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Cantabrian Summer, Baltic Winter by Mike Bent 363 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1197; ISBN 1-4120-3370-5; US$29.00, C$32.95, EUR24.00, £16.50 Cantabrian Summer, Baltic Winter - a tale of romance, intrigue and adventure in Spain's green north and on the bleak coast of northeastern Poland.
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About the Book
A chance encounter while shopping in a northern Spanish fishing port draws delectable, half-French, half-Polish Tamara von Rosenberg into friendship with Martin Haynes, a freelance writer and translator living in a nearby village. Their relationship, kindled through mutual intellectual interests, soon blossoms into caring, passionate affection. Tamara's idyllic holiday in Cantabria is brought to a premature and unhappy end when news reaches her that her widower father is dying following an inexplicable road accident on a remote Polish country lane.
Tamara and Martin try in vain to solve the mystery of Ruben's death. Meanwhile, Tamara's perseverance with her late father's ambition to transform a derelict 19th century mansion into a nursing home is met with spiteful opposition. Certain individuals will resort to radical means to wrest the property from her hands.
Poland plunges into a bleak and bitter winter of political turmoil and economic chaos amid growing opposition to the government's positive stance of future European Union membership. Nationalistic sympathies run high, and there is a renaissance of historic feuds. Tamara and Martin soon discover that staying alive in remote Rybkowo is a formidable challenge.
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About the Author
Dr. Mike Bent was born near Manchester in 1956, but spent most of his formative years living in deep rural Somerset. He read Geography at Downing College, Cambridge, and Transport Studies at Cranfield Institute of Technology, Bedfordshire. In 1987 he abandoned England in favour of northern Spain, then spent three years in northeast Poland. Having endured many years teaching various foregn languages to increasingly recalcitrant pupils (both in spain and Poland), he is now a full-time correspondent for a number of European rail transport and technology journals. He has also written several books on Norwegian and Spanish public transport history, as well as a guide book to northern Spain. At present he is preparing a series of books in Spanish on the regional history of Spanish railways, as well as working on a second novel. In his spare time (frustratingly limited) he enjoys gardening, cooking (and consuming the end products thereof), walking, reading, and exploring the byways of rural Europe by car and train. He lives in an old house of great character and much woodworm in an Arcadian valley in the Principalidad de Asturias, in northern Spain.
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Excerpts
Colombres, perched on the second of the hundred metre-high plateaux which lie parallel to the coast, is an indiano village par excellence, abounding in 19th century mansions, and with church, town hall, plaza, cemetery, water supply system and local road network all planned and executed in fine style by various expatriate peseta millionaires of a century or so ago. The grassy plaza, which at the time of our visit was looking very much the worse for wear after all the trampling it had endured during the recently-concluded fiesta, is almost theatrical in its setting, being flanked on one side by the pompous little town hall, on another (at a higher level) by the church, on the third by a row of humble balconied cottages, and on the east side by the perimeter wall of the park surrounding the massive blue and white mansion which houses the indiano archives. There was a vacant parking space on the plane tree-shaded terrace adjacent to the church. From the open windows of the flat above a shop selling electrical goods wafted a wailing not dissimilar to that which might conceivably be emitted by a cat slowly being throttled. Tamuna looked at me, eyebrows slightly raised, begging enlightenment.
'Dudelsackspielerin,' I informed her. Somehow the German translation is far more onomatopoeic than 'female bagpipe-player'.
'I thought they only played those things in Scotland,' she replied. 'And how do you know the player is a she?'
'The shopkeeper's two daughters are ex-pupils. Here in Asturias the instrument Raquel is playing is known as a gaita, and the player, if feminine (not very common, I must admit, since it takes a good set of lungs to blow one, but Raquel is a strapping girl) is a gaitera. She must be practicing for a fiesta in one of the nearby villages.'
'Any more surprises lined up for me?'
'Yes, lunch.'
In a narrow street above the plaza is the bar/mesón 'El Nidu del Cucu' ('The Cuckoo's Nest', in bable), renowned for its fabadas (bean stews), potes (vegetable stews), chorizos (spiced sausages), jamones (cured hams; these suspended, like the sausages, from the ceiling), Cabrales cheese, cider, and good, wholesome family atmosphere. At this time of the morning there were only a few elderly locals propped up at the bar counter sipping blancos, but later the establishment would fill with regular diners for whom the 950-peseta, four-course menú del día, with wine, water, bread and coffee (and if the proprietor was feeling generous, a chupito of brandy, orujo or anís thrown in free for good measure at the end of the meal), was a daily treat. Only available Mondays to Fridays, only at lunchtimes, and never on fiesta days, of course. Tremendous value for money, but best sampled in cooler weather and certainly not when one is planning to have a substantial dinner later in the day.
