Normandy August 2007

I am Joby, Roger's daughter, and I am looking so pleased because my generous dad gave some of his winnings to me and I went to France with my friend Will. We stayed in a gargantuan chateau in a little village called Aumeville in Normandy. An apartment in the chateau was lent to us by my friend Bizz's generous dad Geoffrey. We walked along blustery Norman beaches and swam in the sea. We dunked croissants in coffee. We swallowed oysters from the harbour at St Vaast. We swigged apply pommeau. We saw the graves of German and American soldiers at Combe and Omaha. We went to Honfleur and to the wedding of my friend George and her now husband John, where we celebrated and ate well and danced badly. Now I am home and looking less pleased. No more croissants for me. Thank you dad.

Russia: looking back

Things I've thought and talked about since getting back:

1. How useful the BBC Active language course had been (book and 2 CDs). Though I didn't get far with it, it made an excellent, easy start.

2, How lucky we are, with our ease of travel. Many Russians don't seem to grasp tourists' needs because they have never been tourists themselves.

2. The cathedrals and churches of the Kremlin made the most enduring impression. They were so ancient and shockingly rich in frescoes and iconography. There is no good book about them available in Britain, and I kick myself for not buying one of the souvenir books on sale – I wish I had bought a catalogue for St Petersburg's Russian Museum, too. Usually I am a sucker for souvenir picture books, telling myself that I may never pass this way again.

3. St Petersburg was enjoyable but it is Moscow that I continue to wonder about. I would happily go there again.

4. I have not read Pushkin since I got back, but I am reading Natasha's Dance, and I have read Martin Cruz Smith's new Arkady Renko thriller. Stalin's Ghost is a galloping crime novel with spades of interesting background and a central plot about a fledgling political movement of Chechnya war veterans whose American PR advisers tell them to call their movement the Patriotic Party – a name that won't fail, especially if they hijack the memory of an increasingly venerated Stalin. Without visiting Russia I would have thought the idea implausible.

5. In St Petersburg we learned of the extraordinary life of the poet Anna Akhmatova, who has a house-museum in the Sheremetev Palace, and how, for fear of persecution, she did not write most of her poetry down, but committed it to memory among her friends. This is not borne out in D.M. Thomas's introduction to the Penguin Classic of her work. She is anyway a local heroine, for having refused to desert Leningrad during the 29-month siege in World War II. Not surprisingly most of her work is dark. This poem, from 1914, is different:

I've a lot of feeling for you. You're kind.
We'll kiss, grow old, walk around.
Light months will fly over us
Like snowy stars.

Hotel Bristol, St Petersburg

"A SIGN OF THE TIMES IN RUSSIA: THE BOMB EXPLOSION AT THE HOTEL BRISTOL, ST. PETERSBURG"
This was a story in the Daily Graphic on March 25, 1905. The report beneath the illustration read: "The bomb explosion at the hotel here shook the building to its very foundation. Windows were smashed, and some of the walls were cracked. The man who carried the bomb is supposed to have carelessly dropped it, and he paid for his blundering with his own life. At first he was reported to be an Englishman, but it has since been established that he was a revolutionist. A number of people in the hotel were injured by the explosion, and many passers by at the time were hurled to the ground."

In my tireless quest for news of all Bristol hotels, funded by my prize money, I looked for evidence of the former Bristol along the Moika River where it once stood, and though there are other smart hotels there today, like the Kempinski and the Pushkin, there was no sign of it, and nobody I asked could tell me anything about it. On the whole, the name Bristol did not survive the revolution in the Soviet Union, though I thought it might have resurfaced, as it has at the refurbished Hotel Bristol in Odessa. more

Misty swamps

Moscow & St Petersburg, July 7–14, 2007

I dreamed of this sleep. I dreamed of the swaying bunk and the iron-willed rails carrying me north through the night from Moscow to St Petersburg. Birch forests, tundra, misty swamps. Serfs and tsars, revolutionaries and oligarchs. Red days, white nights.
MOSCOW BESTS: Kremlin churches, icons, Red Square space, Stalin skyscrapers, metros, river trip, those pavement cafes on the street behind the Bolshoi (closed for renovation). Elku Pulku and Mou-Mou self service restaurants: healthy local food without a menu or a waiter. (In 1905 waiters went on strike against the ignominy of having to accept tips.)
ST PETERSBURG BEST BITS: White nights, rivers and canals, Russian Museum, writers’ house-museums. Food for thought: Chaika, by the canal, with jazz and Baltic fish; The Idiot – me too for not going there.
Disappointing not to hear any music in this land of towering composers, but in high summer cities are often emptied of their orchestras.
So much to read now: Natasha’s Dance, Pushkin, Anna Akhmatova, Osip Mandelstam...