Polish Wales
We surfaced earlyish (which for me means anytime
in the morning) and strolled back round to the market square, and
the restaurant for breakfast. We were welcomed back by the same
waitress, who was obviously now doing the early shift after the
late one and she chatted with us happily while we waited for ham
and eggs to show up. We mentioned that we were heading to Prague
and that it looked like the roads had cleared a bit so we were thinking
of heading on a little later, but asked if she’d heard a weather
report. The place was still pretty empty with just one other happy
diner parked at the next table. Looking over his paper, he apologised
for interrupting but said in an accent I couldn’t quite place that
although it wasn’t so bad here, the roads between here and Prague
would still be pretty treacherous so we’d be better off leaving
it for a day. We carried on chatting for a while before Jonathan
who’d obviously been having the same problem I’d been having placing
the accent, mentioned that he spoke very good English and asked
him where he was from.
“Wales”, he said, matter of factly, as I cracked
up on the other side of the table. Well that explained that then.
Apparently he’d been working in Poland for the past fifteen years
or so, hence the rather strange accent. Try and imagine a Welsh/Polish
accent. Admit it, you can’t. And there I rest the case for our defense,
although if you try and pronounce ‘Cymraegski’ you’re probably just
about there.
Once again, the food was excellent. I’ve seen T.V.
programmes where they talked about people making ‘good eggs’
and I always wondered what they were talking about. Eggs is eggs,
and I always thought the choice was between boiled, fried and scrambled,
and not actually a matter of quality. It turns out I was wrong,
because these were good eggs. They exist. They are not a fabrication
of Hollywood. Since coming back, I’ve tried to make eggs like the
ones we had there, and I’ve still not managed it. I have a suspicion
that it’s either something they feed the chickens, or maybe they
don’t use battery farmed chefs.
Following our Welsh friends advice, we checked
into the hotel for another day, and then had to decide what to do
with ourselves in this winter wonderland. We decided it would be
good to get some pictures of us juggling in the snow in the market
square, which I now really wish we hadn’t. Not only is it quite
painful juggling with freezing cold hands, but every time we (I
say we, I mean Jonathan) dropped a club, we then had to dig it out
of the snow before we could carry on. Oh the pleasure of juggling
cold wet clubs with cold wet hands. It was like trying to juggle
eels that bite. It didn’t take us too long to realise
that this was a really stupid idea and that it would be far more
fun to (castrate ourselves) go and be tourists instead. So we wandered
around the place in a leisurely fashion, basically just enjoying
the fact that we weren’t spending a day sat in a van. Jonathan bought
more hats. Apparently, you can never have enough. We searched out
a place to stop for coffee in the afternoon, and completely by accident,
as there simply wasn’t anywhere selling coffee between where we
started where we ended up, we found ourselves back at ‘The Restaurant’.
While we waited we entertained our waitress with little tricks given
that she wasn’t exactly busy. Balancing things on noses, and little
bits of magic. It kept us entertained anyway.
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