Gullible’s Travels

(Or: How Not to Travel; a true story)

Jonathan was not a small man. Close to seven feet tall and of some considerable bulk, he was not someone built to be inconspicuous. Despite, or possibly because of, his Gargantuan frame, he seemed to have a need, not to mention an aptitude, to draw attention to himself.

Hair appeared to be purely an optional addition on top of his vast head. When it did emerge, it was of a sparse blond nature, hinting at reddish. When it was absent, his head often revealed the dangers of personal head shaving and he took on the aspect of a man who has had a fortunate and very narrow escape from an abattoir.

It is, of course, difficult for very large people to find clothing that comes close to fitting. Stylishness is a near impossibility, even for the most meticulous. However, Jonathan had the uncanny knack of acquiring clothes that were designed (and this allows for a very loose usage of the word) for people even bigger than himself.

One pair of jeans must have been liberated from a circus. They could only have been made for somebody who walked on stilts. The turn-ups were, possibly, the world’s longest, almost reaching to the knee. The waistband was close to the chest. They were baggy and permanently crumpled.

There was also the bright yellow waterproof jacket. Like all of Jonathan’s clothing, it did not fit and in this case, was far too tight and appeared to be on the verge of splitting open. All it needed was for him to turn a deep shade of green during moments of annoyance and he would have provided a passable imitation of The Incredible Hulk, although a slightly scaled-up version.

This particular jacket was worn in all weathers, irrespective of whether there was the remotest prospect of rain. It gave him a somewhat nautical look, albeit a rather scary one. One uncharitable soul suggested that it made him look like the product of an unholy union between Captain Birdseye and a large marine mammal.

While certainly not dim, Jonathan was not blessed with an abundance of common sense. One Friday, he took his leave from the office at lunch time, quite reasonably observing that it was an especially pleasant day and that sunny days in the east of Scotland were comparatively rare opportunities not to be lost. This was all very well, but nobody was quite prepared for the apparition that reappeared in the same office on the following Monday morning.

Having taken the point that hacking away at the top of your own head with a razor is not always the best approach to personal grooming, he had decided to visit a barber to get the job done professionally. Having received a perfect cranial shave, he then spent several hours sitting in a city centre park and exposing his giant – and by now, very smooth – dome to the burning sun (and Jonathan got closer to the sun than most people). The result was inevitable and took those of us of a certain age back to that 1980s Ready Brek advert and the children with their faintly disturbing nuclear glow.

In the confines of an office and kept under strict observation, Jonathan was relatively safe. True, there were several mishaps and those who were privileged to witness his inadvertent head-butting of a low light-bulb and the resultant chaos are unlikely to forget the experience in a hurry. Generally, though, accidents could happen in a controlled environment. It was when he was out and about on his own that more serious danger threatened.

Of course, nobody wants to live in a totalitarian state, but there are certain individuals who should be subject to travel restrictions, purely for their own good, not to mention the safety of others. Thus, when Jonathan announced that he was taking a holiday, there was a sense of foreboding, which would certainly have been shared by the citizens of the places he intended to visit had they been aware of the fact. It was, perhaps, best for their own peace of mind that they knew nothing.

He was not an experienced traveller, though in many ways this was a good thing. Confinement to a small, known area was by far the safest option. New places and new experiences only increased the possibilities of disaster. There had been an ill-fated excursion into Club 18-30 territory, which had ended ignominiously and uncomfortably as the services of a stomach pump were required. The ensuing enforced rest had, at least, spared any further dangers to self or others.

Naturally, work colleagues were very interested to know about his new destinations, if only so they could plan ahead and scrupulously avoid those locations. It transpired that he was doubling the risk by visiting two countries. He would firstly travel to Amsterdam and after that, Hamburg.

One does not require a mind developed in the gutter to realise that these two cities, full of cultural delights as they undoubtedly are, have a reputation for certain activities of a slightly racier nature. It was inevitable that the suggestion be made that this itinerary could, possibly, involve a trip to one or two of the slightly less highbrow spots of these cities.

Jonathan had a propensity for colouring rather quickly when merely faintly embarrassed, even without interventions from the sun’s rays. On this occasion, the transformation was extremely rapid as his face took on that shade of light for which the Reeperbahn is infamous.

