Travel Writing in the Age of Covid

The date is burned into my memory like few others, though the fact that it was Friday the 13th rather helps. It was March. Rumours of the approach of the virus towards Poland, where I have lived for more than ten years, had condensed, becoming actionable fears. Practically overnight the lock-down was announced, and that meant the closure of the country’s schools, my own included.

However, since ours was a private language school, we were better placed than most to get back up and running. Almost immediately — we needed just three days of training, alongside which a small maintenance crew (the guy who locked the school up in the evenings) went about laying LAN cables from room to room like a miniature subway planner — we moved all of our lessons online. Though these were initially delivered from within the school — a lonely business, spending seven or eight hours in one room with only a computer screen for company — within a week most of us were set up at home, the living room converted into a teaching lab ready to receive our students.

The lock-down became stricter. Soon you could only go out for essential tasks, such as for the weekly grocery shop, and even then you had to wear a mask. Even the mountains and forests were out of bounds, and for the first month I ventured out only very rarely. Most of my day was spent staring at a small rectangle on my computer monitor, and talking into the microphone of my newly-purchased headset. My weight ballooned up to over 90kg, and I started to develop symptoms of ill health that had nothing whatsoever to do with the virus.

On a visit to the Julian Fałat museum in Bystra, Poland, shortly before the lock-down. At that time my weight was around 90kg, perhaps more.

Things got so bad that at the end of April I ended up paying the GP a visit. I had my blood taken by a woman covered in so many layers of protective equipment that I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of ET: The Extraterrestrial. The results came back quickly: my cholesterol (among other things) was alarmingly high. I decided that the time was ripe to make some changes in my life — and I was especially glad of my prompt action when I later read that obesity was linked to pretty dire COVID-related outcomes.

All of which preamble brings me to the issue of me and travel writing.

For many years in my late twenties and early thirties, I travelled widely. Before I ‘settled down’ (the quotes are to suggest how grudgingly I did so) I had racked up nearly fifty countries visited. I wrote much about these places, though nobody has been particularly interested in reading the books that I went on to produce (I should point out that my mother, back in England, having been instructed to shelter as she was so at risk, finally broke her resistance, and after seven months of seeing nobody and doing nothing, she started to read my book of travel writing).

Opportunities for travel had become rare, as first one daughter and then another arrived, but I was hopeful of seeing at least something of the wider world during the summer, when I had the offer of a job posting in Scotland to look forward to. COVID soon put paid to that, and suddenly there was nothing to see, nowhere to go.

But was that entirely true? Was it necessary to seek out the new and exotic, and subsequently to write about it?

I decided that it wasn’t.

Part of my inspiration came from Paul Theroux, and in particular the book of his I read during the pandemic, the classic ‘The Old Patagonian Express.’ If Theroux could write so much — and so interestingly — about no more than a series of train journeys, why couldn’t I do something similar myself?

The other source of inspiration for what comes next has much to do with my personal weight-loss journey. I started eating more healthily — something I had never tried hard to do in the past — but I also started seeking out healthy diversions that would get me away from the computer screen for as long as possible at a stretch.

The answer was to go walking.

At first, five or six kilometres felt like a major achievement. Soon I was up to ten, but I’d then need a day’s recovery to get over the effort. But when I managed to walk twenty kilometres in a single journey, I suddenly realised that it would be entirely possible to combine walking with travel writing.

And so, one Sunday in September, I set off for Żywiec.

My route from my home in Bielsko-Biała to Żywiec. All of this is down in the south of Poland, quite close to the borders with Czechia and Slovakia.

I had not intended to walk anywhere that Sunday. The previous evening, on the spur of the moment, I had walked as far as Łodygowice and then returned on the train. I had neglected to take my camera with me for that walk, and, having been delighted by the views of the mountains all around, I felt a desire growing within me to go further and see more, but with a better camera than the one in my phone with which to record the details for posterity.

