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Given the profusion of away trips in 2005, and Helen’s lack
of annual leave, there were always going to be a couple of games
that had to be cut short, and given the Italy game was on Easter
Saturday, and that leave is in short supply due to the school holidays,
we plumped for a quick-in, quick-out trip from Good Friday until
Easter Sunday (almost a complete round 48 hours). As the Italian
FA kept us guessing over the venue, with strong rumours supporting
anywhere from Lecce in the deep south to Genoa, we played a cautious
hand and waited for the announcement, paying a premium as a result,
but at least safe in the knowledge we were heading in the right
direction.
As it happened, we got Easyjet flights direct from Gatwick for
around £130 each – more expensive than BA from Heathrow,
but much more convenient (no M25 at the Easter Weekend!). Due to
apprehension about the trip, we decided to opt for a more luxurious
hotel than normal, and inadvertently booked ourselves into the landmark
Gallia at a pricey £120 a night – still, at £250
each all-in for the weekend and a wee bit of luxury for 2 nights
(the hotel, not Easyjet!) at Easter isn’t too bad.
So, the stage was set, and after a frustrating week at work, growing
continually restless at the thought of everyone already on the bevvy
out in Milan, it was off to Gatwick on Friday morning…
The airport was heaving on Friday morning, as hordes of “shell-suiters”
queued up with screaming kids in tow at the start of the school
holidays. The Easyjet desks were thronging with people heading for
the likes of Amsterdam, but we got checked in and through security
with a minimum of fuss, and were pleasantly surprised by the relative
peace and quiet of the upstairs Sports Bar (“No Children Allowed”
being a very welcome sign!). The seats at the departure gate were
filled with a mix of families and English city breakers, who were
no doubt in for a pleasant surprise when they got to the Duomo later
that day – the 20 or so fellow footsoldiers on the flight
would have given them little warning of what was to await.
At the other end, having successfully (and eventually) negotiated
passport control and the maze of bus stops in Linate car park, we
were dropped off at Central Station and wandered around to our hotel.
Palatial would probably be unfair – the Gallia is a bit of
a landmark, and we were rewarded with a balcony corner view and
a chaise longue (a first for me), to name but a few luxuries. A
rendezvous with Craig to hand over an emergency sporran led us to
his hotel bar, where we met a few of the Barnton Tartan Army (they
of the big flag at the Norway game), before heading out on the metro
towards the San Siro. We got off at Duomo for our first and only
glimpse of the square and the cathedral (under scaffolding wraps)
as we walked across to the tram stop, where we met Al and Bev from
Enfield (originally Dumfries in Al’s case). At the end of
the tram line and in the shadow of the stadium – which is
incredible from the outside – they came along with us to Bar
Trotto, where Bruce, Sharon, Jim Carver and Vic were waiting, and
we all sank a few plastic-glassed Heinekens and shared stories before
bidding farewell to the two of them and headed off to Lotto metro
for the bus to Saronno.
Ally Maciver and John (aka Steel Peach, a Brummie now biding in
Lombardy) had organised a night of pizza, music and karaoke in the
small town of Saronno, around 20 miles north west of Milan and home
to the liquid marzipan liqueur, Amaretto di Saronno. Around 30 Scots,
including the eccentric Elvis throwbacks, the Suspicious Minds Tartan
Army, as well as the Milngavie TA (represented this time by Sumo,
Russell, Ally Jones & Irene, Pete and Katy) made the trip out
– rendezvousing at the smallest McDonalds repetition in the
world for the bus. After around 30 minutes, the bus pulled up in
an empty side street leaving 30 bewildered footsoldiers to stagger
around to a small square with a lit shop front proclaiming pizza
and karaoke. When we got in, it was apparent we were the only people
there, but at least we got served quickly (by we, I don’t
mean Helen and Craig, who had to wait almost 30 minutes after an
opportunist strike by an apologetic Sumo and Russell). An antipasto
starter plate including tuna and bacon rice (a little unusual) followed,
whilst Irene and Katy, both on their first trips, tried to fathom
exactly what was going on. Some Italian easy listening followed
before John took the stage, and then the rest of the pub, and then
the pavement outside (with his roving radio mike), for a few Brit-rock
songs. The beer continued to flow for most, but Chris Norton, Diggie
Don and myself opted for a cheeky wee strawberry sparkling number
– only 7% but all the taste of cremola foam (Ally M) or fizzy
mad dog (as Sumo summed it up).
The karaoke soon followed, opening somewhat predictably with Suspicious
Minds, before moving on to more than I can accurately remember as
the place steadily filled up with locals. Russell was up quickly
to perform the topical “Billie Jean”, and other Milngavie
highlights include Pete’s take on “Take On Me”
and a Sumo and Katy duet. Ally went solo on Yellow Brick Road, however
disappointed everyone by choosing “It’s still Rock and
Roll to Me” instead of “I Got You Babe” for his
double-act with Susan. Chris Norton rescued Pete Risk by standing
in for “That’s Life”, and doubled up with me on
Zucchero’s “Senza Una Donna” (we had to abandon
a plan for him to sing the English when it turned out to be an all
Italian version!). That was my second attempt at Italian singing
that night, as I had earlier murdered Paolo Conte’s “Via
Con Me” (my excuse: the karaoke machine never highlighted
the words!), which at least contained some English in the chorus
(“I dream of you… chips, chips”).
With the strawberry wine soon drunk dry, various other attempts
to imbibe exotic plonk (alongside the Heineken, mind) were made,
with the likes of Mateus Rose and Landers Portuguese wine passing
lips, as well as a whole round of amarettos towards the end of the
evening. Ally remained sensible and negotiated a good rate with
the bar owner Tina, and we piled out looking for the bus just before
half-one. A minor burger van dispute was taking place in the distance,
but somehow all of the troops were rounded up and shepherded back
on the bus for the noisy journey back to Central Station.
Sharon and Vic, who had been knocking back industrial strength
jugs of vodka and orange, were beginning to flag, and we wandered
round to Bruce and Sharon’s hotel in an abortive attempt to
find a nightcap, only to find the bar closed.
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A late and lazy start saw Helen and I head across to the station
at lunchtime, where we bumped into Akie hanging around waiting for
Vodka. After grabbing a bite to eat and some wine from the supermarket
(3 bottles, one of which clocked in at €20!), and even finding
a corkscrew, on a very cheap swiss army style knife, it was back
to the hotel. After umming and ahhing about finding a bar, going
to the hotel’s “Baboon Bar”, or just necking some
wine in the room, our decision was made by Bruce and Sharon passing
our hotel and nipping up. After much effort, and a nearly broken
corkscrew, Helen managed to get the cork out in instalments and
we were rewarded with the fruits of her labour – well, Helen
and me at least; Bruce doesn’t drink wine and Sharon was still
at the “never drinking again” stage.
