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Chapter 6 – Trencin, Black Knights & a castle

This post is part of a series of posts following the adventures of a man on a mission to explore 20 countries around Europe on a motorcycle – go to One for the road.

Chapter 6

Being British and therefore having grown up under the dense shadow of football, rugby, football, cricket, golf and football, I’ve never really noticed ice hockey before, and so am captivated now by the blinding speed and astonishing skill of it. The goal’s only as wide as the goal-keeper’s arms, the ball’s invisible, and they play even when the pitch – a quarter of the size of a football pitch yet still crowded with twelve players – is completely frozen over.

I am the only customer, so the chef and the receptionist and I watch the game while the small blonde barmaid chatters in the background like a forgotten telex machine.

After an hour or so, I look over my shoulder, wondering when the bus/tractor/lorry parked outside with its noisy diesel engine running might either switch off or sod off. There is no lorry or bus: it is the cooler of a huge Coco Cola machine immediately behind me.

Bulging IKEA bags

We ride through many kilometres of lush woods and tumbledown houses. The villages are largely deserted, and once we go through a beautiful, secret valley which together with the humidity reminds me of the rolling country of Sabah in northern Borneo. Once again a railway line follows the road almost constantly, and as ever, I wonder what these houses are like inside. Stacks of cut timber are everywhere, as are the wandering dogs. A sign for Tescos 25km, then another at 3km. The entire country, town and village alike, seems to be largely deserted, and most of the people to be seen, traipsing along the roadsides in their lime green and brilliant orange sports kit with their bulging IKEA bags, have very dark skins.

Crumbling red bricks

There are blocks of communist flats in every town and sizable village, to house the people who work in the numberless adjacent factories, with their astonishingly high chimneys, all banded white and red. They surely can’t be a thousand feet high, some of these chimneys, but they certainly look like it. These faded and colourless factories, with their walls sprayed with liquid cement to keep up the crumbling red bricks, look not so much defunct as condemned. To a Westerner travelling on the same continent as, say, Switzerland and Germany, the squalor is startling to say the least, and as for the roads – those bikers I’ve spoken to so far have told me that the roads in Bulgaria and Romania are so bad I’ll need a GS not a road bike.

Wooded hills

Another surprise is the extent of the wooded hills, hour after hour. I constantly twist in the saddle to look all around to appreciate it, and once I can see, all the way to a very far distant horizon, the full 360 degrees. This not-very-main road is excellent, and every so often a castle appears on a distant hilltop.

For hours, this drizzling high cloud doesn’t let the sun through. And then suddenly – sunshine! The road begins to steam.

Trencin

Trencin, just before the Czech border. Although there are dozens of pensions and hotels, I follow signs for a campsite, which take me across the river and onto an island, and through a gaudy area of 1970s recreational facilities, with the concrete and the steel pool and the stadium all painted in faded colours. I check in at the campsite office/shop. There’s a motorcyclist in here, a short, pot-bellied man in his forties wearing a leather jacket with tassels up and down the sleeves and across the shoulders, above a skull and crossed bones and the legend Black Kings. He seems nervous, pointing here and there and glancing round at me. His shopping consists of packets of noodles, twenty Marlboro cigarettes, some cake, some jam, and now a small bottle of vodka, which he slips into a jacket pocket before shooting me a challenging look on his way out.

The campsite lady speaks only speak German, but we sort something out and I’m shown to my cabin, which is clean and small. The facilities are basic but sufficient, and speakers mounted on trees and huts everywhere broadcast constant Country and Western music.

Black Kings

It’s still early, so I sit at the table on my little veranda and watch the bikers who are camped across the way, a band of bikers in black leather jackets with Black Kings logos, whose Japanese easy-rider style bikes, with high bars, backrests for the sisters and forward-mounted footpegs for the brothers, are parked in a neat line. One of them I recognise as a Sportster 883, the baby of Harley Davidson’s range; it is small, slow, heavy, under-powered, but it is a Harley. While the men stand around smoking and discussing the day’s ride and compare the performances of the Virago (550cc) and the CM250TB (250cc) and the Drag Star (650cc), the girls queue for the washrooms.

Uneasy Rider

After a while, tubby Uneasy Rider leaves them and trudges across the grass back to the shop, from where he soon re-emerges and returns to re-join the group, all the while completely ignoring me and the battered old BMW at my side. It doesn’t take many seconds to see that he’s the oldest over there, and when he and several of the others go to the bikes and stand around gazing admiringly at the 883, it becomes equally obvious that he is the Black Kings’ leader.

By evening, he has made another two quick trips to the campsite shop – still not even glancing at the motorcyclist sitting ten yards away, and when I look across and see that he has gathered his expectant flock around him in a circle by their camp fire, it’s not difficult to guess why the two extra trips.

Castle

To reduce the size of his audience by at least one, I walk into town for supper, relishing the sight of the old castle atop the hill. My route takes me between the trees and through the 1970s recreational facilities of the playground, which is constructed almost entirely of steel and concrete, all of which is rusty and painted. Even the attractions in the children’s section are all steel and concrete, from climbing frames to ping pong tables.

Trencin is an attractive university town of 18^th and 19^th Century buildings and artful modern pedestrian plazas, and when I settle into a cosy restaurant, all shadowy nooks and creaking floorboards, and order supper, I realise I’ve left the guidebook on the table in my cabin, leaving me with nothing to do for an hour but resolutely refuse to watch the pretty and perfectly-formed young barmaid, whose naked body appears to have had a T-shirt and jeans painted onto it, go about her duties.

Uneasy Rider looks pleased this morning, with his saggy belly and thinning hair, when I see him striding across the grass to the shop. He looks older, though, and must have forgotten to buy porridge during his many shopping trips last night. The campsite is otherwise deserted, and I sit in the sun, smoking and writing, for an hour until Mrs Campsite is ready to return my passport.

Czech Republic

At the border, a grim Slovak guard takes my passport into his office, returns after I’ve watched him through the window making various phone calls, points at the back of the bike, barks, “Baggage!”, and points to where he wants me to park. The tank bag, top box and two panniers unlocked and waiting in a row on the pavement for him, I sit on the kerb, smoking and chewing four-day old bread, and watch a hawk hovering high above the neighbouring field. A shiny new Slovakian Mercedes 500SEL is turned back (oddly, since it contained what appeared to be an entire family), then one of the guards comes out with my passport and gestured up the road, towards the wooded hills of the Czech Republic.