Relatively little is known of the Dutch part of the tour, but it is assumed that nothing too spectacular happened, as no war reporters made sudden appearances in Amsterdam on news bulletins and diplomatic relations with the Netherlands remained in place. The German stage, by contrast, has taken on legendary status, with one particular aspect fully deserving of telling and re-telling. It should, in fact, be a compulsory part of travel guide books as an example of how not to do things.

From the start, Jonathan and Germany did not seem to hit it off. There was an inevitability that things would go spectacularly wrong somewhere along the line (quite literally along a line in this case). There had been warnings of things to come. The altercation with a nutritionist in a supermarket was not a good sign. The young woman had simply pointed out that the selection of foods in Jonathan’s basket had not, perhaps, involved the healthiest options available. Jonathan, in turn, had taken this as a personal slight, an infringement of civil liberties and a bad reflection of Germany and the German people as a whole.

It was, though, the train journey that proved to be either the zenith or nadir, depending on which way you want to view it. Even to this day, there are questions, mysteries and puzzles that quite simply cannot be answered. The great minds of science and philosophy could be gathered at a week-long convention and would still be hopelessly bamboozled. Nobel Prize winners would be reduced to shaking their heads and wandering away to contemplate easier questions, such as reversing climate change or curing all known forms of cancer.

In short, our hero decided that there were no more interesting sights to see in Hamburg after a couple of days. Eventually, after searching though myriad leaflets, booklets and maps, he settled upon Hagenbeck Tierpark, the city’s zoological garden. This would not have been everybody’s choice, but some people like these kind of things and we should not be too critical on that score.

Arriving at the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof station, Jonathan found himself rather overwhelmed by the number of platforms and destinations. Stations, of course, have useful objects such as timetable boards showing departures and arrivals, but these did not appear to help his cause. “They were,” he said rather sniffily and with a certain degree of hurt, “all in German.”

Something else that all large railway stations have is information points and staff who are there to help people. Anyone who has visited any large city in Germany will be aware that a goodly proportion of the population speaks English to some degree (and quite frequently seem to speak better English than the monoglot British tourists that ask silly questions). However, since the supermarket incident, Jonathan appears to have preferred to avoid any form of personal interaction.

He didn’t need to purchase a ticket because he had bought one of those passes that allow one to travel on all public transport within the city. The zoo was comfortably within the distance allowed by the pass, which meant that he’d not need to spend any extra money.

Eventually, after much wandering around the station concourse and considerable deliberation, he was satisfied that he had identified the platform and train that were required. Having boarded, he settled back for what would surely be a ten or fifteen minute journey. The train duly departed within a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan began to have doubts for the first time. Should he not have arrived by now? Also, the train had not stopped anywhere and seemed to be travelling pretty quickly. Was he, he wondered, on the right train after all?

A few minutes later, a ticket inspector appeared. Jonathan dutifully showed his Hamburg pass. The woman stared at him for a moment, probably somewhat in awe of the sheer physical size of the giant in front of her eyes, a common occurrence for those encountering him for the first time.

“Where are you travelling to?” she asked in perfectly good English. Jonathan told her. If she was in any way amused, she had the courtesy to hide it very well. “This train,” she said, “is for Berlin and it does not stop.” Jonathan stared back, partly in disbelief and partly in shock. “I am sorry,” the woman said apologetically, “but you will have to buy a ticket to Berlin.”

Of course, a trip and ticket from Hamburg to Berlin necessitated a further trip and ticket back from Berlin to Hamburg. This meant a return ticket and extra cost, as the ticket had been bought on the train rather than at the station before the start of the journey. An hour later, Jonathan stepped off the train deprived not only of a visit to the Hagenbeck Tierpark, but also of 180 euros. For somebody economising by staying at hostels and travelling on budget airlines, this was a rather expensive lesson in the perils of inadequate planning.

There are some very obvious questions that arise from the adventure. Why, for one, would you go to the main railway station for an overground train when the nearest station to Hagenbeck Tierpark is a U-bahn (underground) station of the same name? Why would you board a long and sleek twelve carriage train when you were intending travelling only a few miles? Did it not occur that it was unlikely that such a large and lengthy train would stop at a group of little suburban stations? And, perhaps most intriguingly of all, why would you want to broadcast to all and sundry about your stunning boneheadedness when you got back home?

