Choosing the first winner of our prestigious award has been no easy task…

When it comes to travel and holidays, there are those of us who consider ourselves tourists, and those who think of ourselves more as travellers. Whilst for some, the perfect holiday is returning to a favourite resort year after year, relaxing in the sunshine with everything around us immediately to hand and familiar, others are more intrepid in their taste for adventure and crave exploration a little more off the beaten track.

World Travel Blog has always been committed to discovering those roads less travelled, which can always be found even in the most popular of tourist spots, and our anecdotal advice and articles are aimed at providing some insight into how such endeavours are best undertaken. But sometimes, for some trips, a specialist is needed, and that’s what has led us to launch our Travel Company of the Year Award this year.

Choosing our first winner hasn’t been easy – there are many agents in the market today offering a wide range of trips to suit varying budgets. We’ve been rigorous in our selection, though, and scored each of our shortlisted operators on the areas which matter most, namely quality of the itineraries on offer, overall value of holidays, how well organised the trips are and, all importantly, how knowledgable the staff and representatives are about your chosen destination. Feedback has been gleaned from not only the World Travel Blog team, but also independent reports from individuals and groups who have used these companies first hand.

We are, therefore, very pleased to announce that after very careful consideration, the winner of the first World Travel Blog Travel Company of the Year Award is:

Regent Holidays have been chosen for their unquestionable product knowledge, their willingness to be of assistance both before and after booking, and during the holiday itself, the friendliness of their team of experts, the fantastic choice of locations available, the overall exceptional value and for having innovation in spades.

So, congratulations guys – this award is not given out easily, and you should be very proud. Long may you continue to provide the excellent service you do!

Regent Holidays
Colston Tower
Colston Street
Bristol
BS1 4XE

Visit www.regent-holidays.co.uk

Tel: +44 (0)20 7666 1244

Email: regent@regentholidays.co.uk

Situated in northwest Russia, Murmansk is the largest city north of the Arctic Circle, and midway between Moscow and the North Pole.

Murmansk, nestling high up in the Kola Inlet and half way between Moscow and the North Pole, is not usually high on the priority list of those who want to visit the mighty expanse of Russia. It’s true to say that, for those whose experience of the country is going to be limited, St Petersburg or Moscow offer a cornucopia of all things accepted to be Russian, but straying off the beaten track in this huge melting pot of culture, nature, politics and people delivers sparkling rewards for those brave enough to embrace the adventure.

The largest city north of the Arctic Circle, Murmansk feels like real Russia. No particular airs and graces are put on for relatively infrequent tourists; this is a working city, stoical and resourceful, and proud to be emerging from its bleak, wilderness years of the 1990s, when its population plummeted sharply. But thanks to a very profitable fishing industry and a little help from its Scandinavian and western European friends, this bustling metropolis, with its busy shopping and social scene, feels contented, calm and relaxed. Far from being the grey, Soviet wasteland that some reports would suggest, Murmansk offers a peaceful if unremarkable little haven, and provides an excellent base from which to explore the stunning Kola Peninsula.

As with many of the more unusual undertakings featured on World Travel Blog, the devil is in the detail, and planning a trip to Murmansk will likely be met with a glazed stare or furrowed brow from your regular travel agent. Even Expedia, although able to furnish you with an excellent hotel in the city, will struggle to actually get you there. It’s not that easy a journey, but it is simple. However, the combination of plane and train adds unnecessary confusion and quite often, sadly, computer says ‘no’.

If you want to turn this around in about a week, our advice would be to head for St Petersburg. No real problems there as flights are readily available, and if you give yourself a couple of nights here you’ll get a great opportunity to explore this wonderful imperial city, which is treat enough in itself. The Petro Palace Hotel, situated on Malaya Morskaya Ulitsa, is both comfortable and affordable, and is a beautifully placed hub from which to access many of the city’s highlights, including the Winter Palace, the Hermitage, the Admiralty and Nevskiy prospekt, St Petersburg’s main commercial thoroughfare.

Your onward journey to Murmansk is best undertaken by overnight train, and a Monday afternoon departure from Ladozhskiy Vokzal (this is not the Moscow station, St Petersburg’s main railway terminus, so beware) will get you into Murmansk (Му́рманск) at around 8.30pm Tuesday. Remember, if you don’t want to share your overnight cabin, you need to book a first class twin berth (SV – pronounced ‘es veh’), for which you’ll need to pay an extra supplement if you’re travelling alone. Sharing a sleeping compartment with unknown counterparts can certainly add to the adventure, but is not everybody’s cup of chai. Booking trains in Russia is straightforward if you know how and have a little language at your disposal, but if not you’d be well advised to book in advance (www.russiantrains.com are great for the US and UK, or www.regent-holidays.co.uk offer an excellent service from the UK).

On arrival in Murmansk, remember the tourist is not common place, so don’t be too daunted if the local police stop you and ask to see your passport. You’ll have to let them, but under no circumstances surrender it. If you’re offered a taxi by the local police official, you should be ok to take it, but bear in mind you’ll probably pay two or three times as much as if you flag down your own. It always pays to use a properly signed, official taxi for an uncomplicated service that won’t try to fleece you. The little old Russian man with the flat cap and the unmarked, orange Lada may seem genial enough, but could well have his child locks on and, inexplicably, no change.

You could do a lot worse than to choose the Park Inn Poliarnie Zori, on Knipovicha Street, for your accommodation. Again, it’s ideally situated and feels quite western in its approach to guests, something which cannot always be taken for granted in Russia.