I felt at a loose end the next morning. My wife was upset with me — or I was upset with her, it was so hard to keep track — and I found myself just sitting around, enduring a torpidity that drained all the life from me.

“I’m just going to go for a walk,” I announced around midday. My wife nodded; she didn’t seem particularly interested in the details.

I headed down the hill on which our apartment block is perched, and immediately regretted not having lathered sun cream all over my arms and head. The sun was blazing, and although it was only around 26 degrees centigrade, it felt much worse.

I took the road heading out of town, Żywiecka street, and soon came to regret this too. There is a bypass and a motorway that links Bielsko and Żywiec, and a great deal of the traffic does indeed make use of this modern novelty, but there are still enough cars and lorries that ply the old route to make my walk more straining that it had to be. On more than one occasion I was lucky not to have my arm scraped by a car passing too close to the side, and for half a kilometre I had to walk along the verge: here there were roadworks, half of the road was closed, and there was nowhere for pedestrians to pass safely.

After a few kilometres I was quite relieved to reach Wyzwolenia street. This was the street that I had so fallen in love with the previous evening, but could my fascination survive so early a repeat visit?

The Roman Catholic Church of St. Michael the Archangel in Wilkowice

I needn’t have worried. There was shade here, for one thing, but also peace and quiet, and the mountains to gaze wondrously at as I marched along. On my left was the graceful Roman Catholic Church, and on my right a Żabka convenience store, as ubiquitous in Poland as discarded cans of the cheap Żubr beer. Here I stopped to restock on fluid supplies (not beer, though — I wouldn’t want to get caught drinking in public!).

There’s not much to see or do in Wilkowice, the first village I passed through out of Bielsko, but if I had a balcony as pretty as this I think I could at least survive a summer in the place.

By now I was working up something of a sweat, and my shirt was damp on my back, pressed as it was against the backpack. For a moment I wondered why I was intent on walking so far, and like Theroux — who is remarkably honest about such things — I considered giving up. But the crest of the hill was close now, and so I pushed on.

There is nothing quite like a cresting hill. It’s a hard phenomenon to describe, and even harder to photograph, but I do love how it feels like you’re approaching the end of the world. As your eye is guided up the street towards the top of the hill, it really seems as if there is nothing beyond, that the world is swallowed up into nothingness. All that could be seen was the roof of the first house after the crest, but nothing more of it than that — no windows, no door, not even a trace of the wall. It was surreal and magnificent all at once — the ordinary transformed into the sublime by a whim of geography.

A group of cyclists prepare for the descent down into Łodygowice.

I reached the crest, and stood in amazement as I had just the evening before. Though the scene was familiar, it still had the ability to stun, and so I stood, looking south as row after row of low mountains led the eye from Poland into its nearest neighbour. I dreamed of never completing my walk, of pursuing the landscape into distant realms, of arriving in a place where the signs were written in a language I didn’t know.

Oh, to be able to walk beyond the line of the horizon!

The damp, heady aroma of the countryside was all around me. Żywiecka street and the crush of the traffic seemed like a distant memory, one that belonged to a previous journey; this thought put me in mind of other journeys where so much had changed in so brief a time. For instance, a few years ago I was lucky enough to find myself in Moldova, in the capital Chisinau. If you’re curious as to why I had gone there, well — I had read somewhere that it was the most boring capital in the world. Chisinau soon convinced me otherwise; but I only had about ten days for my break, and then I was due back at school. So before I had really explored the city to my full satisfaction, I was on the road again, racing through Romania and Hungary before time ran out. I remember, though, having dinner in a very fancy (yet astonishingly cheap) bistro in the Romanian city of Cluj-Napoca, and talking to another traveller about Moldova; I spoke of it as if years had passed since I was there. It’s curious how travel can distort our sense of time and memory like that.

This stretch of Silesia is quite rural, and it’s common to see livestock in people’s gardens. Hens and chickens here; elsewhere goats, a few cows, and horses.

