A wonderful break to Moscow with my wife last week. We visited the Kremlin, Red Square, the beautiful metro stations, built from the 1930s by Russian engineers with a little help from their counterparts from the London Underground, and the Kolomenskoye royal estate with its thrilling views over the southern bend of the Moskva river.
But perhaps the most striking moment occurred when we walked past the tomb of the unknown soldier in Alexander Gardens, in the shadow of the Kremlin. Our guide, Lilya, a lovely lady in her late sixties, paused by the tomb, adorned with a bronze laurel branch and soldier’s helmet. “Everybody was touched by the Second World War,” she said, face etched with emotion. “We lost 27 million people.”
I looked at the stats, and she was quite right. The fatalities represented a sixth of the total Soviet population, and more than 50 times the casualties suffered by the UK. Lilya herself lost both her grandfathers: “I come past this spot a few times each week, but I always pause to recognise the suffering of our forefathers.” I felt honoured to be able to do the same.
Trees of green
When I walk my kids to nursery, we pass by a magnificent weeping willow. We have taken to stopping to look at its drooping branches and shimmering leaves. There are other remarkable trees nearby, including a proud oak near the local church, which is visible from our upstairs window.
People are drawn to flowers for their beauty, and who can blame them given the colour and drama? But I have to confess a deeper affinity with trees. They are prominent and yet discreet; change with the seasons, and yet endure. They have endless textures and shapes, hues and colours, and play a profound role in our ecology, the so-called lungs of the world.
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Trees, whether the giant oaks at Richmond Park or the lovely elms that mingle and flicker in the breeze, alter and enhance the act of being alive.
Fat and happiness
After learning that dairy products are not the artery-clogging killers we had been led to believe, I have belatedly returned to butter. Liberally spread, it is a joy, conjuring up memories of visiting my beloved grandparents, who were devotees of teacakes, crumpets and Bara brith (a splendid Welsh bread sprinkled with dried fruit). I have been enjoying cheese and eggs, too.
But I have also discovered something that rather surprised me. Full fat milk isn’t as wonderful as I had hoped (we had red top growing up, rather than gold, which was even more creamy). With cereal, it is too heavy. Tea tastes better with skimmed. Isn’t it odd that milk is the one dairy item where fat is inversely correlated with enjoyment? Or is that just me?
National pride
The longer I spent in Moscow, the more I was afflicted by a sense of sadness. Sadness that this fine nation, and its fine people, have been so consistently betrayed by their leaders since the Bolshevik revolution, which marks its 100th anniversary in October.
Lenin’s rule left millions dead. Stalin was a monster of even greater scale. Even Yeltsin, in whom so many vested their hopes, sold off state assets in rigged auctions, setting in train the modern dynamic of engorged corruption. Now we have Putin, a gangster in all but name, whose ruination of the economy and contempt for opponents are two sides of the same coin. I couldn’t help but compare our good fortune in the UK. We have never had perfect leaders, or a perfect system, but we have much to be grateful for. Due process. The rule of law. Most of all, an innate suspicion of absolute power and utopian ideology, shared as much by those who lead as by those who are led. This is perhaps, when you take the long view, our nation’s most enduring asset.