Three nights is a reasonable time to spend in Murmansk, but to get the most out of your trip we’d definitely recommend a guide. An hour’s walk around the city, particularly when its rush hour roads are thronged with smokey traffic, is enough to make you realise that the attractions it has are quite far flung. A tourism office is situated on the ground floor of the hotel, and the staff speak very good English. You pay for your guide by the hour, and the driver separately, but the combined price does not amount to a fortune, and it’s a great way to get the local knowledge you’ll require to discover the city. Our guide, Olga Kuzovleva, was superb, allowing us ample time to digest all we saw with an accompanying explanation and plenty of anecdotes. Make sure you see the majestic statue of Alyosha, towering above the city and harbour, together with the former Hotel Arktika, soaring up from pl Pyat Uglov (Five Corners Square), Murmansk’s main hub. Also not to be missed are the beautiful Church of the Saviour on the Waters, with its pure white stonework and golden domes, the nearby Lighthouse Monument and the Memorial to the Kursk submarine disaster, which is actually made from part of the salvaged vessel. The Anatoly Bredov Monument and Regional Palace of Culture are both worth a look plus, of course, the impressive and hugely important harbour leading out into the Barents Sea, from which in the summer months you can cruise to the North Pole on Russian icebreakers.

Murmansk is also a great base for exploring the breathtaking Kola Peninsula, and whether you fancy a snow-mobile tour or a spot of skidooing, trips can be arranged which will take you into the heart of the frozen north. At the very least, you should consider a drive out to Lovozero (the tour office will hire you a driver and a car, also charged by the hour), a remote Sami settlement, which gives you a real flavour of the harsh life endured in an Arctic climate.

At the end of your week, another overnight train will deliver you safely back to St Petersburg, where you can either chill for a while longer or make your onward journey home. Either way, the Murmansk experience is one which is a little out of the ordinary; one which leaves you feeling you’ve been somewhere a bit special.

It doesn’t matter where you are, a fritten’s never far away

Wherever you go in the world, you can usually spot a fritten – the World Travel Blog word for a cat or a kitten – within minutes.

They’re usually quite friendly little examples, although in countries where there’s the slightest risk of rabies, petting is not recommended. Frittens are mostly friendly, as we know, but if one of them is that way out, they’ll just as soon take a side swipe at you as look at you.

The choir of furry felines here have been spotted as far afield as Chernobyl in Ukraine to Listvyanka in the depths of Siberia. Each is as fiercely independent as the next one, but equally possesses the unique fritten ability to make a saucer-eyed demand for a fillet of fresh Hake, lightly poached in some milk.

If you’ve managed to capture your own shot of a precocious Persian, a treacherous tabby or an adorable angora, why not send it in to us for inclusion in the gallery.

Email your image (no more than 1 meg please) to:

frittens@worldtravelblog.co.uk

Miaow.

Irkutsk to Ulaanbaatar, leaving Siberia: high in the Mongolian mountains

All my imaginings of Siberia, from being a small child right through to adulthood, were of a bleak, frozen wasteland. It also seemed to be the impression most of my peers and contemporaries had too – a fact which became all too obvious as they foisted their opinions  on me and passed their remarks at my choice of trip. ‘Oh well,’ many would shrug, “they did Chernobyl last year, so what do you expect?”

I think for me, the biggest shock on the stretch between Yekaterinburg and Irkutsk is just how populated it is. I really didn’t expect all the little settlements along the route, which was intersected by roads and tracks, lined with quaintly pained wooden houses and people – just working in the fields or simply standing watching the trains go by. In this vast space the most mundane sight can seem remarkably odd, simply by its incongruity; a row of Ladas, populated by the odd Mitsubishi or Renault, waiting at a level crossing in the middle of nowhere for the Trans-Siberian train to go past, a small child playing with his faithful dog, or riding a shiny bicycle, as he kicks up the dust in his remote back yard. A real delight are the station stops, where locals line the track peddling their wares, from bottles of mineral water to bread, ice-creams to pot noodles. There’s plenty of chance to disembark at these junctures, even if just to stretch your legs and get a breath of fresh air.

As we neared Irkutsk, the weather took a turn for the worse. Gone were the clear blue skies and thirty degree heat of Yekaterinburg, giving way to a thick belt of rain cloud and temperatures plummeting by a good twenty degrees. This low pressure lasted for a good sixteen hour stretch of the journey and spanned hundreds of kilometres, so by the time we got to Irkutsk station, we realised our only actual stop in Siberia, some twenty-four hours by Lake Baikal in Listvyanka, was going to be a wet one. This was a bit of a disappointment, particularly as Alex, our transfer guide, was quick to point out he had been sunbathing only a couple of days earlier. Everyone at home had thought us mad when we embarked upon this adventure, advising us take plenty of warm clothing for the fifty-below Siberian temperatures, but we were the smart ones, explaining we’d done our research and that Siberian summers could be as warm as the winters were cold. And now this: Listvyanka at a grey six degrees, and Lake Baikal enshrouded in misty rain clouds. Clearly, we could not text of phone anyone at home until things improved.

Absolutely dog tired, as soon as we hit the homestay we collapsed into bed. The 48 hour train journey and early start had worn us out physically and emotionally, and then the hour and a half it took to transfer us by minibus in pouring rain to the lake resort had just about finished us off. A warm welcome at our wooden shack of a homestay did lift our spirits a little, as did the delicious breakfast of home cooked blinis served with cheese and jam, even if it did disturb our slumber temporarily. After breakfast, it was back to bed for a couple more hours to recharge our bodies and minds enough to make the best of the day.

