place to live as I have seen,,,,,

At the end, it opened out into a slightly wider square, in the corner of which an unobtrusive door opened into the Leonardo da Vinci Museum.  It's a fascinating place, full of copies of the great man's paintings with plaques explaining their histories and techniques and the finer points of their composition.  Another section is dedicated to his scientific studies, including a big replica of his extraordinary Vitruvian Man figure that explains perspective and its relationship to the human figure, a separate small cabinet with half a dozen mirror walls that allow you see dozens of reflections of yourself from different angles, a 360degree view of yourself (without moving a muscle).....I felt quite dizzy.  Then there are exhibits describing his medical experiments and discoveries - the first to accurately map the system of blood vessels, veins and arteries that keep us allive, for instance, and the musculature system that keeps us moving - and the primitive tools (saws, scissors, pliers and so on) that enabled him to conduct his research....  The upper floor is dedicated to his engineering feats and gadgets: the first parachute, the first tank, the first machine gun (no, really!) are replicated and explained, as is a bridge that could be scaled up to cross rivers and streams, and easily assembled and dis-assembled without a nail or rope in sight. There are half a dozen small scale models that challenge you to build it yourself by copying the way the spars slot together on the full-sized replica....  I spent the best part of two hours wandering around, entranced by the man's genius and achievements in his 67 year life (for comparison I am 72 and apart from my kids have achieved bugger all really).  I can't recommend the place highly enough.

Opposite the museum, another discovery: back in Renaissance times Venice was the home of several schools and centres of learning, and here was the art scuolo.  From the outside it simply looks like just another of the big churches and basilicas that are scattered throughout the island. Go through the main doorway and you are in a cavernous open space, with a dark tiled floor, stained glass windows and paintings, dark and indistinct, lining all floor walls.  It's impressive, but I felt disappointed.  To the right, next to the obligatory book and gift shop, a marbled staircase leads to a wide landing and thence to a second floor - and here is the magic.  The upper floor, reached by a further impressive central marble staircase and a similar size to the ground floor, is much brighter, better lit and I suppose with clearer pigmentation in the windows.  Again, the tiled floor is impressive, and the seats lining all four walls and facing into the central space offer the chance to sit and take in the beauty of both the architecture and paintings mounted throughout.  The jewel in the museum's crown is a separate room leading off from the main space next to the stairs that houses a selection of works by the Italian master Tintoretto.  Central to the collection is a huge work depicting The Crucifixion, his most famous painting, and I have to say I've never been more impressed by a work of art.  Unlike most depictions of Christ's Passion that are typically dark and gloomy (as suits the subject matter), Tintoretto's is in brighter colours that paint a vivid scene.  The figures contained are superbly worked: the mucles straining and sweat standing out on the torsos and faces of the men straining on the ropes as they drag one of the Crosses upright and the agonised expression on their victim's face portray as no other depiction of the scene I've ever seen the sheer brutality of the action.  We sat for perhaps half an hour just looking at this painting, and absorbing its complexity and, yes, beauty.  Quite extraordinary and worth the admission price on its own. 

We made copious use of the vaporettos (the water buses) that criss-cross the canals and the outlying lagoon to the other islands: I hadn't realised the city was simply the largest (and man-made) central island. A three day City Pass ticket cost 40 euros amd provides unlimited journeys on the water and land buses, trams and trains serving the rest of the city, including those on the mainland.  Our airbnb rental was in the mainland suburb of Venice Mestre, and the number 12 bus that stopped right outside the building whisked us across the causeway from there to Sta. Lucia in not more than 15 minutes.  From there we were able to hop on and off the vaporettos as we liked, or stay on (depending on the route: there are several to choose from) for the length of the Grand Canal that twists through the island's heart past all the major landmarks like the Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto bridge (with its covered market stalls and shops) and Saint Mark's Square with the Basilica and Doge's Palace, and thence across the lagoon to the Lido (home of both a sandy beach and Venice Film Festival, Leonardo di Caprio's favourite), Murano with its glass factories and artisan blowers (free demonstrations and tours of the workshops) that produce stunning glass ornaments, vases and tableware, and Burano with its streets lined with pastel coloured houses (every one a different colour) housing family businesses of lace making, cafes and bistros.  The vaporetto to cover all three of them makes up an enchanting afternoon, and we chose the hottest and sunniest day of the week for our tour.  The home made pizza and cold (local) beer for lunch we had at a tiny cafe on one of the Murano waterfronts (the island has its own smaller canal system) was probably the best meal we had all week.

