A Pure Taste Of Ireland: Dublin

Just a short flight away from the UK, what better way to get a flavour of Ireland than from its most populous city, and capital. 

Stemming from a small Viking settlement, 'Black Pool' has evolved, often turbulantly, into the vibrant and cosmopolitan city it is today. With refreshingly little idea of what to expect, I spend a few days finding out what Dublin has to offer.

Promptly arriving by bus in O'Connell Street, I am a little surprised at the scale and grandeur of the buildings; the street is wide and flourishing with activity - very much a central hub. I pass the well cared-for Parnell monument on the way to my hotel, imposingly positioned facing the length of the street, asserting a proud gaze over Dublin. It's clear already that politics are close to Dublin's heart.

It is in fact just off Parnell Square where my hotel is situated. The Maldron Hotel I conclude, was a good choice - very well appointed, and ideally situated. After passing some typically Irish red-brick and brown Georgian buldings, this 'Irish' palette of colour is reflected in the decor of the room.

I hop on a bus departing from O'Connell street, which promises informative commentary and a 'hop on hop off' tour of the city. The most omnipresent sight as the bus travels towards the General Post Office is the Spire of Dublin, launching into the sky seemingly for miles. A modern day obelisk constructed of steel, the spire simply works, quite unexpectedly, as a beacon for prosperity and freedom reaching towards the clouds.

The spire complements the grand Georgian General Post Office building well. The GPO has served as much more than a post office in Dublin's past, incuding the headquarters for the leaders of the brutal Easter Uprising in 1916.

At the other end of the street, the O'Connell monument stands proud as if serving to protect, as well as displaying the ubiquitous harp of Ireland as seen on the Parnell monument, adding to an overall sense of a 'grand plan', or uniformity for O'Connell Street.

Many more characteristically tall red-brick houses are to be seen; they are rapidly becoming a defining feature of Irish architecture as the bus continues on. One of them is covered in a dressing of bright green and red ivy; quite surreal.

A curious, rather pleasant yeasty smell announces that the bus is nearing the Guinness Storehouse, further confirmed by the very loud bus tour commentary. As the bus turns and begins to navigate through the factory grounds, past the enormous brick and industrial buildings, I ponder the Irish influences on American architecture - perhaps Boston or New York spring to mind. 

Inisde, the beautiful old qualities of the interior have been preserved and fused with modern attributes. Old iron beams and brick walls give way to the worlds largest 'pint glass', consisting of a glass tower centre, surrounded by various levels - each telling the story of Guinness, its history and heritage.

Learning about every ingredient and every process that goes into Guinness is thirsty work - it's time to have a hand in pouring my own pint. In a very informative session, I join other tourists in being trained how to pour the perfect pint of Guinness; I am even given a certificate to prove it. Of course I am also allowed to 'sample' my perfect pint afterwards...

Well and truely a converted Guinness drinker, I leave to board the bus again. My next stop will be Kilmainham Gaol: a long decommissioned prison built in the 18th century.

A sense of grim forboding is evoked as soon as I set foot outside its grey, cold walls. A serpent-esque motif above the main entrance marks the gateway to a once hellish place of incarceration. 

Damp, chilling and musty air surrounds me as I am led around with a group, by a very enthusiastic tour guide. The squalid spaces feel alive again as I am told of how hundreds of men, women and children would have been crammed inside. Furthermore, the guide states that the conditions inside the prison around the 1850s were more more favourable than those outside; crimes would be committed intentionally in order to be locked-up here.

Peering into the cells, only a small amount of light is visible from tiny windows, high above the confined, maddening rooms. I am told stories in relation to particular cells as I move through - mostly of unfortunate political prisoners and other more romanticised tales. 

The Parnell name crops up again as the group moves into his old cell; the difference is astonishing, with a fireplace, windows and relative luxury of a separate living room and sleeping area. The story goes that Parnell, being a political prisoner in times where he had immense Irish support, was treated royally so as not to cause unrest outside the prison walls. Luxury meals, spacious private quarters and guards catering for his every whim - a very strange predicament indeed.

Stepping into the 'new' Victorian wing feels like a refreshing breakthrough, at least in comparison to the squalid concrete cells I had first seen. The prison opens up into a multi-story atrium with natural light from high above. Wrought iron staircases wind up to the various levels. Inside the cells, a marked improvement awaits with substantial windows, and cleaner, brighter rooms. This area followed the Victorian trend, or rather realisation that prisoners benefited, in terms of psychological behaviour, from exposure to daylight. Still a morbid, claustrophobic place, but a huge step up from the earlier wings.