None of these questions provide easy answers, unless one knows the character of the person involved. People who think logically and rationally simply do not do things like this, and even in the unlikely event that they do, they are not about to announce it to a wider population or, indeed, anybody at all.

One hopelessly lame explanation provided by the man himself fell into the ‘everything was in German’ category of excuses provided earlier. This, not surprisingly, failed to impress anyone a great deal. The train was going to Berlin and did not stop anywhere else. The German for ‘Berlin’ is, to the apparent surprise of only one person in Europe, ‘Berlin’.

Paranoia had also set in, possibly as a result of the incident in the supermarket. There were dark mutterings of a conspiracy, as though the entire German population had worked together surreptitiously to ensure that a bumbling Scottish tourist was kidnapped and robbed by a complicit Deutsche Bahn.

In fairness, it probably didn’t help that some office wag had written ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ in large letters on a board behind Jonathan’s desk. True to form, he had failed to notice it and when he did, duly apportioned all blame on a completely innocent person. The message was quite splendid in its double meaning, as it could easily have been interpreted as ‘I am a doughnut’ in the way that President Kennedy’s famous line was misconstrued. Either way, there was something pleasingly apt about it.

Jonathan continued to present himself as the unwitting victim of an evil superpower. No amount of reasoned argument could persuade him otherwise and he would not accept any culpability. This, he said darkly, would never have happened in Scotland.

Some weeks later, he travelled to Glasgow for a concert. This would entail catching the last train, which leaves Glasgow at half past eleven, to Edinburgh. Everything went smoothly. He saw the end of the concert and reached Queen Street station with plenty of time to spare.

Congratulating himself on his perfect planning, he sat back for the journey. At the back of his mind was the fiasco he’d endured in Germany. This, however, was Scotland, his home territory, and there would be no such mishaps. He felt himself dozing off, but was unconcerned. The train was going no further than Edinburgh, so it really didn’t matter if he fell asleep. Ideally, he wanted to get off at Haymarket, at the city’s West End, but the final stop at Waverley was only at the other end of Princes Street and it would be nearly as easy to get a bus home from there.

As the train stopped at a station, Jonathan woke up. This, he thought, was even better. He had not slept all the way through and could get off at his preferred stop. He jumped from his seat and off the train just before the doors closed behind him. The train departed on the remainder of its journey and Jonathan suddenly realised that the platform on which he was standing was one of only two.

Haymarket station has four platforms. With some trepidation, he slowly raised his drooping eyelids and looked at the station sign in front of him. It read ‘Linlithgow’.

Advertisements

William Handyside – From Edinburgh to St Petersburg

As regular readers of these ramblings will be aware, Duck Holiday periodically takes a look at Scots who have made their name in Eastern Europe. We continue that occasional theme with another Scottish engineer who is better known in Russia than in the land of his birth.

William Handyside was born in Edinburgh in 1793. He was the nephew of another engineer, Charles Baird, who worked extensively in Russia, notably in St Petersburg. On a visit to Scotland in 1810, he invited his nephew, who was then training to be an architect, to join him in Russia.

Handyside quickly realised that engineering rather than architecture, was his true vocation. Within five years, he assisted in the building of the first steam vessel to navigate the Neva River and by 1824, had completed four suspension bridges. In a city of waterways, bridge building must have been a decidedly useful skill.

Despite the rivalry between Britain and Russia in the early decades of the nineteenth century, there was a good deal of co-operation between the two nations and a number of British engineers went to work on projects in Russia. This was a theme touched on by Charles Dickens in Little Dorrit, in which the talented and good-natured engineer Daniel Doyce departs for Russia, apparently with considerable success.

Handyside’s most notable project was St Isaac’s Cathedral. Working with the French Neoclassical architect Auguste de Montferrand, he undertook the construction of much of the stone and metal work of the cathedral. This was no small project; the colonnade alone was composed of no less than forty-eight granite pillars, each fifty-six feet long and eight feet in diameter. Another thirty-six pillars, only slightly smaller, were fitted around the base of the dome. He was also commissioned by the architect to build the huge cast and wrought-iron dome.