But I ignore him, because I’m kicking myself for not bothering to read the guidebook before leaving the campsite.

The site of Trenčín has been occupied since before Roman times, and the town itself was occupied by the Germans and became the regional headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst and the Gestapo, but it is the castle that’s really worth seeing . . . a typical medieval fortification situated high on a rock above the city . . . first noted in 1069 when the region was controlled by King Boleslaw I the Brave of Poland . . . as one of the few stone castles in Slovakia it resisted the disastrous invasion of Mongols in 1241 . . . climb the stairs for superb views over the surrounding area . . . towers and palaces . . . However, Trenčín is best known for a Roman inscription carved into a cliff below the castle dating from 179 AD, a soldier’s graffiti celebrating a battle against German tribes: To the victory of the Emperor and the army which, numbering 855 soldiers, resided at Laugaricio, by order of Maximianus, legate of the 2nd auxilliary legion.

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Black Knights castle Czech Republic Slovakia trencin

polandtravel

January 30, 2023

Chapter 4 – Zakopane & masala farts

This post is part of a series of posts following the adventures of a man on a mission to explore 20 countries around Europe on a motorcycle – go to One for the road.

Chapter 4

The road between Krakow and Zakopane is undergoing massive works, so it’s endless adverts and diesel fumes and 60km before I can do 80kph. We pass through a patch of cut-grass smell, and then there’s two pretty girls hitch-hiking northwards, something I’ve not seen in Britain for decades.

Alpiney

Mile after mile of green sprinkled and banded by bright yellow dandelions, and roadside stalls selling goatskin and sheepskin rugs begin to appear. A young girl stands in the middle of a field with her cow and blonde ponytail and slim blue jeans. Three hours later, it all becomes alpiney, with log cabins and big advertising hoardings, mostly for rooms.

Getting somewhere

When the Tatry finally appear through the spring haze, an unbroken line that fills the horizon, their sides and cols streaked with snow, I stop for petrol, then climb over a wooden fence to sit on a grassy bank and revel in the sun. A light plane rocks and crabs, swaying in the wind, and I sit and watch some kind of bird of prey rise in broad circles in a thermal, up and up without moving its wings. A thousand metres away, a shepherd descends the slope with a spread of sheep as densely white as spilt milk.

I begin to feel that I am getting somewhere.

Zakopane

It’s not much further on that the houses begin to grow steep roofs, with little wire fences running along the gutter to hold the snow back when it comes, and then we cruise into the outskirts of Zakopane, past a McDonald’s and a Tesco’s. I ride the streets for a while, looking for a suitable room, before remembering that I am a YHA member.

I almost immediately find the sign at the top of a drive, about fifty yards down which a red and white bar bars the way. There’s an intercom machine on a post, and when I lean across and ask it if this is the way to the YHA there is a resounding “NIE!”, but just as I’m wondering what to do next the bar lifts, and we roll on down.

Wellington boots

I park the bike and walk round to the front of a large, newish building, and up the stairs to the reception area, where I ask a young man about rooms. He just looks blankly at me, so look around for help and see another young man, dressed all in black, with heavy-duty Wellington boots. Then I realise they all are, but for some reason this doesn’t stop me asking him if there are any free rooms, and he says no, because this is the Fire Station. The hostel is back up the drive, right by the big sign that says YHA.

Bike problems

The bike starts immediately and just as immediately dies and won’t re-start. Sighing, I take the tank bag off and trudge up to the large hostel, and am given a bed in Room 782, which has four other beds, then go back down to the bike, which now condescends to start, but misses when I turn the handlebars, indicating an electrical problem, which after a lot of pinching and tweaking, I narrow down to a bend in the cable near the steering yoke. I squeeze hard, and the lights come on. I let go. They go out. I slit the sheath and at once see the tiny, fine green of corroded copper.

I take a four-inch length of surplus extra wire (at least I hope it’s surplus) from inside the headlight cowl, splice it in and press the starter button. The engine starts instantly. Now all I need is the insulation tape that has been in the tool box for the last year but strangely now isn’t.

It’s a Kind of Magic

I make a wide detour of a couple of very weathered old men in baseball caps and very loud sweaters, bottle in hand, dancing a jig on the pavement, and go in to a bar, to find all rustic pine and many locals whiling away the lunchtime. Pop music, table football, ancient skis, cowbells, china beer mugs, the sort of lanterns you use on dark snowy nights with your horse-drawn sleigh. The jukebox plays Queen’s It’s a Kind of Magic, while outside farmers sit beneath parasols and drink beer and four goats and a sheep graze.

People clump to and fro across the bare wooden floor. A middle-aged university professor-looking type of bloke wins nothing during the time it takes me to drink two beers. As I leave, he moves onto the next machine and starts again.

It’s only a short walk into town, and as I leave the bar a horse-drawn cart, like a huge cattle trough with a lorry wheel at each corner, rumbles past, identical to the ones still so common in Romania. Although Zakopane is Poland’s premier ski resort and hiking centre, it’s actually quite a small town which has grown from being a very small village which in the 17th century served the local mining and metallergy industries, but now serves the tourists, who, attracted by the unique food, architecture, music, and costume of goral culture, now annually outnumber the inhabitants ten to one.

Krupówki

The town spreads out very clearly from the junction between just two streets, the main one of which, Krupówki, is a steeply sloped thoroughfare lined throughout with souvenirs shops, restaurants, horse-drawn rides in carriages in summer and sleighs in winter, and the street performers found in any European resort.

Bloody Yanks!

I find an internet café and pay some nominal sum for half an hour’s use. The young American couple using the console next to me are absolutely typical of their type; flawless and tanned skin in which frank and friendly eyes and big white teeth shine whitely, and both have heavy, glossy hair. They wear chunky and sensible clothes, and open sandals.

They speak with that penetrating American confidence that truly unaware people have, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Within five minutes he gets up to go and find the guy who runs the place. “Excuse me,” he drawls audibly from the reception hall, with a voice that glows with the warmth of a Texan evening, “but is it possible to get Windows in English?” Typical brash Yank behaviour, is my inescapable reaction.

I don’t hear the reply, but when he comes back to his seat, sits down and reaches for his mouse, his sleeve falls back, revealing the bright red plastic band round his wrist, one of those things that everybody from presidents to fifteen-year old schoolgirls wears to show how much they care about whatever the current must-have bleeding heart must support.

And I read, repeated all the way round it, interspersed with the shape of a maple leaf, the word CANADA.