The tour concludes with the outside area, most notably the courtyard where the executions took place. I stare up at the high stone walls, and wonder if they had any glimmer of hope for a chance of escape. Poignant crosses mark the spots of the actual killings; very stirring indeed.

I breathe a sign of relief as I am 'released' from Kilmainham through the heavy iron doors.

The next morning I head to a much cheerier place: Dublin Zoo. On route, the bus passes through Pheonix Park, which, as I am informed by the commentary, is many times bigger than New York's Central Park. With endless forest and hills in the background, it really is a tranquil haven. The Wellington Monument towers high above the trees - the second largest obelisk in the world, after Washington's.

Continuing the 'American' reminiscence, I see the white gates to the US Embassy, sporting the USA flag, and opposite, the gated entrance to the President's home. An obscure opportune glance through the trees reveals something very similar to the White House.

Dublin Zoo has a reputation as one of Europe's finest, and it doesn't disappoint. The habitats are fantastically spacious, yet afford up-close views of each animal without fail as if they knew I was coming. I also seem to stumble upon each enclosure at feeding time; the elephants, chimpanzees and sea lions show off their manners at dinner time. A baby tapir and even a baby giraffe are highlights.

I finish the evening with a hearty Irish meal in a typical Irish pub, where a feeling of warmness and Irish good will is extended. 

Even at 4am, the taxi driver taking me to the airport the following morning is almost unnaturally talkative and friendly - it seems to be customary for the Irish to treat even strangers as though they are familiar friends. I notice the many independent shops, bars and restaurants flourishing in Dublin; quite a contrast to much of the UK, where national and global companies are quickly becoming a majority. Possibly the openness and hospitality of the Irish is a reason for these shops survival - not to mention the overcoming prosperity of the Irish themselves.

I leave Dublin with a good taste in my mouth - not just from the Guinness, but a warming and unique taste from a very liberal and sociable city.

Unearthing Ancient Malta: Ggantija

The immediately visible face of oft-frequented tourist destinations is punctuated , perhaps plagued, by a constantly shifting identity - characterised by contemporary hotels, restaurants, and generic tourist attractions. These attractions usually have no real time or place, no real connection, historically or culturally, to the place around them.

Only the biggest, most vast monolithic creations of humanity seem to survive both the test of time, and waning human interest. We might think of Egypt's Pyramids, for example, as a ubiquitously recognisable structure - one that cannot simply be buried underneath a plethora of quick-fix hotels and tourist attractions. Not quite yet anyway.

Over 1000 years older than the Egyptian Pyramids, Malta's Ggantija temple complex, situated high above the lush countryside palettes of Gozo, is one humble structure to have gained, or long-inherited an independence from the pernicious wrath of tourism.

"Pizza, burgers and English food". The response from the taxi driver hurtling me to my hotel in Malta confirms just what I expected. When asking what sort of food would be available, I quickly realise that I could have answered this question myself.

Malta has a strong 'bond' - perhaps not so much of a mutual, neighbourly bond, but more of an established colonial history with the UK. This dates back to King George III's reign, from 1814, right up until 1964. This powerful 150 year membership of the British Empire may have long ended, but the British sense of inherited colonialism certainly hasn't.

As the taxi drops me outside the hotel, the sense of ‘Brits abroad’ is heightened, with a scattering of patriotic pubs; one even called ‘Diana’s Pub’, fish and chip shops, and British style cafes complete with England football shirt-sporting patrons.

With the exception of a rather wind battered walk down to coastal salt pans, amid turquoise sea-lapped rockpools, there is little in Buggiba to represent Malta in a classical sense. It is possible however to capture a sense of the ‘old’, architecturally at least, when trekking a little further away from the booze lined sea-front. Protruding enclosed balconies speak best of this, and countless ornate British letterboxes mounted outside traditional front doors.