St Isaac’s Cathedral

After the completion of the cathedral, Handyside collaborated with de Montferrand once more, this time in the building of what was then the largest granite column in the world, dedicated to the recently-deceased emperor Alexander I. In 1832, the column was elevated in an astonishing twenty-five minutes, in front of the current emperor Nicholas and a vast crowd of military and civilian onlookers. The monument stands in the centre of Palace Square, in front of the Winter Palace.

Alexander Column

Sadly, the exertions of his many building projects took its tool on Handyside’s health and he returned to Scotland in the hope of recuperation and recovery. He never recovered his health and died in his native city of Edinburgh in 1850 at the age of fifty-seven.

Go West

These notes have, for the most part, covered an Eastern European theme. It is likely, certainly for those of us of a certain age, that we still tend to think in terms of east and west more in a political sense than a geographical one.

It would be fair to describe several of the places featured in these pages as being centrally located in Europe. For example, Prague, Bratislava, Vienna, and Berlin cannot really be described as being in the east of the continent, though clearly the first two would have been thought of in that way during days of Cold War. Of course, part of Berlin was unequivocally in the east in those times. Being a Berliner during the years of the wall must have been a strange experience, possibly even more so for those in the enclave of West Berlin.

If one considers Ljubljana, this lovely city cannot be termed eastern geographically, but because it resided in the former Yugoslavia, it is easier to place it on the eastern side of an imaginary line, albeit a rather wobbly line.

Enough of this rambling, because there is more interesting rambling to be done. Indeed, Duck Holiday has rambled quite extensively and in the coming weeks, intends to diversify a little by looking at some other spots around Europe. Readers are cordially invited to follow us around, wherever we may roam.

Katarina Ivanović

A visit to the National Museum of Serbia in Belgrade turned out to be something of a disappointment, as there were extensive renovation works taking place at the time and much of the museum was closed to the public. There was, however, some compensation to be found as one of the few parts of the museum that remained open was dedicated to an exhibition of work by Katarina Ivanović.

Ivanović was born in 1811 in Veszprém, now in Hungary but then part of the Austrian Empire. Her family were ethnic Serbs and she grew up in the city of Székesfehérvár. A talented artist from her youth, she studied in Budapest, but – remarkably for a woman of that era – also studied at the famous Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. She was fortunate enough to find a wealthy patron, one Baroness Czacki, who funded her move to Vienna in 1835.

800px-Katarina_Ivanovic,_Autoportret_v

Katarina Ivanović – self portrait

In 1840, Ivanović left Vienna to study at the Munich Academy, possibly funded by her patron. It was here that she read about Serbian history and was inspired to paint The Conquest of Belgrade, an oil painting depicting the city’s capture by Serbian revolutionaries in 1806. While she travelled extensively and in fact spent little time in Serbia, she worked in Belgrade for two years during the 1840s and it was here that she painted the work.

The Conquest of Belgrade

The Conquest of Belgrade

She was, though, best known as a portrait painter and her best-known work, a self portrait, resides permanently at the National Museum of Serbia along with The Conquest of Belgrade. She painted a number of portraits of notable Serbian characters including the Princess Consort Persida Nenadović and Simeon “Sima” Milutinović (aka Sarajlija, “The Sarajevan”), a Serb poet, historian, diplomat and adventurer.

Sima Milutinovic

Sima Milutinovic

Persida Nenadović

Persida Nenadović

By the 1870s, she was producing few works and although there are suggestions that she was a largely forgotten figure by this time, she must have retained some influential admirers as she was elected an honorary member of the Serbian Learned Society, later to become the Serbian Royal Academy and ultimately the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts.

Katarina Ivanović returned to Székesfehérvár in later life and died in that city in 1882. Her remains were moved to Belgrade in 1967.

A Novel Experience

This is somewhat off-topic and it’s fair to say that travel in Eastern Europe isn’t involved (though it does get a little mention here and there). I have had my first novel published this year and while I have no intention of parking every single one of the 57 chapters on these pages, there’s no harm in providing a little sampler. Here, then, is chapter one.

 

It was just after three o’clock when Vince Kingmyle arrived back at his office. It had, he reflected, been a worthwhile lunch break at the golf club. He’d had a pleasant lunch; he’d booked the course for the party of tourists that were due in a couple of weeks; he’d also spent a worthwhile hour talking to that new member, Mike.