Once we’d showered and thrown ourselves out onto the soggy shores of the lake, things didn’t seem nearly so bad. As my partner Jamie pointed out, this was no wet weekend in Whitby (something we had also experienced); this was Siberia and this was Lake Baikal, the largest fresh water lake in the world. Known as the pearl of Siberia, it is, at its deepest, 1,637 metres deep and contains more water than America’s five Great Lakes combined. It didn’t matter a jot what the clemency of the weather was, we were here, standing on its shores, and it was wonderful.

Train 3: The TransMongolian Railway

When I was a kid at school, I remember other kids joking about Outer Mongolia, none of us, of course, having a clue even where this far flung country lay. The reality was something I could never have prepared for; arriving at downtown Ulaanbaatar, or UB as the trendy locals call it, proved to be the gateway to a world I could previously only have dreamt of. A thriving city, UB is home to some 800,000 citizens, almost 30% of the country’s entire population. Its suburbs are unlike those of most western cities, nomadic families from the countryside occupying not hi-rise urban tenements, but pockets of ger camps when Mongolia’s harsh climate decimates their livestock, rendering their centuries old wandering lifestyle unsustainable. At least these days they have somewhere to resettle.

Our guide for the duration of our stay was to be Khulan, a 24 year old resident of the capital with over five years’ experience in looking after tourists from all over the world. Proficient in Russian and English as well as her native Mongolian tongue, she was a girl who could make herself understood in pretty much any situation. Hard working and humblingly dedicated, Khulan was passionate in her endeavours to not only make sure we had a good time, but to equip us with some grass roots knowledge of her country and her people; she was, in fact, the perfect guide.

Our 80 kilometre trek up to the Terelj National Park, courtesy of driver Michael, was as informative as it was stunning. As we passed two huge blue constructions on the main road out of the city, Khulan explained this was the black market. “It’s not how you would see the black market normally,” she reassured us, “but you can buy anything here, from a car to a ger. It’s very popular and interesting to look around.”

We also witnessed a funeral procession a few miles down the road, which to Mongolians is a sign of luck. “The person who has died leaves all the good things about his life to those of us still here,” explained Khulan. Weddings, on the other hand, are a different story: “The newly married couple are taking all the good things for themselves, so it’s not so good for everyone else!”

As the road meandered its way out of the hustle and bustle of the city, giving way to green fields and gently rising hills, the true drama of the landscape only became apparent as we entered the Terelj Park. Huge, rocky mountains and rolling green plains conspired to create a spectacular vista that no picture or prose could ever hope to recreate in the mind of one who has not witnessed it for himself. Taking the best of the western highlands of Scotland and the Middle Earth of New Zealand, this breathtaking countryside stretches over an incomprehensible land mass, reaching far into the distance, way beyond where the human eye could ever hope to see.

Once we’d settled into the camp, we were shown to our ger, which would be our home for the next couple of nights. My trusty black and red Antler suitcase looked ridiculously incongruous in this magnificently unspoilt world; it felt as if my belongings should be wrapped in a swathe of natural linen and tied securely to my horse.

Ger living proved entirely agreeable, not least because we were fed and watered regularly in the camp’s superb restaurant. We spent our hazy, lazy days in the pleasant 25 degree sunshine riding horses, practicing archery and, embarrassingly, trying to put up our own ger, which leaned precariously to the left, threatening to last not even one night.

A highlight was a hike to the picturesque Buddhist Meditation Temple of Aryapala, nestling high on the hillside above the appropriately named Turtle Rock; from here, the view of the park is sensational.

When the time came to leave Terelj it was heartbreaking. This trip has been a series of goodbyes from the start, but always there has been the promise of the next new adventure. But here we were saying farewell not only to a place which felt inherently right, but also to great friendships which were not tethered by the bounds of language. Here were a people whose only desire was to please: they wanted to make us happy, welcome and safe. For that brief time, there was real love for one’s fellow human here, and leaving it behind was a massive wrench which left a lump in my throat.

Khulan and her 25 year old male colleague Gana continued to look after us as we spent another twenty-four hours in UB itself, visiting Sukhbaatar Square with its proud statue of Chinggis Khaan, the Mongolian Natural History Museum and the Gandan Monastery, before taking in a concert showing off the talents of the Mongolian State Dancers and Singers, collectively known as Moonstone. We then rested our heads in the Bayangol Hotel, one of UB’s finest and most western; it didn’t disappoint.

The next morning, as our 8.05 train rolled out of Ulaanbaatar station towards the Gobi, I felt a mixture of real sadness at leaving behind this beautiful country and its wonderful people, and a huge, giddy excitement at the prospect of discovering Beijing. This was tempered only by a little understandable apprehension about the border crossing.