In preparation for my visit to Ggantija, I decide to visit the National Archaeological Museum, located in Malta’s grand capital, Valletta. Arriving here first thing in the morning, I gasp a sense of relief that it seems to have somewhat escaped the British holiday camp nausea of Bugibba; I am awed at the architectural beauty of the surrounding buildings. A labyrinthine network of increasingly narrower and curiouser streets, overlooked by an armada of iconic and colourful balconies, I eventually find the entrance to the museum. I decide that Valletta is however easily deserving of a much closer look, and so endeavor to find my way toward the harbour area, before shutting myself away in the museum.

Like a movie set, falsely aged to perfection, the courtyard of the Grandmaster’s Palace lures me inside for a closer look. This was one of the first buildings constructed in Valletta, and clearly an example set for buildings to follow.Bright red flowers appear wonderfully striking against the pale limestone hues of the courtyard.

A never ending set of stairs leads me down to St Elmo’s fort – allegedly closed to the public, as I am agressively told by a Maltese gentleman, emphatically suggesting a ride on his horse and cart as an alternative. Passing on this, I walk further around the harbour wall towards the Siege Bell Memorial, constructed in 1992 to commemorate those lost during the horrors of World War II. The Bell also affords me spectacular views across Valletta Harbour.

Adjacent to this, I enjoy a strolling a little further through the Lower Barrakka Gardens, with its beautfiful abundance of colourful flowers, welcome shade from the midday heat, and the occasional lizard darting across the pavement.

Looking down over the edge, I see one of the primary sources of the Malta’s building material – limestone, claimed from the rocky shores beneath me. One might think that such uniformity in building work might be tiresome, but actually generates a unique earthly and warming charm in the buildings that surround the area, and all over Malta.

One may be forgiven for at first seeing only a collection of rocks at the Archaeological Museum – but rocks which get more and more interesting, and fantastically cryptic, as though from another universe. Spiral designs give way to an army of generously proportioned female fertility figures, many of which were recovered from Ggantija.

A small model of Ggantija and subsequent display boards educate me prior to my intended visit tomorrow. I take the opportunity to gasp at some more recent artifacts from the 19^th century, including some unnecessarily dazzling storage chests, vases and jewellery.

Fierce winds make it difficult to take in views aboard the ferry to Gozo. The journey only takes half an hour, and thankfully the winds die down as the ferry arrives. A couple of long and winding bus journeys later, offering views of the endless, unspoilt Gozo countryside, I am prompted by the driver that this is where I should get off for Ggantija.

A tall fence, and a small temporary hut marks the spot for the entrance. Followed by a curious dog, I duck inside and pay my entrance fee for one of the oldest structures in the world.

Roughly covering about the same area as Stonehenge in England, Ggantija seems about as integrated with the earth as physically possible for a structure – but is by no means simply a pile of rocks.

The complex is divided into two separate ‘temples’, surrounded with a very large exterior wall. Each temple is divided into two expansive, circular areas - a sort of clover-leaf layout repeated in other Maltese temples. As I approach the entrance, I am first fascinated by the extraordinary location, and subsequently stunning view, claimed by the site. Positioned on the edge of the Xaghra plateau, it’s clear to me that Ggantija was a place of extreme importance, most likely adopting a god-like status. Perhaps it was the importance of those who lived here that mattered, or importance of the structure itself; this is still a mystery.

On passing through the ancient entrance, the rock appears almost volcanic, with some rocks almost resembling underwater coral, riddled with golf ball sized impressions. The interior has a few tiny pieces of an ancient ‘plaster’ remaining, meaning that the rough inside wall was once relatively smooth.

Progressing further I am enthralled by the sight of ‘historic’ graffiti, the likes of which I have never seen before. In its early days, shortly after ‘discovery’ in 1827, the site was offered little protection, up until the latter half of the 20^th century. The site had always been known to locals, but it wasnt until Col. John Otto Bayer, the Lieutenant Governor of Gozo, orchestrated the exposure and clearance of the site back then that visitors began to take an interest – some taking a little too much interest and deciding to etch their own quite permanant artistic mark into the rocks.

These are a little more thoughtful than a contemporary ‘I woz ‘ere’, but would have been on the equivalent scale of desecration in the 19^th century. Most appear to be very patriotic, and perhaps a gesture of pride, but something well protected against today, with barrier lined walkways and omnipresent CCTV warning signs.

