I don't understand the version in Polish (Akcesoria party) which is incorrect Polish in my view.
Yes, indeed, that must be a subdialect within the Silesian dialect.
I was first in Germany during the mid-'80's, "SZCZECIN" was always listed as "STETTIN" and nothing else:-)
That was the time of the Cold War when some Germans still believed in retrieving the territory they lost after WW2. The few descendants of German DPs who once lived on those lands still dream of returning there.
We should be grateful to Czechs for their historical choice of a sensible president in latest elections a few days ago. A former army officer, he defeated his populist rival who cherishes some pro Russian sentiments, while the new President - quite the contrary.
Mr Buggy, using info from an old map, decides to climb down a medieval well inside a building.
Read what lousy situation he gets into: what a fascinating read!!
The circular opening of the well was black and had a cool, musty smell. I put the thickest of the boards across the opening, supporting its two ends on the casing. I made a dozen thick knots on the rope, tied it to the board, and prepared to descend. "You'll wait here until I let you know," I said. With a lit electric torch around my neck, I grabbed the rope and hung in the well. Going down wasn't difficult, even though I'm not very athletic. Every now and then I found indentations in the casing, as if specially prepared for putting my foot in and supporting myself. From time to time I turned around and examined the walls of the casing. The whole well was made of the same as the basement - thick medieval brown bricks. - And what do you see? - the boys' questions came from above. Their voice boomed in the well, as if someone was pounding a piece of iron nearby with a hammer. - Nothing interesting so far! I cried. Above my head there must have been about four meters of timbering. The walls around me expanded like funnels. I was hanging from the rope, my back against the moss-covered damp wall, my legs searching for the next indentation. Another thick knot slipped through my fingers, and I fell a meter down into the dark funnel of the well. Suddenly I wobbled on the rope. My feet, which I felt on the walls, found no support. My hands were numb from the effort, because I was hanging on them with all my weight. I heard my quick, wheezing breath. I gripped the rope between my knees and slowly slid down, feeling the rough fibers rubbing the skin on my hands. Again the thick knot moved up between the fingers. My feet finally found a foothold. Directly in front of my face was the narrow opening of an underground porch running perpendicular to the funnel of the well. - Boys! the voice rumbled and echoed far away somewhere in the corners of the porch. - I found a side porch. Wait upstairs until I return. Wait even a few hours... - And if you don't come back for longer? asked Eve. - Wait ten hours. Then let the militia know, I rumbled. I slid down the throat of the underground corridor. The porch was so low and narrow that even on all fours I could hardly move along it. He did not go straight, but turned and broke again and again. I quickly lost my sense of direction. Again a sudden breakdown. Another. Then I break again. The porch widened into a semicircular cavern. Like the corridor, it was made of brown brick. A strip of electric light pointed me to a door in the wall. heavy, iron, with a rust coating. It was a strange door. They were built in diagonally, they were like a sloping trapdoor closing off a room. An iron ring hung from them. I grabbed them and tried to pull with all my might. The hatch seemed very heavy to me, or maybe it just had rusty hinges. With great difficulty, I managed to open it enough to slip my arm in. Only now could I lift it to the accompaniment of an unpleasant grinding. Interestingly, this creaking was not made by the hinges, but came from inside the wall. As if a mechanism was activated when the door opened. The hatch, after opening, could not be immobilized. It was still falling, covering the entrance to the further parts of the underground. It simply could not be opened at an angle greater than forty-five degrees, so it fell back to its former place by the force of its weight. And behind her I saw the stairs down and the bend in the wall... I supported her firmly with my arm and slipped into the narrow crack. My nose was irritated by the dust that had settled in a thick layer everywhere. How I wished I had some larger object with me to put under the door. Then they wouldn't have slammed behind me. But I had nothing of the sort. I thought that if I wanted to go out, I could pry the hatch with my arm again. I stepped on the stairs leading down and the hatch slammed shut behind me with a loud thud. I counted eight steps, then there was a bend and the corridor narrowed again. Stairs up. One... two... eight... ten