Ekaterinburg to Irkutsk, across the Sleeping Land: into the heart of Siberia

I’m not quite sure what I expected when we reached the city of Yekaterinburg, a somewhat functional city originally founded in 1723 as part of Peter the Great’s drive to exploit the rich minerals of the Urals. The station didn’t promise much. but then that can often be the case. However, the short ride to our superb hotel, Zolotoi Lev (Golden Lion) started to form our opinion, which was indeed favourable. We’d happened upon this hotel at the very last minute, as our original choice (or that of Regent on our behalf) had been the Hotel Suite, but we’d been chucked out due to our booking being cancelled; the whole hotel – and most other buildings in the city with anything approaching a room to let – had been commandeered by delegates of two international conferences. Basically, they’d had a better offer. It’s only thanks to the venerable Christina Gibbons, and the fact that our shiny, new privately owned hotel hadn’t been open long enough to earn conference credence yet, that we managed to get our heads down anywhere at all. If we hadn’t, it would have suddenly left a rather untimely gap in what, by necessity, have to be very tightly laid plans. But the Suite’s loss was most certainly our gain, the Golden Lion being of a superior standard and ideally located. As I’ve said so many times before on my travels, it’s a very ill wind…

Following a quick check-in and a welcome shower we set off to explore, walking towards the bright lights via the City Pond. Yekaterinburg offers a stunning night skyline on all sides, particularly on an evening like this, still as bright as day at 11pm. We’d moved ahead of Moscow by two hours here, making us now five ahead of London. This gradual shortening of days can be quite disconcerting, particularly when the final jolt back would be with quite a bump once we landed back home from Beijing.

Yekaterinburg has quite a bloody history, although the safe, peaceful ambience it exudes now would never suggest so. It was, of course, the place where Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra, four daughters Olga, Tatyana, Maria, Anastasia and young haemophiliac son Alexey, were brutally murdered by the Bolsheviks in July 1918.

On that once simple site now stands the magnificent Cathedral of the Blood in Honour of All the Saints Radiating in the Land of Russia, to give it its full, official title. Completed in the early part of this century, the opulent, white exterior with gleaming golden domes sits proudly yet quietly overlooking the city.

Six years after the executions, Yekaterinburg was renamed Sverdlovsk, after Yakov Sverdlov, a leading Bolshevik and right hand man to Vladimir Ilych Lenin, until his death in the ’flu epidemic of 1919. Although the city itself reverted to its original name in 1991 following the collapse of the Soviet Union, administration logistics dictate that the oblast still carries its Soviet name. To add to its violent past, Yekaterinburg also played host to the high-profile Mafia killings of the 1990s.

The question which is constantly on your lips on this journey is a simple one: are we in Siberia yet? Yekaterinburg is the first Asian city in Russia, but not officially in Siberia, which actually begins 2012km from Moscow. The oil rich settlement of Tyumen, just 36km east of Yekaterinburg, is the oldest Russian city in Siberia, but the train pauses here for a meagre fifteen minutes in the early hours of the morning.

For me, one of the most important aspects of Yekaterinburg is its position, marking the border between Europe and Asia. On a trip to the east-west obelisk, our guide, Olga, presented us with a certificate stating that we had ‘bravely’ made the trip – it’s one of those things which you can proudly tick off your list, like taking the longest trolley bus ride in the world from Yalta to Simferopol in the Crimea; it’s an achievement.

Train 2: The Transsiberian Railway

At around midnight Moscow time, we finally boarded the real Trans-Siberian Railway. Train 4, staffed mainly by a Chinese crew, chugged out of Yekaterinburg station in the quiet hours, taking us officially across Siberia to our next stop, Irkutsk, from where we would make the short trip to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal.

At first impression, this much older train (with much older plumbing to match) seemed dark and austere. It was hot, we were bothered and just needed sleep. The following morning we enlisted the help of our guard to activate our ailing fan (there was no air-conditioning) and kick our power socket into life and we started to appreciate the finer points of this old, traditionally authentic rolling stock. How many times had these ancient carriages made their way across continents on these epic journeys from Moscow to Peking or Vladivostok, depending on your chosen route? The wood veneer finish on our first class deluxe cabin started to look very appealing. The restaurant car in which we enjoyed a delicious four-course lunch of borsch, Russian salads, steamed chicken and fruit was a delight to experience. This was it. Finally, the big one; all that remained, yet again, was to sit back and watch the vast openness of summertime Siberia drift by.

Applying for a Russian visa is now much more straight forward, although the cost is higher. UK visa applications are no longer handled by the Russian Embassy, but are now outsourced to a third party. There is a processing fee, but the service can now provide a next day or seven day return, depending on your requirements.

For more information, or to apply for a Russian visa, visit:

http://ru.vfsglobal.co.uk/

St Petersburg in style without completely breaking the bank

The Petro Palace, situated on Malaya Morskaya, was an amazing hotel, far exceeding our expectations. It was spotlessly clean, well appointed, roomy and furnished to a standard approaching sheer luxury. And every single member of staff went out of his or her way to make our stay perfect and – dare I say it – always with a huge, beaming smile.

The hotel’s Baron Restaurant, too, was something else. We had heard that Moscow was the most expensive city in the world to live or stay in, so we figured St Petersburg wouldn’t be so far behind. We were absolutely right (a meal for two with a bottle of red coming in at around £90 to £100) but the menu, and the way it was cooked and presented, was absolutely exceptional. When I’m abroad, I very much like to partake of local food and drink, and the Baron serves up Russian cuisine at its very best; dinner rapidly became something we really looked forward too. Expensive it was, but then what’s Amex for?

It was as we ascended to our seventh floor luxury apartment (I hesitate to call it just a room) that we discovered what turned out to be one of the real highlights of the Petro Palace: adjacent to the lift was the incredible Sky bar. This ultra trendy yet oh so relaxing bar was open each evening (until the wee small hours) and was literally a stunning window on the bustling world below, affording superb views of St Isaac’s Cathedral, The Hermitage and beyond. Small bar stools in the main window allowed us to relax over a Russian Standard and dreamily pass a very pleasant hour or two watching the world go by, while more comfortable sofas adorned the main floor area, and were perfect for intimate little gatherings.