After the bottle was finished, Bruce and Sharon headed off to meet
Chris, and Helen and I had decided to head to the game with the
bus tickets we had bought from Irish entrepreneur Helen Donegan
(through her website Italy With Us). Helen D had arranged a number
of buses, covering the U21 game, transfers to Pisa airport and trips
around Milan and to Como, however most controversially, she had
chartered 6 corporation buses to take fans from Central Station
(well, right outside our actual hotel) to behind the Scotland end,
returning after the match. Not to everyone’s taste, and certainly
a talking point on the Tartan Army Message Board, Helen (my one)
and me had decided to book these primarily as insurance for getting
home after the game. After all, we’ve faced issues in the
past (notably Brussels and Valencia), and it would be no more expensive
than one of the rare taxis in the town. We had just over half-an-hour
before the bus was due to depart, so we made good use of the classy
(and pricey) Baboon Bar; a couple of cocktails later and it was
out to join the 4pm bus to the stadium; our two bottle wine supply
bolstered by the acquisition of 5 mini bottles of “Beverino
Rosso”.
The ride to the game was pretty comfortable, punctuated with some
great songs (“We’re going to deep fry your pizzas”)
and lots of friendly waves from the locals. On disembarking at the
south end of the ground we headed around in the direction of the
beer tents, stopping to grab a bite to eat and a scarf. Outside
the Forst Stadio Bar we bumped into Wee Numpty of the Notts Scots,
and were soon joined by Big Numpty. After a round from the bar and
an attempt to open wine bottle number 2 – the corkscrew snapped
off in the cork this time, necessitating a trip to the bar for Helen
to flutter her eyelashes and leave the job to the professionals
– it was off to the Daily Record’s much publicised “Tartan
tent” (which was neither tartan, nor much of a tent –
more of an awning, actually). A decent Scottish crowd were already
in evidence around the ground, and we were delayed only long enough
to decant our open wine into plastic glasses (the third bottle and
remaining 3 mini bottles were safe in the ruck sack). The square
surrounding Da Vinci’s horse was pleasantly full (i.e. not
uncomfortably) of Tartan Army, and the flags hanging off the back
of the coliseum-like racecourse stand made for an excellent backdrop.
The wicker sofas scattered around were looking increasingly optimistic
given the darkening overcast sky above us, and the first few spits
of rain were being felt as we made our way under the cover of the
awning in the corner. The queue for beer tokens looked pretty rough
(we were okay given our “supplies”), as did the secondary
queue to turn the tokens into alcohol – we drifted out the
other side of the tent and found ourselves in the company of Chris,
Fran, Bert and his wife, as well as Chris’ daughter and her
boyfriend Matty – all of them immensely proud of Bert’s
“There is a light…” flag, fluttering proudly in
the drizzle.
The heavier rain coincided precisely with a large influx of fellow
Tartan Army – Craig and Disco Keith turned up minutes before
Ally, Sue and Rich, by which time we were huddling with hundreds
of others in the bottom concourse of the stand. The wine was shared
amongst the gathered, and only a text from Ally Ewan (promising
more wine and more plastic glasses) tempted us from our haven, with
Craig in tow keen to share a drink with his old college-mate. The
rendezvous was named, however on arrival at the now-packed Stadio
Bar, Ally was nowhere to be seen (a later shouted phone call minutes
after the final whistle revealed he had been outside, possibly at
the other bar), but some superb negotiation from Helen secured drinks
direct from the barman (circumventing the time-consuming cassa system
of pre-payment). As the three of us supped our beers, Craig leaned
over to present a grinning midget ultra with a tacky “I’ve
met the Tartan Army” button badge. The ultra was very grateful
for this, and saluted Craig in a way that would have made Di Canio
proud (speaking of which, all the ultras seemed to share Paolo’s
taste in Planet of the Apes sideburns), much to our bemusement.
There only remained time for an exchange of badges with John from
the Shetland Tartan Army (confused by my insistence that I had met
him in Pandoras – sorry John, I meant the Clockwork!) before
heading back round to the Scotland end. One final beer stop (from
a stall) remained, as well as another scarf purchase (I was determined
to ditch all my coins as a result of the confiscation scare stories
we’d heard), and it was off to our turnstiles, meeting John
“Steelpeach” and the Milngavie Tartan Army on the way
in.
After getting in, climbing the stairs and paddling in the toilet,
we all became separated as I queued for a box of Tuc biscuits (sadly
not the ones with a soft cheese filling) – Helen and I made
our way up to the back of our section where we were soon joined
by Sharon and Bruce, then Rich (who had somehow ended up in conversation
with a player’s girlfriend in the front row). The section
we were in behind the goal filled up rapidly, and before we knew
it the anthems had been and gone. Scotland started solidly, if a
little hesitant to commit to all-out attack, and lasted well into
the first half before the injured (and soon-to-be-substituted) Rab
Douglas was caught out by a Pirlo free kick curled over the wall
towards Rab’s top right corner. Within a few minutes Gordon
was on, and Scotland remained steadfast until the half-time break.
Shortly after half-time Quashie conjured up a great volley matched
by a fingertip Buffon save, and midway through the half Ferguson
put Miller clear only for the young striker to snatch at the one-on-one.
In amongst all of this the game was constantly punctuated by a number
of soft free kicks, mostly awarded in Italy’s favour –
for all their constant rolling around, the physio was hardly on
the pitch, yet it wasn’t until the closing few minutes that
Italy extended their lead; Pirlo again, but with an inch perfect
dead ball that left Gordon blameless. Off the pitch, the second
half was witness to an incredible version of Doe a Deer that seemed
to get louder each time for around 15 minutes solid – some
of the Italians had tried to drown it out with jeers at the start
but soon gave up – and on the flip side, a pitched battle
between two opposing Italian ultra elements in the stand beneath
us, out of view to most Scots in the ground but not on the telly.
Come the final whistle, almost every Scot in the stadium took the
two-nil defeat in a positive light – I certainly feel it marks
definite progress from the sort of capitulation we could have been
forgiven for expecting once the first had gone in (for example:
Paris, Cardiff, Amsterdam, even Hungary and Sweden at home). The
half-full San Siro may not have met everyone’s expectations
in terms of facilities, atmosphere or even safety (as Helen’s
bruised back could testify to), but it was still a magnificent venue
to cheer on the team, and hopefully bear witness to the initial
shoots of recovery we so badly need.
Anyway, away from the match analysis (let’s face it –
not something these diary accounts are renowned for!) and back to
the blow-by-blow account… After a wait of around 30 minutes
or so, much of which was whiled away singing and being applauded
by some lingering Italian fans, we were allowed out, and Helen and
I made our way down the never ending staircase keen to get seats
on the bus. Our buses were tucked just behind the trams, but we
were lucky to get straight on and sat down within minutes. After
a delayed departure, it took over 30 minutes of driving just to
get to Lotto metro (a 20 minute walk from the ground!), although
a couple of shouts from the back suggested the driver had been going
around in circles for a while. By now, a combination of the late
time, the excitement of the game and the heat of the bus (and maybe,
just a wee bit, the amount of red wine I’d had earlier) conspired
to make me feel very ill indeed – the last 25 minutes or so
back to the station were spent trying not to breathe too deeply,
as not only did I feel ready to faint but explosions from either,
or both, ends felt uncomfortably imminent (sincere apologies to
the guy in the seat in front – I had to keep leaning against
the top of his seat back to stay upright). No sooner had the bus
stopped and I was back out in the cool, fresh evening air and I
was (nearly) as right as rain – strangely, no-one else had
felt the heat to the same extent as me. Despite my swift recovery,
it was still felt prudent to beat the retreat back to the hotel
room, particularly as it was literally in sight of the bus terminus,
and the bathroom facilities were duly put to good use as Helen crashed
out in bed, curtailing any lingering plans for a nightcap in the
hotel bar.