Further inside the temples, the presence of circular holes in the wall, and a pre-historic alter are still open to interpretation. Some believe that the whole site was dedicated to fertility, and thus fertility based rituals were likely, perhaps involving sacrifices taking place on the alter. The circular windows may have simply been that – a viewing portal to perhaps keep a protective eye over the occurances inside. The temples are theorised to have once been covered with a wood based ceiling, so the windows make sense as security measures. I am intrigued at how perfect the circle is relative to the tools that would have available at the time; Ggantija pre-dates metal based materials.

The most fascinating part of the temple is a series of rectangular recesses at the back. Perhaps these were for storage, or some other mysterious purpose. One thing is for sure: this place was meant to last a very long time, and it has.

I walk around the permimeter of the temples and admire the megalithic exterior wall. Ancient Maltese once beleived that the temple was built by giants, and it’s clear to see how this belief emerged. Archaeological excavations across Malta uncovered large ball-bearing like rocks theorised to have been used to move such large rocks for construction, examples of which I had seen at the Museum.

It might strike some as an immense shame that the whole structure is surrounded, and supported by extensive scaffolding, but there is comfort in this that UNESCO, the committee responsible for designating and maintaining ‘World Heritage Sites’, has been protecting the site since 1980.

I leave Ggantija feeling both mystified and enthralled. Such ancient history really is a world away, with only the ancient architecture and artifacts to speak for a time pre-dating the Pyramids of Egypt.

The medieval, wall enclosed town of Mdina is next on my list. Despite feeling relatively ‘modern’ compared to Ggantija, it lives up to its local name of ‘The Silent City’ – it takes just a few steps , and a few narrow alleyways away from the trot of horses hooves to find myself in a tranquil, flower draped corner.

The views from Mdina also do not disappoint; perhaps it’s creators took a leaf from Ggantija’s book in situating it on a prime spot, topping a spectacular plateau.

It seems that thankfully in Malta, such mysterious, enigmatic places like this, and Ggantija, remain immune from the changing face of Malta’s identity. Shopping malls may rise, hotels may fall, but Malta’s ghostly megalithic heritage will last forever.

Tallinn to St. Petersburg

Said to be Russia's 'window on the west', St. Petersburg is expected to be the most westernised and European of all of Russian cities. I travel from Estonia's capital across the border to the heart of St. Petersburg, to discover the transition between both of these UNESCO World Heritage Sites of exquisite beauty.

Life is a struggle, an inconvenience and a bother with snow - at least in the UK. Landing in the Baltics, swooping over a wondrous frozen lake, it's clear that the snow and ice in Tallinn, like all other Baltic countries, is a valued and ubiquitous aspect of winter. Estonians take it all in their stride. Snow ploughs gracefully clear paths across the runway. No sign of British cynicism and resignation here.

Tallinn seems perfectly balanced as a town, like a well-orchestrated meal on a dinner plate. The modern, times square-esque skyscrapers within spitting distance of the airport, and then the Old Town another 'spit' away from that.

I marvel at how the taxi driver, and every other driver on the road; feet of snow piled either side, negotiate the ice covered lanes with such abandon. I'm pretty sure if this was the UK, we'd have all been told to stay at home.

Carefully stepping out in front of the hotel, my snow boots still buried in my bag, for the first time I notice how it doesn't feel so much as uncomfortably cold, but rather very fresh.

After a warm Estonian reception and checking out a spectacular first glance of Eastern European architecture from the 26th floor, I head to Tallinn's Old Town.

Now a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site, the town survived most of World War II's torments, and displays very little, if any evidence of either Soviet or Nazi past occupation. As I walk past the snowy hill of Toompea, the Old Town begins to resemble a fairy tale village, particularly against the bright blue sky.

Alexander Nevsky Cathedral looms large and monumental, as an indicator of Russia's architectural influence on its neighboring country. Along the walls and at the entrances to the Old Town are medieval towers. In contrast to the onion domed tips of the cathedral, they look relatively ancient. Staring up at one of them it's easy to transcend time, at least momentarily.

The fairy tale continues as I venture further, past snow frosted statues and increasingly archaic and naturalistic architecture. A map is definitely not required as I find myself conveniently funneled towards the iconic Town Hall. Surrounded by more medieval buildings around a cobbled snowy square, the fairy tale is at its peak. The locals beckon outside shops, and themed stands, adorned in periodic costumes, at times making it feel almost reminiscent of a theme park.

The theme park feeling continues as I walk towards the east wall entrance. I muse a little at what is perhaps the most perfectly assimilated McDonald's I have ever seen - quite literally built into the Old Town's structures. But this isn't a theme park - this is old and new Eastern Europe perfectly combined, with a lack of any conflicting interest.

