We set off.

It took us five hours to drive from Krakow in Poland to Lvov (or Lviv) in the Ukraine. The road was rocky and the Lada roared and shook all the way like a plane taking off.

I spread out on the back seat on the long route towards the end of Europe and got stuck into a guide book and Tolstoy. I thought about M, it had not been possible to go back to search for her the following week as we had to leave a day earlier to pick Paddy up in Krakow.

An hour into our journey we were pulled over by police who clocked us doing 120km when we should have been doing 80km. That is an automatic 500 zloyty fine (115 pounds) and 10 points on your licence. Or, as always, they suggested we could just give them 80 pounds unofficially and drive on, which is what we did. Police in Poland are notoriously corrupt. Needless to say, within five minutes Kuba was doing 120km again.

Every now and then, massive advertising placards interrupted the pleasant view and descending sun, mocking and cynical in their boldness, they present a new western lifestyle, bank loans, cars and houses.

At one point Kuba exclaimed "Look at ze beach!" We were surrounded by nothing except flat fields. Ten minutes later he screeched again... "Zer is anuza one... look at ze beach!" It was then that I saw her. The 'bitch' to which Kuba was refering was a forlorn female alone on the grass verge in a wonderbra, mini skirt and knee high leather boots. I've seen prostitutes before on Polish highways and it's always troubling to think about the abuse that they almost certainly endure and the danger they put themselves in.

There was a moment when all the traffic slowed to a snails pace for about 100 yards and then accellerated off again. This was due to a speed camera which was well sign posted. But why inform all these lunatic drivers that it's there? If these idiots were receiving fines through their letterboxes every week and the threat of a two year ban, they would soon slow down and bring a little more civility and a little less death to Polish roads.

The border out of Poland (and Europe) and into the Ukraine was deserted. One reason is that Ukrainians need a visa to enter Europe, and another is that it was Easter in the Ukraine so everything shut down. The big hatted border guards eyed us with great curiosity as they rarely see westerners this far east... and watched us as we drove out into a land with a history even darker than that of Poland.

A month in Russia with Kuba... and a stranger.

I am to spend the next month with Kuba driving around the Ukraine and Russia. He has been a few times and speaks Russian (which I do not), so is the perfect person to go with. He has bought and serviced an old Lada Jeep especially for our trip.

A few weeks ago he asked me about an Irish friend of his, whom I shall call Paddy, who wanted to tag along... I agreed seeing that Kuba was keen, even though I have never met this person. We were due to set off today from Lodz to Lvov over the border in the Ukraine, Paddy having joined us in Lodz. We hadn't heard anything from him for the last few days - despite several calls etc - and had got used to the idea that we were going without him, but today he called and asked us to pick him up from Krakow, five hours in the other direction. Kuba readily agreed but this annoyed me. We arrived into Krakow late and arranged to meet Paddy at Kuba's cellar bar in the Jewish Quarter. He swaggered towards us, beer held to his chest, and started to bore us with stories of his day. I took an instant dislike to him and cut in...
"Are you even remotely aware that we have just driven five hours here to pick you up? And that tomorrow we will have to drive five hours back to where we were today?"
Apparently the train was 'too complicated' for him. Kuba confessed that he is lazy. Lazy? Probably. Inconsiderate? Definately. And I will be stuck with this arsehole for the next month. Not necessarily. If my dislike for him matures into hatred then I will branch out on my own. Kuba and Kristina insist that he is alright, that I will have a good time. It's early days, but I have very good instincts when it comes to people.

It's late now and we have an early start tomorrow. I'll read in the back seat and let them do the talking. Paddy doesn't speak Polish so I can converse with Kuba if need be, I'll be honest and if I'm not enjoying it I'll flee. I packed a heavy suitcase though as I didn't figure I'd be lugging it around. Oh well.

High prices and cheap quality.

Poland is a very expensive country in which to live. Capitalism is still relatively new in the ex-eastern bloc and consumerism has not quite taken hold.

If your diet consists mainly of cabbage, you live in a tiny flat in a block which you rent from the government, you spend your evenings watching TV and you don't need western type goods or electronics then I suppose for most Poles, yes, life is cheap. But if you aspire to anything not typically Polish then expect to pay well over the odds. I bought a courgette yesterday and it cost me the equivalent of one pound 20p. A small bottle of HP (only found in some hypermarkets) is just over four pounds. A pot of pesto will set you back nearly a fiver. Mobiles cost well over twice what they do in the UK, upgrades are given only every two years with just a minimal selection of old models. Many mobile phone shop owners get their pals in Britain to buy in bulk from places like Argos and then sell them here for a fortune, they even sell the two-pin European adaptors alongside the handsets! Even the main dealers like Nokia in Lodz charge two and a half times what the same phones cost in the UK. Why? I have no idea. Landlines, the Polish national telephone company TP (Telekomunikacja Polska) is apparently the most expensive in the world after Japan.