Local architecture

Zakopane has a specific style of architecture based on the motifs and traditions of the Carpathian Mountains, which is exploited throughout the town, along the back streets of which I stroll in order to work up an appetite for an early supper. Some could be used by Hollywood for horror films requiring ramshackle timber buildings with steepled towers, flapping shutters, leafless trees and lightning crackling in the background, while others are simply lovely ancient dwellings; the new ones have been built with enormous orange pine logs of a kind you’d never see in Britain, and roofed with sheets of shining tin. Plastic goats, rabbits, gnomes, storks are popular garden ornaments, and everywhere there is the sound of lawn mowers at work.

After a delicious meal as the only customer in a huge and echoingly deserted Chinese restaurant, I return to the hostel, where I find arranging her possessions on one of the beds in Room 782 the most beautiful young lady I have seen for two days: a halo of fine flaxon hair around an open, broad-cheeked face with blue eyes and a smiley mouth.

00ps7

Suzi is Austrian, and when she hears that I’m English, her eyes light up. “Ooh, you’re English! I just love your English accent, and English gentlemen are sooo sexy you’re motorcycling alone through Europe wow that’s so cool I just love James Bond I’ll be here for a few days I’m going out for dinner now but see you tomorrow don’t leave without me byee!”

I go to bed with a light heart.

At some point during the night, I surface briefly and the aloo baingan masala I had for supper blatters forth in the longest and most stentorian fart I have heard in my life, which just goes on and on out into the darkness, before I snuggle back into sleep.

It is six when I wake from my early night, and I remember the conversation with Suzi and my heart lifts again and I raise my head to see if she’s also awake – is it too early to suggest going into town for breakfast?

Her bed is empty. I sit up and look around. Her shelves are empty, her pack gone. I dress and go down to Reception, where I ask the boy on duty if the Austrian girl changed her room last night.

“No,” he says. “Miss Weiss checked out an hour ago.”

“She didn’t say where she was going?”

“No,” he says again. “She seemed to be in a big hurry.”

Sadly, James Bond climbs back up to his room.

Go to Chapter 5

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007 Krakow Krupówki Tatry Zakopane

polandtravel

January 30, 2023

Chapter 3 – Auschwitz, Krakow & a few beers

This post is part of a series of posts following the adventures of a man on a mission to explore 20 countries around Europe on a motorcycle – go to One for the road.

Chapter 3

High clouds are clearing a late afternoon sun as supper, meatballs, with chips and salad and a Zywiec beer, is taken alone at a long table in a refectory full of many long tables, all adorned with Easter bunnies and other oddments of Christianity. I’ve noticed today the daffodils and yellow tulips and the cemeteries all inundated by new, fresh, brightly coloured flowers.

Across the hall, a family of indeterminate nationality eat their supper, and when they’ve finished they get up and every one of them turns to mouth ‘bye’ to me. It is the youngest girl who pauses to push in the last chair beneath the table before scampering after the others. I can safely presume which nationality they are not.

Auschwitz

Up in my room, I look out of the window. In the dusk, beyond the garden, the road, the land around the SS building, are the headlights of cars driving along the road by the railway line that transported so much immeasurable and unimaginable suffering to many hundreds of thousands of people, and the disbelief is . . . total. Incomprehension, that that is the very same road as can be seen in all the wartime photographs, and the railway which I have been following. This building is sponsored by the Catholic Church, but I can’t help but feel that salvation for the inmates of KL Auschwitz didn’t come via the Almighty, who had ignored it for the previous four years, but via the men of the Red Army.

Krakow

When I reach Krakow, I go straight to the Saski, an elegant old place near the centre with a uniformed doorman and an iron and brass lift and many carpeted corridors along to my room on the top floor. Here, my tiny balcony overlooks a mosaic of lawns and yards, lifeless except for a weeping willow which trails threads of bright new green life down to the sodden ground.

There is no towel, and afterwards, as I stand on the balcony with the chill April air raising bumps on my still-damp skin, there comes a heavy sprinkle of cold water. I look up to see a pigeon preening herself on a trembling branch just above me.

Medieval market square

Every country has its own ‘must-see’ landmarks, and few people walking into Krakow’s medieval market square, the largest such square in Europe, can resist a “Wow!” when they first see the dreamlike setting for the many historic styles of architecture bordering the square.

As I reach the end of the road the market square opens out before me and I mouth a silent, “Wow” – wow because it’s a stunning picture, but silent because I’ve seen it before and I don’t want to do what I did last time, which was to walk into a lamp post as I gazed around.

Cloth Hall

In the middle is the old Cloth Hall, with the two towering spires of St Mary’s church to the left. Straight ahead is the Town Hall tower, while over there is the Church of St. Adalbert, whose foundations are a thousand years old. I stroll a full circuit of the trafficless square, rustling with the murmur of hundreds of tourists going about their lattes and beers.

Tourism

Tourism is Krakow’s main industry, as seven million local and international visitors come here annually, the Poles (the great majority) to admire with pride, the Germans, Scandinavians and Japanese to say, “Wow” at the Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque buildings, the Americans to head straight for the Jewish Quarter, and the Brits to make it their Stag Party Destination of Choice, so that they can hold drinking competitions in which the winner is the first to throw up, and athletic competitions in which the stark naked winner runs a complete circuit of the square the fastest, in front of hundreds of international tourists having their supper and admiring the tranquillity of an evening in what was the European Capital of Culture in 2000.

I make my way to my old café, the ancient Camelot, with its rickety pine furniture and floor and flyblown wartime posters advertising beer and theatres. Keneally in his Schindler’s Ark describes how Schindler’s secretary found a basement bar north of the square where he could hold private parties; ‘an excellent jazz cellar in the narrow streets north of the rynek, the city square . . . popular with the students and younger staff at the university’, and I reckon this it.

It’s down a side street, with the 800-year old Baroque Church of St. John the Baptist and John the Evangelist across the road, its related buildings all around from the Eighteenth Century. I find a seat at a small corner table, and settle in to watch the world go by.

Matchlessly beautiful

You’d think that ‘matchlessly beautiful’ is a sweeping statement to make about a city which is bigger than Glasgow, boasts a vast, scratch-built socialist realist district, a steelworks which when it employed 40,000 people was the largest blast furnace in Europe and whose pollution forty years later is still adversely affecting old Krakow’s buildings and people; and is now Poland’s most important economic centre after the capital.