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There was no escape from the heat in the hotel room either –
after waking up feeling decidedly unstable in the wee hours, the
only thing for it was to throw open the window/door onto the stone
balcony to cool the room down whilst I lightened the room in the
bathroom. The downside was the window's positioning – facing
the bus/tram terminus at the station’s south-west corner –
so the price was increased noise. We may have lost an hour (due
to the clocks changing), but a late check out agreement and the
early-ish night meant we had clawed back some time, which at least
made my acidic, unstable stomach slightly more bearable. Breakfast
took the form of a McDonalds cheeseburger, practically a national
dish given the proliferation of the fast food outlets on every corner,
after which we bumped into Will Fae Swindon and Leon heading for
the Linate bus. The bus trip and subsequent pizza and coke in the
crowded airport bar were relatively low-key, and despite the scores
of Scots at the airport, check-in, boarding and everything in between
went pretty smoothly (especially for Easyjet!). Even Shambles, Russell
and co who had a tight connection at Gatwick would have struggled
to have missed it, given the ease with which everything happened.
All in all, a low key trip for us, as predicted several weeks previously,
but still very enjoyable. I’d recommend the San Siro to anyone
– just don’t expect any prawn sandwiches!
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Keen to maintain our very rare 100% away attendance at Future Cup
matches, we booked up for Vienna as soon as the venue (Mattersburg,
a very small town in Burgenland) was confirmed 5 weeks or so ahead
of the game. I have to confess I was a little hesitant about Vienna,
despite the great weekend we’d had in Innsbruck the previous
summer, due to its stuffy reputation (admittedly based on my image
of chalked wigs ballroom dancing to Mozart!). Nonetheless, with
the game on the Tuesday, we opted to spend the weekend and the Monday
in Vienna, then stay the night of the game in Mattersburg’s
only pre-bookable hotel before flying back on the Wednesday.
We caught the mid-morning BA flight on the Saturday, and arrived
in Vienna’s modern airport early afternoon after catching
breath-taking views of the Alps due to the clear skies. Having done
our homework, we bought Vienna Cards at the airport tourist office
(sharp left out of the Arrivals door) and therefore qualified for
discounted express train tickets for the posh double-decker train
into town. After catching two subway trains across town to Mariahilfer
Strasse, and then struggling up the slight hill through crowds of
shoppers in oppressive heat, we discovered our hotel was actually
right on top of the next tube station!
A walk along the shopping street of Neubaugasse ended in disappointment,
as the promised fan shop “Caledonia” had changed hands
and become an antique shop, and strangely, all of the bars and restaurants
were shut. In frustration, our first beer in Vienna was in the historic
Café Eiles, served by a tuxedoed waiter. Again reaping the
benefits of having read the guidebook, we headed out to the suburbs
to try the cheap wine delights of the heuriger wine taverns. Although
Grinzing is the most famous area (especially for tourists), we opted
for the joys of Stammersdorf, right on the north-eastern edge of
the city, and more of a village than a suburb. The main street was
literally lined with heuriiger taverns, where wine is served by
waitresses in 250ml mugs for around £1.20 a go, and food is
served in a school canteen manner. After a small meal and what must
of amounted to more than a couple of bottles worth of plonk each,
we headed back into town on the tram and were heading up the street
towards the hotel when we spotted another kilted footsoldier coming
towards us.
After a quick introduction with Joe from Dundee and Leslie from
Sunderland, we all headed off to the Siebensternbrau pub, only to
find it was in the process of closing. After blagging a quick half
we popped into the small bar next door for a couple. Helen was flagging
badly after all the wine earlier that evening, so we bid farewell
and headed off round the corner to our hotel.
It took a while to get into gear on the Sunday, as Helen was feeling
the after-effects of the night before. After eventually dragging
ourselves out, we headed down, via subway and tram, to FK Austria’s
ground in the Altes Landgut area of the city. The “Violet’s”
stadium is on a motorway embankment, and by the time we’d
trekked from the tram stop through the pedestrian crossing and up
to the ticket office we didn’t fancy turning back on ourselves
to go to the pub. Helen did get a €5 “ladies” discount
on her ticket, and with these in hand we headed around to the turnstiles
that were just opening (around 90 minutes before kick-off), confident
of getting a drink inside. As it happened, the bar was a marquee
type affair with picnic tables inside, where Helen was able to nurse
a coke whilst I went on the prowl for pin badges and sausages. On
my travels I saw a superb poster advertising fan travel for the
UEFA Cup Quarter Final against Parma the previous Thursday, promising
a “Violette Parma Invasion”, which brought all kinds
of fantastic images to mind; Helen, struggling badly to keep her
coke down, didn’t see the humour so well.
With the club anthem and various other soft-rock classics still
ringing in our ears from the DJ’s who had set up in the marquee,
we took our seats in the main stand and watched the colourful display
of flags from the main terrace. Within minutes of kick-off, Casino
Bregenz – a team propping up the league, and 9-0 losers to
FKA earlier in the season – had the ball in the net to stun
the home crowd. A group of around 5 away fans danced in the far
corner of the ground, and Bregenz then set their stall out to defend,
and frustrate both the team and the fans. Despite a string of sitters
being missed, the teams went in at 0-1 for the half-time break,
with FKA’s Aussie keeper having to be physically restrained
from having a go at the linesman. The second half continued with
the Bregenz goal under siege, until midway through the half when
a dropping ball into the six-yard box was bundled over the line,
complete with the Bregenz goalkeeper still clutching it in true
1950s style. The game finished 1-1, and we were off and out back
down across the motorway junction towards the tram stop and a couple
of pubs recommended by the The Rough Guide to European Football.
One turned out to be closed Sundays, so we made do with the other
one – a typical central European suburban drinking den. Helen
was still feeling rough, not helped by the resident dog running
around her feet, so we made do with the one and headed back towards
the hotel, with a quick wander around Stephansplatz (the cathedral
square), seeing as we had to change tubes there anyway.
After freshening up, we headed around the corner and back to the
Siebensternbrau in much better time this evening. A pleasant meal
of schnitzel and apple strudel followed, as I worked my way through
four of the seven house brews (chilli beer is a non-starter for
me, hemp beer didn’t appeal either and I’d had a small
helles the day before), and we made the decision to take an early
night rather then head on into the city centre.
