Kitten has found the happiest place on earth, and it has nothing to do with a Browar. Instead, the key word is Zdrój. Kudowa Zdrój. The land of Skull Chapels, alpine trails, and mineral water that bubbles from the ground (Lamb aside: In an Art Nouveau building, no less. Eat your heart out, Kansans!) (Kitten aside: To incur more Kansan jealousy, parts of Prince Caspian were filmed in the town.)
Our story really begins back in Poznań where our friend C--- from France visited. She came and walked us mightily. We spent a brief period in Poznań before heading to Kudowa Zdój. There, after a train, a train, and a bus, we stayed in a charming, almost fake-looking, “cute” spa-town, with a long, winding main street, called Kudowa Zdrój. C--- found a hostel on top of a very high hill (that will be relevant later) were we had a 3-bed room to ourselves, a shared kitchen, and balcony with a sweeping view of town and the tree-covered hill opposite. It was stunning. And cheap. (Kitten aside: So was the smell. Stunning, that is.) The smell to which the Kitten refers was the smell of the bakery housed in the house below us. The owner ran the town’s best bakery and did the baking in the house in an industrial kitchen that lived basically exactly under our room. This meant we were woken to the smell of freshly-baked pączki daily. In fact, the smell almost never stopped. It seemed like they were baking 24-hours a day, but that’s hardly likely, isn’t it? But there it is. Perhaps it was Narnia. (Kitten aside: Aslan’s Country.)
So the first day in Aslan’s Country we failed to find breakfast. Instead, we were reduced to walking and walking and eating small pastries – though yummy! – with our tea/coffee. Which is all C—wanted anyway. Now. We were preparing for a hike. We knew the Skull Chapel was closed, but we were headed in that direction to check out the route and go from there. Meghann decided we needed pre-made sandwiches from the Żapka for provisions. Lukcily, there was one right across the street. Which was closed. But we had seen one coming into town the night before – Oh! Trout!
So the night before, we had dinner at this place called um the Old Mill (check out the link; the film is worth watching, even if you don’t understand Polish), but in Polish, and it had fish that lived in a pond under the restaurant that they caught and, well, killed before serving. That was some fresh fish. It was awesome. Great restaurant. But far far from our hostel. That will be relevant later.
Okay, so first Żapka (which means little froggy, and our French guest… Okay, look, there’s gonna puns here about frogs and such, so, just pay attention. Look at the title.) was closed. But we knew there was another back towards the far, far away restaurant. So we walked all the way there. And. It. Was. Closed. Meghann almost died. I took a picture of her! It’s in the new pictures. It’s the one where she’s standing by a green door, looking sad. (Kitten aside: Despairing.)
So we’ve already probably walked a km or 2. Hard to say. Long street. But we walk back after going to the worst grocery store possible, and we head towards the closed Skull Chapel. (Kitten aside: You are very cruel to the Biedronka.) (Lamb aside: In my last class, one of my students said there was a study done in Poland about the sociology of where people shop. People who shopped at the Biedronka were, quote, “From slums.”) (Kitten asdie: i.e., Biedny?) (Lamb aside: How should I know? I shop at the “rich person’s” Alma.) To get to the Skull Chapel, we took a very indirect route, summitting the hill across from our hostel’s balcony. Lovely walk. I frolicked in wildflowers. Good stuff. So we walk down, say hi to some cows, get to the closed Skull Chapel, and decide to hike the Pope Trail. This was the beginning of the end.
Okay, so, the sign says, the Pope Trail, clearly marked with these yellow-cross deals, and only 3.5 km. No big thing. It’s early in the day. We have salami. We have water. C--- brought some cookies. Because she lives on pastry. It’s amazing. The energy she had from just pastry. (Kitten aside: Makes me wish I was French.) So we start hiking the Pope Trail which first winds its way through people’s yards, essentially, with free range chickens. (Kitten aside: I don’t want any of you to think that the Pope of this Pope Trail was the Pope of 2002. This was the Pope of 1957.) (Lamb aside: For you non-catholics, that’s the same dude, only younger. And not the current Evil Emperor. Come on. Look at Return of the Jedi. It’s the same dude. You know it is. She won’t respond.)
So we walk on this trail, we eventually get out into the hills, uphill to be precise, quite uphill, to be more precise. Sometimes, I think, pretty close to 45 degree slopes. Anyway. This goes on. And on. And on. And it’s very pretty. Creeks. Waterfalls. Trees. Very few people. Sometimes we’re on a road for a bit and might see the random houses, or dudes fixing their motorcycles, whatever. But mainly in the forest, alone, with the C--- running up ahead, sometimes literally bounding up ahead, and then waiting. It was very reminiscent of hiking with Daniel, actually. And then the critical juncture. (Kitten aside: My partner voted against me. He will never live it down.)