Mike seemed like a good fellow, thought Vince. The young man had certainly seemed impressed by the brief biography Vince had given him and had appeared eager to hear the story of Vince’s promising football career, so cruelly terminated by injury, and the subsequent success that had followed during his time in the Civil Service and now as a respected local businessman. He also had the impression that Mike would be keen to hear more about the many golf course Vince had played.

Vince frowned for a moment as he thought of George McDougall. He’d been in the middle of describing the majestic round he’d played at the Celtic Manor course when that old duffer had butted in.

“You’re sure one remarkable man, Vince,” George had said.

“What do you mean?” Vince had replied, somewhat tetchily.

“Well, golfer, time traveller,” George went on, a little self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Vince had glared at the old fool as he waddled back to his seat with his glass of malt. He found George irritating, but had regained his composure and continued his story.

“Jealous as hell,” Vince thought, as he paused at the front door of the office. He took out his handkerchief and gave the sign a little polish. It read ‘Golf King’, the letters of the two words intersected by a large ‘V’. Satisfied with its appearance, he went in.

“Good lunch?” asked Krystyna Czerniatynska as he strode to his desk.

Vince, wholly oblivious to the sarcasm in Krystyna’s question, said, “Excellent, thank you. I’ve booked the course for the party from Yorkshire, so put that on the spreadsheet if you don’t mind.”

Krystyna said, “There are also two other bookings. One group from London and one from Northern Ireland. I have emailed the details to you.”

“Tremendous,” said Vince, rubbing his hands together. “We’re cooking the gas.”

Krystyna frowned quizzically, but merely pointed across the room. “And those as well,” she said.

Vince looked over at three cardboard boxes. “And they are?” he asked.

“The polo shirts,” Krystyna told him. “The ‘King of Swing’ shirts you wanted.”

“Fantastic,” Vince said, jumping from his leather swivel chair and pouncing on the boxes in the manner of an overweight cat attempting to catch a woodpigeon. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He tore open a box and dug around until he found a large size. “Style with a capital S,” he said. He walked across to the door and said “I will be the model. Excuse me, ladies.”

Krystyna glanced at her colleague, Anne, and shook her head. Moments later, Vince was back, wearing the shirt. He walked in front of the two women, performing a small pirouette as he did so. “Stylish, no?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Anne mumbled. Vince gave her a sharp look.

“Yes, good, very smart,” Krystyna said, hurriedly.

“We are literally on fire,” Vince said loudly.

Krystyna winced. It was a mental image that was disturbing.

“Perfect,” said Vince. “Everyone who books onto a Golf King tour gets one of these to keep. Is that not such a good promotion? It’s so brilliant, I don’t know why I never thought of it before. It’s advertising as well, you see? People will wear these when they get home, they’ll wear them at their golf clubs and people will see the ‘V’ logo and…” He tailed off. Krystyna was staring at him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Vince.

Krystyna scampered from behind her desk and grabbed a handful of shirts from the open box as Vince gawped at her in amazement. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“What?” Vince demanded.

Krystyna pointed to the lettering that crossed the distinctive ‘V’ on the shirt’s badge. The logo read ‘KING OF SWINE’.

Vince’s mouth opened, but nothing, other than one or two flecks of spittle, came out. He gaped like a stranded fish for several seconds before diving back into the box and pulling out more shirts. He pulled off the shirt he was wearing and surveyed the lettering. Anne let out a snigger at the sight of her boss’s less than athletic torso, but fortunately for her, Vince was too preoccupied to hear it.

Naked to the waist, he stormed across the room, flinging the shirt towards the window, where it caught on a plant and remained dangling. “Who,” he demanded, is responsible for this? Who put the order in?”

Anne and Krystyna exchanged glances and Vince, hands on hips and resembling a badly designed teapot, waited for an answer. Krystyna took the plunge. “You did,” she said.

Vince, giving a good impression of a man about to be struck down by apoplexy, glared at her and shouted “Me? Oh, I see. It’s my fault. I can’t spell the word ‘swing’, is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, I did not say that,” said Krystyna in measured tones. “The manufacturers, they must have got it wrong.” Vince continued to stare at her before realising his somewhat undignified state of undress and snatching his own shirt from his desk and putting it back on.

Anne, meanwhile, had put her jacket on and Vince looked at her. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home. I always go at half three.”