Petro Palace Hotel Saint-Petersburg
Malaya Morskaya Ulitsa 14
Saint-Petersburg
190000, Russia

Visit www.petropalacehotel.com

Front Desk: +7 812 571 28 80
Reservations: +7 812 571 3006
Fax: +7 812 571 2704
Email info@petropalacehotel.com

Moscow to Ekaterinburg, across the Ural Mountains: an adventure begins

Our Trans-Siberian adventure, predictably, started in Moscow. We were no strangers to Russia, and the Russian ways, having spent time in St Petersburg and Moscow previously; we’d also travelled fairly extensively throughout some of the former USSR territories, namely Ukraine and Lithuania.

My memories of the Russian capital were not all that good. Having braved the overnight train from St Petersburg to Moscow without the benefit of hindsight, we’d had an adventurous journey cooped up with two Russian strangers which could have been avoided by simply booking ‘es veh’ – or first class – which means you get a twin berth to yourselves. Things didn’t improve as our train rolled into the station at Moscow at 8am the following day: it took until half past ten to find a Muscovite who was polite or erudite enough to sell us return tickets to Leningrad, as some still insist on calling it.

Add some freezing rain and plummeting temperatures into the mix, a little more Soviet severity, and your experience takes on a character all its own. The day did improve a little, with a sunny interlude as magnanimous as it was brief, allowing us to appreciate Red Square, the Kremlin and St Basil’s, without a drenching.

But that was one cold March day in 2007 – this time around, the city basked in mid-twenties heat and June sunshine, giving it a western European air which, at first glance, didn’t entirely suit it.

Our hotel was the Vega, which you could be mistaken for thinking was pitched in a shanty town. Flanked by market stalls and twenty-four hour shops on all sides, you had to take your morals and your wine into your own hands to eschew the wily ways of the area’s working girls, who seemed to congregate around their pimp in the hotel’s internet bar washed and ready to besport themselves with willing if unwary guests. With hands firmly clasped upon our credentials, wallets and bottle of cabernet merlot, we beat a quick retreat to the seating by the Vega’s entrance, where we had the peace and space to enjoy the remainder of our bottle whilst listening to Midnight in Moscow on the iPod. What?

The earlier part of the afternoon had been spent wandering around Red Square, pausing for a delicious meal of lyulya and garlic and cheese rye bread at Shesh-Besh before partaking of a welcome if overpriced glass of Peroni (they didn’t have anything local) in Bar Bosco, which seems to manage an evening pitch at the entrance of Gum once the shoppers have fled. It’s a bit like having your ‘As time goes by’ cocktail at Rick’s Bar in Casablanca; it just has to be done.

The next day was Monday, and it was ushered in with a veritable feast of a breakfast in the Vega’s second floor breakfast room. There were meats (hot and cold), cheeses, salads and fruits various, sustenance indeed for a final forage into the city sunshine courtesy of five stops on the metro. Squeezing in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour and the 95 metre statue of Peter the Great (well, almost – if our road hadn’t ended abruptly with no safe passage across the Moskva to the actual site of the monument) rendered us ten minutes late for our driver, who was perched a little irritable in the hotel’s foyer on our return, ready to whisk us to Kazan station for train 16 to Yekaterinburg, which would take us across the Urals via Vekovka, Arzamas-II, Kazan, Argiz-1, Krasnoufimsk and finally to the old Siberian city destination, where we would eventually pick up the Trans-Siberian train itself. Once at the station, we waited in the bar for well over an hour for our Ural train to pull into platform 2, so I’m not quite sure what all the fuss was about. We settled into our comfortable, twin berth cabin with twenty minutes to spare. Time for a gin.

Train 1: The Ural Train

Life on the ‘Trans-Ural’ train was not quite as expected. For starters, the standard of the coach and its appointments was impressively high; none of your austere Soviet issue fitments and furnishings here. I wouldn’t exactly say opulence abounds, but the front of the menu in the restaurant car suggested it was ‘luxury dining for first class’ and the overall feel of our part of the train bore this out with admirable effort. A brief sojourn ‘below deck’ certainly made us thank our lucky stars. Not so bad the four-berth, slightly less shiny cabins we’d experienced ourselves a couple of years earlier on our inexperienced jaunt from St Petersburg to Moscow, but the crowded dormitories lined up lamentably behind the engine car resembling the makeshift hospital carriages returning from the Somme, or worse, those bound for some forlorn work camp in a rural part of eastern Europe from which there would almost certainly be no return.

We quietly but quickly closed the door on this world, partly from Imperial snobbery, and partly from the discomforting feeling that, had we been forced to undertake it in similar conditions, we probably wouldn’t be doing this trip at all. It’s one of those glimpses which turns the eye inwards, and makes you doubt the authenticity of your endeavour completely; gosh how soft we have become – even our meagre upbringings had conditioned us to be the ‘privileged’ class.

A delicious meal of meat ‘village style’, which was a type of stew made up of beef, potatoes, ‘fresh’ mushrooms, tomatoes, garlic and ‘greens’, was washed down with a disappointing bottle of Staropramen; not that there was anything wrong with the beer itself, I’d have just preferred something more local.