Tamuna visibly cringed at the lavish provision of in-house entertainment. The ghetto-blaster perched high on a shelf above the bar was broadcasting techno at full cry, while three of the four wall-mounted television sets were switched on, offering three different channels ranging from a children's cartoon through a chat show with a bored-looking audience, to football, though whether the sound was on or off it was impossible to tell. Near the three-quarter height partition between the bar and restaurant, a green parrot sat atop its cage, emitting the occasional unmusical squawk in protest at, or in accompaniment with the deafening racket coming from the radio. Adjacent to the parrot's cage was a battered-looking fruit machine, which periodically announced its presence with a gurgle of electronically generated notes and a flashing of coloured lights. A couple of framed, faded tourist board posters extolled the not inconsiderable natural beauties of Asturias, fighting for wall space with less-faded photos of various local football teams. The prowess of the latter was reflected in the impressive array of trophies ranged on shelving behind the bar. To one side of the door between the restaurant and the kitchen stood a larger than life-size mannequin of a frantic-looking cook with a black, curling moustache and bulging eyes, in pursuit of a grotesquely realistic, airborne, plucked chicken, the latter suspended by fine cotton from the ceiling. A shouting match was in progress between the barman, who was rinsing glasses, and somebody out of sight in the kitchen. By the frequency with which '¿Qué?' was being called out they were having great difficulty in understanding what each other was yelling. Among the litter of cigarette ends, empty sugar packets and paper serviettes, which even at this relatively early hour of the restaurant day had accumulated on the sawdust-sprinkled floor in front of the bar, reposed four wooden pails, a couple of which contained small amounts of liquid. There was a pungent smell, reminiscent of vinegar and over-ripe, fermenting apples.
Tamuna's instructions for finding her house were characteristically concise. Where the main road curved sharply to the right in the centre of the village, I continued straight ahead, along an asphalted lane strewn with empty cans and broken glass, past the single storey building which housed the general stores. Then a sharp turn to the left, over the village stream, immediately before the level crossing which gave access to a tree-shaded, sandy beach. Over on the right, the crumbling stucco of the station building looked sadly in need of a facelift. On the side of the house adjacent to the level crossing and stream, a faded inscription in German could just be deciphered - it was incredible to think that the stucco of the exterior walls had not been repainted since the Ostpreussen era. The asphalt gave way to fine, black earth, compacted with stones to form a rough, rutted surface; clouds of dust rose behind the car. I visualised the morass the trackway would be transformed into after heavy rain.
I came to a level crossing; ungated like the previous one, and with a steep rise to it on either side of the track. Tamuna had warned me to check for trains; once when she had been staying in Rybkowo with her parents, the postman's red Polski Fiat 126 had met its end here, mangled beyond recognition by a PKP Class SU42 diesel, while the postman himself had miraculously escaped unscathed, leaping from the vehicle at the last second while clutching hold of his postbag. Alongside the railway again, the Twingo scraping its low-slung belly on the grassy ridge between the ruts. Trees and bushes overhanging the lane; in high summer this would be transformed into a green tunnel, and given the proximity of the water it would no doubt be infested with biting and stinging insects; a paradise for swallows nevertheless. Well-spaced cottages on the right, no two alike, with the reed-beds and steely grey Zalew beyond. Journey's end was the sixth house along, not counting the various garden sheds, and the tallest of the lot, Tamuna had said. Cream-coloured walls, brown and white paintwork, and a silver-grey Daewoo Tico, a very compact, slim, five-door car, parked in the driveway. Smoke was pouring furiously from the chimney - this aspect of the place not mentioned in Tamuna's description, but not surprising given the way the weather had deteriorated. Of my precious friend, though, not a sign.
Since both the main driveway gate and the small one adjacent to it on the right were locked, I called out, then sounded the car horn. No response. I waited a minute or so, then called out again. A muffled, dull explosion from the bowels of the house made me jump. It was followed by a scream from the first floor level. Now thoroughly alarmed, I searched frantically for a way in. There was a generous gap between the bottom of the main gate and the gravelled driveway; I rolled in underneath.
As I was about to pick myself up, the front door opened.
'Martin! Thank g...goodness you're here; I...I...I need your help. Quick!'