“Fine, good, go then.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

Vince continued to stare at her as she left the office, before turning back to Krystyna. “Are you sure,” he asked in a calmer voice, “that it wasn’t her? Sometimes I think she’s not quite all there.”

Krystyna said, “No, sorry, it was definitely you. I remember it, you said that you would take care of it. But the manufacturers must be wrong. They must have made a mistake.”

Vince sat down and muttered, “Clowns. That’s what you get. Clowns, imbeciles. Can’t do anything right unless you do it yourself. When did we order them? I must have the email.”

“Four weeks, I think,” Krystyna told him.

Vince spun his chair around and unlocked a cupboard. He took out a red folder, which was full of email correspondence. Vince, to Krystyna’s secret fury, printed out every email that he received. He then placed the print into a clear plastic pocket and put them in a folder. The cupboard was packed with such folders.

He thumbed through the pages and suddenly exclaimed “Ah, got it. Right here. Here we are, email order to Inventive Designs Ltd.” He read down the page and suddenly snapped the folder shut before Krystyna, who had appeared beside him, could see the document.

“You found it…so it was the manufacturer?” she asked.

Vince, who had hurriedly rammed the folder back into the cupboard, said, “Yes, yes, of course, idiots, morons.” He slammed the cupboard shut and locked it again.

“Should I phone them?” Krystyna asked, tentatively.

“No, no, er, no, it’s best if I do it,” Vince said. “Why don’t you get going? It’s been a busy day and I’m not staying late tonight.”

“But I should work until five,” Krystyna replied.

Vince sat back and gave a grandiose sweep of an arm. “No, you get along. I’m going to ring these cretins and give them a piece of my mind. Anyway, you don’t want to hear me when I’m angry.”

“Fine,” Krystyna said. “I’ll go then. See you in the morning.”

“Tomorrow,” Vince said, “I’ll show you that new spreadsheet that I’ve designed.”

Krystyna gave him a slightly sickly smile and walked slowly to the front door. She closed it quietly behind her and leant back against the wall for a second. Then she started to giggle. She found that she couldn’t stop giggling and had to grasp hold of a drainpipe to support herself. Her eyes had become moist and she felt tears beginning to trickle over her cheeks. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath of air and walked towards her bus stop.

King

Charles Cameron – Scottish Classicist

In our occasional series about Scottish influence in Eastern Europe, it would be highly irregular to overlook the contribution of Charles Cameron, who was offered the position of court architect to Catherine II (‘Catherine the Great’) and whose designs provide a Classicist look in contrast to the prevailing Baroque style of the period.

Cameron was, in fact, born in London in 1745, to Walter and Hannah Cameron. Walter was a Scottish builder and carpenter who had established himself in the English capital. The young Charles – possibly named in honour of the Jacobite prince – was apprenticed to his father and soon began to display considerable talent for design.

In the 1760s, Charles Cameron travelled to Rome and undertook a detailed study of Roman baths. On his return to London, he published the snappily-titled The Baths of the Romans explained and illustrated, with the Restorations of Palladio corrected and improved.

Despite its unwieldy title and somewhat esoteric nature, it seems likely that the book was instrumental in Cameron’s appointment to the Russian court. Certainly, his name was known around Europe and Catherine, eager to present Russia as a modern European country, scoured the continent for architects and designers to provide the expertise she desired.

Cameron’s most notable works were the gallery that bears his name at the Catherine Palace and the Pavlovsk Palace, built for the son of Catherine the Great. The Catherine Palace, incidentally, was built for the empress Catherine I, wife of Peter the Great.

Catherine the Great preferred the Classical style to the Baroque and Cameron was the man to deliver. He redecorated the interior of the Rococo Catherine Palace before setting to work on the new gallery and its attendant park. The gallery, with its myriad statues of poets and philosophers, became the favourite promenade of Catherine.

Cameron Gallery from above

Cameron Gallery from above

Cameron also designed the nearby Sophia Ascension Cathedral. Catherine was eager to build a church that resembled the vast Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. The architect was not familiar with the great Byzantine church and the result was more in his usual Classical style.

Cameron Gallery facade

Cameron Gallery facade

Ironically, it was the Pavlovsk Palace, perhaps Cameron’s most famous work, that led to his fall from favour. Cameron built the original palace but fell out with the emperor (Paul) and empress (Maria) over costs. Cameron was dismissed by the emperor in 1796.