With my mind full of memories, I was struggling to remain centered, to fully appreciate where I was there and then. The hazy view of the mountains brought me back. The road wound its way down past houses where families were grilling food in their backyard, and I saw a handful of swimming pools too on this late summer afternoon; but I also saw tumbledown houses and a number of little chapels all devoted to Mary, and the contrast was striking.

The land flattened out as I entered Łodygowice. There was more shade here, and soon I found a river whose course served as a handy guide. I know a few people in the village, English teachers like myself, and wondered if I would stop and have a coffee with them if our paths happened to cross. Stranger things were possible. But COVID has changed me; when I see a friend, I greet them from afar, and coffee can only be enjoyed if there is outdoor seating involved. I was also eager to push on to the destination I had in mind, and seeing friends would only prove a distraction and a delay, and there was always the fear that if I stopped walking, my aging knees would rebel if they had to start again.

Besides, I was happy to let my thoughts drift unencumbered by the strains of civilised conversation. That’s one of the wonders of walking, I suppose. When you’re on the train, or even on a bus, the landscape rolls past at such speed that you might miss something incredible if you blink at the wrong moment. If you’re a cycling sort of person you can’t afford to take your eye off the road, and so although you are exploring the land, you aren’t to the same degree that the walker is. Walking takes much longer, that’s for certain, but that also means that the landscape is never a blur; you can drink your fill of a sight, and even ten minutes later it’s still there for you to contemplate; but in the meantime you can think as many other thoughts as it pleases you to think, and in my case my thoughts were spinning off in a hundred different directions.

Łodygowice is home to a magnificent old wooden church, the Parish Church Of St Simon And St Judas Thaddeus

The road crossed and recrossed the river, and for a while I followed a path that cut close to the water’s edge. I was overtaken many times by cyclists in little groups, out to take advantage of the lovely weather. Many of them were clad in tight-fitting cycling tops as if they were competitors in the Tour de Pologne, but most had been prevented from zipping their tops up all the way by their burgeoning beer bellies.

Soon I arrived at the wooden church of the Saints Simon and Judas Thaddeus. This is by far and away the jewel in the crown of all of Łodygowice, though some would argue that the crown was only big enough for one jewel in the first place. First consecrated in the fourteenth century, what we see here today really dates to the eighteenth century. About a hundred years ago the interior was lavishly repainted, but I couldn’t go in to see for myself. As I climbed the long flight of stone steps leading to the church, my knees creaking under the strain, I could hear Ave Maria playing through the speakers, and sure enough, at the end of the nave I could just about make out the bride and groom getting married.

At the top of the steps their driver stood puffing away at a cigarette, perhaps resenting having had to squeeze himself into a white shirt that must have fit better before lock-down. I could certainly sympathise. Just then, a smart young couple came rushing up the steps; they were late for the wedding, and had now to negotiate their way across the broken floor at the entrance to the church. Feeling rather out of place in my summer shorts and sweat-drenched t-shirt, I took a few photos looking towards Żywiec, and then set off once more.

I was by that stage fifteen kilometres into my walk, and my limbs were tiring fast. I was put in mind of a Ken doll, like the one my daughters have who is so admirably outnumbered by all the Barbies around him. His legs are stiffly attached to the torso at two points close to his waist, and to make him walk you have to pull first one and then the other in a brisk, staccato motion. I felt just like that now, pulling myself along, most of my body feeling fine except for my Ken-like hips and my Ken-like knees.

The mountains seem stacked one on top of the other from this distant vantage point.

Still, I was enthusiastic about what I was doing, and I loved the thrill that came with the sense of boundless freedom: I was doing precisely what I felt like doing, and I could go anywhere my legs might take me.

It was just as I was riding high on such thoughts that the road I was on rejoined the tail end of Żywiecka street, right where it became Wesoła street.