We had a great trip.  Our flight deal on Ryanair was ridiculously cheap, even by O'Leary's standards, and landing at Treviso thirty kilometres or so away from Venice was no problem: it gave us the opportunity to try out an Italian regional train service into Mestre station (ten minutes walk from our airbnb rental) and it was fine.  We also used the rail service for a daytrip to Verona an hour and half ride away, which was a fun day out.  It's a nice city, with a colloseum that looked in better nick that its better known Roman equivalent, a street market next to it (at least on the day we were there: some excellent cheese and chorrizo sausage snacks a highlight), designer shopping, and a beautiful central Old Town square surrounded by its own array of small bistros and containing another open-air market.  Verono is also, of course, the setting for Shakespeare's classic Romeo & Juliet, and the city's government is unashamedly cashing in.  Close to the Old Town square is a small courtyard surrounded by medieval buildings: one of the small balconies is "identified" as Juliet's (on what basis I have no idea).  Tickets to view cost 40 euros bookable only in advance, for which you are sent a QR code on your mobile.  You join the queue - when we were there this was a good 100m long - and eventually your code is checked and scanned by security and you are allowed in in groups of half a dozen, given five minutes to take your pictures and selfies, then shepherded away for the next group.  We gave it a miss.

Venice met my expectations completely.  It's a beautiful, atmospheric place, with some stunning sights and excellent shopping and dining options.  Public transport is varied and sensibly priced and, let's be honest, iconic (even though we missed out on the gondola trip). Mestre, on the mainland. is quite different, and seems to be the area in which the large immigrant population are housed: there were many kebab houses, Indian, Chinese and Arabic cafes, bars and restaurants.  It's a grubbier, grimier part of town but for all that has a charm of its own, with many lovely old buildings (including our old and solid apartment block) and a superb street market that we spent an hour so exploring (and ended up buying a tee-shirt, over three kilos of assorted local cheeses and salami sausage that made packing to come home challenging - but we managed!).  Our accomodation was also considerably cheaper than we would have paid on Venice island itself, but although in an old and shabby looking block was very well sized, comfortably furnished and with a kitchen and two bathrooms shared with other guests, enabled us meet and talk to people visiting from southern Italy and France - it added to the fun of the trip.

I can't wait to go back!

Proper grub....

 

I'm not a big fan of fine dining (although I have enjoyed some very pleasant meals in expensive restaurants, even Michelin starred ones). It just seems to me that placing a couple of small pieces of fish or meat on a plate, adding a spoonful of mashed potatoes and a couple of carrots, topping it off with some leaves from an indeterminate plant and a few decorative smears of mystery sauces on the plate (always twice the size of the one needed) do not a meal make. Sure, it all looks as pretty as a picture, and tastes pleasant enough. But if the criteria of a "meal" is to dispel hunger, then sorry - not for me. I always feel the need for a kebab or a Big Mac or something afterwards, to be honest. I know, I know - I'm a food Phillistine with no taste. I readily admit it! Sorry.

So living in Poland is a good call, since the typical local cuisine could in no way be called fine dining (at least in the widely accepted sense of the term). That said, the two best fine dining meals I've had were here in Warsaw. One was in a new restaurant opened a few years ago in a converted factory or warehouse in the up-and-coming Praga district (formerly more famous for its Russian mafia connections) by a renowned tv chef - the atmosphere and food were excellent and Mine Host made our night by coming to our table for a chat, and presenting the kids with chef's hats - suitably autographed, of course. He has since opened two or three more outlets in other parts of the city, again all of them in up-and-coming districts, and all successful.

The other time was about 18 months ago, shortly before my cancer surgery, in another new restaurant in the centre of the city, and was a gift from one of my sons. It featured typical fine dining stuff, scallops, squid, venison and so forth, and ran to 7 courses, each matched with a specifc wine. Our waiter explained the composition of each dish and why the particular wine had been matched to the food, his knowledge (or memory) impressive. It was superb, and again we were able to have a chat with the head chef as we were leaving. I would happily go to either restaurant again, and I have no doubt thoroughly enjoy the experience - but that doesn't change my overall view of the fine dining product.

No, I like hearty, well cooked food that fills the plate and the belly. In my view you cannot beat a good plate of roast lamb with mint sauce and a selection of fresh vegetables. Or roast pork with apple sauce - indeed any roast: chicken, turkey, beef - and I could happily eat a plate of crispy golden roast potatoes with a splash of beef gravy every day. English fish and chips - yes, please. Bangers and mash with onion gravy - oh, yes. Pies, too - chicken and mushroom, beef and ale, a genuine Cornish pastie full of beef and vegetable chunks, all of them encased in a golden-brown pastry (and I'll take them with potatoes or chips or indeed on their own). Not keen on steak and kidney, though: my dad had a kidney removed when I was seven or eight, and the next day mum cooked a steak and kidney pie: the thought that dad might have donated the kidney freaked me out and I can't bear the damned things to this day.