Pavlovsk courtyard

Pavlovsk courtyard

Pavlovsk Palace

Pavlovsk Palace

Paul’s successor, Alexander, was more well-disposed towards Cameron and the architect was reappointed as chief architect of the Russian Admiralty in 1801. He also designed the Naval Hospital at Oranienbaum before retiring in 1805.

Pavlovsk (is this Classical enough?)

Pavlovsk (is this Classical enough?)

Despite speaking no Russian and apparently having no Russian friends, he continued to live in Russia and died there in 1812, just before the invasion of Russia by Napoleon.

Nice one, Cyril

In the summer of 864, two scholarly monks named Cyril and Methodius left Constantinople for Moravia, where they remained for the next three years. During that time, they invented a new alphabet with which to transcribes the as then unwritten Slavonic speech. They also translated the Bible and parts of the liturgy.

Cyril, the leading protagonist, came from Thessalonica and his baptismal name was, like that of many emperors, Constantine. In fact, he only adopted the Slavonic name Cyril on his deathbed many years later, but history will forever know him as Cyril and his alphabet as Cyrillic.

Curiously, he chose Macedonian Slavonic as his language for the project, though this may have been the language most familiar to the polyglot monk. It would not have been familiar to the Moravians, whose native dialect was Slovakian. Another good reason for using this language was that the Byzantines were in near constant conflict with the Bulgars, to whom the language would have been much more understandable. What better way than to spread Christianity to the troublesome Bulgars than to spread the word in their own language?

National Library in Sofia: Cyril and Methodius statue

National Library in Sofia with a statue of Cyril and Methodius

Thus was Cyrillic born. While the alphabet has undergone many changes over the years, the basis was laid by Cyril and Methodius. In fact, it would be more accurate to use the plural ‘alphabets’ as each country that uses Cyrillic has developed its own adaptations.

With its origins firmly in the Orthodox Church, it is hardly surprising that those countries that use Cyrillic are ones in which that church is predominant. The following countries use Cyrillic script:

Belarus
Bosnia/Herzegovina
Bulgaria
Kazakhstan
Kyrgyzstan
Macedonia
Mongolia
Montenegro
Russia
Serbia
Tajikistan
Ukraine

Romania is a rare exception of a largely Orthodox country using Latin scripts. The earliest texts in the Romanian language date as recently as the sixteenth century and are in Cyrillic. That script continued into the middle of the nineteenth century, since when Latin has been used.

In neighbouring Moldova, a special version of the Cyrillic alphabet derived from the Russian version was used until 1989, when the Romanian language spoken there officially returned to the Romanian Latin alphabet, although in the breakaway region of Transnistria the Cyrillic alphabet is still used.

There are numerous websites that list all of the alphabets, so we will restrict this article to the Russian alphabet, which contains 33 letters.

А а as in ‘bar’

Б б also as in ‘bar’

В в as in ‘very’

Г г as in ‘gallery’

Д д as in ‘delta’

Е е as in ‘yes’

Ё ё as in ‘yolk’

Ж ж as in ‘treasure’

З з as in ‘zing’

И и as in ‘thee

Й й as in ‘boy

К к as in ‘king’

Л л as in ‘leg’

М м as in ‘man’

Н н as in ‘no’

О о as in ‘more’

П п as in ‘pink’

Р р as in ‘rough’ (though rolled r)

С с as in ‘set’

Т т as in ‘toy’

У у as in ‘loot’

Ф ф as in ‘felt’

Х х as in ‘help’

Ц ц as in ‘lots

Ч ч as in ‘chin’

Ш ш as in ‘ship’

Щ щ as in ‘schtik’ (soft C sound)

Ъ ъ silent hard sign (preventing palatisation of preceding consonant)

Ы ы as in ‘hit’

Ь ь silent soft sign (for palatisation of preceding consonant)

Э э as in ‘bet’

Ю ю as in ‘use’

Я я as in ‘Katya

To western eyes, Cyrillic can appear bewildering at first glance. However, for those of us with English as a first language, there is a logicality to the letters. The important thing is that they tell you how to pronounce a word. In English, we have dilemmas. Should we use a hard or soft C, for example. There are no such mysteries in Cyrillic.