Oh, what an ironic name for such a miserable stretch of road! Wesoła means ‘happy’, but it certainly wasn’t a happy place for me. Perhaps the fault was mine: I had taken the pavement for granted for so much of the journey that I should not have been surprised when it ran out here. But this was the old artery that connected Bielsko and Żywiec, and as far as I could tell it was the only street that I could follow to make my way into the city.

But no — Google Maps came to my rescue, suggesting that I might take the back roads and avoid Wesoła. Dutifully I did as Google told me to do. I hazarded my way along a short stretch of the road, large lorries whisking past me, sending clouds of dust into my eyes, and then as soon as I could I took the narrow little side street away from Wesoła, and once again the difference was night and day — it was like finding a hidden settlement full of peace and prosperity, where all I thought existed was bustle and noise.

This image does not do a good job of conveying just how steep the incline was — you’ll have to take my word for it, I guess.

However, whatever joy I felt at getting off the road was short-lived. Ahead of me was a thin country road, light brown unlike the heavy black of the asphalt I had grown used to. I checked the map again and yes, I was supposed to walk up there. ‘Up’ was the operative word: Wesoła swung the traffic around the base of a hill, but the back roads expected you to deal with it head on.

After eighteen kilometres, the last thing I needed was such an incline, but I had no choice. I leaned into the climb — it was the only way to stop myself from rolling back down the hill. I cursed Google for sending me this way, but more than anything I cursed the local government for not supplying Wesoła with a pavement I could follow. Did they not envisage a single person ever wanting to walk to Żywiec? Did they think that only motorists were interested in entering this city so famed for its brewery? How odd and uncivil!

All was not lost, though. I reached the summit, and there was a reward waiting for me. Across the other side of Wesoła there was the lake, and it was a gorgeous sight to behold. It also explained why the walking options had been so few — there was the trunk road and nothing else, unless you had a boat to carry you from one bank to the other.

There were many boats out on the lake that day, and with the weather so fine I must admit to a certain degree of envy. Still, I enjoyed my walk tremendously — as well as the shower I had when I returned home.

I was rapidly approaching the city. Famed for its unpronounceable beer (it’s not zy-week by zhi-vee-etz), Żywiec has little else to celebrate; there’s a pretty park here, and something approaching a castle, but I had not visited the place in over five years, and never really felt its absence in my life. The same friends who now lived in Łodygowice had previously called Żywiec their home, but I had only been invited to visit once or twice, and for good reason. After two visits we had exhausted the city’s entertainment options.

Exhaustion swept through my body. It was only sheer will that drove me onward — coupled with the desire to reach the train station before the next departure back to Bielsko. My knees begged me to take the path of least resistance now, and that meant heading down the hill.

Żywiec, so close and yet so far.

But this was a mistake: I hadn’t yet gotten clear of that damned Wesoła street, and here I was again. The road rose slightly and crossed a fold in the ground that the more charitable writer might have considered a valley. Ah, that unhappy valley — I would have to get across it on this street with no pavement.

There was a McDonald’s up ahead, and two teens were making their way towards me clutching their take-out. They were giggling as only teenagers know how, but their giggles masked the same fear that I was then feeling on their behalf. There was a safety barrier against this side of the road, erected to stop drunk drivers from careening into the valley and to a miserable end, but it made walking along the verge even more treacherous. There simply was nowhere to hide from the traffic. At least they could see the cars coming: I would have it all behind me.

The teens passed me, and then it was my turn. I forced my legs into something approaching a jog, the straight-legged run that some adopt in public when they need to hurry but can’t be seen to be actually running. I tried to time my run for when there were no cars coming in either direction — as well as fearing being struck from behind, I was also worried that I was breaking the law by walking where I shouldn’t, and that I could be stopped by the local law enforcement at any moment.

These worries multiplied when I was halfway across the cleft; a car in the opposite lane slowed, the driver winding down his window; what did he want? Was he a plain clothes policeman? An off-duty cop looking to admonish those who dared walk where they weren’t supposed to? He seemed ready to hurl abuse in my direction, but I met his eye, and I shrugged forlornly, indicating the lack of any other option for me, a poor pedestrian. Whatever he was about to say got no further than the back of his throat; my predicament was plain to see, and wisely the man decided that, though I was in the wrong, there was no right here to be had. He drove away, and I sprinted the next hundred metres before I saw another car.