But you don’t get to be cited as one of Europe’s most beautiful cities for nothing, and while Gdansk, Warsaw, Poznan and Wroclaw all had their ‘old town centres’ rebuilt after the war, in Krakow you get the unmistakably real thing. There seems to be some mystery surrounding exactly how it escaped the same fate as Warsaw, which as everyone knows was flattened in 1945.

Apparently, demolition charges had been laid everywhere but the local Wehrmacht commander simply ignored his orders and went home to his wife, a decision of unimaginable consequence, since the architectural design of the Old Town has survived every upheaval since medieval times, and its almost unparalleled heritage of Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque buildings – Krakow, for centuries Poland’s royal capital, boasts six thousand historic sites – is home to more than two million works of art.

Jagiellonian University

I am sitting within metres of a dozen stunning twenty-something girls, which shouldn’t come as any surprise, since more than 200,000 students are studying here in Krakow’s twenty-four colleges, and at the Jagiellonian University (founded in 1364), with its library of more than 4 million books, and Poland is as famous for its young ladies as it is for its, er, libraries.

I tell the waiter that I’ll have three beers while I study the menu; he misunderstands the situation and brings three sets of cutlery with the beers, while I listen to a conversation going on at the table to my left. A young British man has just started work here as an English teacher, which is a coincidence because I have an interview tomorrow morning not just for the same qualification but at the same school, and his parents have come all the way from Watford to congratulate him on his achieving his Cambridge Certificate of English Teaching. Mark is a football fanatic, and worries them with talk of knives, gangs, the eight deaths (eight?) after a recent game, but that “everyone came together at the Pope’s anniversary, so don’t worry.”

Kasia

“Kasia’s name has eight different endings, depending on the context,” he tells his parents, Kasia being the anorexic teenager sitting beside him, with her huge eyes and pasted makeup, miniscule bra-less breasts, and jeans that are slung so low that occasionally they show her topmost pubes.

Breakfast the next morning is in a McDonald’s. There are fourteen others here, three of whom are in animated argument over a newspaper article, five individuals are studying, and one is reading a novel. None is as old as 30, and this is eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. None of my British friends – the youngest of whom is 28, with most in their 40s – will be up for another three hours. The restaurant itself is immaculate, and every single person clears their table when they leave.

The buds are growing visibly every day. The trees which were black four days ago are now sprinkled with emerald.

I go to a pub recommended by the school. The Stary Port is a basement bar just round the corner, a labyrinth of connected smokey dark rooms. At the table opposite me is a young couple. The boy’s face has deep parenthesises drawn down around his mouth, his skin has suffered bad acne, and a scrubby blond beard doesn’t quite cover it. His eyes, deep set and brilliant blue, are the only kind of eyes that could be set in such a serious and cadaverous face. His greasy blond hair is long, and he draws strongly on his cigarette.

Whatever is troubling him has his girlfriend’s sympathy, and they both sit, watching the candles and the darkness. He could have stepped straight into the uniform of a U-boat captain after a long and hazardous mission. However how important his problems were or were not, he wasn’t putting anything on. He is about 25 years old. His girlfriend brings two beers and a plate of chips. He stares and sucks on his cigarette and says nothing.

I conclude that he too has just been accepted at the language school.

A podgy young man returns from the loo, slides forward, his face on his forearms and his long hair falls across the table. I have already read the slogan on his T-shirt: FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION.

The next morning, I wake to an ash-blue sky, with the bells of sweet, ancient Krakow tolling the first Mass, and begin to pack the panniers.

Go to Chapter 4

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Auschwitz Cloth Hall Historic Centre Of Kraków Jagiellonian University Krakow Krakow Old Town

polandtravel

January 30, 2023

Chapter 2 – Must wash the socks

This post is part of a series of posts following the adventures of a man on a mission to explore 20 countries around Europe on a motorcycle – go to One for the road.

Chapter 2

I stop for a break at a petrol station, and stand beside the bike, sipping coffee and watching motorcycles and cars and lorries roar along the Czech highway. A dog barks in the field behind the trees, while above, very high cloud the colour of sour milk hides the sun. It’s muggy for April. The reality slowly surfaces, and at last I smile.

I am doing what I’ve wanted to do all my adult life.

Socks

The miles and hours of high white cloud have suddenly been swept away, leaving behind a glorious, sunny afternoon. It’s not quite sleeping-out weather yet, though, so after trundling round the pretty little town of Svitavy in a futile search for a cheap pension I book into a hotel just outside town: £30 for a double room, bathroom, TV, tea and coffee-making facilities, breakfast, air conditioning etc. The view is leftover snowdrifts in the car park and some trees that bring to mind the words ‘acid’ and ‘rain’. Still in a bit of a daze from the hours of noise and wind, I look out at it, thinking, Socks. Must wash the socks.

Oskar Schindler

Well, Oskar Schindler might’ve found Moravia pretty, but it hasn’t been what I would call outstanding, although it’s pretty if you’re from Norfolk or Belgium – indeed, positively mountainous if you come from Holland.

Svitavy was where Schindler grew up in the 1930s, before he went into Poland, where he chose the beautiful Krakow as a base in which to establish a business that would, commercially, go nowhere, but would save the lives of more than a thousand human beings, putting Krakow, the Holocaust and Ran Feinnes and Liam Neeson on the map forever. It was strange, last night, to stroll along the main street and picture the teenaged Oskar roaring up and down the cobbles on his motorcycle.

I think my left heel is beginning to rot. Not only are the holes in the sole getting deeper, but this morning, despite hot water and soap last night, I’m sure I smelt Feet.

Brno

Brno (confusingly pronounced ‘Brno’) is sprawling and ugly. The roads are bad and acid rain has killed or damaged most of the trees on the many hills that surround the city. There have been lots of hares and deer in the fields on both sides all morning, and I remember eight deer lying down in the middle of a huge field beside a German motorway yesterday morning.

Slovakia

Slovakia. On the motorway to Zilina, thousands of dead trees stand in deep water for miles. The road surface is still poor, but there’s a fast-emerging middle class in Czech and Slovakia – smart cars are everywhere.

Bratislava

Despite several circuits of Bratislava I can’t break into the centre, where my bed in The Gremlin hostel is waiting for me. Whole streets are being dug up, and others one way or for trams only. When I notice a group of gypsies lurking in a doorway staring at me as I go by for the fourth time, I know I’m not going to leave the bike unattended even while checking accommodation, never mind overnight. So I do the best thing to do in these circumstances: I give up.

