Manita meets the five of us at the airport. She is tiny and has calm and appraising eyes with a hint of wariness. Or is that just a look of natural reserve as we pile on our relieved words of greeting? I observe that her movements are very economical. Next to her is Alexander, or "Sash", our driver. He is bald and in his fifties but looks trim in his white tee-shirt with gold chain around his neck. In contrast to our guide, he swings his arm into the handshake as if we are all long-time pals and his fist nearly takes her out en-route. But she has a boxer's instincts and moves her head without losing eye contact with us. The journey to Sevastopol takes a while and the mini-bus is uncomfortable, but our spirits are good; we have arrived. It is too dark to see outside and we all sink into a quiet reverie. Edward and Manita later murmur together about the plans for the week.
Sevastopol was smashed flat by the German siege of 1941-1942. Care has mostly been taken in the gradual restoration of the city centre and we are accommodated in an imposing and whitewashed building with high colonnades, in the style of the 19th Century, on the harbour's edge. The mixed staff are young, attractive and courteous. It is late and they have been patiently waiting. Despite paying the minimum tariff, an effort is immediately made to try to secure an upgrade to a superior room at the same rate. To my shame, I see we have embarrassed them with this needless chutzpah. Their consternation is completed by the knowledge that they are going to have to ask us to pay up front for the rooms we have already booked. We have only just landed but are already trying to expand. Why must we behave with so little dignity?
My room is small but immaculate. A broken roof above a Ukrainian restaurant is my view from the window but the water is hot and the bed comfortable. It is still very warm and the trees full of green leaf. The harbour really is magnificent; it sparkles grandly in the early morning sun. Commuter boats and warships cross our vision and the pavements rapidly fill with those on the way to work, earpieces attached and coffee in hand. We drive out towards the hills above Balaklava. Manita takes us to the exact and panoramic spot where Lord Raglan observed the Russian assault and issued the orders which condemned the Light Brigade to destruction. He saw too much, his subordinates too little. She tells us that there are many theories about this epic British cock-up. But looking at the ground from our privileged vantage point, it is not too difficult to see what happened.
Tennyson's Valley of Death is surprisingly narrow - perhaps no more than half-a-mile across. All around are dusty hills rising towards mountains that reach out to Yalta and beyond on the southern coast. The Crimea is a pimple on the Globe, a small appendix on the vastness of Russia. But it is vital ground in every sense you can imagine and has been fought over many times. There is much ravaged beauty within our tranquil view. But amongst the sandstone and low scrub is earthy fertility too: peach trees, almond bushes, vines and pumpkins tease us from their soil. We have descended to a lower level and are looking at the line of poplars in the middle distance that mark the position of the astonished Russian gunners as the spittle and sweat flecked horses hurtled towards them. On and on rode the six hundred. In front of us now are vines attended by incurious Moldavian migrant workers. There are men in combat fatigues scanning the hazy horizon with binoculars. A buzzard wheels lazily overhead in the warm and static air. The vines are owned by the state. It is a collective farm and these grapes are too valuable to be unguarded. An enormous Russian supervisor covered in juice, sweat and dust marches towards us purposefully. Help yourself he says - they are used to middle aged and oddly dressed Brits who want to poke around what is, to them, unremarkable countryside. The grapes are indeed a gift to die for.
The harbour at Balaklava draws us in with twists and turns. The British transformed its depths into an ugly and foul smelling cess-pool but now it is clear, cheerful and sparkling. The old and the new jostle together harmoniously and a few derelict buildings here-and-there complete rather than detract from a picture of charm. Cormorants sunbathe above the nets of an old fish farm near the inlet's mouth. Above us on the steep banks that surround the water are the ancient Genoese forts and the English road that was built, too late, to escape the stinking chaos below. Manita is leading us into the submarine base which the Soviets blasted from the unyielding granite on the harbour's western side. It is early on a working day, but already there is a large crowd composed of all ages. The base is nearly a kilometre in length and could accommodate eight vessels. Such was the secrecy, the sound of the explosions used to mine through the rock was muffled with vast quantities of rubber. Manita tells us that the Americans never detected this chilly subterranean bastion. There are lots of display boards and anyone who seemed to have had a hand in this massive Cold War edifice has their photograph on the wall. The faces stare out, proud and impassive. The other visuals are accompanied by a great deal of descriptive technical information. There is none of that matey banality that is used to make our own public history "accessible". The official guide takes a lot of questions which she answers at length. There are approving nods and one or two expressions of mild surprise. Manita's face allows a tiny signal of satisfaction. Do you see now? We are not just a bunch of brain-washed yokels.
