The question of security arose when Emily learned about my one-week trip to the Ukrainian capital.
The situation is complex. In certain respects, absolutely no danger is present. No spelunking adventures await, and encounters with Zack Polanski offering cannabis are equally unlikely. Yet genuine hazards exist that holidaymakers in Italy simply do not face. Beyond concerns about nightly drone attacks, the anxious visitor must also process peculiar sights like Boris Johnson shilling pastries.
Essential logistics first: direct flights to Kyiv are unavailable—travellers must pass through Poland, Austria, Moldova, or Romania. These countries employ challenging orthographies heavy on consonant clusters. Ground transportation arrangements become necessary before reaching Ukrainian territory. Polish coach stations provide English-language announcements free of regional accents and maintain recycling programmes. The Pavluks-operated coach I travelled on offered heated seats and Starlink connectivity. The rest stop café served English morning tea and whisky. Whatever aids relaxation.
Should connection timing cause concern, adaptation occurs naturally. Polish frontier guards operate without haste, armed with mobile phones, documenting each passenger. Appearance concerns at late hours are irrelevant—retakes were prohibited. My recommendation involves generous transfer intervals, then doubling them.
The route from Kraków to Lviv spans nine hours by coach under favourable circumstances. We arrived at our Lviv hotel, situated in western Ukraine, at one in the morning—on schedule—so illumination persisted. In contrast, on a prior return to Britain, we missed our connection at the Polish frontier and found ourselves stranded in an unfamiliar town’s abandoned railway station at midnight, seeking accommodation.
The crucial point—explore Lviv. It outperforms Kraków while being more economical. Most menus—accessed via QR codes—now display English translations. Meals featuring goulash, stroganoff, and braised cabbage cost less than ten pounds. Occasional missile attacks in Lviv occur infrequently enough to justify the visit. Lacking canals, the city compensates with plazas, churches, and murals rivalring Venice. Even the terminology describing Venetian decline translates nicely as Venetian decadence. My Hove equivalent was less flattering—shabby—though unfair. Lviv truly embodies the concept—every view showcasing warm exposed brick tones, cobblestone passages, and hidden courtyards. Floral clock installations appear in hues matching the national flag.
Our railway service to Kyiv departed at three in the afternoon the subsequent day. The ticket inspector—each carriage has one—scrutinised my documentation with thoroughness satisfying intelligence agency standards. Ukrainian long-distance rail services incorporate sleeping arrangements—four berths per compartment. My wife Tetiana reserved upper bunks for us. Her mother, whose mobility proves limited, could never manage the ascent—and I refused to lift her—while my lower berth neighbour had already, with pointed passivity, prepared her bed at three in the afternoon, leaving me confined to my flat position for nine hours rather than sharing a portion of hers.
Fortunately, my mother-in-law excels at persuasion—consider fifty pounds—and the conductor, more amenable than her appearance indicated, permitted us to rest in her compartment. She obviously grasped the circumstances, acknowledged them, and resolved them.
Should flag-waving provoke unease, Ukraine may not appeal. English-language posters line the train corridor—Valour runs through our heritage; regardless of conditions, rail workers maintain schedules. Are they deliberately mocking passengers accustomed to Southern Rail services?
My mother-in-law’s dwelling had remained vacant for considerable time. Interior temperature measured nine degrees Celsius upon arrival, and plumbing, recently restored, produced more pipe noise than actual water flow. I maintained footwear throughout that inaugural evening.
But whereabouts was the neighbourhood feline? Kelvin, the weathered local tough guy—a tabby with battle-damaged ears and facial fur loss—expressed himself through scratching, though conflict has polished his demeanour. That and awareness of premium tuna rewards for permitting human contact. We called his name throughout the morning. Had he forgiven our abandonment with neighbours? Eventually he materialised, appearing weathered. Like all of us, proceeding as though possessing multiple lives.
Alistair McNair holds the Conservative leadership position on Brighton and Hove City Council.