Zilina

I point the front wheel at a sign that says, Zilina 189KM, and settle into the saddle for a three-hour ride. It stops raining, and I smile before nearly jumping out of my skin when a few hundred metres away a Boeing 737 roars up above the rooftops and immediately disappears into the cloud.

It begins to rain again.

Castles

The motorway road surface is excellent now, from which I watch as a number of great castles appear on hillsides to left and right, in this ancient landscape scattered, for some reason, with lots of huge signs, amidst some very evident poverty, inviting us to vote for Rowan Atkinson. Is Mr Bean coming to town?

That’s my man!

I stop for petrol, and then smoke a cigarette while stamping my feet and rubbing my hands together. The back door of a nearby parked car opens and a teenaged girl springs out. She’s pretty, very slim and heading straight for me.

“Hello!” she gushes.

“Hello,” I say, taking two steps backwards.

“You are okay?” she asks in a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed way.

“Er, yes, thank you.”

“You are looking for some place to stay?”

So that’s it. Young prostitute, sent across by her pimp to get trade.

“Well, I am, but I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

She is possessed of an energy that would light up a Christmas tree. She’s also very young, possibly no older than sixteen. She gestures towards the car. “My father would like to buy you a drink.”

Ha! Yeah, I bet he would.

“Your father?”

“Yes. Would you like to meet my father?” She’s wearing tight jeans and a thin, cheap windcheater over a tee-shirt beneath which there is very clearly no bra. Trainers. No make-up. Then the driver’s door of the car opens and a thick-set man of about 45 heaves himself out. Here we go. I drop the cigarette and stand on it as the man, unshaven and dressed in bulky, dark old clothing, approaches.

He speaks rapidly and brusquely to the girl, who answers while gesturing at me. He glares at me as he waits for the translation and my answer. I begin to feel annoyance rising in me, and reach for my crash helmet. Hear what she has to say and then move on.

“My father says that if you follow us to our hotel, he will buy you a beer.” Her English is very good indeed. All those German businessmen, I expect. Lots of practise.

“Your ‘hotel’, eh?” The ‘father’ is staring intently at me.

“Yes. My family is booked into a hotel not far from here.”

I almost sneer. “Your family, eh?”

“My father and mother and my baby brother.” And she points towards the car, where a middle-aged woman and a five-year old boy are smiling and waving through the windows.

Three hours later, I lie in bed in a roadside motel and wonder about Slovakia, Hungary and Romania. The gorgeous Jana spent the whole of supper translating for her parents and me as we chatted in the restaurant downstairs. Her father spent much of the time warning me of gypsies in all eastern European countries. When I asked why he’d invited me for supper, she replied, “Because my father hasn’t had a drink for three months.”

“Maybe I was waiting for a friend.”

“No, he knew you were alone. As soon as he saw you he told my mother, ‘That’s my man!’”

Skalite

Outside, the traffic swishes by on the wet road, while the lonely hills sleep on the horizon.

The clouds are more broken and fast-moving than they were yesterday, so there’s hope for a little sun today. I’ll turn right before the Czech border, to see if the railway at Skalite is the right one. The track heading north out of Zilina looked a bit mainline.

Snow and litter lie everywhere on the verges, strips and sheets of plastic hang or flap in the reeds, a fridge has been thrown down a slope; heavy rain which the sun tries to get through and my first stork gazes out from its enormous nest atop a telegraph pole. Four or five mongrels in a car park queue up to gang-bang a mongrel bitch wearing an expression recognisable as a look of ‘here we go again’ resignation.

Did the railway line branch off for Skalite? Or go north? It keeps coming and going across the road, which begins to climb, and it gets colder. Everywhere looks poor, with children waving sticks and streamers providing the first clue that this is Easter Sunday, along with crowds of people coming out of churches wearing their Sunday best. Very few cars in evidence, and snow is everywhere now. We go over the top, and occasional glimpses of the railway appear to the right, and then the road deteriorates badly and the railway line heads off into the forest on the left, and quite unexpectedly we come to the border crossing. It is absolutely brand new and totally deserted, a quite fantastic waste of money. Then we’re in among houses and cottages, separated by rickety old wooden fences, where chickens scratch and peck.

Country folk

The tarmac disappears and we’re onto cobbles. Here and there, folk are doing this and that, as country folk tend to, every single one of whom looks up at me as I go by – then I understand that the snows would have cut off these roads for the entire winter, for the last five months or so. I am possibly the first motorcycle to come through here this year.

Zywiec

I get lost in the small town of Zywiec (home of one of Poland’s most famous beers; a bit like getting lost in Guinness, Ireland, or Budweiser, USA), and I’m just sitting on the bike, examining the map, when a voice says, “May I help you?” I look up. A man in his twenties, dressed as if to play the part of a young Cambridge don in a BBC mini-series, is smiling at me through John Lenin spectacles.

I tell him what I’m looking for.

“It’s sixty kilometres – about forty of those English miles of yours.”

The railway line comes back, but the potholes are so bad my fingers become completely numb, with vibration white finger. We enter a small town, I see signs I’m looking for and follow them, turn right into a complex and stop. A young man comes up and begins to write a ticket. Beyond him I can see faceless windows, watchtowers and barbed wire fences. It’s not a parking ticket for a traffic violation I’m getting, it’s a parking ticket for a museum.

What the Germans would’ve called Koncentrazionlager 1.

What the rest of the world knows as Auschwitz.

Go to Chapter 3

Motorcycle Rental

Auschwitz Bratislava Brno Czech Republic gypsies Oskar Schindler Skalite Slovakia Svitavy Zilina Zywiec

polandtravel

January 30, 2023

Chapter 1 – Wet and suffering

This post is part of a series of posts following the adventures of a man on a mission to explore 20 countries around Europe on a motorcycle – go to One for the road.

Chapter 1

Not really aware of entering Holland, after Belgium. Antwerp’s eight-lane highway, with its ugly blocks of flats and McDonald’s every five minutes. Flat, uninteresting countryside – they never really caught on with hedges, did they, the Dutch? Wind turbines, miles and miles of new developments, factories, power stations, car lots. I am cringingly aware of my vulnerability in amongst the roaring, speeding juggernauts on these icy roads. Overtaken by three bikes, all of whom waved. I can’t remember when a Brit biker last waved hello. While I was growing up with bikes throughout the 1970s and 1980s, all motorcyclists would dip a chin or raise a finger. Not anymore. Different people ride bikes now. Then, you did it because it was in your jeans. Now people ride them because they’re, like, you know, cool.