degrees. A very narrow cell, something like a penitential cell seen in the Malbork castle. I almost screamed in disgust when I noticed a human skeleton on the floor against the wall. It was the remnant of a man with shreds of rotting clothes, with a remnant of hair on his skull. Next to the skeleton there were empty clay doubles... It wasn't the skeleton itself that seemed terrifying to me, but the position in which it lay. He was curled up, strangely shrunken, as if the man had died in great agony. I mentioned the legend of a peasant who went underground with clay doubles and never came out. He probably got here, like me, through a well in the basement. But why didn't he leave? I got cold. It was only then that I realized that the cell I was in was blind, 90 I mentioned the legend of a peasant who went underground with clay doubles and never came out. He probably got here, like me, through a well in the basement. But why didn't he leave? I got cold. It was only then that I realized that the cell I was in was blind,
finished with a stone wall. Why didn't this man leave here? The thought kept coming back to me. I was getting more and more anxious. I almost ran back up the stairs and reached the iron hatch. I swung my arm around her with all my strength. She didn't even flinch. She sat in her stone frame as if set in stone. I put my back on her and tensed all my muscles. My heart was pounding, sweat was pouring down my forehead. The door, however, remained closed ... I remembered the strange grinding that accompanied the opening of the hatch. There was a mechanism in the wall. It allowed the hatch to be opened from the other side, but prevented it from being lifted from the bottom. The iron door was a trap into which every Templar treasure hunter fell. I felt stuffy and hot. Out of horror. Now I understood why the skeleton in the cell was in such a terrifying position. The man died of hunger and thirst. He came in here, but he couldn't get out. Nobody can get out of here. I was also thinking with fear. I tried to lift the iron lid again. I sweated again and had to rest for a long time before the tinnitus from overexertion subsided. I couldn't lift the lid even a millimeter. I went back to the cell where the skeleton lay. Scraps of information that I had read about the Templars, about the secret passages, trapdoors, hiding places, traps they built for those who tried to penetrate the secrets of the order flew through my head. Why didn't I think that they had secured their treasure with many ambushes? I should have been more careful - I was angry with myself. And at the same time, I tried to console myself: The Templars were masters of secret passages. There's definitely a masked exit from the cell for insiders. This peasant did not know about it, so he died of hunger and thirst. You have to find a way out of the trap. Besides, when ten hours are up, the boys will call the militia. And the militiamen will lower themselves on a rope to the porch, open the iron hatch and free me from the underground. Tap... Tap... Tap..., I heard a slow tapping on the ceiling. I immediately realized that someone was walking above my head. I distinctly heard the slow footsteps of someone wearing women's stiletto shoes. The vault, unlike the smooth walls of brown brick, was made of slabs of sandstone. Also made of sandstone was a smooth column, half embedded in the wall in the left corner. It supported the ceiling with a large, round capital. It seemed to me, I hear the murmur of conversation. I screamed loudly again and again. But the strange acoustics of the room turned my voice into an indistinct plaintive moan. It was such a terrible sound that I made no further attempts to call for help. I understood. The story Squirrel told us was true. The man whose skeleton lay at my feet heard human voices nearby and cried out for help. These were the groans of a damned soul. They were heard in the church. So the cell where I was staying was simply under the church floor, because the floor in the church was made of sandstone slabs. The Templars had constructed the trap in such a way that anyone inside it could hear human voices coming through some hidden holes in the ceiling, but his own voice would come out in the form of an indistinct hum. This added to the agony of the dying person in the trap: he heard the people, but they did not hear him. I illuminated the walls of the room in vain: nowhere did I see any mark, indentation or protuberance that gave hope that there was a trap-opening mechanism. The walls were smooth, made of large bricks. None of the bricks wobbled, could not be removed or moved. The floor was the same smooth brick surface. Only the ceiling was made of sandstone slabs, but I couldn't reach the ceiling. Efforts to climb the wall proved in vain.
To everybody`s surprise, in this excerpt, Mr Buggy`s car proves it moves on water.
