I went with a couple of pals to spend the weekend at my country retreat. Lola packed a picnic and we set off with Molly and Daisy in Esmeralda for the leisurely one hour drive.
On arrival we had to pick up the keys which I'd forgotten from the last owner in the next village. His name is Yatsek and I was almost relieved that he wasn't at home. Stout and jolly, he is a Falstaffian figure and invariably surrounded by at least half a dozen children. I have visited them a few times and they are exceptionally nice. I am plied with vodka the moment I enter the house and his voluptuous wife, who never sits down, and with one or two snivelling infants swinging from her, scurries back and forth from the table with armfuls of bread, sausage and gherkins, stopping only to gulp vodka. Wyborova or Zabrovka is consumed ferociously, one shot after the other, followed by mouthfuls of the locally produced nosh.
The grubby, and equally tubby offspring, are well trained. They encircle us, gazing in wide-eyed-wonder as the adults get increasingly loud and incoherent. Every so often the wife will issue a command at which one of the little urchins will rush to obey. The moment a bottle is emptied, one of the pot bellied girls grabs it and scampers off to another room only to return with a new bottle which is plonked down between us. Yatsek sits at the head of the table, and with his fat thighs spread wide and constantly adjusting his balls, he ragales me with local stories and country life. I plan to get a couple of bicycles so then I can whizz over to his house when in the vicinity.
Everything needs doing at the ruin Yatsek sold to me. It is a big project and one I'm in no hurry to begin. The floor is rotten, the walls are crumbling and all the buildings are roofed in asbestos. And yet, in such a beautiful setting, forest on all sides, and only an hour from the city... how can one complain?
Word of the week: Wies meaning village. There is no Polish word for countryside.