Amsterdam

Amsterdam. Eleven hours’ sleep. I didn’t bother with the Red Light District, not wanting my worst impressions of Western civilisation confirmed. And I was tired on the bike yesterday – Belgian and Dutch drivers give you no space at all. Now, I sit here, still muzzy with diesel fumes, with my breakfast, and contemplate the scene outside, the green, rain-dimpled canal, and the low, flat grey skies.

Germany

There were several things I wanted to avoid on this trip: getting mugged, breaking down, the bike being stolen – but most of all, getting wet. And this, on Day Two, it’s been raining since I got off the ferry. I leave the motorway and head south. Hannover and Osnabruck don’t share many letters, and lie in opposite directions, but it’s surprisingly easy to get them confused; as soon as I see the error I decide to go across country rather than head back into the road works and chaos again. And then it begins to rain.

Celle

Immediately on entering Celle, we are all held up by a Volvo. We wait and wait. A van goes round eventually, but the dark-skinned youth from Turkey or Syria or somewhere in the red Golf in front of me stops, leaps out, and runs up to the Volvo, yanks open the driver’s door, screams abuse while pointing up at a nearby NO PARKING sign, jumps back in his Golf and drives away. As I pass, the driver, an old guy, unhurriedly heaves himself out and lifts the Volvo’s bonnet.

A few seconds later, the queue grinds to a halt again, and I swing the bike round the next obstruction, a red hatchback. As I pass it I glance inside and see a dark-skinned youth from Turkey or Syria or somewhere, his face buried in his forearm, turning his ignition key, and I hear a starter motor uselessly grinding.

Celle is very clean and neat and tidy.
Six hours on the road. Love it.
But exhausted. I didn’t expect it to be this tiring.

In a rut

There’s been a groove, a rut, in the motorway all the way from Holland. It isn’t lethal, but does have to be watched constantly. You can assume nothing when riding at speed. This old bike at anything less than 20mph is like pushing a wheelbarrow full of wet concrete with a flat tyre – not easy between lines of close traffic. And the engine’s noise is worrying: there are variants of grumble/rattle/whine/occasional bumps as if a pebble has passed through some gear wheels. So much for the ‘full service’.

Deserted towns. Freezing wind from the side, but at least it’s dry, and the wind from the side and not behind. When it’s coming from behind, being blown into an oncoming lorry is a very real possibility.

East Germany

East Germany. Entire timber and brick blocks ruined and burnt-out, windows smashed. Coloured tenements, scrubby hills with chimneys and radio towers, a schloss on the hill to the south-east. The icy wind burns my face. Snow on the hills on the horizon. Completely numb fingers. The roads are atrocious. I stop at a McDonald’s for a coffee, and when I look for money in my jacket pocket I find two tubes of sugar from the ferry still in my pocket, and it takes a moment to tell them apart from my frozen bloodless fingers. Three hours we’ve been on the road, and have covered fewer than 90 miles.

Unwashed socks

Sometime in the early afternoon, seven monster Japanese bikes appear suddenly all around me, roaring like fighter jets, their burly middle-aged pilots revving and shouting to one another, leaping between traffic lights and revving in tunnels. They ignore me completely and I’ve wondered why, until just now, when I saw my reflection in a showroom window and understood why: two pairs of unwashed socks tucked under a bungee strap to dry. Not cool.

Triangle of Death

Snow lies beneath the trees on either side, with steep slopes leading to rushing streams amongst the rocks. A small-gauge railway reminds me that a camp was near here. During the war, this area was known as the Triangle of Death.

The others have long gone and I’m sorry to see them go because it means that the worrying clunk of my own bike are now audible again, as well as shaking her head badly at low speeds.

Climbing out of the valley and back into the dangerous gusting wind, hunched behind the screen, one hand on the throttle, the other shoved deep into my crutch, behind the tankbag. The young trees that line the road don’t even twitch in the gale, while I’m like Quasimodo here. It’s coming from the north now, from a sky that could’ve been drawn by a child let loose with a pencil on a sheet of grey paper: smudged, dull, uninteresting.

We pass widely-spaced trees by the road, several of which bear the becoming-familiar barkless scar and a jar or two of mournful flowers. Three graves in a single mile.

Crissing and crossing

Some towns are deserted, canyons of sheer wall. Some villages are very rough indeed. And here’s this single-track railway again, that we’ve been crissing and crossing all afternoon. It’s so cold, as the route demands that the wind swings round from behind to left to right, that my left ear actually hurts, inside the open-faced helmet.

And now it begins to hail, hard and suddenly. I squint at the mountains, as pea-sized hailstones pelt my face. Thank God I’ve got a scarf to hand to protect my exposed face. I do have such a scarf ready to hand – I’m not a fool, you know – so all I’ve got to do is to pull over, stop, get off, dig deep into the rucksack, and there it would be, ready to hand.

Meat and hair

Reminded to check controls every single time you think of it – once a minute. I was very nearly caught out by an 8-Series BMW just now who suddenly appeared not in my mirror but right beside my knee – and going like hell. If I’d drifted a hand’s-width to the left one second beforehand he’d have had a party anecdote, while I’d have been shovelled, all meat and hair, into a sandbag.

I’ve been aware that it’s been quickly getting darker (cue thunder and lightning, for real), but it’s only when I angrily flash an oncoming car and he angrily flashes me back that I realize that I am, in this lowering cloud and light, still wearing my sunnies. What a mighty dickhead I am.

Bad Lausick

In Bad Lausick there are no IH signs anywhere, unless you use bloody good map reading to accidentally take the correct road out and then see a small, lone sign two miles out and even then have to ask someone who waves a vague hand and says, ‘up there somewhere’. It was up there somewhere, but there’s no-one on reception. Tired, buzzing, cold, starving. Bastards.

Beer on the haus

The young man on reception is a pale, overweight personification of everything I think a young man should not be. Bad skin, thinning hair, thick lips. Breasts. He explains that he was away from the desk because he was emailing his mother about his military service. “You still have conscription here?” He pulls a face. “Two thousand troops in Afghanistan, for dying, then one thousand to Zaire for UN election monitoring. After this, I will go into supermarket management”. I tell him he is doing the right thing and he kindly gives me a beer on the haus. We all have our place, and supermarket management is his. Freezing and suffering on my bloody old motorbike is mine.

