Yaremche: Sunshine on the wrong side of spring

From Lviv we boarded a train which chugged for five hours south into the Carpathian Mountains. We shared our cabin with this avuncular Ukrainian man, likely to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with whom I shared a stop-start conversation on a variety of topics. We discussed the ongoing protests in Ukraine (he wants the country to join the EU, but remarked that protests are only for the young), geography (of Singapore mostly), economics (Singaporean exports), sport (Dynamo Kyiv and Shakhtar Donetsk, whereupon he lamented that he knew not one Singaporean team) and linguistics (the kinship of Belarusian and Ukrainian). Most were dealt with cursorily, owing to the limited facility we had in each other's language. But he was incredibly patient. Whenever he spoke a word I didn't understand, which happened rather frequently, I would whip out my Ukrainian-English dictionary on my iPhone and he pen and paper to write down the word in question. And so our conversation crawled along.

Our destination was the resort town of Yaremche. It is a rather long town, strung out for about 10 kilometres almost literally along the Prut River, which flows eventually into Romania and Moldova. The Prut is the easternmost tributary of the Danube. Geographically we had crossed the threshold from the Great European Plain into Danubia, from the Eurasian womb of nations into classical Europe.

Yaremche wasn't like your mountain resorts in the Alps - the peaks in the Ukrainian Carpathians were gentler in any case - compact, crowded, glitzy. It resembled more the spa resorts of central Europe - calmer, quieter - being itself a popular destination for Habsburg nobility and intelligentsia, particularly those suffering from tuberculosis. And it was very quiet and cold when we arrived at the rail station, just after nine in the evening, the winter sun having long set before.

We were met on arrival by Maxim, whose family runs the cottage we booked for our three nights in Yaremche. We cannot praise their hospitality enough. Vershina Cottage is situated atop a hill from where we enjoyed fine views of the Prut valley all day. When we arrived, Roma (another member of their team) asked if we wanted dinner. We did, and were served two bowls of borsch, at ten at night.

Above: in and out of our cottage.

The next day, we attempted to reach the top of Makovytsa - the name means 'crown' in Ukrainian - 985 metres above sea level. We started from the Dovbush Trail, a historical trail which takes the hiker past a series of rock formations used as hideouts by Oleksa Dovbush and his opryshky. Oleksa Dovbush was a Robin Hood-type figure who led a band of outlaws in a struggle against the oppression of the Polish nobility in the early eighteenth century. We haven't any photographs as we were hoping to reach Makovytsa and back before dark (meaning we had about four hours, as we had started walking at noon).

It seems the successful quest to ascend a mountain has had to wait once more, as the steps began to wear Mary out. The report from a group of Ukrainian hikers we met coming in the opposite direction didn't help. When we asked how much more to the top, we were greeted with a chorus of daleko, daleko, daleko. Far, far, far. So at about two-thirds of the way up, Mary sat down to brush up on her Ukrainian while I huffed and puffed up.

Below: thanking God for good weather, and right at the bottom, reaching for the stars whilst walking in the woods.

We later descended by a different path, which took us to the Probiy waterfall. There all the kitsch of a holiday town were gathered. On our way to the falls, we were asked by two animal handlers if we wanted photographs. The first shoved his disinterested golden eagle on my forearm and then on my shoulders, before unsuccessfully demanding payment. The second asked more politely if we wanted to take a picture with his monkey. I said we had lots in our country already. The Probiy was where the Prut river tumbled noisily over a small escarpment on its way downstream. Tourists, domestic and foreign alike, cavorted all over the rocky ledges on the edge of the cascades, and we did likewise.

Below: the Probiy falls, the Prut and the Hutsulshchyna Restaurant, built in the local Hutsul architecture.

When we were done, we gave Maxim a call and he teleported himself down from the cottage to pick us up. Here our attention must return to their hospitality. Maxim, Roma and Tania were always very patient with our requests, which they all met with a smile. Maxim ferried us tirelessly to and from town when we needed transport. On the last day, they woke up early with us to make us breakfast, so that we could catch our bus to Kamyanets-Podilsky at 7.35am.

Above: our team of superheroes.

Mary's fairy tale came together in these three nights. On the last we could hardly sleep as the wind bawled and howled. She said the following morning she now knew why the pigs were afraid in their straw and wooden huts. Just before we left Vershina, we were even given apple pancakes to go, which we packed for lunch.

Food for a long journey from a cottage. We were only missing a red hood and a straw basket.