Once sated, we realised there was a bar area at the end of the pectopah, so settled ourselves for a shot or two of vodka whilst dreamily gazing out of the window at the vast landscape drifting by. Our peace was shattered by a little molestation with menaces from the waitresses who, when we refused to buy them a bottle of ‘Russian Champagne’, did their level best to try and earn one by offering a selection of their special services, the buxom blond leader of the pack not shy of giving a little taster with her expansive, wandering hands. We politely declined, supping up and wrenching ourselves free to go to bed. Maybe it was just a way of getting us to down our vodkas in one, like real boys.

After a reasonable night, albeit interrupted at five am by a couple of rowdy rioters who moved as noisily as was humanly possible into the house next door, we awoke at eight, and were treated to tea from the samovar, courtesy of one of the better behaved night creatures from the previous evening. And then there was absolutely nothing that needed doing, save a bit of writing, reading, sleeping or eating, other than watching hour after glorious hour of this wonderful continent rolling by as we flowed inexorably east.

St Petersburg and Moscow – opulence and imperialism in Russia

My decision to visit Russia was made in the Gellert baths in Budapest during the summer of 2006. The whole trip to Hungary that year had been borne out of my desire to see more of Eastern Europe, a quest which had begun with a short stay in Cracow, Poland, to celebrate my birthday the previous March. And there, in the 39 degree sunshine, waiting for the wave machine to kick in like a couple of ten year olds, my partner Jamie and I decided that, the following year, we would take the plunge and do ‘the big one’ – Russia itself.

Of course, ‘doing Russia’ sounds a bit like many of our stateside cousins claiming they’ve ‘done Europe’ in five days when, in reality, they may have scratched the surface of a handful of European capitals. But hey, you have to start somewhere, and the next decision was where to base ourselves. I suppose as a kid, I always thought of Russia as, essentially, Moscow but, having discussed it between pool, sauna and cold-plunge, we fixed upon St Petersburg as our city of choice. We were pretty determined to visit Moscow too, having read about the possibility of an overnight train, all of which sounded like a great adventure in the warm waters of the June afternoon. A great adventure it certainly turned out to be, but with more than a fleeting reminder that great adventures aren’t always so easy to have. Well worth it in retrospect, but more than a little crazy – sometimes even frightening – at the time.

The first taste of the work and attention to detail required to plan such a trip surfaced quite quickly. We chose the following March as a good time to go, and decided we would plan the whole operation ourselves, rather than subscribe to an official tour. Oh yes, we were going to ‘rough it’ and show ourselves – to more than an odd raised eyebrow from friends and family – that we were more than capable of putting together a little holiday in the former Soviet Union. And time constraints for other trips meant we had to bring it all in in seven days. Piece of cake! Now, where to start? Ok, we needed visas – should be straight-forward enough. But wait: to get a visa, we had to have an invitation from somebody already resident in Russia. We didn’t know any Russians. A little digging around revealed that the hotel could easily do this, and a brief telephone conversation with the staff at the Petro Palace Hotel proved this to be merely a formality and something which they had attended to by email within a couple of hours. Applying for the visa was easy enough, but it can take up to three months and, Russia being Russia, there is absolutely no flexibility on this (unless, unbelievably, you’re a football fan and there’s a match you just can’t miss in Moscow). Mind you, it does look pretty cool in your passport when you do eventually get it.

We flew to St Petersburg with our carrier of choice, British Airways. It had to be via London, but there wasn’t much waiting around and we had a pretty seamless, trouble-free journey. Once through the slightly daunting passport control at the other end (Russian airport officials just do not smile, and you’re always wondering what’s going to go wrong, even when you know you’ve done everything to the letter) we took a cab to the Petro Palace and met those lovely English-speaking reception staff who had been so helpful all along.

The Petro, situated on Malaya Morskaya, was an amazing hotel, far exceeding our expectations. It was spotlessly clean, well appointed, roomy and furnished to a standard approaching sheer luxury. And every single member of staff went out of his or her way to make our stay perfect and – dare I say it – always with a huge, beaming smile. Once settled into our gorgeous room, we nipped out to do a little exploring. The weather was a little grey and a trifle cold, but the atmosphere around the city was exciting and vibrant. A little cautious in our first hours, we ventured into an ‘English bar’ a few streets from the hotel. It was the most Russian English bar I had ever seen, but did afford us our first taste of Baltika, a most refreshing, extremely palatable local beer.

The hotel’s Baron Restaurant, too, was something else. We had heard that Moscow was the most expensive city in the world to live or stay in, so we figured St Petersburg wouldn’t be so far behind. We were absolutely right (a meal for two with a bottle of red coming in at around £90 to £100) but the menu, and the way it was cooked and presented, we absolutely exceptional. When I’m abroad, I very much like to partake of local food and drink, and the Baron serves up Russian cuisine at its very best; dinner rapidly became something we really looked forward too. Expensive it was, but then what’s Amex for?

It was as we ascended to our seventh floor luxury apartment (I hesitate to call it just a room) that we discovered what turned out to be one of the real highlights of the Petro Palace: adjacent to the lift was the incredible Sky bar. This ultra trendy yet oh so relaxing bar was open each evening (until the wee small hours) and was literally a stunning window on the bustling world below, affording superb views of St Isaac’s Cathedral, The Hermitage and beyond. Small bar stools in the main window allowed us to relax over a Russian Standard and dreamily pass a very pleasant hour or two watching the world go by, while more comfortable sofas adorned the main floor area, and were perfect for intimate little gatherings. We retired at about 1am, exhausted but content; sleep beckoned, but we had accomplished the first part of our journey with aplomb. Let’s see what tomorrow would bring.

