SLA 468S 2002. Student translations.

Link to original.

Natalia Nemylivska. translator

Primary variant

Staryy Kryvyn, Netyshyn, after that Ostroh- what's not clear here? I look out the window- Kryvyn, Baranye, Badivka, and still another station, which is out of sight- our "steam-machine" didn't quite get there.

-"Which station did you get on?" - I ask the "latest" passengers:

-"Ostroh"-they reply with surprise.

-"Ostroh?"- I ask again as I jump into my running shoes and try to put on my straw hat and T-shirt.

-"Ostroh!!!"- I cry out pulling my limp backpack off the shelf and looking at the entry doors of the train that shut automatically.

-Ostroh… now I am speaking calmly with Vitaliy on the platform as I hold a small mat in one hand and a notebook in the other.

The bus makes its way from the station to the city. We wait an hour and a half. The train station changed the schedule. Avtotrans- no. Thank heavens for private drivers. A sincere thanks to the bureaucrats at Avtotrans for closing the train station at 18:00. Well, we could have checked our luggage into your luggage check at 18:30, looked at the schedule like human beings and not through the windowpane of such a strange colour that we are still even now trying to give it a name. We could have walked around easily and without worry. Did an idea come about in the director of the "Ostroh" restaurant's head to give us the two owners of huge backpacks a tour in his old Opal? Would we have not been let into Bohoyavlyenska Church late at night? Without a doubt the answer is yes because people here are not worse than people from the capital even if they are from the province. They are more open, nicer, also troubled, but when they hear about assisting they do so without hesitation.

The Ostroh collegium, Book museum, construction complex of Zamkova Mountain, Uspenskyy Church, overarching gate towers- quite a lot for a small town. In the northern part of the town there is the remarkable tract of the river Horyn that connects with the less powerful Viliya. From the hilltops of the southern areas one can see the plains of the neighbouring oblast with civilization's warmest gift- the Khmelnytskyy Nuclear Power Plant (NPP), especially the newly built blocks that make up for the Chornobyl plant.

A separate comment about Ostroh's chimneys. It would be worthwhile getting Ostroh into the Guinness Book of World Records because of its chimneys of various forms and the number of chimneys per capita. This is not even necessary. It would be enough just to enjoy the strange metamorphosis on a fine summer evening when the welcoming and smiling chimneys of the day turn into evening chimneys to satisfy the evening clouds, and in silent compliance with directorial antennae gain a serious and mystifying appearance.

Avtotrans' service probably made such an impression on local drivers that they decided to skip the car station along their morning route. So one day the decision was taken and the stop has never been made since. At about 6:30 they stop at a neat little building belonging to a dental clinic and then onto Ternopil quickly. It is too early to drive to Ternopil, but because of Ostroh's wonderful atmosphere we had nothing against getting to Kremenets at 8:00 in the morning. The tactics of early departures required getting up early and an incremental approach. Put in simple terms- we made our way from the clinic through the park, found some picturesque greenery, then a portable house and set it up.

In the morning we left the picturesque hills and deep forests of Kremenets Mountains located to our right and arrived in Kremenets. The dust of these slopes had not yet covered our fresh memoirs of Ostroh hospitality and tranquility. This is probably why the fair-sized town that for so long wove its way along the main highway, weighed-down by industry, grey in the wait of an afternoon storm was not initially to our taste. Only afterwards when the night fell and we had hiked sufficiently in the mountains did we discover the spirit of the town.

Every hill has its own face and secret. The Zamkova Mountain known by the locals as "Bonna" outdid them all- its location, dominance over the city, and purpose forced local officials to settle around it. It got dressed in the garments of the most exquisite and at the same time strong fortress while its less successful neighbours were walking around in homemade garments of fir and elm. Was it their silent envy or the passage of time that is just as unforgiving with a mountain's beauty as it is with female beauty? Or was it wretched fate that punished the overly proud Bonna Mountain? The fortress is in ruins, the young town grew, and town officials have settled more accessible plains long ago. Only the collegium ensemble has not deserted the old empress. It gathers travellers next to the mountain's balustrades and tells about the past greatness of Zamkova. Is this story so extreme or is the location somehow unique? Only those ruins remind us of the actual fortress- mysterious and impenetrable as before.

The bushy Cherna mountain has always stood next to Bonna. They were born together and grew together. The small and bashful Cherna didn't have the sparkle nor did it get as much attention. It didn't grow to get strong fortifications and extravagant palaces, and the locals talk about it with warm words. Wooden logs for the winter can be gathered and a shelter can be found in the forest's leafy hills. Ukrainian Cossacks fighting to free Kremenets from the Poles found their last refuge here on its hills. These crosses stand till this day.

The city has three old cemeteries that symbolize the complicated history, intersecting religions and human fate.

The old Jewish cemetery naturally has not crosses, and the stone plaques seem as though they have grown out of the earth. The plaques have strange writing- I saw them once in manuscripts.

