Brexit has made me an alien in my chosen land, but today I have been pleasantly reminded why I used to enjoy being a European. The Lower Silesian Voivodeship is that part of Poland closest to The Czech Republic and none of it more so than the appendix-shaped lower half of Kłodsko County where all roads, bar those heading north-east, lead to the nearby Czechian border. The landscape here, on both sides of the border, is determined by Góry Stołowe, a range of low mountains that exhibit some extraordinarily beautiful rock formations created by the vagaries of nature working away for millions of years on the sandstone that is the bedrock of the area. Having already witnessed several examples of these magnificent rocky outcrops during our local peregrinations, Celine and I spent the day exploring a little further afield, crossing that border in a westerly direction to Teplice nad Metují, to see for ourselves what the Adršpach-Teplice Rocks had to offer.
One could wax lyrical in describing the grandeur of the massive rock walls, the sweetness of the spring water, the abundance of wild flowers, mosses, ferns and lichens, the tenacity of young trees clinging to stone spires high overhead, the tremendous height of old pines reaching up to the sky from the forest floor and the exhilaration of scaling three hundred steep steps to take in the panoramic views from Strmen, the remains of a medieval wooden and stone castle precariously located atop one of the narrow spires, founded by the Lords of Skalice to command valleys far below. That task however, I am leaving to the tourist literature, the purpose of today’s writing being to briefly share my initial feelings about neighbourliness and the importance of friendship between nation states.
With all that is presently taking place along the border lands between Russia and Ukraine it has become clear to all the world that there are some very wrong-minded people who believe that the geographical shape of a country should be determined by the language of the local populace. And it is all too obvious that there are many Russian speaking citizens of Ukraine who totally disagree with this notion. For hundreds of years, Eastern Europe has been the arena for land-grabbing ventures by speakers of many tongues and now comprises a hotch-potch of countries and an even greater melange of languages that totally defy the logic of the premise of one country one language; yes, each country has its official language but unilingualism as such is virtually extinct.
In a similar vein, crossing many politically determined European borders these days rarely results in an immediate feeling of entering another country; not only does one language diffuse gently into the other, the landscape changes but marginally, and all that one needs to contend with are slight differences in road signage and perhaps one or two traffic laws. Having a Polish speaking polyglot for a wife may be slightly influencing my point of view, but also opens my eyes about the comparability between many of the Slavic languages; even I was able to see a few similarities between Polish and Czechian as we scanned a cafe menu board deciding how to assuage our hunger at the end of a fairly bracing and ultimately tiring walk up and down the trails.
The comparisons don’t stop with the language. The ever-varying scenery of forest, lovingly husbanded farmland, wooded hills and grassy valleys, prominent village churches of differing Christian faiths and, sadly, the scars of war, political uncertainty and battered economies, are all to be found on both sides of the border. Everyone we meet and chat with on our wayfaring adventures is equally likely to show fellow friendliness, whatever their lingo and ethnicity and all share our love of nature and enthusiasm for the open-air lifestyle.
What more could we all want than for this sense of goodwill, bonhomie and border blindness to prevail throughout this troubled planet? What hope is there for humanity if the current self-serving hostilities, both military and economic, continue to prevail?