In fact, it’s all relatively simple. A number of letters perform the same, or at least a very similar, function to those in the Latin alphabet. A, E, K, C, O, M, T and even B are much the same in both sets. Once you have fathomed that Cyrillic P, H and X are really R, N and H, you’re a third of the way there already.

Other letters are readily decipherable; the Cyrillic D looks very much like a Greek delta, the G almost identical to gamma and the F (or ph-) like the -th of the Greek theta. The Z is easy enough, too, as many people even in the west write a squiggly Z rather than a sharp-edged one.

As for the Russian alphabet’s best letter, the ‘backward R’, one way to memorise its use is to remember that whenever you see the name ‘Russia’ in Cyrillic, this is the letter you’ll see at the end of the name rather than the beginning.

Barclay de Tolly – Russia’s Scottish-German General

Those who have read Tolstoy’s epic War and Peace will be familiar with Mikhail Kutuzov, the general widely acknowledged to have been responsible for repelling Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812. Indeed, Kutuzov is treated with great respect in the novel, portrayed as a man of considerable wisdom and foresight. If Kutuzov is seen as a little overly sentimental at times, this trait is represented as a positive attribute.

Mikhail Barclay de Tolly does not fare so well in Tolstoy’s work, being seen as indecisive and dithering. Barclay fell from favour during the campaign, being superseded as Commander-in-Chief by Kutuzov and resigning from the army soon afterwards. After Napoleon’s defeat, Barclay’s popularity grew and he was restored to the military, taking over from Kutuzov following the latter’s death in 1813.

The two great leaders of the Napoleonic campaign, so often at odds with each other, now stand side by side outside the massive Kazan Cathedral in St Petersburg, on the city’s most famous street, Nevsky Prospekt.

Statue at Kazan Cathedral (St Petersburg)

Statue at Kazan Cathedral (St Petersburg)

As regular readers of these notes will know, Duck Holiday is based in Scotland and is ever keen to investigate Scotland’s links with Eastern Europe. To claim that Mikhail Barclay de Tolly was a Scotsman would be stretching the truth more than a little. He was, however, a member of the noble Barclay clan from Aberdeenshire. There is some debate about his birthplace, but it is likely that he was born in what is now Lithuania and was raised in Livonia, which was then part of the Russian Empire and whose territory now straddles Latvia and Estonia.

Barclay was a German-speaking descendant of a Scottish family that had settled in Livonia in the 17th century. His grandfather was a mayor of Riga and his father was admitted into the ranks of the Russian nobility. The young Barclay joined the Imperial Russian army and saw his first action in the 1787-1791 Russo-Turkish war and the concurrent war against Sweden.

Portrait by George Dawe (Military Gallery of the Winter Palace)

Portrait by George Dawe (Military Gallery of the Winter Palace)

After distinguishing himself in the Polish campaign of 1794, Barclay rose through the ranks rapidly and became a major-general in 1799. During another Russo-Swedish war during 1808-1809, he distinguished himself by crossing the frozen Gulf of Bothnia near Kvarken, which allowed him to surprise the enemy and seize the town of Umeå in Sweden. In April 1809, he was made full General and commander-in-chief of Russian forces in Finland. A year later, he became Minister of War, launching an important series of military reforms while planning for Napoleon’s invasion of Russia.

After his reinstatement of 1814, Barclay commanded the taking of Paris and was made a Prince of the Russian Empire during the following year.

He died in Insterburg in Prussia in May 1818. His body – and later that of his wife – was buried in the Jõgeveste Manor Cemetery in Estonia.

Barclay de Tolly Mausoleum in Estonia

Barclay de Tolly Mausoleum in Estonia

Welcome to Atlantis

The Duck Holiday team are temporarily off the air. Some imbecile decided to turn on a tap (or taps) and leave it (or them) running for hours. Result: predictable. Duck flooded out; you wouldn’t read about it, except you just did.

 

Duck Holiday is now a refugee, but hopes to be back in action soon. The Duckhouse is under repair and the duck squad are bound for Copenhagen next month to seek solace in expensive beer. While we acknowledge that Copenhagen is not Eastern Europe, neither is the Duckhouse habitable, so certain sacrifices have to be made.

 

We will not quack under the stress and we will attempt to overcome this fowl deed by means of this web feat.