The mist hangs between the tall, gloomy pine trees as we climb down from the train. Only one other passenger stepped off with us, and by the time we have sorted ourselves out on the platform she has disappeared into the haze. At the level crossing, where no cars wait for the train to depart, onwards towards the Polish border, the guesthouse is shuttered and locked. “Closed, for January and February” states a handwritten note in the window. No refreshments here, and we are glad that this is just the beginning, and that we are walking in the other direction.
We pick our way through the village to the river, which is glassy and still like the weather. Which way does the water flow? It is impossible to tell. The path leads us right along the water’s edge, the reeds springy underfoot. We pick our way along the bottom of holiday cottage gardens. Across the river is a field, the ground ploughed and hard into row after row of snow-capped ridges. We have moved away from the main road now, and there is little sound except for the occasional bird call or an airplane coming into land in the distance.