Before the hill - more crosses, but some plaques distinctly appear among them in a pagan fashion. Let's leave out a needless suet- the central cemetery is supposed to be modern.

In the old forest- old crosses out of oak and increasingly more in stone. Catholics are of that very same faith- they have to fall into eternal sleep separately.

The Grafs'ka Mountain or the Lysa Mountain is Bonna's first competitor. It could not forgive that fact that a palace and fortress was not erected on its well-situated valleys, that rulers and people swerve around it opting for the road. It flowered with fertile grasses of envy, and only the herdsmen and the witches would come for grass to its slopes. And it chose to settle right in front of Bonna palace in order to hear everything, know everything, and wait for its rival's misfortunes. During World War II a Soviet battery was set up at Lysa Mountain to expel the Germans from the city. Today the hill attracts livestock owners, local vacationers, and the rare tourist. Our tent was up two days at the base of the mountain and only a single tourist of the local "dinosaur" type who participates in jubilee meetings and official assemblies was our guest, or more accurately Vitaliy's guest because I was out hiking somewhere at that time. He came, said hello, told us about his plentiful accomplishments on the tourist front, noticed that the tent was pitched along the rim of the mountain, and incorrectly at that, waited for me (because I'm the leader of the group), and then left.

Mr. Ostap lives and works successfully in Kremenets. He is an ardent patriot of the city, a fountain of valuable information, supplier of printed souvenir products, and simply a good person. As we exchanged addresses I felt like an outdated James Cook that gets a new calculator in exchange for combs and glass items. Mr. Ostap left his email professionally and assured me that the Internet is not that much of a rarity in these parts anymore. Ostap has his favourite local places- God's mountain, the lake of St. Anna, and a genuine sled route- the only one of its kind in Ukraine. With the summer heat we were not about to go see the sled course, and God's Mountain which was a distance of 15 km away made a fairly strong impression while instead of the lake which was 20 km away from the city (Mr. Ostap is a car tourist so if the lake is about half an hour away, then we'd have to run this quasi marathon at the speed of a 100-metre race) we got an equivalent replacement- two hours of rain.

The generous home of good Samaritan Bohdan helped us to get out of the rain almost dry and for this we thank him. Against such terrible weather all inventions of civilization other than a sturdy home were pointless. We came into Mr. Bohdan's home through his guest-welcoming door and the homeowner was extremely happy with the unexpected visitors. The rain ceased and we were able to leave Bohdan's home by bringing up a pre-arranged meeting - pedagogical college at 5 o'clock in the evening.

The situation was that we had decided to walk about the city without our backpacks and planned to leave them in a safe place. We really didn't go to hotels, and preferred our dependable tent recalling the capriciousness of the car transport that builds its car stations in the most inconvenient places, closing them exactly when the body of a tourist wants to have a noon time nap and not to be hassled with the crazed haul to the tiny luggage chamber, which could probably only hold a children's basket, and was in no way able to hold the good-sized backpack of a serious tourist. We heard from the general public about the unbelievable preferential treatment that the pedagogical college workers give towards traveling folk, so we decided to take advantage of this inclination. We walk up to the first open cabinet (the cabinet of the director as we later found out) and say something to the effect: " Could you possibly help two travelling pilgrims by keeping an eye on their little backpacks". The stunned pedagogues searched at length for a director's closet that could hold those "little backpacks". That night the college graduates were having their graduation party and their joyful singing resonated to our tent on the mountain for a while.

Pochayiv…was it the tugging in the morning, or had the rains gotten to me, or was it the reconstruction works at the lavra, or the dreary faces of the pilgrims. I didn't get what I wanted out of Pochayiv. And that is how my memories of this quiet village with a strange hill covered with many churches will remain.

The hill was too high above the village. The churches and houses were so minuscule compared to the high domes and numerous crosses. Other landscapes and space are needed.

We ate to the rain, learned about the lavra in the rain, and we reached Ternopil with the rain.

The rain ended and the people went out into the streets to breath in the fresh moist air. The quiet, well-kept streets were permeated with peace. There was no scorching heat and loud idleness of big cities… Peace Street, Freedom Square... The very names blew the winds of tranquility. Evening was approaching. Our legs carried us in the direction of the central park. In Ternopil the park is named after Taras Shevchenko. Maybe somewhere in central Ukraine the park would be called the City Park, and maybe in eastern Ukraine or in Crimea it would be called Victory Park.

The issue is not in the name. The sporting principle is based on successfully spending the night in the central square of the city under everyone's nose by adapting to the conditions of the surrounding garden-park environment, skilled landscape of planning and the techniques of camouflage. The only de-camouflager- city cleaner auntie Masha who at six in the morning at the height of cooking breakfast (inside our "dwelling") greeted us with a confident voice and the phrase, "Good day residents of this tent". I saw no serious threat in this.

We made our way home on the Vrotslav train -it's cheaper that way. The cost does not include exclusive cockroaches and sweaty fellow travellers. There was all of about four of us in the entire wagon.