From the romantic viewpoint of Kissing Hill I see one of several perpetual 'Christmas trees' I have seen in Tallinn. The season to be jolly seems to transcend time for that little bit longer here, appearing accustomed to their winter wonderland, and old stonework surroundings.

Trekking through a busy, modern shopping mall on the way back to the hotel, it's evident that Estonia is no exception from liberal consumerism, akin to the rest of Europe. I begin to wonder what differences I will observe when I cross the border.

Bleary eyed, I collect a pre-packed breakfast bag from reception while checking out at 5am. A taxi then whisks us to Tallinn bus station. After a little bit of early morning confusion, we wander past icicle dressed bus stops to find a warm waiting room. People sit patiently for the bus to arrive. I contemplate what they might be travelling to Russia for: work, family, or perhaps like myself, just plain curiosity.

A shuffle of activity suggests that the bus has arrived. The Lux Express will be my transport of choice for making the six hour trip around the Gulf of Finland, across the border and on into St. Petersburg. Grabbing a visa form, I find my seat at the front of the bus. Appointed more like a 'business class' on wheels, it becomes clear that this trip should be as comfortable as possible.

We set off. Eastern European buildings gradually dissipate, replaced by endless snowy forest. I sink into the reclining seat and drift off. But not for too long.

The bus swerves and stops beside a snowy trench of a bus stop; some hard-faced looking Russians extinguish their cigarettes and board the bus. This signifies that we have arrived in Narva; the last bastion of Europe before the border crossing. I begin to feel a little apprehensive as I scramble for my passport and visa documents.

As if we are about to embark on a safari, the bus pulls up to an imposing looking fence, topped with barbed wire, before entering what can only be described as a cage. The driver shouts something in Russian, and disembarks the bus, prompting another small shuffle of activity. Passports at the ready.

 A very militarised, beret donning Estonian official boards the bus, and I'm a little bewildered as he not only scrutinises, but takes away my passport - and everyone else’s. A lifetime passes, during which I notice the impromptu appearance of a very skinny looking cat, conveniently just passing through gaps in the ‘cage’, and wondering onwards without a care...

Finally the official boards the bus again, and hands back my passport. The cage door opens, and the bus continues through. But this is just the Estonian side. No smiles yet.

Adjacent to the beautiful Hermann Castle, the bus continues forwards to a heavily fortified bridge. I try to take in the impressive castle, dating back to the 14th century, as much as I can as we cross the Narva River. The bus creeps forward, passing the first Russian officials that I see. These guys mean business.

The bus stops in front of what looks like a very dated old petrol station. But a petrol station this is not. Something is shouted in Russian again and we all leave the bus, ushered into the small building.

Silence and tension fills the room, as well as the scent of dated cigarette smoke as I slowly shuffle forward, waiting for my turn at the passport control window.

One might think I have been transported back the Soviet era already. A stern, female Russian voice beckons me to the window. Her demeanor, uniform, hair, makeup... everything communicates that she means even more business than the officials outside. I flicker a brief smile, before it's extinguished by her authoritative and emotionless glare. Another lifetime passes as she endlessly inspects virtually every page of my passport. She utters something in Russian, which I surmise when translated must mean something along the lines of 'stay', and disappears through a back door, with my passport.

Another age passes as I hear the 'stamp, stamp, stamp' of the Russians behind me being granted access to continue. Finally she reappears, and I hear the universal language of 'stamp, stamp, stamp', this time telling me I can go through.

I wait until the bus has finished being inspected, before everyone ventures back into the snow, and jumps back on the bus. Apprehension is now replaced with excitement as we journey on into Russia.

Bump, bump, shake. The first part is familiar - endless snowy forest. However, this time I know I must be in Russia, because the road is incredibly bumpy; a patchwork of pot-holes and cracks. Despite this, like its neighbour across the river, great care has been taken to rid the roads of dangerous ice and snow. I contemplate again how if this were to be in the UK, all but essential travel would have been ill-advised.

Snowy forest gives way to my first glimpse of some of the poorer provinces of Russian housing. In contrast to the fifties apartment block buildings one expects, there are many communities consisting of small wooden huts. Many of them look like they have been constructed independently, perhaps by each family, from whatever material was available. Although under feet of snow, I see what looks like chicken coups and agricultural facilities. Clearly these are people able to adapt to living conditions as best as they can.