Suddenly Karen gripped my hand tightly. - Oh, there, look. There, at the end of the pier. Isn't that Malinowski? A man jumped into a motorboat and tried to start the engine. The roar of the engine, which did not immediately want to get to work, echoed loudly in the silence of the night. - It's him! Definitely! I recognize him! Karen called out. The motorboat's engine began to rattle in a steady rhythm. The bandit pushed the motorboat away from the jetty and headed for the other shore. - We're coming back. I'll try to catch up with the amphibious vehicle, I told Karen. We ran up the same stone steps. Again like a bomb we fell among the dancers and jumped to our cars. "Wait for me," Karen called out as she lifted the hood of the Lincoln. After a while, she lowered the bonnet, took out the keys left in the ignition by Malinowski. In one bound she was beside me in the machine. "I disabled my car," she explained. - I have a lever under the hood that disconnects the electrical system. No one can steal a Lincoln now.
The holiday-makers stopped dancing and went out into the street, curious. I turned the car around in front of the cafe and a few houses away, down a steep street, I drove down to the quay. The motorboat with Malinowski was outlined on the surface of the lake like a tiny speck, but the roar of the engine was still very distinct. Several young couples in love sat on the sandy beach. As I drove along the beach, looking for a convenient exit into the water, I was chased by shouts: - You have nowhere else to go? E, Mr. Madman, because you will fall into the water! And can you swim? I found the entrance to the lake. I accelerated the vehicle, which with a huge splash, almost like a warhorse, leaped into the waves of the lake. - Dear God! yelled a girl's voice on the beach. And we were already swaying on the wave caused by the momentum of the vehicle. The dark speck that was Malinowski's motorboat disappeared from our sight. We heard only the quiet roar of the engine and it was he who showed us the bandit's escape route. I pressed the gas pedal. The front of the craft lifted above the surface of the water, the rear propeller whirling at increased speed. Behind us, the waves stirred by the turbine roared, leaving a triangular streak of white foam on the lake. I turned on the wipers to clear the windshield of the drops of water that kept spraying on it and blocking our view. "He's running towards Love Island," I said to Karen, listening to the sound of the speedboat approaching in the distance. - Love? - It was so named because it is visited by couples in love. - Have you ever been there? she asked. - Yes. I was looking for a certain scientist who could explain to me the mystery of a lost collection of old coins. He was spending his honeymoon on Love Island after his wedding, and I was forced to interrupt his idyll. "I can imagine what he thought of you," Karen laughed. Did you find the collection? - Oh yes. Although it was one of my most dangerous adventures. "But you won't find the Templar treasure," Karen said firmly. - Get it out of your head. - Are you starting again? Didn't the story with Malinowski teach you anything? - I'll be more careful. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up treasure hunting. They must be mine. "That remains to be seen," I smiled. Karen impressed me. After everything she'd been through, I assumed she'd give up fighting for the treasures. But she was relentless, stubborn and ambitious. I liked it. - Quiet! Karen hissed suddenly. - Do you hear? - Exactly, I can't hear anything... The roar of the motorboat stopped. "That's what I meant," Karen nodded. "He must have brought the motorboat to shore and turned off the engine. Why did he choose Love Island? He's not in love is he? she laughed. - He must have been here once and knows these places. When he realized that he would soon run out of gas, he remembered about the Charzyks and the many possibilities of hiding here. He wants to break away from us and erase his mark. Out of the darkness of the night, the high, black mass of the island loomed before us. She looked menacing and mysterious. The more dangerous that we knew: a bandit is watching us from its shores. - Is the island uninhabited? Karen asked. - Yes. Sometimes groups of tourists doing canoeing trips camp here in tents. Now that we were near the island, I switched on my searchlight and swept the shore with a sharp beam of light. There was a motorboat at the foot of the precipitous shore. It was empty. This, who had been driving it a moment ago, disappeared in the thickets along the shore. We carefully approached the speedboat and I stopped the speedboat and jumped onto it, taking one of the car keys with me. - What do you want to do? Karen asked. "You're not going to take apart the motorboat's engine, are you?" - I'll take out the candles. He won't be able to start the engine and he won't get away from us. I put the candles in my pocket, changed to the vehicle and sailed along the shore looking for a convenient place to enter the interior of the island. I wasn't worried that Malinowski might be hiding behind the bushes watching our every move. There was no point in looking for him in this darkness anyway. It had to wait until morning. I spotted a gap in the steep bank, a sort of ravine where rainwater had flowed off the island. Through this ravine I got to the high bank in a place where there was a large forest clearing. "We'll wait here until dawn breaks," I told Karen. 73