Hands shaking from nine hours on the road, but I feel good. From my room, one window shows a scene of a tree-lined meadow, blood-tinged with the setting sun, while the other one shows only heavy, dark, serious rain. What was that about supermarket management?

Go to Chapter 2

Motorcycle Rental

Amsterdam Bad Lausick Belgium Celle East Germany Germany Holland supermarket management Triangle of Death

polandtravel

January 30, 2023

Kuyavia-Pomerania (Kujawsko-Pomorskie)

Kuyavia-Pomerania

Kuyavia-Pomerania – updated 19 January 2023.

The Kuyavia-Pomerania (Kujawsko-Pomorskie) region in Poland is located in the north-central part of the country, and is known for its beautiful landscapes, rich history, and cultural heritage. The region is bordered by the Vistula River and the Masurian Lake District to the east, the Pomeranian Voivodeship to the north, and the Greater Poland Voivodeship to the south.

Main cities & towns

The main towns and cities in the Kuyavia-Pomerania (Kujawsko-Pomorskie) region of Poland include:

Bydgoszcz: The capital of the region and one of the main economic and cultural centers of the region. It is known for its historic buildings and monuments, such as the Gothic-style St. Martin’s Church, the Baroque-style Town Hall, and the Opera Nova, as well as for its industrial development and modern infrastructure.
Toruń: This is one of the oldest cities in Poland and is known for its well-preserved medieval Old Town, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Toruń is also famous for being the birthplace of the astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus.
Grudziądz: This is a charming town located on the banks of the Vistula River, it’s known for its rich history and cultural heritage, and for its well-preserved medieval Old Town.
Włocławek: This is an important economic center of the region and is known for its industrial development, particularly in the field of textiles. The city also has a rich cultural heritage and is home to several historic buildings and monuments.
Inowrocław: This is a charming town with a rich history and cultural heritage, it’s known for its beautiful parks, historic churches, and the Inowrocław Saltworks, which is one of the oldest and most important salt mines in Poland.
Brodnica: This is a small town with a rich history and cultural heritage, it’s known for its well-preserved medieval Old Town, its historic church and the Gothic-style town hall.

These are some of the main towns and cities of the Kuyavia-Pomerania region, but the region is also home to several other smaller towns and villages, each with its own unique history, culture and attractions.

Natural landscapes

One of the main attractions of the Kuyavia-Pomerania region is the beautiful natural landscapes. The region is home to the Tuchola Forest, one of the largest and most diverse forests in Poland. The forest is a popular destination for hiking, camping, and wildlife watching, and is home to a variety of plant and animal species.

Lakes & rivers

The region is also home to several beautiful lakes and rivers, such as the Charzykowska Lake, the largest lake in the region, and the Brda River, which is popular for canoeing and fishing. The region is also home to the Wda Landscape Park, which is a beautiful area of rolling hills, meadows, and forests that is perfect for hiking and cycling.

Rich history and cultural heritage

The Kuyavia-Pomerania region is also known for its rich history and cultural heritage. The city of Bydgoszcz, which is the capital of the region, is home to several historic buildings and monuments, including the Gothic-style St. Martin’s Church, the Baroque-style Town Hall, and the Opera Nova, which is one of the most modern opera houses in Europe.

Castles & palaces

The region is also home to several historic castles and palaces, such as the Ciechocinek Palace, the Golub-Dobrzyń Castle, and the Rydzyna Castle, which are popular tourist attractions. The region is also known for its traditional crafts, such as pottery, woodcarving, and weaving, and visitors can find a wide variety of handmade goods at local markets and shops.

Industry and commerce

The Kuyavia-Pomerania region is also an important center of industry and commerce. The region is home to several large manufacturing companies, including the Bydgoszcz Industrial Park, which is home to several leading companies in the automotive and electronics industries.

Off the beaten path

Despite its industrial development, the Kuyavia-Pomerania region remains a relatively undiscovered destination in Poland. Visitors to the area will find a unique blend of natural beauty, rich history, and cultural heritage that makes it a great destination for those looking to explore off the beaten path.

Biskupin

Biskupin is an archaeological site located in Poland, in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region. It is an ancient fortified settlement that was built by the Lusatian culture, an early Iron Age culture that existed in Central Europe between the 8th and 5th centuries BCE. The settlement was discovered in 1933 by archaeologist Józef Kostrzewski, and is now considered one of the most important archaeological sites in Poland.

Hidden gem

In conclusion, the Kuyavia-Pomerania region of Poland is a hidden gem that offers a unique blend of natural beauty, rich history, and cultural heritage. The Tuchola Forest, the lakes, and the Wda Landscape Park are perfect for outdoor enthusiasts, while the traditional crafts and historic buildings and monuments of the region are perfect for those looking to experience the local culture. The region’s industrial development also makes it an important center of commerce in Poland. It’s a destination that should not be missed for those who are interested in exploring Poland.

FAQ

Q: What is the Kuyavia-Pomerania (Kujawsko-Pomorskie) region in Poland known for?

A: The Kuyavia-Pomerania region in Poland is known for its beautiful landscapes, rich history, and cultural heritage. The Tuchola Forest, the lakes, and the Wda Landscape Park are popular destinations for outdoor enthusiasts, while the traditional crafts, historic buildings and monuments are popular among those interested in experiencing the local culture. The region is also an important center of industry and commerce in Poland.

Q: What are some popular things to do in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region?

A: Popular activities in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region include hiking in the Tuchola Forest, visiting the beautiful lakes and rivers, exploring historic buildings and monuments, visiting the Bydgoszcz Industrial Park to learn about the region’s industrial development and experiencing traditional crafts, local cuisine and culture.

Q: What are some popular traditional crafts in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region?

A: Traditional crafts in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region include pottery, woodcarving, and weaving. Visitors to the area can find a wide variety of handmade goods at local markets and shops.

Q: What are some popular dishes in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region?

A: The Kuyavia-Pomerania region has a rich culinary heritage, which includes traditional dishes such as kiełbasa, kaszanka, and kapuśniak, among others. Visitors can find many local restaurants and taverns that specialize in regional cuisine.

Q: How can I get to the Kuyavia-Pomerania region?

A: The Kuyavia-Pomerania region is located in north-central Poland. The main city of the region is Bydgoszcz, which can be reached by train or bus from other major cities in Poland. The region is also easily accessible by car and has good road connections.