The early night (still past 11pm, mind!) worked wonders, and we
were up bright and breezy and in good time to head across the city
to UNO City to get on the 11am tour of the UN buildings (which was
a lot more interesting than it must sound!). We then walked through
the high rise building to the Danube Tower – it was a blustery
April Monday, so not too many other people had headed for the tower,
meaning we had the views mostly to ourselves. The outside viewing
platform was only just bearable, but seeing as were caged in there
was no worry about being swept over the side. The bungee platform
sticking out the side looked suspiciously like a pirate ship’s
“plank” and not something you’d catch either of
us on. The tower boasts a full-on restaurant and a café quite
content for you to sit and linger over a drink as the whole section
revolves. And revolves at quite a speed it does too – in the
time we took to finish a coffee and an ice cream, we’d done
almost three laps!
Back down on terra firma and it was a short hop by U-Bahn to the
Prater Amusement Park, home to the iconic Riesenrad (the big wheel
immortalised by The Third Man). The wheel took around 40 minutes
to complete a stop-start journey, but this may have been due to
a quiet day; unlike the London Eye, they stop the wheel to empty
and fill each cabin, so they may have been waiting for people to
shuffle through the turnstiles. The Amusement Park was pretty deserted
and only half-operational, but the excellent Schweizerhaus bar was
open – famed for huge pork dishes (we didn’t) and foaming
mugs of Buvar (we did). After tearing ourselves away from the cosy
bosom of said pub, it was a long and fruitless walk round to the
Ernst Happel Stadium; long as we opted to take the road way around
as opposed to cutting past the back of the trotting stadium, and
fruitless as there was absolutely nothing of interest around the
ground. The one small reward was next to the tram stop (that would
take us back to the U-Bahn station) was an inviting yellow coloured
pub – now a proud owner of a NATA pennant. After getting back
to the Praterstern U-Bahn station we stopped for a quick stand-up
beer in a large corner bar before heading into the centre proper.
We made our way from the Stephansplatz tube station to the Esterhazykeller,
a heurigen tavern in the city centre. The top-notch wine still came
in the half-pint tankards, and only slightly more expensive than
the suburbs of Stammersdorf, although despite the more urbane setting,
it was still school dinner time as far as food was concerned. Eventually
tearing ourselves away from the welcoming wine-flavoured bosom,
we made it back up to the now dark surface and decided to take the
scenic route through the floodlit courtyards of the majestic Hofburg
before opting to carry on the wine theme at the Eulennest Vinotheque
(spurred on by our Vienna Card discounts). The Eullenest turned
about to be a small wine bar/shop/delicatessen, where our tasting
of five Austrian wines turned in to a full-on session with extra
wine and lots of cheese and fresh parma ham from the deli counter.
We left there around 11-ish, determined to get a cocktail as a nightcap
from the iconic Loos Bar around the corner. Adolf Loos is a famous
architect who designed a small bar, officially known as the “American
Bar” with lots of brightly coloured tiles and mirrors –
well, that’s all we could see when poking my head above the
thronged masses in the doorway. The mirrors make the place look
much bigger, but there can only be space for around 25 people inside.
Disappointed, but not defeated, we headed back to Mariahilfer Strasse
and the mega-trendy cellar of the Bar Italia, where a Melon Colada
sated my cocktail desires. And that should have been that, however
stupidly I was inspired to try another, and went for a “Hemingway
Special”, thinking that dark rum is one of the safer spirits
for a man of my fragile constitution, before retiring for the evening.
The cocktail had tasted pretty sharp on the way down, but I had
foolishly thought zantac would put out the fires. This seemed to
be the case when I first woke around 8am-ish for a call of nature,
although I was a little unsteady on my feet at the time. When the
alarm went off for real 2 hours later, things had got much worse,
to the extent that stripped naked and stood in the shower, it took
just 30 seconds of staring at the shower machinery for me to decide
that standing up for long enough to complete the transaction was
beyond me. Helen was thankfully understanding, following her own
exploits two days before, and was able to negotiate an hour’s
stay of execution in the room.
So it was an hour later than planned that Helen and (a very subdued)
me made our way across Vienna to the Sudbahnhof and the train to
Wiener Neustadt (for a change of trains to Mattersburg). Mattersburg
station was a revelation – two incredibly narrow platforms
and a tiny building containing toilets, a waiting room, and thoughtfully,
a bar where we were able to stop for a wee beer and a look at a
map the barmaid was able to pull out of a drawer of odds and ends.
I popped out to use the gents in the waiting room and came back
out to find Joe and Leslie (who we’d met on the first night
in Vienna) sat on benches finishing their drinks from their train
journey. After leaving a pennant behind the bar, we set off together
down the hill into the “town” centre (in my opinion,
6,000 people constitutes a village!), looking for our hotel and
a decent spot for a rendezvous – the latter turned out to
be easy, as even a tiny Austrian provincial community proudly boasts
that keystone of the local community: an Irish theme pub (called
“The Peacock”). Our hotel, the Florianihof, was just
around the corner, and Tam McGhee, Ian Carden and Lorraine (the
ONLY person we know to have a 100% B Team record, unlike us away-game
part-timers!) were already ensconced in the bar. We dropped the
bags in the room and headed back out to meet Joe and Leslie, having
passed news of the meeting point to the three musketeers.
It didn’t take long for the travelling Tartan Army to converge
on The Peacock – when Ian arrived shortly after us, Joe and
Leslie, he proudly hung his “Blackpool Tartan Army”
flag on the wall, quickly followed by Tam bedecking the pub’s
frontage with his much bigger “Twa Tams TA” flag (cue
loads of jokes about where the Twa Tams pub actually was). Ludo
heralded his arrival with his bugle, then proceeded to tell us about
his eventful hire car journey up from Graz, which had already cost
him one wing mirror, and it wasn’t long until Dunfermline
boys Tartanpar (Stewart) and Jock Villa, along with Will from Swindon
hit the pub. Tam had organised a sweepstake to see who would get
the total number of Scotland fans at the ground (€1 a head),
and the late arrivals had already ruled a few out of the running.
Around 30 minutes before kick off the 11 of us set off for the ground,
and narrowly averted heading into the nearby Sports Bar for “just
a wee one”.
The ground itself was in the shadow of the famous railway viaduct
(Mattersburg’s star attraction!) and hosts a moderately successful
provincial top division club. Strangely the team regularly draws
in crowds of 8,000+, and is therefore big enough to hold everyone
in the town with room to spare. We were in the main stand, but not
actually under cover (and it did look ominous). We were treated
to an appalling rendition of Flower of Scotland (the band must have
listened to the same dodgy 78rpm record at the wrong speed they
had in Mannheim!), and the game kicked off at a relatively sedate
place. The game remained goal-less for the first thirty minutes,
the only real moment of interest being shuffling Sam Parkin’s
substitution for the infinitely more mobile Shaun Maloney. Austria
took the lead from a soft goal from a free-kick and we went in one-down
at half-time.