No, not standing. She was messing with this man. She pushed him away, shouting something, but the hum of my engine drowned out her words. I hit the brake pedal as hard as I could. Tires screeched, the craft pitched and nearly spun. He stood sideways on the road, inches from the trunk of a tree at the side of the road. In one leap I was on the road. Only a few meters separated me from the Petersen's car, but the lights and the squeal of brakes alerted Malinowski to danger. Karen had left her car's engine running, and there was a key in the ignition. Malinowski pushed the girl away from him so violently that she staggered and fell into a roadside ditch. Then he rushed to the Lincoln. We heard the loud roar of an engine. A moment more and the Lincoln began to move away from us at high speed. Its red taillights faded into the darkness of the night. I ran over to Karen and helped her up off the ground. "He snatched the gold watch from my hand and took the diamond brooch," she said panting heavily. He wanted to take the ring off my finger, but I defended myself and you came. I do have a letter though." She triumphantly showed me the paper clutched between her fingers. "The car was also stolen," I said. Only then did she realize that Malinowski had escaped in her Lincoln. - Dear God, what to do? Should I let the militia know? I thought he was a gentleman thug. And he turned out to be just a cutthroat. She didn't even ask why I followed her. "We'll try to catch up with him," I said, jumping into my car. "My Lincoln?" with your vehicle? she said with an astonishment that contained contempt for my vehicle. - Get in. Hurry! - I ordered. - You not only do not know about people, but also about cars. You trusted a cutthroat and it came out badly. Lincoln seems like the eighth wonder of the world to you. I turned on the high-mounted side headlight, which I only used when riding on water, when the waves flooded my road lights. The road to Zblewo was empty, so no one was bothered by the glow of my lamps. Soon the speedometer showed one hundred and forty kilometers per hour. "Don't think you'll catch up with the Lincoln," Karen said. - It has eight cylinders. Its maximum speed is one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. I didn't respond, just gave it gas. After a moment, the arrow on the speedometer touched the number one hundred and sixty. I dimmed my headlights for a moment as a car was approaching from the opposite direction. We whizzed past each other, then the highway lit up before me again as I searched for the Lincoln's taillights. I was sure the bandit didn't develop top speed. He didn't seem very confident in the new car, I didn't suppose he had ever had anything to do with a Lincoln. Besides, he probably didn't think very highly of my vehicle, and didn't think he had to make an effort to escape me. I expected to catch up with the bandit soon. I pressed the gas pedal a little more. When the arrow touched the number one hundred and seventy, Karen just sighed. I didn't want to go any faster, even though my car was going much faster. I had old tires, I was afraid they wouldn't hold up to the high momentum. If one of the tires burst, at that speed we'd end up in a tree.
Your Lincoln has eight cylinders? I asked Karen. - My freak has... twelve cylinders. - What? Karen shouted. "Yes, twelve," I repeated. - How powerful is the Lincoln engine? - Two hundred and eighty horsepower. - My freak is rated at three hundred and fifty horsepower. And its maximum speed: two hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. If the gears were changed, it would reach two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. - Dear God, it's almost a Ferrari 410! - Because it's a Ferrari 410 Super America. Only his body was smashed in a crash and my inventor uncle made his own inept one. But I like her. She didn't say anything else, but looked from time to time in astonishment, from me to the hood of the machine. At last I saw the rear lights of the Lincoln. I reduced the speed a bit.
Yes, excellent! Especially that the car is described in the books looking like a long greenish larvae with giant eyes.