Here in Warsaw there is choice aplenty.

For a start all the international fast food brands are fully represented - McDonalds and Burger King, Pizza Hut and Domino's and KFC for a quick and easy meal, Hard Rock Cafe if you want something a bit more substantial with cold beer and live music on the side. Within five minutes or so stroll from my apartment I can chose between three Italian restaurants, a couple of American diners, a couple each of Thai and Vietnamese, a proper Chinese Dim Sum cafe and two ordinary Chinese restaurants, a really good Indian (had an excellent birthday dinner there last week) and a couple of kebab houses. That's not to mention a handful of good patisseries selling fine looking cakes and ice creams and good coffee, plus some places specializing in Polish kitchen - soups, cutlets and roast meats with fresh veg or coleslaw and beetroot salad, pierogi (dumplings with a variety of fillings including potato, meat, cabbage, and cheese), savoury and sweet pancakes. So I'm not spoiled for choice. Go further afield in the city, and there are plenty of Mediterranean restaurants, Lebanese and other Arabic cafes, Balkan kitchen (notably Serbian and Croatian - seafood a speciality) and French restaurants. There really is something for every palate.

Then you have a distinctly Polish restaurant, typically found on the main roads between towns and cities throughout the country called karczma - in English, an inn. But these are not really like the inns I've been used to back home: basically a village public house in which to enjoy a beer and scampi-in-a-basket or ploughman's lunch with perhaps a game of darts or bar-billiards. No, the karczma are more like proper restaurants by the main road, not necessarily in a population centre, often surrounded by fields and forests. Think of an old fashioned Little Chef....

The buildings tend to be old and traditional Polish architecture, all wood beams and low ceilings and solidly built benches and cushioned chairs, and tables with white linen and table mats. From the outside, they can look like converted barns or stables (and probably are), surrounded by gardens with a kid's play area and a car park, and perhaps access to the surrounding woodland and countryside. I've seen many on our car journeys to the coast and elsewhere over the years, but we've always tended to grab a Big Mac or something at the service station when we're tanking the car for the next leg of the journey.

But the other week, I finally got to try one. We visited some friends out of town for a weekend, and on the Sunday piled into her car for a drive out. We visited a small town close to the Mazurian lakes that she had taken us to a couple of years ago (it stands on a river, and was an old Jewish village decimated in World War 2, its population virtually wiped out; its synagogue is now a museum portraying its past history and tragic end. There are many such places scattered throughout the country) where we bought a delicious cake, made of overlapping layers of crisp pastry, smothered in a sweet honey layer and powdered sugar - my mouth is watering at the memory! On the way home from there, a mile or two outside the village, we pulled into a karczma that was signed to be adjacent to country museum.

We strolled through the gardens and down a short footpath bordered on each side by rows of sponsored trees, each one marked by a small plaque with the name and effective date of its sponsorship - there were some quite famous people on them, I noticed: a couple of politicians, some actors and musicians. The path led out into farmland, past a lovely wooden cottage on the bank of a sizeable pond with a couple of areas marked off for fishing, through reed beds and hedgerows to an old farmyard with a couple of barns - the museum: it was closed. On three sides, perhaps a mile across the fields, lay woodland that in the green of spring and summer is without doubt a lovely place to wander.

We decided to eat in the karczma, and for me it was a revelation. The door opened into a sizeable dining area, and right by the door stood a big (perhaps five feet high) monstrosity that looked for all the world like a creature out of Tolkien but was in fact simply several years' worth of wax dripped and shaped by gravity and the run-off from the four or five candles the now completely hidden candelabra held. We sat at a corner table and ordered from a good menu of typical Polish country fayre, and when the food arrived (the service quick and efficient) it was superb. I ordered gołabki (rolled minced pork wrapped in sweet cabbage leaves, boiled and served in a thick herby tomato sauce - one of My Beloved's specials) served with a pile of mashed potatoes, fresh carrots, peas and shredded pickled beetroot, and washed it down with a large bottle of locally brewed craft beer. And for sweet, home-made szartlotka (apple crumble) served hot with a couple of scoops of vanilla ice cream. It was delicious, and I barely managed to eat it all. The roast duck My Beloved ordered looked equally fine, as did the pork and chicken cutlets (fried in breadcrumbs) that our friends had. Our friends picked up the tab, so I'm not sure how much it all came to - my feast cost about 120zl I think  (about £20) so was really good value for really good food.

For me, it was great discovery after all these years, proper grub in proper portions. Certainly worth going out of the way to find on our journeys around this big and fascinating country, rather than diving into the nearest McD or whatever at a motorway service area somewhere by the busy motorway. Yes, a country karczma for me every time now.