'How? What's up? What was that noise? Was it you who screamed?'
'The heater in the cellar must have exploded!''
I took the steps up to the front door two at a time. From upstairs came the sound of cascading water, as if a bath was being run. Tamuna opened a door leading off the hallway, beyond the staircase.
'D...Do be extremely careful, Martin. The staircase down to the cellar is very steep, and there are no handrails.'
On the far side of the door wooden steps descended precipitously to the cellar, which was illuminated by small windows at head height and hence almost at ground level. I passed through one low-ceilinged room with a small, roughly stacked woodpile, into a second. The heat in here was suffocating. On the right, set against an inside wall, was a waist-high, rusty metal contraption, surmounted by a bewilderingly complex tangle of water pipes. And at my feet, a rapidly expanding pool of scalding, steaming water, issuing from the base of the contraption itself.
Tamuna gasped; her hands went up to her mouth and her eyes were wide with horror as she surveyed the mess. For all the world, she reminded me of a startled, dishevelled field-mouse.
'Where's the stop-cock for the mains?' I asked.
'The what?'
'The tap where you turn off the water supply to the whole house.'
'I...I don't know.'
She shrugged her shoulders in despair, giving me a pathetically tragic look which spoke eloquently of her Gallic ancestry.
'It must be somewhere down here.'
I did nifty little sidesteps to keep my feet clear of the boiling water, at the same time casting my eyes along the maze of piping to where, I assumed, it entered the cellar.
'That could be it!'
Tamuna was pointing to a grimy-looking tap near floor level.
Splashing through the flood, I made for the tap, which defiantly resisted my first attempts to make it budge. Grabbing a piece of wood from a nearby pile, I gave it a hefty clout. That did the trick, and within seconds the flow of water was stemmed, though not before it had extinguished the fire in the heater, filling the cellar with steam.
'Good afternoon, and happy birthday, Tamuna, my love. We really do meet each other under the strangest of circumstances, don't we!'
'Welcome to Rybkowo, Martin.'
We embraced very cautiously, endeavouring to keep the dirt that was on our hands from transferring itself to each other's clothing; the filthy, but rapidly cooling water lapping around our shoes.
We eventually set out on the long drive home to Rybkowo shortly after seven. During the course of the afternoon the weather inland had calmed down, though the cold was intense. As we drew nearer to Elbl_g and the coast, however, the light snow flurries carried in from the Baltic on the fresh northerly wind became progressively more frequent.
The vicious weather had failed to deter some Samoobrona stalwarts, who were still out in force at a roadblock a short way beyond the level crossing at Bogaczewo, halfway between Pas__k and Elbl_g. The primary objective of this one, like that at Mr_gowo, appeared to be to intimidate carriers of foreign produce. It had the unfortunate side effect of creating a huge tailback, over five kilometres in length, on its eastern approach. The congestion was compounded by the fact that the level crossing is a particularly busy one as far as rail traffic is concerned. While waiting in the queue and debating the risks involved in doubling back to Pas__k and cutting across the hills along lanes likely to be blocked by snow, we had more than ample time to reflect upon the attitude of the pickets to a Spanish car laden with some choice bottles of French wine.
The blockade had been erected in the vicinity of a restaurant and motel in Pilona, where there were extensive car parks on both sides of the road. In the orange glow of the street-lights, we could see the outlines of HGV trailers lined up in the parking area on the left. As we drew closer it was possible to deduct from the advertising on the sides of these that their foreign drivers had been 'persuaded' to travel no further for the duration of the protest. Since there are numerous ferry services linking Gda_sk and Gdynia with Denmark, Sweden, and the Baltic States, this is a popular route for truckers heading for Warszawa and the southeast of the country. Trucks and closed vans were attracting the most attention from the pickets, while cars were being let through reasonably quickly. From the angle at which some of the parked HGVs were reposing, it looked suspiciously as though their tyres had been slashed in response to their drivers' lack of cooperation. Smoke drifting across the fields to the left of the road came, we supposed initially, from a fire lit by the pickets to warm themselves by.
Consisting of discarded tractor tyres, the blockade was staggered - for westbound traffic it was at the eastern end of the restaurant car parks; for eastbound vehicles, at the western end, thus making it easier for the pickets to divert vehicles off the road. Linking the two barriers along the centre of the highway the protestors had placed a line of flimsy metal hurdles, lashed together by rope. Now we were closer we could smell the smoke - roast pork, presumably the contents of a refrigerated Danish truck which had been heading in the Warszawa direction. The unfortunate driver, restrained by a couple of pickets, was being forced to watch while his precious cargo of bacon and hams was incinerated at the roadside. As for the police presence, a small group with riot shields was gathered around the cab of a Swedish truck belonging to a major international furniture company. It was not clear whether they were trying to protect the driver and his mate from the pickets, or vice versa.
