Sunday, 16 May 2010
Irkutsk, Russia
Everyone is complaining about the noise and movement of the train last night during breakfast. No one had any sleep apparently.
I on the other hand slept very well. Didn’t hear a thing. A bomb could’ve gone off and I wouldn’t have heard it.
That’s the joy of Jameson’s you see.
Irkutsk is described as the ‘Paris of Siberia’. Stoke-on-Trent more like. Not the prettiest of places and very low rise. There’s a dusty feel to it.
The rusting boat on the river is the Angara ice breaker. Imported from…wait for it…Newcastle upon Tyne. To pave the way across a frozen Lake Baikal during winter. Built in the 1890s it’s now sadly decaying in its permanent mooring on the river. Once on board there’s a small exhibition of the boat in its heyday. Its sister ship, the Baikal, also from Newcastle, sank during the Russian Civil War. Both boats were transported by sea to St Petersburg then transported overland on the Trans Siberian Railway to Irkutsk. Baikal was named after the lake. Obviously. The Angara is named after the river that drains out of Lake Baikal and through Irkutsk to the Arctic ocean. Both ships were fitted out with guns during the civil war and one remains on the Angara, nearly a hundred years later.
It’s a 30 mile drive to the Taltsy Museum of Wooden Architecture located on the banks of the Angara in very scenic and peaceful surroundings. Well worth the trip. Reminds me of Skansen in Stockholm. Collection of Russian wooden houses and churches dating from the 17th and 18th centuries. Very impressive and very solid looking. Couple of wooden churches reminiscent of Norwegian stave churches. The wood keeps inside cool during summer and warm during winter.
The bus carting us around is very ‘characterful’. Decked out with flowery blue curtains, frilly bits and tassles.
Fun and good lunch with local delicacies. Cabbage salad, meat pie, soup, Omul fish from Lake Baikal. Followed by Baked Alaska (or should that be Baked Siberia?). The wine is also flowing, dear reader. Am the youngest in the group. Am having my wine poured by a very attractive young waitress. Wine glass is then quickly topped up by a second attractive waitress a few seconds later. Am being looked after very well. Could get used to this.
There’s also a bottle of vodka for the table. You know. For the digestif.
Ask Rigsby if he is married. Suspect I know the answer.
“Ooh no. Oh God, no. Ooh no, no, no. Good God no. Had all that nagging when I was a child. Ooh no.”
You can imagine the scene, dear reader. I don’t need to spell it out.
You can imagine him at the Tunbridge Wells Camera Club can’t you.
Eating finished. Vodka digestif drinking starts. All rather enjoying the vodka.
The French lady (we’ll call her Edith…as in ‘Allo ‘Allo) has had vodka. Too much vodka. Edith goes around the flower beds in the main square picking a small bouquet of flowers. With a little ‘away with the fairies’ twirl and dance in the process. Bouquet is presented to Mrs WAMC. Who has to stifle a giggle.
Over on the bridge a young couple stand close together. Girl holds a single flower in her hand. Who said romance isn’t dead. Following the river walk, plenty of people sitting out on the wall drinking what appears to be alcohol out of bottles but which are covered by a lime green paper bag. Kiosks dotted about with old women selling bird food to feed the pigeons. There’s also a number of yellow coloured bowsers with old women dispensing a brown liquid from the small tap at the rear. Assume it’s home brew. A very pleasant atmosphere on this sunny Sunday afternoon.
More Mongolian faces at the market. Fruit. Meat. Fish. Clothes. Electronics. You name it. Love markets. Spot a female stall holder having a crafty make-up session with a very small mirror and lipstick as she tends her cheese counter. So engrossed in the market that suddenly realise I’m late for the bus. Hells bells. Race back. Just about make it back in time. I’m not the latest though. No. LC is on the warpath. Edith and the Leftie are nowhere to be seen. MIA. Missing in Action. Eventually turn up ten minutes later. It’s always the French isn’t it. Some of you will be nodding agreement at that statement. They’re always late.
Treated to the first concert of the day. In a Russian Orthodox church. Women have to wear head scarves. No seats as everyone stands. Singing a capella is superb with amazing acoustics. Stand silently soaking it all in. An incredible sound.
Treated to the second concert of the day. In the Volkonsky House Museum. Dedicated to the Decembrist Movement.
What’s that you ask yourself.
Well.
Russian Army officers led a failed coup against Tsar Nicholas I on 26 December 1825 in St Petersburg. Exiled to Siberia and became the Decembrist Movement. They were followed by their wives who set up a social scene in Irkutsk commensurate with their high social standing and lives in St Petersburg and Moscow. The museum is in the house of Maria Volkonsky, a typical early 19th century wooden building fitted out not unlike something you would see in England at that time. Main reception room houses a grand piano. Chairs are laid out.
Our Russian tour guide has changed from jeans and jumper into a long flowing silver dress with a white pashmina. Hair done up. Make up done. She looks stunning.
Concert is given playing music and opera from the era of Maria Volkonsky. Figaro. Schumann. Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Chopin.
A really good and enjoyable end to the day is rounded off with a glass of Russian champagne.
Even though it was warm Russian champagne.