Most of them appear to have the windows boarded up. I speculate that this must be to keep the harsh cold out, and I envision generations of families living inside them, huddling around a fire.

I take amusement, and also a feeling of crossing to another time as well as place, from the ever increasing sight of ancient, prehistoric cars. I'm pretty sure that most of them cannot be newer than early nineties. I wonder if this travelling automobile museum will be present in St. Petersburg...

As the wooden huts begin to dwindle, and stereotypical Soviet tower blocks begin to show up, I assume that we are nearing a city. No sign of historical, 18th century buildings yet. Just a bumpy, neglected, yet perfectly straight tree lined road passing through equally neglected fifties blocks. The Soviet dream that never was.

Finally, the sighting of more and more dated buildings signifies that we are nearing a historical centre, and the bus arrives at Baltiyskaya station. I step off into the snowy sludge, and glance around for the metro station. A buzz of excitement, intertwined with a slight tint of intimidation and fear grips me. In researching St. Petersburg, I had read a lot about crime and vulnerable tourists in Russia - perhaps most stories are grossly overrated, but everything I read about mafia syndicates, pick-pocketing, gypsy gangs and corrupt police officers bounces around my head as I firmly clutch my bag, and head to the metro station.

The exterior of the building is the first clue that the metro here is something rather special. I eventually figure out that I just need to ask for a token from the booth inside, and I head down for the trains. I am awe-struck by a vast domed ceiling, and ornate Soviet insignia designs on the wall, while stepping on the top of the escalator.

St. Petersburg's metro system is one of the deepest in the world, due in part to its construction in the nuclear-fearing fifties, and it shows. As I am taken down the seemingly never ending escalator tunnel, I notice people are reading books. I learn that this is an indicator of just how long the journey down is. During the five minutes or so, I admire the detail of the beautiful Soviet red marble walls, and old lamps illuminating the way down.

At the bottom, I am just as impressed. Exquisite chandeliers, fine marble, fanciful columns and more Soviet motifs bedazzle me. Unfortunately, and most likely stemming back from the Soviet era, photography down here is largely prohibited. As a tourist I didn't want to risk any engagements with the police - but the fact that one has to experience it to see it, makes it that more special.

More fifties decadence as the ancient royal-blue train pulls up into the station. Inside, the marks of modern culture and graffiti are present. I head to Vladmiriskaya, the nearest station to my hotel.

After an equally impressive departure through the elaborate station, and greeted by a huge Soviet star motif dominating the wall, I exit into the street to be greeted again by the sight of the 17th century, onion domed Vladmiriskaya Church.

My sense of dis-proportionate fear of crime continues as I navigate the icy streets with a sense of urgency. I want to find the hotel a quickly as possible and dump my bag off. Crossing a road, I am shocked and slightly perturbed at the continuing appearance of one of many completely non road-worthy cars - but this one battered beyond belief. A certain write-off back home. At the same time I also learn that traffic lights are not obeyed here, as the write-off lurches forward towards me as I dart across the road. It dawns on me that many of Europe's governing qualities may not apply here.

As a first impression, St. Petersburg's streets are lined almost exclusively with pre-20th century buildings, but already I spot a few 21st century businesses - at least those I can decipher. Internet cafes, modern banks and beauty salons are plentiful, though respectfully assimilating themselves within the historical architecture, rather like back in Tallinn, although I am yet to see any globally identifiable brands.

Negotiating a very slippery yard, I attempt to locate the hotel. What I discover is something quite unique to Russia - the rules are slightly different here in terms of the allocation, or use of a building’s interior. A shop, hotel or cafe; one would expect to find its entry point at ground level, clearly signposted. In quite a similar fashion to Japan, a business here might be located on the second, third or any other floor of the building. I find what I evaluate MUST be the entrance to the hotel, and recall a code that must be input to gain access to the building. No signage for the Acme Hotel on Rubinsteina is seen outside, just a small hotel logo on the secured entry door.

The old stairwell is reminiscent of a bygone Russian era, with its wrought-iron lift in the center, concrete steps, and the strong, but surprisingly pleasant odour of long-faded Russian cigarette smoke.