Antiques are few on the ground and horribly expensive. Flea markets exist but consist mainly of over-priced junk with very little of interest to be had. Books are also pricier despite being made of cheap quality paper. Generally, all Polish goods are high in price and cheap in quality. And there is very little choice.

Cars are often bought from Western Europe and advertised for sale in Poland at ridiculous prices on online auctions... I've seen the same cars advertised for over a year... sitting there at the same silly prices for months on end. Even complete write-offs are advertised at ludicrous figures... who's going to pay thousands of pounds for a write-off? And yet they is an abundance of them (another sign of the carnage on Polish roads). In Polish there is no word for Bargain.

Looking for M.

I woke with recollections of the night before and the exquisite M. I managed to break Big Eggs from his slumber and we went for lunch with a couple of pals of mine. We then opted for a coffee in a plush and velvet laden (and empty) bar which has recently opened. Places like these were non-existant when I first arrived here some years ago. Still slightly dazed from the night before, we wandered back early evening and Big Eggs caught the last train to Warsaw. He presented me with an exotic pendant, which has accompanied him to far-flung regions, to keep me safe while touring the Ukraine and Russia - I leave at the weekend.

I sent a text in English to M: 'I dreamt I danced with a girl called M... and she was beautiful.'
Her response was swift and succinct: 'So...?'
I switched to Polish and told her that we could meet that evening if she was free. Her reply confused me: 'This is a mistake'.
Thinking she had misgivings about meeting, I called her. My heart sank when a man answered the phone. She had given me the wrong number. Or I had taken it down wrong.

There is no way to contact her and I know nothing about her except that she is at university. I don't know what she studies or where. I could go back to the same place at the same time next weekend as she said that she is there regularly, but I leave that day for the Ukraine with two friends. By the time I get back in five weeks I will be but a blurred and faded memory. Maybe I could delay our departure...

A night on the tiles.

Big Eggs came over to spend Saturday night with me before I disappear into the wilds of the Ukraine for a month. We spent half the night in our favourite local hotspot where we mingled with all the old gang. The muscle bound bouncers greeted us with firm handshakes at the door, the barmen beamed, the Bummer from Belarus was in expansive mood and Gosha welcomed us with her warm capacious busom. Puhacz regaled us with queenie anecdotes at the bar, the film students were out in force surrounded by admiring girls and the reptilian Doctor slithered in circles... tongue quivering. Big Eggs attracted a lot of pointing and staring from the crowd which we both found tedious.

I got talking to a beautiful girl with thick black hair, whom I shall call M, and we went with her friend upstairs to dance... something I only do when I'm off my head. Later, one of the film students took us to a small cellar bar heaving with sweaty bodies writhing to a hypnotic beat. Fuelled by drugs and booze, M and I spent most of the night heavily entwined on the dance floor, mesmerised by the music and each other. Oblivious to all, we slid and grazed until finally, exhausted by the trance like thud, I decided I'd had enough. At six o'clock, M's friend still didn't want to leave, so we left them and stumbled out into the daylight and deserted streets. Realising suddenly that we were ravenous, we grabbed a kebab and strolled back to my place chomping madly.

Esmeralda and our maiden voyage.

I've never owned a car less than twenty five years old. Old cars are simpler (not too many buttons), and I like the fact that if something goes wrong then there's a good chance a local mechanic would be able to fix it with a couple of spanners and a piece of string. Old cars have character, they feel and sound like proper machines. They chug and gurgle and splutter. They vibrate. Modern cars just do not smell the same. Not that I would turn my nose up at a new Aston Martin you understand.

To this end, and bearing in mind that here in Poland my choices are restricted, I opted for a 1982 Volkswagen Beetle in metallic grey with lots of chrome, tinted windows, original old style dashboard and white leather-style interior. A beauty whom I have named Esmeralda.

Our first outing was at first nerve-racking as I had to contend with the usual abuse from lunatic drivers and sparse road signage... miss one half-hidden grubby sign and you face a serious collision. I waited until evening when there is little traffic and headed off with Molly and Daisy to the cottage I have bought in the country over an hour away.

It is one of the most pleasant journeys I've had. Esmeralda has an old Blaupunkt radio and a pleasing gear shift. I took it easy on the unlit and heavily pot-holed roads and before long we found ourselves in the middle of a dense forest and an even denser fog. Small animals scurried across our path, I couldn't make out what they were but their eyes shone like tiny diamonds. Frequent checks of the map ensured I had not strayed from my route. Unable to see anything and crawling along at a snails pace, I hardly got out of second gear and couldn't help thinking that at any moment some high-speed lunatic was going to ram us from behind. I haven't seen fog like that in England since I was a child when my father used to drive us down to Sussex, he also had old wrecks which were forever breaking down. Memories of being snuggled in the back of a Morris Minor on a lonely stretch of the London Road in the darkness waiting for the AA to arrive now seem particularly poignant. Esmeralda is very reminscent of my childhood. She brings back the adventure of travel, where every mile is felt and the fact that any moment an unknown knocking or grumbling could bring me to a halt. Such modern driving aides as air-conditioning, power steering & parking sensors spoil the fun. Eventually the fog cleared and we gathered pace, Esmeralda's air-cooled engine purring and putting loudly.

