Kety, Poland: Rain again

September 6, 2015

Beautiful Krakow: no need to rebuild it because the Nazis fancied it as their regional capital

IT'S raining. The wind is blowing. It's been in my face all day, steadily and then in gusts. But, right now, I don't care. It's warm here in my tent, deep in a forest of dripping, graceful trees and rutted sandy paths. There's nobody around. Who'd come into a dark, dank wood for a picnic in the rain?

I could do with the rain stopping by tomorrow, though. After so much of flat Poland, I've been in repeatedly hilly Poland. I've climbed more than one per cent, which doesn't sound much but ride 150km at one per cent and you'll have risen enough to ride over the Tourmalet. And the Tourmalet is the highest road pass in the Pyrenees and a regular in the Tour de France.

Today's curious find, in the grounds of a roadside house

I want it to stop raining by tomorrow because what I've been riding are the shallow foothills of the medium mountains that separate Poland from the Czech Republic. If you haven't caught up with the news, that's the northern part of what used to be Czechoslovakia.

I don't know how high these mountains are - not very, I know that - but if I'm going to go close to them then I'd rather the sun shone. At the moment they don't quite touch the clouds. This is by far the prettiest part of Poland that I've seen. I haven't got that much further to ride before the country runs out, and then there aren't that many days before I reach journey's end. I'm still enjoying it but I've also got a growing feeling that I've seen all I'm going to see so far as the countryside's concerned. It's pleasant, harmless, but every day has been more of the same.

Until today.

There's not the self-satisfied prettiness of Switzerland or the gentle warm green of the Cantal, my favourite region of France. But there are rolling fields of yellows and greens, and clusters of trees, and woods and houses, taller now and with angled roofs to shed the snow.

All this is reward for this morning. Last night I studied the map for an alternative to the road to Oświęcim. That's where I was yesterday, in the town that the Germans called Auschwitz. I was cautious because of the journals of others who passed this way, who warned of endless traffic on narrow roads. From my bus, yesterday, I was the one looking for bike paths or useful pavements. Of which there were few.

Who'd have thought Boney M were still going the rounds? Or that they'd be so low on the bill and so misspelled?

Much of this traffic, I reasoned, would be tour buses. So, set off early enough and I'd be well on my way before Auschwitz opened.

What I forgot, but which worked in my favour, was that today is Sunday. There'd still be tourists but the heavier commercial traffic, such as there was, wouldn't be there. And so I bowled out of Krakow while it was rubbing its eyes at a new dawn and I was well along the Oświęcim road before the worst started.

And then, just as the traffic built, I dropped off to the left on to a road I had to myself. The silence all but rang in my ears for an hour.

Today's story is of a search for a bridge which my map and GPS insisted was there but geography showed wasn't. I had my doubts as I turned on to what looked no more than a half-surfaced road to a farm but, who am I to doubt professional map-makers? And hadn't I already had that experience of people purloining minor roads for themselves?

So I went down a steep drop and round a house quiet except for yapping dogs and as far as a cord hanging across the path. It had strips of red and white plastic tied to it to point out it was there. I rested the bike against a bank, stepped over the cord and walked on to the river. Before it got there, the road - now little more than a grass trail - turned right parallel to the water but separated from it not only by a hedge but a steep drop.

There is only so long to insist and persist. I turned and began pushing back up the hill. This time the dogs yapped even more, having missed gnawing my ankles first time round, and a woman appeared in an apron with a cluster of brown hens round her feet. She was a picture of agricultural contentment but the hens clucked like a disagreement at the Mothers' Union.

The woman was in her late 30s, I'd say, wearing slippers and wiping flour of her hands.

"Good morning," she called. And something else. Like "You're the first ageing and puzzled cyclist we've seen round here for a long time."

I walked back, smiling reassuringly to show the danger was limited. I pointed at the map and then the larger picture on the GPS and looked inquisitive and said "Mostek?" It was the word I'd seen on signs. That's how I learn useful words, although I rarely guess their pronunciation.

Mostek isn't hard to get wrong, though and she responded with a lot of smiles and arm-waving and sent me back whence I'd come, round to the left, left again and over a new concrete bridge.

I may not have found the bridge but I did find this ferry. "No need to pay", the ferryman said. "You're a cyclist"

And so I rolled over the hills of southern Poland, enjoying myself, increasingly tired, increasingly wet when the weather turned bad. I rode through Kety and quickly into a long wood. It had exciting plastic signs at intervals along its edge, with the usual puzzle of words you can't understand but feel inclined to disobey.

Did they warn of mines? Or traps? I began to understand that the town saw litter as a problem and was urging visitors not to leave it. A done deal. If Poland agreed to leave me in peace in the dark wood, I would agree not to leave litter. And in the morning I'd be gone.

Today's ride: 79 km (49 miles)
Total: 5,660 km (3,515 miles)

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