A pristine brown wooden door on the second floor reveals itself to be the entrance to the hotel. The stairwell is almost an integral part of the street - just another public area to be navigated until the hotel is found.

I am greeted with a smile for the first time in Russia, and grab the keys to my room. The hotel is very small, with only five rooms, but its 'secretive' location makes it feel like an exclusive safe haven; it has a feeling more akin to being a guest in a Russian home. The 'Pushkin' room essentially represents the Russian attitude of making the most of what's available - with an obvious attempt at a decor theme, but made with basic yet ample furnishings.

Snow boots on, I wander out of the yard and up towards Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg's main street; a hub and central focus point for the city, with easy access to most of its key sights.

Turning the corner on to Nevsky, I spot a McDonalds - though not so familiar looking written in Russian, and the first of many Subway sandwich shops. These are reminders that the Soviet era had ended, and the modern west is very slowly moving in. Though without these reminders, I otherwise feel transported back in time as I continue to walk past one eighties car after another, and timeless buildings.

Nevsky itself is immense, intimidating and ironically spectacular: wide, opulently paved streets; battered old buses, running on electrical cables overhead; dirty, neglected eighties police cars; and some of the most extravagant, pristine buildings I have ever seen. The whole thing is 'reminiscent' of some old and forgotten, or even parallel universe version of New York City.

Crossing a bridge over one of the many frozen canals, I admire the seemingly untouched artistic detail along the bridge railings, and above it, a magnificent horse statue. I begin to contemplate the irony of the weathered, neglected and downright backward aspects of 'modern' Russia, alongside the absolutely pristine sanctity of the pre-20th century monuments and buildings.

An icy 19th century statue of Catherine the Great is revealed further down the street, as another reminder of the perseverance of all of St. Petersburg's, and Russia's periods of history. Rather like the Soviet reminders I have seen so far, this and other monuments stand tall and proud as if they are just as relevant today. Catherine was Russia's longest ruling female leader in the 18th century.

Gostiny D'vor is, allegedly, one of the oldest shopping malls in the world, dating back to 1757.  To reach it across the road, I walk under one of the market stall lined pedestrian subways. Russian dolls, vodka, Soviet memorabilia and fur hats; clearly they are ready for tourists here.

Entering Gostiny D'vor I am somewhat disturbed to find that I am the only person, seemingly, in the entire building. It would seem that the Russian's are either not ready for western designer shops, or, like me, simply cannot afford them.

Next up along Nevksy is the Kazan Cathedral, with its immense columned crescent, green domed roof, and bright golden sun inspired motif on the front. Being unable to read the Russian sign on the door, I cautiously enter to have a peek inside. I am struck by a wonderful scent of burning incense, or candles, and immediately awestruck by its decadent interior. A line of patient people stand in front of me holding candles, awaiting some sort of religious homage at the altar.

Trekking back out and along the bank of another frozen canal, I am on a mission to find the Church of the Saviour on Blood. The canal seems to infinitely curve around a corner, and I begin to assume that I have taken a wrong turn. Just as I am ready to give in and turn back to Nevsky, I spot one of the bright domes of the church past some trees in the distance. I have found it!

Completed in 1907, and recently renovated in 1998, the church looks stereotypically Russian, and wonderfully alluring, with it's almost playfully colourful mosaics and domes. The theme-park-esque feeling, invoked by its pristine condition is back again. But this is most definitely real and steeped in history, having been constructed to mark the spot of Alexander II's assassination in 1881; a Russian Tsar who oversaw many important reforms, such as granting Serfs, or 'peasants' access to the city.

After succumbing to snapping up some questionably authentic Soviet items from a market stall outside the Church, I trudge through the sludgy snow back towards Nevsky Prospekt.

Heading in the direction of the Palace Square, I encounter a small blue sign painted on the wall; in front of it lay small floral offerings. Roughly translated from Russian, it reads: "Citizens! This side of the street is the most dangerous during artillery bombardment". This is a ghostly, incidental memorial of the German Nazi occupation.

From 1941 to 1944, for 872 days the Germans seized the city. Of course during this time, following the early 20th century revolution, the city was known as 'Leningrad', changed from its earlier 20th century name of 'Petrograd'. The Soviet era Leningrad name would last until relatively recently. This 'Siege of Leningrad' took the lives of almost one and a half million people. I ponder for a minute that such a tragic portion of the cities history is remembered by such a small, but potent symbol.