The van beyond the Gda_sk-registered car in front of us attracted some attention from the pickets, who asked the driver to get out and open the rear doors so that they could check what he was carrying. Whatever the contents were, they caused them no offence, and they kicked aside the tractor tyre placed temporarily in front of the vehicle, waving the driver on his way. The Gda_sk car went slowly through behind the van, and we followed closely in second gear, doors locked, windows wound up tightly.
For a moment, I thought that it would be our lucky evening. Then from behind us a woman's voice cried, 'Hiszpa_ski samochód!' Damn and blast that 'E' sticker, I thought. A fist hammered on the window on my side. Somebody started to push the heavy tractor tyre back across the road in front of us. Tamuna screamed as a hand groped to open the passenger door.
It felt very strange to be home again - and alone again. One is never really lonely when driving by oneself, even if one is physically isolated in one's metal box on wheels. Nevertheless, once installed in the house I had plenty to do and to arrange in readiness for Tamuna's homecoming, in addition to dealing with the workload which had built up over the five days that I had been travelling. One of my first actions was to track down one of the scarce, and hence much in demand fontaneros in Santa Engracia, and plead with him to come and install the fittings in the half-finished spare bathroom, as soon as he had a free moment. I was honoured with the nearest he would ever allow himself to a promise, for 'sometime the following week', and felt duly grateful.
The remaining days separating Christmas and New Year passed uneventfully, both in Ostróda and in La Nuez de Arriba. In the course of her e-mails Tamuna informed me how she, Tadeusz and Ulla had driven to Tolkmicko on the morning of the 28th to register the nursing home company at the town hall. The following day they had called in at the planning office at Elbl_g town hall to file an application for a new mining concession to protect the uranium reserves from unscrupulous exploitation. On the Friday our friends had returned home to Strausberg and Tamuna had received a phone call from the Daewoo garage informing her that the Tico had now been repaired and was ready for collection. She had told them that she would pick it up and pay for the repairs on the Monday morning, since that was the day she had already asked Andrzej to drive her to Rybkowo in the van to recover everything she did not want to include in the sale of the house. At dusk that day the chain-smoking security guard had returned, protesting at Tamuna's request for her to confine her addiction to her outdoor patrols and the cellars.
While the Poles partied and the Spaniards tried not to choke themselves while swallowing the twelve uvas de la suerte, Tamuna and I slept the New Year in, in our respective beds, separated by almost the entire breadth of wintry Europe. We both spent the following morning listening to (and recording) the New Year's Day Concert from Wien. Our beloved 'Wo die Zitronen Blüh'n' was part of this year's repertoire. In Ostróda it was a raw, grey day with flurries of snow at times.
There was a touch of frost on the garden at La Nuez de Arriba as well, but that heralded fine, clear weather with the temperature in the mid 'teens by the early afternoon and a mild southwesterly breeze. The first few primroses were out, while lower down in the Escudo valley one or two very precocious mimosa bushes were already flowering, and the orange and lemon trees were in fruit. The bees were active on the numerous species of wild flower which bloom throughout the winter, various hardier species of butterfly were fluttering by, and on the tapias the lizards were scrabbling around. There were some fat tadpoles, on the point of entering froghood, in the ancient, spring-fed lavadero beside the lane below Hércules's sty. The latter animal was twice the size he had been in September, a healthy, rotund, pinkish-white bolster, and was suffering from a permanent state of mala leche. To which, of course, he was perfectly entitled, especially if somebody had hinted to him that his execution was only a week distant. I spent most of the afternoon digging over part of the garden in readiness for planting broad beans and garlic, stripped to swimming trunks.
On the opposite side of the continent Tamuna braved the elements for a brisk walk along the lake shore into town and back, then withdrew to the cosiness of the music room and the company of the Steinway for the remainder of the afternoon.
You're making me terribly envious!
...she wrote that evening in reply to my e-mail describing my New Year's Day activities.
And that was the last message I received from her.
At twenty past ten the following morning, while I was putting a lick of white emulsion on the walls in what was to become Tamuna's bedroom, the phone rang.
It was Tadeusz, and his news made my blood run cold.
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