We eat a simple but delicious lunch of borscht, chicken and pickles in a yard in Kadikoi. The high ceilinged canteen is densely decorated with Soviet era memorabilia: posters, small statues in heroic poses and an ancient gramophone, accompanied in its wooden case by a massive and incongruous ship's compass. The food and rich dark beer are absurdly cheap but the ladies who run the place are as fashionably turned out as their means allow. The big eyebrow is now "in" and great care has been taken over their topiary. They look pretty stunning and attend to us with modest smiles and calm efficiency. An older woman, perhaps their mother, checks us out and later sees us off with a cordial good-bye.
The Crimea endured a futile and amateurish assault by the British and their allies in 1854 and a thorough and murderous one by the Germans and theirs in 1941. With the First World War and the Russian Civil War added to the tally, there are homes here that have been lost four times over within three generations. Thrice in 90 years its people have been on the receiving end of someone else's aggression. Our own culture is beginning to show a creeping admiration for the martial skill of the German aggressors; there are some men who think it is just dandy to put on a Nazi uniform for those stupid and lazy re-enactments at otherwise abandoned aerodromes on summer weekends. Von Manstein, who led the attack here, is lauded by aficionados as a military genius. Was he not therefore a "good German"? His own Jewish genes were just dilute enough for him to be on the Nazi payroll rather than in a crematorium. He celebrated his good fortune by egging on the death squads that followed his destructive troops, who were in their turn happy to help out. Russian resilience remains feared while German depravity is slowly forgotten.
In 2014 Putin annexed the Crimea. Somehow in the carve up that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union the Crimea, in which the Russians were ethnically dominant, ended up in the Ukrainian basket. All seemed poised in an atmosphere of cautious toleration until some fools on either side of the continent got the bit between their teeth. Let's get the Ukraine to join NATO and the EU said these blunderers, within whom a sense of history was entirely lacking. What a great idea - we'll take our tank exercises and subsidies right up to the line the Germans reached in 1942, at the furthest extent of their invasion. Surely the Russians will wear that? Astonishingly, they did for a while and then the Ukrainians overplayed their hand.
There is our law and "their" law, but there is just one law of the jungle. Why do we delude ourselves that our law, which we change all the time to accommodate our own moral ambiguities and ethical frailties, should be set in stone for "them"? Do we think we can shame "them" when we have so little shame ourselves? Now there are sanctions. You can't use our brand anymore said Starbucks. OK said the Russians. The next day there is an enormous picture of a green bath-time toy on the coffee shop by the quay in Sevastopol. "StarDucks" says the sign. The muffins and silly confections have gone to be replaced by delicious dumplings, strong black coffee and longer queues.
We are wandering down to the harbour at dusk. It has been another special day and we are looking forward to a beer and an evening meal. Manita has explained the subtlety of loyalties in the region. Do I sense that the Ukrainians are not exactly despised? It is generally understood that they were eager asset strippers during their brief period of stewardship in the Crimea. They took a wrong turn and blotted their copybook, big-time. Putin may be attracting protests on his birthday in Moscow, but to the Russians here he is a hero. We are discussing her insights as two small carnival floats rapidly advance towards us. "Go early, go ugly" whispers Alastair behind us and we all laugh. The floats come to a halt and our route is blocked. Now they are in range we can see clearly that they are not just one, but two beautiful young women in their early twenties. They are "Flower Girls" and are dressed in unfeasibly wide and elaborately decorated bustle dresses. Each holds a carousel overflowing with dried posies. In perfect English, Victoria asks us if we would care to buy some. Simon, who retains the strong impulses of a charmer, counters with an offer of our company over a drink instead. The manner of his flirtation tells us he is anticipating demurely fluttering eye-lids and a giggly refusal that will let us on our way. "Great" says bold Victoria. "Where to?" This is not the exotic Orient of the ingénue and these fine young ladies are motivated by the prospect of a transaction. They have flowers to clear by midnight. Natalya has quickly perceived that their schedule is not going to permit a lot of chit-chat with these portly looking Brits and she fires a burst in rapid Russian at her colleague. Another attempt is made to sell to us some of their stock. Simon does a little pantomime to show he is of slender means. They are not to be fooled and move off, giving pouts of disappointment. Maliciously, we egg poor Simon on. He chases them into the night and returns with two posies and 1,000 roubles lighter. Later, Manita tells us that this is a Crimean way of finding a husband.
