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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