As the days pass, theIngvarbecomes an amiable
village where life is animated by reflexive pleasantries,
meals and a full schedule. Tribes emerge, of course, with
some of the ship’s 200 passengers preferring to relax in
their cabins, others in the lounges, where lectures and
Russian language lessons are held.
Our last stop before Moscow is Uglich, a handsome
old town on the banks of the Volga. Like Yaroslavl, it’s
part of the Golden Ring, the constellation of historic
towns north of Moscow, and known for an ornate
wall of icons in its green-domed Cathedral of the
Transfiguration of Our Saviour and for the rather lurid
frescoes in the Church of Saint Dimitry on the Blood
that memorialise the death of Ivan the Terrible’s son.
Today, the town is looking for a future from tourism,
since its main industry – watch-making – has been
buffeted to near extinction by the demise of the Soviet
Union and the use of mobile phones as timepieces. Still,
watch stores selling the local Chaika line the main street- the brand’s name originates from the call signal of
Valentina Tereshkova, Russia’s first female astronaut.
Their owners occasionally tout their wares. “Great gift,
great souvenir, so camp! No?” says a middle-aged woman
as we head for the bus on our way to a home visit.
We’re ushered into the dining room of a sturdy
red-headed woman with ice-blue eyes who asks us to call
her Tamara. A large photo mural of downtown Chicago
covering one wall prompts a giggle from guests; “I chose
it to make tourists feel at home,” Tamara says with a
bemused smile. We try the home-distilled vodka made
by her husband, Nikolai, with yeast, water and sugar - a real 45-proof eye-opener at 10am – accompanied
by black bread, a salad of dill-flecked, home-grown
potatoes, and tangy pickles: half-sour and sweet-and-sour
gherkins and wild mushrooms. Doubtless abetted by
Nikolai’s potent tipple, high spirits prevail during an
exchange of questions.
“So what do you think of Putin?” ventures a retired
stockbroker from San Francisco.
Tamara shrugs theatrically. “Ouf, I don’t know.
Maybe some of the same things you think of your
Trump,” she replies, with the satisfaction of having
thrown a polite but well-aimed dart.
“Touché! They do rather seem to get along, don’t
they?” says the quick-witted San Franciscan.
The pickles came from her well-stocked root cellar,
beneath a trapdoor in her living room. Our host shows
us, shining a torch into the darkness, revealing rows of
preserves made from the produce of her kitchen garden
behind the banya, or sauna cabin. “A kitchen garden is
the best insurance policy you can have in Russia,” says
Tamara’s friend, Galina, who’s our interpreter, “because
whatever happens, you’ll always have enough to eat.”
On the eve of winter, a cold frame in the garden is still
filled with cucumber vines trained on trellises and
chillies producing the last harvest of the season.
150 GOURMET TRAVELLER