Nizhni Novgorod was the furthermost point of my Russian trip before I turned for home. Four hours by train from Moscow, which to Russian minds is a mere hop and a jump. I had no literary agenda there, though from 1932 until the collapse of the Soviet Union the city was renamed Gorky, after its…

I began to despair of seeing Anton Chekhov’s country house because its administrators suddenly announced that on my appointed day they were closing for spring-cleaning. But there was a quick shake-up of my itinerary and off I set, wedged between two Sumo-sized Russians in steaming raincoats for the fifty minute train ride to Chekhov. I…

There’s plenty of a literary flavour to keep a person entertained in Moscow. In just one morning I visited Chekhov’s apartment   –  his name plate is still on the door and I’ll show you if ever I manage to wrestle the photo from my phone  –  and Bulgakov’s, and then I sat in the…

I’ve been travelling, hence the long silence. As many around me fall sick or grow too frail to haul luggage I decided to leave my comfort zone for a couple of weeks and scratch my itch for Russia while I still can. It was a very personalised trip. No-one else I know would have drawn…