We arrived in good order and the dogs ran around excitedly, wildly exploring. Too dark to venture far, I'd brought a blanket and we settled down in the barn in a bed of thick hay among ancient farm machinery. The cottage itself is in too bad a state to stay in. In the morning we awoke to shafts of sunlight filtering through the wooden planks of the barn wall. Heavenly. We went for a long walk in the vast forest, trampling through a soft damp carpet of leaves and accompanied by the hammering of woodpeckers and birdsong echoing through the trees. Every now and then M&D would shoot off into the depths of the wood having caught the whiff of a boar or deer.

Later in the day we headed back to the city, refreshed and rejuvenated, knowing that this is a haven to which we will often return.

Word of the week: Odpoczywac meaning rest.

Polish television.

Big Eggs has been voted off the celebrity singing contest... he is relieved and me too. I spent one night with him at the studio for the filming of the programme (which goes out live) and he was very nervous and agitated. When his time came he gave his all only then to be criticised by three non-entities on the panel. And with millions watching nationwide. Why put yourself through that every week?

Polish television can be split into three groups:

1) Programmes copied from British tv. eg. Quiz shows, chat shows and 'lifestyle' shows (another word Poles don't have). The Weakest Link and Who Wants to be a Millionaire have only just hit the screens here and are hugely popular. Only the other day I was at a shop counter fishing around for my wallet and the assistant beamed at me... "Do you want to phone a friend?" Excuse me while I roll around with my sides aching.

2) Real-life type police 'Detective' situations with shaky hand-held cameras following aggressive and emergency situations. All the voices are muffled and faces obscured, with beeps every few seconds, and it makes for deeply tedious and oppressive television. It's essentially an excuse to show the police, who in Poland are usually fat and dressed up like the SAS in combat, supposedly tracking down criminals with mainly violent means.

3) Soaps imported from South America. All non-Polish programmes and films are not dubbed or subtitled, but have one person (voiceover) who reads everyone lines without any sort of emotion. It is most odd, but that is how Poles watch the box.

I have no television at home as it is just tripe. I hope before long to organise some satellite so that I can get some channels from the UK.

A break in Blighty.

I took a weeks break back home in London and have now returned to Poland, hence my absence.

The first few days back in Poland I am always struck by the marked contrast between England and Poland. The differences? Where do I start! Hold a shop door open for someone in Poland and you will not get a thank you, they will not even look at you. It is bizarre and something I will never get used to. No-one will ever open or hold a door open for you. They is no friendly eye contact on the street, no smiles or gestures except to stare, and people walk right in front of you without the slightest regard that you have to stop short. Western Europeans (and Americans) are very aware of their physical personal boundaries and do not get too close to people in public, but in ex-eastern bloc countries they barge into and on top of each other, push, shove and generally lurge around without grace or regard for others. In Western Europe it is the norm to gently say "excuse me", and then to move forward once the person has kindly cleared the way. In Eastern Europe, it is normal to walk right up to that person and push them before only then giving a very demanding excuse me. Horrible.

On the road in Poland the behaviour is even worse. No-one will let you out or allow you any space, drivers are dangerous and aggressive. If a pedestrian gets in the way, drivers will swerve into them (within inches) and at high speed, horn blaring, just to let the pedestrian know that the driver has in some way been inconvenienced. For some reason, when Poles are in their cars every single second becomes vital. More often than not, they're just driving back to their block to watch mind numbing Polish television. Today I could only look on as a tiny old lady had to leap for her life onto the pavement as one idiot accelerated towards her on the high street as she tottered across the road. She nearly had a stroke on the pavement. How would he feel if that was his grandmother I thought. In British town centres, cars and people weave in between in other with courtesy and consideration. Here, where there are far less people and far less cars, there is no courtesy and no civility.

In my first two hours back here in Lodz I witnessed more swearing, impatience, rudeness and hostility than I had during a whole week in London.

The end of another long dark dirty winter.

The first week of snow back in October is pretty but after six months the novelty has long worn off... Polish winters last forever. There is no drainage on the roads, not even in the city centres. The new streets and highways being constructed with EU funds do have a few drainage holes but the skill or experience of building good roads does not exist here, so despite the new drainage grates, the moment it rains the thoroughfares become rivers and stay like that. Cars and buildings are caked in filth and the streets are awash with muck. Leaping over piles of snow and negotiating paths through thick brown slush becomes an art form. The sub-zero temperatures are also difficult to deal with.

Today we have no snow and a glimpse of sunshine... a sign that the long dark Polish winter might be coming to an end at last.