I was safe at last.

I find it so odd that Żywiec, a town with a population of over 30,000 and located so close to not one but two international borders, should be connected to the rest of Silesia by this one train track.

At the big roundabout up ahead I was faced with another choice. Should I continue as I was going and head straight along the river, or should I cross the river here and head into the city proper? It had been so long since I was last here that I couldn’t recall on which side of the Soła I might find the main train station. The heart of the city seemed to be on the other side of the river, and so I went that way; too far along to be bothered to turn back I saw the train line running straight as an arrow under me, but I felt the disappointment in my bones, quite literally.

I ventured on. There was a new bike path running along the far bank of the river — I hadn’t seen that before, and I envied the inhabitants of this little city their good fortune. Bielsko has a river, but nowhere can I think of where you can ride a bike with such a fair companion. For a moment I was put in mind of Kraków and the magnificent Wisła river (known more commonly as the Vistula). I had lived there too for a time, and now I thought how easily I might have made the transition, stepping down from the big city but still keeping a good strong river in close reach. The Biała river is insignificant in comparison (though I am charmed by a recent review on Google Maps by one wit who claimed his ship crashed there — it’s not exactly a navigable waterway, so I doubt the veracity of his statement).

Żywiec — or at least part of it. There is more to see here than this photo might suggest, though not very much it must be admitted.

I came off the bridge, and walked past a football ground where some Sunday league action was underway. On the near side sat a handful of spectators, though I couldn’t tell if they were there for the sun and the cheap beer or to watch the match. I suspected, from experience, it would be more of the former.

My journey was coming to an end, and frankly I was glad of it. The last kilometre had cost me more than the first ten all put together, and now I was having to race to reach the train before it departed for home. I passed a karczma where crowds of diners spilled out onto the street, and across the road a kebab stall where the same was happening. What about social distancing? I wondered.

I crossed another bridge, this one much shorter than the last, and suddenly I recognised where I was, and knew that I could get to the station in time if I could only hurry up a little. But my legs were aching terribly now, and my left knee felt as if it had been mauled. It hurt so badly, in fact, that I could barely sleep all that night — the pain kept me awake.

I made it. I reached the station a full six minutes before we were due to set off for Bielsko. I bought my ticket from the conductor at the head of the train before we left the station — it cost a whopping 6 złoty, which roughly equates to 1 Euro 40. I could live with the expense, especially as it meant I didn’t need to walk twenty kilometres to get home.

My walk had taken four and a half hours; my entire trip lasted for a shade over five. I got home feeling completely wrecked, but at the same time I was awash with euphoria. My wife greeted me with the same nonchalant nod with which she had bid me farewell earlier in the day — was it really all the same day? — and I sat down to dinner.

So — is travel writing still possible in the time of COVID?

For me, yes — absolutely. Little has changed, really. As you can see from this account (and if you take the time to compare it with anything else I have written) there is clear evidence that I can go on and on about pretty much anything; no wonder my poor mum was so desperate to avoid having to read my book.

What a difference four months can make — this is me down from over 90kg to just under 80kg. The challenge, of course, will be keeping the weight off…

And as for the weight loss: changing my diet has gone a long way to helping me get down to 80kg, but without the exercise I’ve had on these long walks, I don’t think the results would have had any chance of sticking.

Indeed — now that my weight is manageable, and I’m carrying less on my old, worn-out knees, I’m even thinking of what might come next. Another book I read during the lock-down was Alan Booth’s masterpiece of travel writing, ‘The Roads to Sata,’ in which he walked from the very north to the southern tip of Japan. Might I not do something similar here in Poland?

If I did, and I wrote it into a book, would anyone read it? Would my mum? Perhaps I’ll have to find out.