From one slice of history to another, as I truly descend into another time as I reach the beginning of Palace Square. Every step towards Alexander’s Column, a memorial for Alexander I, further ensues a feeling of awe and overwhelming scale; the vast Winter Palace on my left, and gigantic curve of the General Staff Building on my right.

The elaborate baroque Winter Palace was the official residence of the Russian Monarchs from 1732 to 1917. Today it houses a large proportion of the Hermitage museum's collections.

Standing in the square, I envision the historical events that took place here; Bloody Sunday in 1905, and the October Revolution of 1917. The site was witness to the birth of a new era of capitalism, during which time the city was renamed as the more Russian 'Petrograd'. Still it stands timelessly, and effortlessly, as if it was built yesterday on some extortionate, unlimited budget.

Clutching my camera, with a lingering, perhaps completely needless sense of impending crime, I walk onwards to the banks of the Neva River. I look out over to the Greek revival style Stock Exchange building, and across from that the Peter and Paul Fortress.

Unfortunately I don't have time to cross the Trinity Bridge and visit the fortress, but this encapsulates yet another well preserved and undisturbed portion of St. Petersburg’s history, established by the founder of the city, Peter the Great in 1703. The city’s original name from this period, and St. Petersburg’s true historical heritage, wouldn't be returned to the city until the dissolution of the Soviet era in 1991.

Passing scores of model-like, slender Russian women on my walk back down Nevsky Prospekt, and hordes of weathered looking Russian men, I muse at this cultural phenomenon; suddenly the 'Russian brides' websites we have all heard of make a little bit more sense. I guess the 'selection' on offer, combined with a difficult and sometimes oppressive life gives these women little option, but to try and attract a western husband as a means of escape.

I once again navigate the increasingly treacherous icy yard after grabbing some curious Russian food, and call it a night.

Eating breakfast the next morning in a nearby cafe, gazing out the window, observing the curious similarity of elderly Russian women, and whilst admiring the architecture of the building opposite, I have no idea of the drama I am about to witness. One that will exemplify the care and pride the city has over its historical buildings, much unlike its cars.

Chaos erupts as I step outside; fire engines, police cars and television crews race past me. As I am ushered around fire hoses blocking the pavement on Nevsky Prospekt, to the middle of the road, I realise that the building opposite where I was sitting is on fire.

I stop and join the bewildered looking crowds, their concerned faces staring directly upwards at the roof of the Palace of Belozerskie. It seems everyone's attention, including the stopped traffic on the road, is focused on this 1848 treasure.

As I trek past the drama, ready for my return bus journey into Europe, I consider how this speaks volumes for my overall impression of St Petersburg - a city so focused on the pristine preservation of the cultural past, but yet seemingly neglectful of, or more so opposed to modern Europe, and the Western world.

Travel insurance is somehow a poor comfort as the driver of the return bus seems to have an icy death wish. Eyebrows are raised as the bus hurtles around snowy corners at alarming speeds. I worryingly ponder that if the worst should happen, I'd rather it was after the Soviet-esque border crossing.

Relative safety is pleasingly defined by the sudden smoothness of the road as we arrive back in Europe. Eventually I arrive at another wonderfully plush hotel in Estonia - I feel nurtured, and perhaps all too comfortable again.

If St. Petersburg really is Russia's 'Window on the West', I wonder just who is actually looking. Whoever they are, perhaps they have more of an inclination for 'window shopping'.

Sadly, just days after my visit, a much opposed bill was signed in St. Petersburg that would control the publication of written material that includes homosexual content. This could be a biography, a journal, or anything with even the slightest hint of such content.

Clearly in Europe, this would be vastly viewed as a clear violation of free speech; a prime example of how the 'Iron curtain', has shifted to an 'Iron window'.

As examples of architectural history, solidified in time, however, both Tallinn and St Petersburg serve well to encapsulate this. Particularly in St Petersburg, the structural forms may not speak to well of the human struggle that accompanied them, but do speak well of how high art, and refined culture triumph over war and chaos. They persist over time as well treasured byproducts of a history fraught with fear.

One has to witness the transition, and irony experienced in travelling from Europe to Russia, with such pristine cultural preservation and overwhelming beauty, in contrast to relative political unease.

If anything at all, on the lowest level, I leave with a sense of gratefulness. Not just for smooth roads, but for the Europe we live in today.