Sunday dawned, and we breakfasted amply in the morning room. Ready for our first real day of adventure, we packed the camera bag, wrapped up warm in hats, coats, scarves and gloves and bravely set forth into the city. We had read in our ‘Rough Guide’ that we should carry our passports with us at all times in case we were challenged by some figure of authority, so these we secreted away in a secure pocket of the bag. We were soon glad we had, as not one hundred yards down the road we were about to be challenged by a couple of men in uniform. We must have looked every inch guilty criminals as they walked directly toward us and then, at the last minute, changed course and crossed the road. Phew, that was close; this was going to be nerve-racking.

As we headed toward the city centre, and generally in the direction of the Winter Palace, we stumbled upon an expanse of parkland, which proudly boasted a bust of Lenin at its centre. “I must take some pictures of that,” I said, reaching for the camera. We both made for the clearing, and I was happily snapping away when Jamie nervously tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to a fine looking building on the far street. Oh bugger. Here were some more of those uniformed men, and this time, without a shadow of a doubt, they were heading directly for us. “Obviously we shouldn’t be taking pictures of the statue,” I said rather hysterically, almost as if it were Jamie’s fault. “They’re going to confiscate the camera… we’re going to have to go to the police station and explain ourselves; they might lock us up! Then what will we do?”

Jamie just froze on the spot, and we looked anywhere but at the men, trying to brazen it out. But, just as before, when they got within a few yards of us they simply carried on talking to one another and went about their business; we might as well not have been there.

We discovered, later that day, that these menacing men in uniform were, in fact, just lads from the nautical college. They obviously couldn’t give a bugger who we were, what we were photographing or where we went. It was almost an anticlimax! Mind you, it did bring a welcome air of calm to the rest of our stay in St Petersburg.

The next few days settled into a spirit of relaxed adventure, as we discovered the highways and byways of this imperial city. Outside of our hotel, the spoken English was something of a rarity, making life more than a little interesting at times, but in the main we got by with next to no trouble. It was probably by about late Monday afternoon that I realised my slightly irritating sore throat was down to the appalling air quality in the city, and, once aware of it, there were times when you could actually taste the smoggy fumes as an endless stream of traffic trudged by. To compound the problem, the perpetual lanes of cars, lorries and buses were regularly punctuated with older Ladas, Moskviches and Trabants – cars which were all outlawed in the UK due to unacceptable emissions. Satra Motors, the importer of Ladas to the United Kingdom, abandoned the marque in the early nineties, Moskvich ceased trading in 2002 (although the huge factory still remains, albeit dormant, in the possession of the company. A small part is now being used in a joint venture between Moscow and French car giant Renault) but was last imported to British roads in the mid seventies. The Trabant, that iconic little car which to this day still symbolises the freeing of East Germany with the collapse of the Berlin wall in 1989, never actually saw the light of day on our islands. In all probability, this was due more to its particularly utilitarian approach to motoring in the slow lane than the meagre emissions from its enfeebled little two-stroke power pack. Fantastic as it was for mobilising the dictatorship masses, it was deemed that even the most cost-conscious western Europeans would draw the line at this cute little sewing machine with a chassis.

Another common sight on Russian roads is the ever-popular Volga, a strictly-Soviet automobile which was, it would seem, mainly available in black or navy blue. This huge, relatively ugly vehicle looks like the type of car you would be bundled into the boot of, your rotting corpse then left to languish at the bottom of a frozen River Neva, the obligatory concrete block tethered securely round your middle. Oh dear, I’m getting stuck in a forties Hollywood movie again, although life in St Petersburg does sometimes feel as if it’s in black and white with an occasional flash of red; little did I know what Moscow would bring.

Over the coming days, we made sure we visited as many of the city’s highlights as we could, including the fabulously beautiful Winter Palace, stunning St Isaac’s Cathedral, the Church of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood, The Hermitage, the incredible Kunstkammer – Peter the Great’s collection of grotesqueries, and the sumptuous apartments of the Yusupov Palace. We were thwarted at the latter, as we missed entry to the waxworks tableau of Rasputin’s murder in the cellar where it actually happened. You were only allowed in daily at 1pm, and it was already ten past. So that was that.

Consultation with our ‘Rough Guide’ informed us that March was possibly the worst time of year to visit the country: having missed the twinkling beauty of the frozen winter, we were not yet in the full throws of spring, so could expect everything to be a thawing mush. Wonder how we managed not to spot that during our pre-trip research! In reality, things were quite different. The rivers and canals were still fairly solid blocks of ice, and the early spring sunshine afforded us some warm days and breath taking sunsets across the Neva. Closer inspection of the river revealed vast quantities of litter frozen menacingly into its icy bulk, a contributory factor in the water being almost unfit for human consumption. St Petersburg tap water comes directly from the polluted Neva, and its antiquated filtration plants are unable to deliver it free of the parasitic bacteria Giardia lamblia. The locals seem largely immune to this, but if ingested it can cause acute diarrhoea. If you’re using tap water, it must be boiled for at least fifteen minutes, but we found it much safer and more convenient to stick to bottled water which is readily available throughout the city. It’s not even worth risking the tap water for cleaning your teeth.