By the interval, a few more Scotland fans had drifted in, taking
our total to 19 (Tam had 18 in the sweep and duly claimed his winnings).
In addition to three guys who pretty much kept themselves to themselves
(one in a kilt and one in a WESTA t-shirt), Dave from Dundee joined
the throng just after kick-off, as did Mark (aka “Dicko”)
and his pal Kev had driven up from Graz – the final two pieces
of the jigsaw were their pal Colin (I think!?) and his son Jamie.
Later reports from the train suggested that “two Germans in
the press box were supporting Scotland” were rejected (as
they weren’t in the Scotland “end”).
Half-time brought some unusual entertainment – as the marching
band made their way on to the pitch, Ludo was eyeing up his bugle.
Somehow he managed to get permission from the stewards and took
his place in the ranks of the marching band, much to the crowd’s
hilarity. After marching along (just!) to one tune he made his way
back across the pitch to rapturous applause from the Austrian crowd.
In the ensuing media frenzy he had to pose for endless photos with
local children as the second half kicked off, although he was rewarded
with a professional press photograph of his moment of glory.
Unfortunately, Ludo was the only Scotsman to really get such a
reception that night. Scotland fell two behind on the hour, and
an excellently taken goal by Craig Beattie (following a rocket-like
\severin shot coming back off the post) proved only a consolation.
On the final whistle it was back downstairs and into the packed
clubhouse bar with most of the TA, although Joe, Leslie, Lorraine,
Ian, Jock, Stewart and Will all had to head away for the last train
less than an hour after full-time. I started on the beer, but on
finding that wine was only €1 a glass (and the fact that the
beer was being served in flimsy plastics at a 50c deposit a time),
I quickly switched. The train posse headed off, and left Dave, Tam,
Helen and myself to spend Tam’s sweep winnings. Tam was next
to go, feeling a little tired and emotional, with just Helen and
I to witness Dave’s charm offensive on the local ladies. It
turned out that the SV Mattersburg is one of the main social hot-spots
for all the surrounding villages, and as a result had over-staffed
heavily for the occasion, which is why Doris, a young blonde would-be
barmaid, pulled up a seat at our table and engaged us in conversation.
Her and her sister Claudia decided to join us for a last drink at
The Peacock, which was very handy as it meant a lift – by
now, the skies that had looked so ominous had opened, and the rain
was bouncing off the streets.
The Peacock was surprisingly busy (for midnight on a Tuesday in
provincial Austria), but we managed to get space at the bar. Claudia
and Doris promised to meet us in Graz for the full-team game in
August before making their way home to get up for work in the morning.
After another couple of nightcaps, we made our way round the corner
to the hotel.
The killer hangover on the Tuesday forced me to take things easily
on match day, which in turn led to us waking up fresh as daisies
on the Wednesday morning. We had mentioned to Tam and Dave we were
planning to get the 12.59 train, but didn’t really expect
to see either of them still around. True to form, they were both
in the hotel bar, Dave with a small beer, Tam nursing a coffee.
The train journey back was pretty uneventful, save for catching
a double-decker train from Wiener Neustadt straight to Wien Mitte
(for the airport train). Our ambitious plans to see a last few sights
in Vienna went out the window and the four of us headed across from
the station to the Bierkutsch’n for radler and turkey kebabs
before catching the train to the airport.
So that was that – much like Innsbruck the year before, Austria
proved a real surprise and I’m certainly looking forward to
going back in August.
- 2,700
– official attendance
- 19 –
Scottish fans in Mattersburg (Lorraine, Ian Carden, Jock
Villa, Stewart aka tartanpar, Willfaeswindon, Ludo, Joe,
Leslie, Tam McGhee, Dave from Dundee, Mark aka Dicko, Kev,
Jamie, Jamie’s Dad, 3 guys I don’t know, Helen
and me)
- 5
– Scottish fans stayed overnight in da ‘Burg
(Tam, Dave, Ludo, Helen and me)
- 4
– Scottish fans who already live in Austria
- 1
– wing mirrors left on Ludo’s hire car
- 1
– Scottish bugler on the pitch at half-time
- 0
– number of Immodium taken by Paul
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This is a long one, so I've split as follows: Prologue,
Mincing in Minsk and Brest and
Beyond
Every year I need to take a two week block off my work –
I know I shouldn’t moan, given how much leave I get throughout
the year, but it’s still a chore. I certainly try and avoid
spending it at home, so the Belarus trip was the one chosen for
the break. The original plan was to fly down from the Moldova home
game to Heathrow on the Sunday and catch the afternoon flight to
Riga. One night in Riga then Air Baltic to Minsk on the Monday,
then train down to Brest (on the Polish border) on the Saturday
for two nights, then moving on by train to Warsaw for a few days
before ending up in Krakow, flying back on the Sunday, giving a
full two weeks in Eastern Europe.
Flights were booked well in advance (a bargain £120 “open
jaw” BA ticket into Riga and out of Krakow!), only for a catastrophic
chain of flight amendments to mess the whole plan up, starting with
the Riga flight moving to 10.30am, too early for any BA flights
to Heathrow on the Sunday! Coupled with Helen having less leave
than me, and her wanting to make sure she kept some back for the
play-offs (ever the optimist!), we decided to cut the trip shorter
and come home on the Tuesday.
The Riga change meant the only way to travel to Heathrow on the
Sunday ahead of the connection was to leave Glasgow on the 0630
bmi flight (which thankfully clocked in at £30 each one-way)
– we didn’t fancy stressing about getting back to the
airport after the match on the Saturday, and in any case, the hotel
at Glasgow airport was far cheaper than a night at Heathrow.
So… the morning of Moldova game saw a more sensible build-up
than we’re used to, meeting up with Gav and Annie (at her
first Scotland game) and soaking up the atmosphere at The Shed nightclub.
A goal-less first half left feeling a little nervous at half-time,
but a quick goal followed by a late clincher led to an ultimately
comfortable two-nil win. A few drinks and lots of laughs in the
Allison Arms followed before Helen and I went back to the hotel
for a few hours kip ahead of our early start the next day…
In spite of the ludicrously early flight time, everything went
smoothly and we arrived in Riga on time. We shared a people carrier
taxi into the centre with some other Scots from the flight and checked
in to our 17th storey room with a view across Riga’s old town
from the Reval Hotel. After a cocktail in the SkyLine bar it was
off into town with the intention of revisiting some old haunts,
although we only really made it as far as the massive beer tent
on Livu square before being waylaid for several hours. The long
day’s travelling had tired us out, so it was one in an empty,
closing Runcis and then back to the hotel for the sleep of the just.
Any other time, a lunchtime flight would have seemed early, but
after the two previous mornings it was a luxurious lie-in by comparison.