We’ve reached a cross roads. (Kitten aside: Trout City, my friends, Trout City.) To our left: some buildings, a slope downwards. To our right, the barren wilderness and a slope upwards. Also the Pope Trail markings. (Kitten aside: Those who had voted against me also read the maps incorrectly. The Pope Trail continues on for at least 100 km more. Don’t take those signs of Pope Trail with comfort.) Meghann unfolds her large, trusty map, which we’re basically off of. (Kitten aside: A clue?) She wants to head down, into what she thinks must be Trout City, where we can follow the road home, get some trout, catch a bus, all sorts of options. C--- wants to head “onwards and upwards” (we are in Aslan’s Country, after all), to complete the Pope Trail. What would you do, humble reader? Don’t despair, we did the same as you, and decided to go up, away from civilization, though we were running out of provisions and water.
Oh! Water! The most important thing! Though we couldn’t find breakfast, Meghann found something far more important: dirty water. She sighs in longing just hearing me type this. Well. Narrate this as I type this. (Kitten aside: This blog post is very meandering, much like the Pope Trail.) Okay, so, dirty water.
Remember the Art Nouveau? Well, here it is. A spa building from I don’t know when. 19th century sometime. But that’s too old for art nouveau. Redone? I don’t know. Doesn’ts matter. It had a pijalnia and CO2 baths, whatever that is. So the pijalnia is essentially ground water, unfiltered, full of minerals, bubbling out of an art nouveau-like fountain made of cut glass and marble. For a small fee, given to a small pani, you can drink of it. Like water, in Aslan’s Country. Remember the sweet water in Aslan’s Country? Well, this is nothing like it. (Kitten aside: no! No! No! lies!) The mineral water was biting, strong flavored, and, at least the first one, fortifying. The second one tasted strongly of sulfur, to the point that C--- could not drink it. M--- loved both. Loved both. Still talks about them. In fact, at another juncture in this trip, we found water bubbling out of an old, old looking statuary faucet thing and she drank it. And she liked it. Every morning we had to get her more water. But back to the Pope Trail.
So we pick the upwards path which, long trail short, leads us steeply up a 800m summit. By the time we get to the top, we have no idea where we are, but there’s a random house with people in the yard, so we hike on in, sweating, gross, me carring a backpack, and ask that question of hikers everywhere: Excuse me? Can you tell us where we are? They did. We were very far away. They told us how to get home. To simply follow a road down the mountain. Instead, we continued hiking up to see a monument and, we hoped, the end of the Pope Trail. Which, yes, we now know didn’t end for 100s of km. (Kitten aside: It was clearly marked at the beginning that it didn’t.) (Lamb aside: Again, the kitten can’t take personal responsibility for not telling us no. These liberals. No sense of self-responsibility. That’s why they want socialized health care you know.) (Kitten aside: I do.)
So back to the blog, we completely ignore the advice of the inhabitants who literally tell us we don’t want to go to the monument, and head towards the monument. Though, in the process, we come across a nice gazebo with an incredible view of what must have been the Czech mountains. In fact, we may have been in the Czech Republic. (Kitten aside: We were allowed to sit there for 15 minutes.) Then it was up, up, up a wall of rock made into “stairs” that went up to Meghann’s thighs. C--- bounded up them, like a tall, French gazelle; I huffed up them, like a slowly moving land mammal; and Meghann climbed up them, hand over feet, like a hobbit. But we knew at the top of this difficult climb, it would be worth it. There would be a rock formation. There would be the holiness of Jon Paul II. It would sing to our souls. Instead, there was a parking lot, busses, teenagers, a vending van, and a kasa demanding money to see the monument. We did not pay. (Kitten aside: Den of thieves!) Instead, we got water and szmalec. I’m not even going to say what szmalec is because I believe my mom reads this blog. Don’t look it up, Mom, and don’t think about me eating it whenever I get the chance. Just don’t.
Then, after the concession stand closed, the children had left, and we were refueled, we started down the mountain. This is probably about six hours after we left. And, recall, that doesn’t even include the walk down from our hostel, then up and down the street looking for little froggy shops. So, all told, probably at least 7 hours of walking? (Kitten aside: Fear not, dear reader, 2 hours more await, at least.)
We’re walking down the road, into hour 8ish, when Meghann falls apart. Her feet literally fell off her body. Luckily, I had a spare. I put her up on the jack, put on a new foot, but it wasn’t a full foot, just one of those donut feet that’s only designed to get you to the gas station where you can buy a real foot. Now, unfortunately, there were another couple hours of hiking on that fake foot. (Kitten aside: I was very, very bitter.) (Kitten aside again: This is how people die on mountains.) So Meghann’s in lots of pain, C—is bounding ahead, I am supporting much of Meghann’s weight, and then she decides the next rational thing to do is jog. So Meghann starts jogging ahead of C--, who is still bounding, and then M—waits for C—who’s ahead of J—and it’s all a mess. (Kitten aside: This is just descended into a bad logic problem.)
We do make it down the mountain. We do all survive. Our friendship is even intact. Mainly because Meghann remembers so little of what occurred due to her pain. We had dinner. We felt better. Oh. Remember how our hostel is on the top of a huge hill? Up we go.
That should be enough hiking, right? Maybe check out the Skull Chapel and read on our beautiful balcony the next day? Well. We did check out the Skull Chapel.
But as it’s now 1:20am Polish Standard Time, I must stop writing. The Skull Chapel will have to wait. Don’t let it invade your dreams!
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