Determined to take our midnight train to Moscow, we ventured out to Moskovskiy vokzal (Moscow Station) situated on the famous Nevskiy prospekt, the main shopping and commerce street in St Petersburg. The station is at ploshchad Vosstaniya (Uprising Square), a vast, traffic-clogged intersection. Our initial enquiries seemed fruitful, and before we knew it we’d purchased overnight train tickets for Wednesday’s train, meaning we’d fetch up in Moscow at 8 o’clock Thursday morning. As I handed over my visa card to complete the transaction, I felt a wave of slightly anxious excitement at the prospect of this great journey; we were going to achieve our goal of making this a two-centre trip.

The remaining days leading up to our midnight assignation were spent exploring as much of St Petersburg as we could. This was made even more pleasurable by the discovery of a superb ‘local’, the Chaika Restaurant, nestling quietly on Griboyedova channel embankment, just off the main hustle and bustle of Nevskiy prospekt itself. The ‘Seagull’, complete with its predominantly nautical theme, proved to be a first rate hostelry, refreshing our palate regularly with authentic blinis and the like, all washed down with a glass or two of Baltika or the equally delicious Stary melnik. On the wall in the main lounge can be found a huge sheet of paper, on which patrons are encouraged to leave ‘clean’ graffiti. Having left our own mark, both Jamie and I spent a pleasant half hour reading these small records of social history; hard to believe our own contributions will soon be two years old.

Wednesday evening came around soon enough, and the concierge at the Petro Palace had organised a car to take us to Moskovskiy vokzal in time for our witching hour train. The washed and uniformed chauffeur turned up in his leather-trimmed Saab turbo, and conveyed us to the station in great style. Our adventure had begun.

On arrival at the station, we soon identified our train and handed over the tickets. Our berth was basic but adequate, and we took turns taking pictures of one another as we posed in what was to be our ‘room’ for the night. We were just settling in when, to our horror, the cabin door was flung wide and we were joined by another traveller, who grunted ‘good evening’ in his native, Russian tongue, and proceeded to undress. As the full impact of the situation hit us, I muttered to Jamie “I think you’re sitting on his bed.” Minutes later, another passenger joined us too; we were in a four-berthed cabin, and would have to share with these two strangers who spoke no more English than we spoke Russian. In an attempt to prevent sheer panic turning to blind terror, we readied ourselves for bed and climbed into our bunks. We might well be murdered in our beds, but at least we’d wind up in Moscow by morning. Clearly more comfortable with this ‘everyday’ situation, our fellow-travellers were soon fast asleep, untroubled by similar thoughts of perishing at the hands of clearly homicidal foreign cabin mates. The night passed slowly, as wariness and heat conspired to keep us awake, but eventually the conductor was heard banging on the door; it was our six-thirty alarm call after which we were offered tea. Still mindful of the possibility of a gut-full of lamblia, we politely declined and joined the queue for the bathroom, although I think I was slightly cleaner before I went in. We did, however, get to enjoy the final forty-five minutes of our journey watching our approach to Moscow from the train windows.

As we disembarked the train at Leningradskiy vokzal, we decided it would be a good idea to buy our return tickets straight away. It’s a very good job we did, as securing these tickets, and indeed our passage back to St Petersburg was the devil’s own job. Nobody – not one operative – in the whole of St Petersburg station spoke a word of English. Extracting information about train times was like pulling teeth, and the whole experience made the Moskovites appear difficult and unfriendly. It took a very panicky one hour and twenty minutes to make ourselves understood and actually find someone willing to sell us our tickets, only to discover that they wouldn’t take any form of credit or debit card; it had to be cash or nothing. Bollocks. So a further fifteen minutes was spent running around outside the station to find an ATM and, you guessed it, when we returned, the only saving grace of a kiosk that was offering us any kind of lifeline had shut up shop and nice girly had disappeared. I think attitude and perseverance alone allowed us to finally procure our tickets, which were for the 10pm train that evening. Phew! What a thoroughly Soviet experience.

Fighting off the cold rain and black skies with a more than welcome bottle of red stood us in acceptable stead to explore the Kremlin, Red Square, St Basil’s Cathedral and all the other delights which this incredible city has to offer, and we were actually just getting settled when the time came to catch our train back to St Petersburg (again sharing with two unknown Russian counterparts).

Upon arrival at Moscow station in St Petersburg, we were approached by a rather unkempt looking Russian gentleman determined to give us a taxi ride. In no state to complain or fight back, we reluctantly accepted, and soon found ourselves in his dark green Lada, fast in the back courtesy of child locks, expecting to be robbed, murdered or otherwise dispatched, our used corpses being flung into the freezing Neva at any moment. In fact, he simply took us to our hotel, pointing out landmarks on the way (we hadn’t the heart to tell him we’d already spent the best part of a week here) and demanding the same fare we’d paid our lovely Saab chauffeur the day before. At that point, who cared? Being fleeced for a few rubles was the least of our worries; I just needed to go to bed for a few hours before enjoying our last day in this beautiful city.

As is usually the case anywhere, our last day and a half in St Petersburg flew by. We revisited old favourite haunts, not least Chaika and our beloved Sky bar, before readying ourselves for the journey home. And you know, despite the difficulties, trials and tribulations, we loved our first experience of Russia. It was certainly a country we wanted to explore a great deal more. Sure, it was tough at times, but then, as I’ve already said, great adventures are not always easy to have.

Applying for a Russian visa is now much more straight forward, although the cost is higher. UK visa applications are no longer handled by the Russian Embassy, but are now outsourced to a third party. There is a processing fee, but the service can now provide a next day or seven day return, depending on your requirements.

For more information, or to apply for a Russian visa, visit:

http://ru.vfsglobal.co.uk/