At the airport we met fellow Scotland fans Graeme and Dasha (Graeme’s
Latvian-Russian wife), and on arrival at Minsk we were very grateful
for Dasha’s Russian getting us through passport control and
customs without a hitch. They very kindly offered to share the pre-booked
cab with us, so we found ourselves at the Hotel Belarus much quicker
and with much less hassle than expected, and after around 30 minutes
at reception where several butch looking women were called over
to scowl at our reservation and berate the male receptionist in
Russian, we were finally handed our slip of paper to give to the
dezhurnaya on the 15th floor in exchange for the key to our “junior
suite” in the apex of two of the three “arms”
of the tower block.
After a few minutes “adjusting” to the soviet realism
of our bathroom, and the tiny size of the alleged double bed, we’d
unpacked and were on our way downstairs. A quick recce of the hotel
turned up the top floor bar/restaurant, a closed bar on the 6th
floor, and amazingly, a 24 hour bar on the 13th (unfortunately we
never actually made it in here for a drink, much to my disappointment
as I’ve heard the tadpole rolls were a real treat!), before
ending up in the Pool Hall bar on the 1st floor. Big Dave J had
tipped us off about this place whilst we were checking in (he’d
managed to catch the “24 hour” currency exchange in
a rare open moment!), and he was in there with a number of the Heb
Bar TA, including Bridie Boy (Allan, minus his trademark hat). Waiting
for a beer was a laborious process - the marked shortage of glasses
being exacerbated by the barman’s insistence on chilling them
in the freezer before pouring – and after a couple we headed
downstairs. We only made it as far as the Smirnoff restaurant for
a quick one sat at the bar whilst admiring the glitter ball, before
heading off to find the Rakowski Brovar for a rendezvous with Ally,
Susan and Rich.
We managed to find the brewpub without too much difficulty, and
were very impressed with the place (it wasn’t to be a good
indication on the rest of the pubs!). Ally and Susan already had
a table just across from Wee John and some of the Perthshire Boys
(we could hear the odd rendition of “There’s a moose,
loose, aboot Belarus” drifting across the pub) – John
later filled us in on the story of the border crossing (someone
inadvertently walked into and smashed a closed glass door BEFORE
passport control!), and the arrival in the city (with people on
the roof of the bus, narrowly missing the overhead trolleybus lines).
Rich finally made it after taking the slow bus in from the airport
(he’d come via Warsaw), shortly followed by Mike, Suzanne,
Bert, Joey Deacon and friends. In the meantime Norrie and Joan had
been, gone, and come back again, bemoaning the opening hours of
the other pubs they’d found in their brief sojourn. We left
ahead of closing time to wander back to the hotel and opted to have
a nightcap in Panorama on the top floor, which was still pretty
quiet – this part of the evening was most memorable for a
conversation Rich had in the gents with the guy stood next to him:
“When did you come over?”, Rich was asked; “I
was sat next to you on the flight” was the truthful answer!
A pre-U21 lunch meet had been agreed in the now familiar surroundings
of Rakowski Brovar, and the lack of working phones (seemed all Orange
phones were incompatible in Belarus) meant we couldn’t afford
to be late. It didn’t help that we were accosted by an eager
badge-seller as soon as we stepped out of the hotel, but stopping
to buy badges did mean we met up with Mike, Suzanne and Bert and
strolled through the reconstructed old town (“Trinity Suburb”
on the way to the pub.
No sooner had we crossed the Svisloch River than the clouds had
rolled in, and the heavens opened when we were but 100 yards from
pub door. After seeking shelter under an apartment block balcony
(along with several locals), we made a run for it when the rain
eased off to a steady downpour. We weren’t the last to make
it to the pub soaking wet – Disco Keith turned up 30 minutes
later looking frankly ridiculous in sunglasses and wringing wet
shorts. After several beers and some food, it was clear there was
dissension in the ranks around heading for the U21s – Ally,
Susan and Kev were definitely going, whilst the more fair-weather
amongst us (Mike, Suzanne, Bert, Craig McD, Jim Brown, Rich, Helen
and me) opted to stay dry and central by going on a pub crawl.
Ironically, by the time we’d extricated ourselves from the
bosom of Rakowski Brovar the sun was shining again, so we made the
most of this by enjoying some of the cheapest beer of the trip in
one of the beer tents on the terrace of the Rakowski shopping centre.
The drawback of this approach became apparent when Rich had to lead
an expedition to the toilets, a good 600 yards away on a different
floor. Pit stops were made in a café with a heart on the
sign (no local beer, only warm bottles of Heineken!) and the Air
Grip café in a cinema complex (Bert ended up in the film
theatre after taking a wrong turning to the Gents), before we ended
up at our destination: Stary Mensk, opposite the still active KGB
Office on Skoriny. Stary Mensk failed to live up to expectations
– it was effectively a beer tent set on a wide pavement (with
no toilets!), and this offered scant protection from the rain that
was once again bouncing off the pavement. We were re-joined here
by Kev, who had changed out of his sodden shorts following another
drenching at the U21 game, and met up with Clarkston Chris and his
pal Dave for the first time on the trip, as well as Graeme and Dasha
again briefly.
Hunger was setting in by now, and Craig, Kev, Jim, Helen and I
set off in search of food whilst Mike, Suzanne and Bert made their
way back to Rakowski in a cab and the young ‘uns went off
to look for a club. After a pizza and some wine (Helen and me were
dining in the company of the cultured end of the TA wedge here!)
we made our way back towards the Hotel Belarus, minus Craig. Kev
remembered the old town was a hive of drinking activity back in
1997 and was disappointed by its quietness this time around –
we made do with the tiny Café Banana. This was a wee bit
of a find – a genuine Arabic bar in the middle of Minsk, complete
with waterpipes and drapes. The evening was certainly brightened
up by one of the girls dancing at the bar: a stunning, 6 foot-plus
blonde who was a dead ringer for Species actress Natasha Henstridge.
After finishing up here we headed back to the Hotel Belarus, where
Jim and Disco, living up to his nickname, headed off to Westworld
whilst Helen and I headed for bed.
Having seen how quickly the weather had changed the day before,
and not wanting to catch my death of cold (didn’t stop it!),
I decided on a Valencia-style strategy and donned trousers for the
only day on this trip. Without the aid of mobile phones, it was
very difficult to coordinate any kind of meet-up, so Helen and I
opted to check out the Minsky Brovar, a short walk away through
the churchyard next to the hotel.
Minsky Brovar was a far cry from the “brewpub” described
in the SFA notes – it was the brewery tap of a fully-fledged
industrial brewery (Alivariya – the red/yellow coloured label
adorning many of Minsk’s riverside beer tents). We’d
only been in around 30 minutes when a couple of the Loony Alba boys
(Tevo and Kellas), along with Drew Lilley and his “uncle”,
Derek the brewer, were ushered through the bar and into a curtained
off area. It turned out that they had been in the day previous,
and had been invited for a tour, tasting session and lunch by the
Chief Executive.
A variety of luck and limited texting through Helen’s phone
resulted in Kev, Craig McD and Rich finding their way there, and
after several hours we left in order to make our way towards the
ground. Craig invited us all back to his room at the Hotel Minsk
(staggering distance from the ground) to polish off a bottle of
Rosé (like I said, cultured!) and listen to St Etienne on
his mini-iPod, and Helen repaid this hospitality by locking the
bathroom door from the outside!