Q: Are there any national parks in the Kuyavia-Pomerania region?

A: Yes, the Tuchola Forest is one of the main attraction of the Kuyavia-Pomerania region, it’s a national park and it’s one of the largest and most diverse forests in Poland. The forest is a popular destination for hiking, camping, and wildlife watching.

Torun Tours & Attractions

Biskupin Bydgoszcz Ciechocinek Palace Golub-Dobrzyń Castle Kuyavia-Pomerania Opera Nova Rydzyna Castle Toruń Tuchola Forest Wda Landscape Park

polandtravel

January 19, 2023

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Cashback Cheap flights Chesp flights with cashback Flight search engine flights

polandtravel

October 19, 2022

Quiz – How well do you know Poland?

quiz

polandtravel

August 18, 2022

Sanctuary of the Holy Cross Wood Relic

Holy Cross Wood Relic – Updated 16 January 2023.

Holy Cross Wood Relic

The Sanctuary of the Holy Cross Wood Relic, also known as the Sanctuary of the Holy Cross, is a religious site located in Kielce, Poland. It is home to a relic of the True Cross, which is a piece of wood said to be from the cross upon which Jesus was crucified. The relic was brought to Kielce in the 12th century by the bishop of Krakow, Iwo Odrowąż.

The sanctuary is a popular pilgrimage site, and it is visited by thousands of people each year. The Sanctuary of the Holy Cross is also home to a church, which was built in the 18th century, and the church features a unique baroque architecture. The relic of the True Cross is kept in the main altar of the church. There is also a museum on the site, which provides information about the history of the relic and the sanctuary.

Healing powers

The Sanctuary of the Holy Cross Wood Relic is considered one of the most important pilgrimage sites in Poland, and it is also a significant historical and cultural landmark in the region. The relic is believed to have healing powers, and it is said to be particularly effective in the treatment of eye diseases, and the Sanctuary is also visited by people seeking spiritual healing.

The Sanctuary of the Holy Cross Wood Relic is open to visitors all year round, and it can be accessed by foot or by car. Guided tours of the sanctuary and its museum are also available.

Święty Krzyż mountain

The Sanctuary of the Holy Cross Wood Relic and Museum of the Missionary Oblates of the Virgin Mary are located on Łysiec mountain, nowadays referred to as Święty Krzyż mountain.

Witchcraft and hellish parties

Święty Krzyż (Mount Holy Cross) is the second highest mountain in the region at 595m. If you believe local folk legend, the mountain was especially liked by witches and during their Sabbaths, they practised witchcraft and organised hellish parties and dances on the summit.

Pilgrims

Every year, the Holy Cross Sanctuary is visited by crowds of pilgrims, visitors and tourists, who want to see this unique place. In the church on the mountain you can see a valuable painting of Franciszek Smuglewicz, monastery porches, a sacristy, the Oleśnicki family’s chapel and the Museum of the Missionary Oblates of the Virgin Mary.

500 million years old

The Świętokrzyskie Mountains are not particularly high; however they are ancient. Quartzite has been discovered in the area that is 500 million years old. The highest peak is Mount Łysica at 614 m and is located within the Świętokrzyski National Park.

Holy Cross Province (Swietokrzyskie) is located in south eastern Poland and has the city of Kielce as its regional capital. Often referred to as, “The heart of Poland.”

Kielce

With a history dating back over 900 years, Kielce was once an important mining centre, today, the city and its surroundings are better known for their historic architecture, green spaces and recreational areas like the Świętokrzyski National Park and the Kadzielnia Reserve. Kielce is the only city in Europe which counts five nature reserves within its borders.

Attractions

There’s a lot of attractions to see in Kielce. The former Palace of the Kraków Bishops, the picturesque National Museum, Kielce Cathedral, and Dworek Laszczyków are must-sees.

Holy Cross Province (Swietokrzyskie)Holy Cross Wood Relic Kielce Łysiec mountain Missionary Oblates Museum of the Missionary Oblates of the Virgin Mary Świętokrzyskie Mountains Święty Krzyż

polandtravel

April 28, 2021

Kadzielnia Reserve Kielce

Kadzielnia Reserve – Updated 16 January 2023.

Popular tourist spot

The Kadzielnia Reserve is a nature reserve located in Kielce, Poland. It is situated in the Kadzielnia quarry, which is a limestone quarry that is no longer in use. The reserve is known for its unique geological formations and diverse wildlife, including rare species of birds and bats. The quarry is also a popular spot for rock climbing and hiking. The reserve also includes a geological museum which shows how the quarry was formed and how it was used over the years. It is a popular tourist spot in the region.

The former quarry attracts visitors interested in music, extreme experiences such as ziplining and also geology enthusiasts.

Limestone

It is located on a hill as part of the Kadzielnia Range and is 295m above sea level. As a quarry back in the 18^th century, it was a significant source of limestone, which was required primarily for road construction and you can still find traces of mining activity around the area.

Geologists Rock

In the centre is the Geologists Rock and this is protected as part of the Kadzielnia Nature Reserve and is not open to tourists, instead visitors admire the rock from the surrounding paths and viewpoints surrounding the quarry.

Attractions

You’ll find a number of attractions in Kadzielnia such as the underground tourist route, the amphitheatre, a zip-line station and a waterfall.

Fossils

Kadzielnia is very popular with palaeontologists and geologists who come to the area in search of fossils. Many different fossils have been found including sponges, corals, daylilies, brachiopods and snails.

Caves

Kadzielnia is also home to 25 caves. There are three caves open to the public and this is where you can find the 140m long underground tourist route.

Amphitheater

The Kadzielnia Amphitheater is one of the most unique and beautiful stages in the country. The surrounding rocks provide a natural backdrop and also enhance the acoustics. The amphitheatre has operated for more than 50 years and underwent a thorough modernisation in 2010, today it can seat as many as 5,430 spectators. During inclement weather, the stage and auditorium is covered with a retractable roof.

The amphitheater hosts large, modern artistic shows and concerts, among them the cult “pinwheel”, the International Scout Festival of School Youth Culture and the annual Kielce Festival.

Kadzielnia Rope Park

There’s much more to Kadzielnia than a concert among the rocks, exploring the caves and the amazing views. Thrill-seekers come to the area to admire the scenery from a height of 40m during a free rope descent. The Kadzielnia Rope Park includes three descents.

Every year, the Kadzielnia Sport Festival is hosted in the area and attracts extreme sports enthusiasts from near and afar.