Winter Holidays

Writing in a Winter Wonderland

Copyright John Marshall 2009

You know, there seems an inordinate number of wide-eyed, innocent-looking faces wandering unescorted around town at the moment. This must mean one of two things: either Ryanair’s having another ticket sale or the Polish schools are closed again. Yes, if it’s February, it must be ferie, (winter holidays), the mid-winter school break enjoyed by Poles everywhere (well, those still living in Poland, anyway).

What a wonderfully relaxed country this is! A mere six weeks after Christmas and New Year holidays and schools the length and breadth of the country shut down for two weeks.

So, while Britain grinds to a halt in the snow, Polish sportshops empty quicker than wallets in a January sale. Snow-chained cars piled high with snowboards, skis, hats and gloves, are driven deep into wooded valleys. Everywhere wooden chalets, guest houses and multi-storied hotels, all with steep rooves groaning under months of snow, are packed to the rafters with tourists dreaming of clear blue skies, powder snow and short queues for the skilifts. And this year, like every year before, I have decided to join them.

It’s easy to forget that there’s more to life (and Poland) than Krakow. Whether you’ve settled into a nice domestic routine or continue your intoxicating journey of Krakowian discoveries, the city continues to cast a spell over many of us. But there is no denying that Polish winters are cold and long, and the cities can seem grey, pale in the washed-out sun. For the sake of your health and your sanity, you need to get out for a while, if only for a weekend. And there is no better way to banish those winter blues than to strap on a snowboard or a pair of skis.

Before coming to Poland, my experience of skiing was limited to childhood viewing of Ski Sunday, a British tv programme. While we sat all cosy on the sofa, foreigners with badly-spelt names, dressed in day-glo spray-on costumes, would launch themselves down unfeasibly steep mountainsides in the hope of not breaking one of their 216 bones in the process. It was all very exotic and exciting back then, when my knowledge of Europe and Europeans in general was very limited, fashioned by such reliable sources as Allo!Allo!, old war films and occasional Olympics, featuring scary-looking, steroid-packed eastern European women.

Still, that was thirty years ago, and both me and Europe have changed a lot since then. I’ve actually become a skier! Me, from the flattest county in England! And, you know, I’m actually rather good at it - taking to skiing like a duck to frozen water. I knew all those hours of Ski Sunday would pay off. Now, I zigzag (or, at least, zagzig) my way to the bottom of the slope, to be greeted (in my imagination) by a herd of cowbells and a horde of adoring fans noisily beating their fists against advertising hoardings.

Mind you, skiing’s very tiring, as is snow in general, in fact. Here, as in much of Poland, the snow falls relentlessly. Outside my chalet window, every couple of hours I see inhabitants shovelling snow from the roads, in a show of defiance which makes King Canute’s stand against the rising tide seem like a valuable use of time.

I couldn’t spend half my winter clearing the path just so I could remember where I left the dog. It takes me all my energy just to wade through the snow to get to the ski slopes and put on my skiboots (starość nie radość, as the Poles say). So we decided to take a break yesterday and strolled in one of the area’s many beautiful valleys. Mind you, even this was not without its dangers, complete with signs warning of hungry wild animals and a four-star risk of avalanches. Fortunately, we managed to disturb neither wild bears nor towering walls of snow, the white stuff merely crunching underfoot, echoing softly against the rockfaces which loomed all around us in the gathering dusk. Sleighs lit with flaming torches, made merry by jinglebells, and driven by barrel-chested goralski (mountain men) trotted gently by, daytrippers tucked up beneath thick woolen blankets. They, like we, would later eat heartily in one of the hundreds of karczma (inns) before sleeping it off and dreaming of the next day’s travails.

The pace of life is slower in the sticks than in the city – especially in winter. At breakfast, there’s always time to chat around the dinner table. And I always enjoy having (as opposed, in the city, to choosing) to speak Polish. Out here too, English-speaking Poles are about as rare as Polish-speaking Englishmen, so a little book-learnin’ goes a long way, wherever you choose to stay. Because, let’s face it, there is no shortage of winter holiday destinations for the intrepid tourist. And if it’s your first time, just pop on your thermals and rucksack and take the bus to the main mountain town, Zakopane. The season continues until April, so swap the sludgy streets for the snow-clad peaks and see what a real winter is all about!