We got split up walking to the ground after a couple of abortive
attempts to get served (all the pubs seemed to be on “no alcohol”
instructions from the police), and Helen and I got in nice and early
before meeting up with the rest of Loony Alba on the very edge of
the Scotland section. The game turned out to be an entertaining
goal-less draw with plenty of chances for both sides (and plenty
of singing from the locals), although Alexander’s drive was
so close to clinching it near the end there were twinges of it being
a “moral defeat”. For once the other results weren’t
quite as helpful, and we were left rueing what could have been had
we snatched the win. After a lengthy wait to leave our section,
and a lengthier wait in the toilet queue (I’d given up at
half-time having seen the queue), we made our way back round and
through the town. The hotel foyer was rammed, and on getting to
the room all intentions of going to Westworld fell by the wayside
as we realised how tired we were – Ally and Sue made it as
far as the foyer again, only to reach a similar conclusion.
Thursday was put aside for a sightseeing minibus trip that Scott
Kelly and Singing Phil had arranged, and the rendezvous was early
doors in the Hotel Minsk. Opinion was divided on whether Rich would
make an appearance (a veteran of several missed trips in the past),
but impressively he reported for duty earlier than bus convenor
Scott. The bus had a strong NATA bent – aside from Scott and
Phil, Taffy and Chris’ mate Dave were the only non-NATA bods
on board, and our sensible/hungover (delete as appropriate) demeanour
possibly contributed to the quieter than normal atmosphere (by that,
I mean less singing!).
After a carry-out stop at a supermarket on the outskirts of Minsk
(where the cash machine helpfully dispensed a single $100 note to
Scott in place of local currency), it was off to an ethnographic
village museum (bottles of beer in hand around the exhibits). Our
guide Anna was fluent in English and even managed to grasp most
of the humour on the go, unlike the local museum staff who eyed
us suspiciously for the duration. Finishing off here it was back
on the road towards Mir Castle, with a lunch stop to find.
The Westa Hotel appeared on the roadside like a mirage, and having
spotted the hotel name, Phil started negotiations to appear on the
balcony above the sign for a photo opportunity. A meal of borsch
(why did I ask for the cold stuff?) and something like pork followed
(along with a swift dose of immodium), photos were taken, and we
were back on the bus (in my case, praying the medicine would kick
in and do its job).
Mir Castle is a genuine tourist attraction, hamstrung by its location
a bit further away than the middle of nowhere. Nonetheless, for
the purposes of this diary, a castle's a castle, even if the toilets
are in a bomb shelter that you have to buy tickets from a box office
to enter! After a brief stop at the Victory Monument (which is in
sight of Lee Harvey Oswald’s house, no less) the tour concluded
at the door of the Minsky Brovar. Thankfully everyone was suitably
impressed with my suggestion, and after a few beers and some food
Phil’s bemused Belarussian colleague joined us. In search
of that famous “better bar around the corner”, we went
next door on leaving the Brovar, which proved to be an invaluable
insight into Minsk’s drinking culture.
If the Brovar was the brewery tap, then the bar next door was its
factory outlet – the place knocked out bottles for buttons,
and offered utilitarian benches to all (and was bizarrely non-smoking).
The local jakies made a beeline for us, but some quick footwork
managed to deflect the worst their affection, at least until chucking
out time at the ridiculously early time of 10pm (i.e. still light!).
Once outside, Belarussian Alex told us it was the most “democratic”
place he’d ever been in. After a ten minute walk to Stary
Gorad, a restaurant on the edge of the old town, Helen and I decided
to beat a retreat back to the hotel, firstly to, ahem, take care
of some unfinished business (immodium only lasts so long, you know),
and then to try and get some food. Unfortunately, by the time I’d
dropped off my luggage, the only food options were the expensive,
glitter ball-strobed, and suspiciously empty Smirnoff restaurant,
or Panorama. Panorama turned out to be far busier than the Monday
night, and we waited (boy did we wait!) for our food suffocating
on the dry ice smoke whilst being serenaded by a very, very bad
covers band. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and the shaslyk
was very good when it finally arrived.
After a lie-in, we opted to head for the railway station to get
hold of our ticket to Brest for Saturday’s early train, but
after crossing the Svisloch we noticed the tourist office next to
the Yubliyena Hotel would do the same job and was much closer. After
around 15 minutes of pidgin Russian later, we were the proud owners
of two first-class train tickets for the 0830 train the next day.
Feeling buoyed by this success, we headed for the metro for our
one and only trip – this took us all of one stop to McDonalds
on Skoriny.
We headed down to the stadium for a look at it in the sober, cold
light of day, and were caught in a passing shower whilst all the
market traders rushed to get their counterfeit sportswear under
cover. Dynamo Minsk boasts a souvenir shop of sorts – no shirts,
but you can buy a tracksuit – we opted for a scarf and a pin
badge, before heading back up towards the main drag and into Café
Mistral, which we soon recognised as one the places we were knocked
back from immediately before kick-off on Wednesday. No sooner had
we taken our first sip of beer than Helen received a text from Rich
stating he was at the stadium – we talked him in and joined
us ten minutes later. Moving on we had a quick one in a posh restaurant
and then caught up with Ally and Susan in Traktir Na Marxa, where
they were ensconced with EASTA’s Davie and The Claw.
After a visit to Patio Pizza we rejoined Ally, Susan, The Claw
and Davie and headed back towards the Hotel Belarus whilst Rich
headed back to his hotel to freshen up before hitting the bright
lights once again. After a stop-start walk, being stopped by several
locals for photos, we bumped into a friendly Belarussian “fixer”
on the bridge desperate to change a Scottish £20 note as no
exchange would accept it. We were able to oblige, and ended up heading
to Staravilinskaya , a riverside bar in the old town, with him and
his glamorous girlfriend (Claw and Davie knew him from the hotel
anyway). After the totally surreal sight of a live Peruvian panpipe
band serenading us on the decked terrace, we made our excuses and
left for a respectably early night ahead of our trip to the border
the next morning.
By Saturday morning it was now apparent that the niggling cough
I’d had for a few days had become a full-blown summer cold,
as I really wasn’t feeling on top of my game. I had just enough
strength to barter with the taxi driver for a fare to the station,
and we arrived in good time yet still thankful we had already booked
both our tickets and our compartment.
The train was a suitably sturdy soviet iron horse, and our carriage’s
provodnitsa showed us to the end compartment. The logic for paying
extra for first class (only a few pounds) was for the peace of mind
of having our own compartment (second class has three bunks). I
settled down and slept for most of the 4 hour journey, having left
a pair of boxers at the top of my bag specially for this purpose
– no point battering the kilt any more than necessary!
The train terminated in Brest, and despite it not being particularly
busy (it had come from Moscow, and most people seemed to have alighted
in Minsk) the narrow platform was rammed with families meeting people.