Barkas is a western style restaurant by the water's edge. It is full of bull-necked businessmen with young families or entourages of colleagues. A lady is singing loudly but not unpleasantly and the place is busy. Our young waiter is called Andrei. He has heavily tattooed muscles, a scar on his upper lip and makes it pretty clear that serving at table is not his chosen vocation in life. What other languages do we speak, he demands? Alastair tries to appease him with an offer of French or Arabic. "Why don't you speak Russian?" he crossly but not unreasonably suggests. The house wine looks inviting and seems fairly priced. Perhaps Andrei could bring us a bottle? The request is waved aside. We should order this other bottle, which is 30 times more expensive. At this rate, the chance of a meal is looking remote and we are hungry. We split the difference and settle for a carafe of absurdly freezing Crimean red. Andrei brings our meal haphazardly and at a diminished level of his already vestigial charm. Our tip is nugatory. He is disdainful and we make a note to eat in local places from now on. We do not have another bad experience.
Should we be offended or even surprised by the attitudes that our waiter conveyed in his impertinence and resentment ? The Russian body and psyche have been bludgeoned and poisoned by years of military assault, economic inefficiency and cultural regression. Its soul has somehow endured but it is one conditioned by survival rather than hope. It has joined the capitalist and supposedly democratic West at the very moment when the benefit of these advantages are in decline and our public morality is disfigured by egotism, sophistry and greed. Our conversations and newspapers are peppered with smug tales of Russian boorishness and corruption and of their rapaciousness in overheated markets. Apparently they are stealing our homes, only to leave them empty. It is a scandal. But who are we trying to kid? Are the Russians not imitating a culture that has already slipped its moorings?
It is the last day. The lady in the breakfast room is on duty again. She is immaculately turned out. Her individual uniform and the absence of a name badge while all others have theirs indicates that she is in charge. But she toils away with the rest. She has short white blonde hair and neat features. I guess she is about 30 years of age. As each day has passed she has shed a little more of her reserve and has been cordially attentive. Now she senses we are about to go. "I hope you have liked your time" she says. "I hope you will come back". She clasps her hands in front of her and gives a shy smile. She has a mouth of tiny and perfect white teeth, with the minutest of spaces between them. Her eyes shine with sincerity. I am filled by an overpowering urge to seize her and to kiss her. Firmly. On her mouth. Thank you so much I say. I really hope I will.
I am back home. There are some teenaged girls outside the supermarket, sitting on a bench. They are clearly in need of attention. "Do you want to see my butt-hole?" they chorus. The old man continues past them without a sign. Perhaps he is deaf; or maybe he has lost all his capacity to be shocked. A weekend paper is spread before me - the Life & Arts section. The cover is dominated by an article about black protest in American sport. The author's grasp of the US Civil Rights movement seems tenuous and his piece is distorted by an implausible commercial angle. But it's clear the facts are not really as important as is his desire to show that he personally is on the side of the angels. Inside is an article below a sententious by-line. "Citizen of nowhere" it says. It is a coolly detached piece about the absolute standards of the Michelin Star system in a relative and non-judgemental world. The writer is on to something and tentatively begins to follow his logic. But at the final fence he falls; he blames the erosion of standards on populism rather than the faux excellence of elitist agendas like those of Michelin, which he applauds. Over the page, we are invited to admire Sandra Davis as she chomps her way through a £200 lunch . She and her journalist companion enjoy "Heritage" beetroot and "Torched" mackerel. It is a menu that even Michelin would surely approve. Davis is one of London's leading divorce lawyers and at over £6oo an hour she should be. She is mysteriously important and enjoys parading her discretion. I am left none the wiser. I would love to line up all these people in front of Manita and the lady in the breakfast room in Sevastopol. We have put our trust in fools and have become foolish in our turn.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck. The little keepsake that Manita has given to each of us lies on the table beside me. I have been back in my country a mere 24 hours and already I can feel the corners of my soul begin to curdle. Why am I getting so worked up? Russia has endured more than silly girls and meretricious articles. In my family lies sanity and love. It is more than enough. I want to share this and I know I will go back.
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