After negotiating the scrum we headed out onto the street, but found
out we were completely lost and after a while waiting for a bus
that never came we admitted defeat, walked into the nearest hotel
and asked for a taxi. The taxi was in the form of a meter-less 20
year-old Capri-style car (complete with flame detail!), and the
surly driver dropped us in front of the Intourist hotel for the
bargain price of 5,000 rubles (less than £1.50), which strangely
seemed to be under police/secret service guard.
We had to wait a short while for our room to be cleaned, and spent
the time trying, and failing, to buy an onward ticket to Warsaw
the next day from the in-hotel tourist agency. Despite my best Russian
(which isn’t very good) and Helen’s best German (which
is better), the end result was that they would be unable to guarantee
a ticket for a weekend international train until two hours before
the train departed. Disturbed that this could leave us scratching
around in Brest we opted to head for the local train instead, which
should connect on the Polish side with a Warsaw train.
We headed out the hotel (another very real does of soviet bathroom
realism!) and off towards Brest Fortress, the main reason for stopping
over. A long, long walk along a very straight, very long, very boring
road was momentarily enlightened by the sight of an open-air train
museum (closed, mind), until the monumental gate of the fortress
loomed into sight. Brestkaya Krepast heroically held out against
the Nazi advance for weeks in 1941, and was accordingly awarded
formal “hero” status within the Soviet Union –
this entailed building a huge star-shaped gate at the entrance,
and erecting an obelisk and a stunning sculptured rock called “Valour”.
We visited the museum, where the reason for the earlier security
at the hotel became apparent; a Japanese trade delegation was being
guided around by local dignitaries.
We didn’t fancy the long walk back, so waited for a bus instead,
riding it past the hotel to the Zio Pepe pizzeria. After eventually
finding the way in past the metal detector, we were confronted by
a massive empty multi-purpose room, complete with stage, dance floor
and seating area (the bowling alley was downstairs). Getting served
wasn’t a problem, given the ratio of waitresses to us, and
even by the time we’d finished our pizza and beer there was
no sign of any other customers (although to give them the benefit
of the doubt, it was only 6pm and the place still had another 12
hours to drum up some trade. We wandered up the main precinct and
back down, attracting bemused glances from the locals, before settling
for a beer on the terrace of a wee pub opposite the cinema. My cold
was more like flu by now, and with Helen also lacking the energy
for a night out, we admitted defeated and were back in the hotel
room just after 8pm!
The one advantage of the early night was an early start, and we
headed up to the station. It certainly took time – to-ing
and fro-ing between windows to get the tickets (60p each for the
18 minute journey to the EU) and to change our roubles into something
a little more useful (Euros it was, as I didn’t fancy the
£50 or $100 notes the exchange girl was insisting on, and
they had no Zloty). Negotiating customs and passport control proved
another challenge, but after a wee while we were through and on
the next train to Terespol.
Crossing the border this was is one of the most unforgettable experiences
of my life for far too many reasons to go into – let’s
just say it was very strange. Unfortunately no photos exist of this
part of the trip as it really wasn’t the right time to take
out a camera, although the images are burned permanently onto my
consciousness! Suffice to say when the machine gun-toting Polish
border guards checked our passports and let us off the train, we
could have kissed the platform! Nothing against Belarus (we loved
our time there), but it really was a relief to be back in the “western
world”; of course, the thought of Poland representing normality
is funny in itself given our first experience for a week back in
2001.
Anyway, enough occidental-centric rambling! We opted for first
class tickets to Warsaw, as we reasoned the packed train we’d
just arrived on would also be heading to the capital on the same
train, and in any case the tickets were just £9 each for the
3 hour journey. We shared our carriage with a wee old guy for around
30 minutes, and a tall, pretty brunette for 90 – right through
to Warsaw when she suddenly engaged us in conversation, then led
us through the underground warren to our bus stop before going and
buying us a tickets! To cap it all, she then gave me her phone number
– good to see I hadn’t lost my touch with Polish women,
despite being full of the cold!
The Le Meridien hotel was unbelievably posh – the sort that
does a double-take when you walk in with a kilt – but we’d
managed to get a really cheap internet deal. The luxury (a shower,
man, a shower!) was more than welcome after the double whammy of
the Hotel Belarus and the Intourist in Brest, but we headed out
to grab some food. After a good meal in Der Elefant we headed back
towards the station for the top floor bar of the Marriott, where
I could only manage one very slow beer – at least I had the
excuse of having to negotiate a heavily armed border crossing in
trying circumstances – and another moderately early night
loomed.
A long lie failed to rejuvenate my illness-ravaged body, and after
dragging myself up and around the towering Palace of Culture and
Science (aka Stalin’s birthday cake), it was back to the hotel
for an afternoon nap. Well, when you get to my age…
Upon getting up for a second time, we strolled up to the reconstructed
Old Town where we bumped into a glamorous young couple from Motherwell.
A beer for Helen in the old New Town Square followed (soft drinks
for me all day, I’m afraid!) before an excellent and filling
meal of Pierogi (Polish ravioli) in the Pierogarni restaurant, with
the friendliest waitress in the world. We had time to round off
one-and-a-bit very low key beer with one last beer for Helen at
the Pub Pod Barylka before catching our third ridiculously early
night in a row. All in all I was very annoyed with my performance
since Friday, but what can you do? And in any case, I knew I had
a trip to the Confederations Cup in Germany on the Wednesday, when
I would no doubt come under intense peer pressure to stay on the
batter until the early hours, so I did desperately need to recuperate
in the next two days! It’s fair to say I was happy to heading
home (even if just overnight) the next day and not heading down
to Krakow as originally planned.
And so it was off to Warsaw’s Okeice airport at the crack
of dawn for our marathon journey home: bus to the airport at 8am,
getting to the wrong terminal and having to lug our bags 500 yards
through a car park, meeting a Scottish couple who’d been down
to Krakow after the game, flight to Luton, rammed bus to Luton Airport
Parkway, train to Gatwick, bus to long stay car park, car home.
We got in the door around 4pm, and I was out it again at 6am the
next day on my way for a flight to Cologne, but what a trip that
turned out to be! And the best news? A night in my own bed managed
to dispel my lingering cold, leaving me clear for beer aplenty!
- 7 different
beds in…
- 8 consecutive
nights (from Friday 10th in Minsk to Saturday 18th in Cologne:
Minsk, Brest, Warsaw, Worthing, Cologne, Hanover and Cologne).
Okay, so two trips ran into one…
- 7
airports in one trip (Gatwick, Glasgow, Heathrow, Riga,
Minsk II, Warsaw and Luton)
- 6
NATA members in Belarus
- 5
countries in one week (Sun-Sun: Scotland, England, Latvia,
Belarus, Poland)
- 2
westerners on the Brest-Terespol shuttle we fled the country
on (Helen and me)
- 1
day without a kilt. Matchday, as it happened.
- 0
late nights enjoyed by Paul and Helen
- 0
the number of beers had by Paul on the last day of the trip
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