Let`s have a look at some excerpts from Mr Buggy and Knights Templar, my most fave from the series
a curious car - home made chassis with Ferrari engine and gear box. It allows him to successfully chase criminals, to their great surprise
I took off abruptly, and soon I was racing down the road into town. I found myself on the road and in a crazy rush I crossed the bridge over the Nogat river. The road to Starogard Gdański was narrow, full of surprising bends, and because I gave the car a lot of speed, I had to press the brake again and again and with a terrible squeal of tires, I went through the bends. I made the decision to go for the fifty kilometer very late. Now I had to make up for lost time. No, it wasn't about catching Malinowski at all. I drove fifty miles to make sure that nothing bad happened to Karen. She offended me with her suspicion, but it didn't matter when I realized that this stubborn girl would be at the mercy of a ruthless thug at mile fifty. No, I wasn't in love with Karen as Anka supposed. I just felt it was my duty to keep her and Petersen out of harm's way. My hair bristled at the thought that a cutthroat might murder Karen for her gold watch, diamond ring, or diamond brooch she always wore pinned to her blouse. It seemed to me that, in a way, I would share responsibility for the evil done to Karen and her father. So I was rushing to make up for the delay. Trees, fences, telegraph poles flashed by on both sides of the road. Harsh headlights flashed phosphorescent road signs again and again: Attention, dangerous bend, Caution, four dangerous bends,,,attention, unguarded railway crossing. Again and again, with a roar of the horn, I overtook horse-drawn carts with dimly visible lanterns. I kept going faster and faster. The clocks of my vehicle were mysteriously and menacingly iridescent. One hundred kilometers ... one hundred and twenty kilometers ... one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour, the arrow of the speedometer pointed. The road turned into a wide and comfortable highway. I increased my speed to one hundred and forty kilometers per hour. I drove over the viaduct over the intersection of roads: from Gdańsk to Grudziądz and from Malbork to Starogard. Eighteen more kilometers and I saw the lights of Starogard Gdański. The highway curved around the center of the city, so I slowed down as more vehicles showed up, mostly motorcyclists. It was only five minutes to eleven o'clock. Then I realized with dread that it was eleven o'clock. And there were still at least ten kilometers to go. I pressed the gas pedal harder. The arrow of the speedometer jumped sharply, the rush of the wind roaring against the windshield. The howl of the wind annoyed me, I thought it sounded ominous. Sharp twist again. I applied the brakes, but I was thrown almost to the edge of the road. I almost brushed the fender against the concrete pillars. Like a row of one-eyed midget cyclops, they gleamed red with reflective lenses. Around the bend, the road straightened out and ran through a thick forest. It was already near Zblewo. In the perspective of the road, I saw the taillights of a car parked on its side, probably a Petersen Lincoln. I took my foot off the accelerator and put it on the brake pedal, slowly reducing the speed. I didn't want to stop because if Malinowski was late for the meeting, Karen might resent me for scaring him with my arrival. I was going to pass Karen's car, drive on, then turn around. The machine's road lights reached the body of the Petersen's car. I saw the car was empty. Another moment and I saw Karen. She was standing next to the car, and the shadow of a man loomed over her.
one book from the series has Nazi German plot. I wonder what kind.
Yes, there was one book about the quest for a photo album or photo diary left by a Nazi German officer somewhere in Poland at the end of WW2. The officer was a war criminal who documented all the atrocities he committed. Mr LittleCar confronts a Western James Bond-like agent who tries to retrieve the diary.
I never liked that book coz it was boring, without fast and furious car chases etc. The overall impression it made on me was deeply sinister.
No, they didn`t. They are the same oppressors as we know them from the past. Once to Poles and Baltics, today to Ukrainians. Luckily, it seems we are united at last to resist that Russian imperialism.
Thank you so much for your education about Poland
It is OK, nothing special, it is my job to educate people. And my hobby, too. Vocation and addiction as well.
What else would you like to know in the thread about Polish education? Feel free to ask.
This shows how stupid you are if you treat online scuffles so seriously. Get lost and never visit Poland - we don`t need more morons here - we have enough of PiS voters. hahahahaha
but would like to find out what is the common practice here in Poland.
Well, practically it has to depend on your personal judgement of the buyer. I was always allowed to drive when I was buying second hand cars which I prefer to new ones. The sellers trusted me coz I made a good impression on them, you know, as a reliable driver etc. Besides, .they saw I arrived in my old car.
However, before letting them drive your car, ask for their ID and write down the name and address.
a series about a famous Polish detective who drove an unusual car. Do you know that series?
Yes, of course, my fav books as a child. Written by Zbigniew Nienacki. Actually, the protagonist isn`t a detective but a museum investigator who deals with lost, hidden or stolen treasures. He possesses a curious car - home made chassis with Ferrari Testarossa engine and gear box. It allows him to successfully chase criminals, to their great surprise, coz the car looks very insignificant. It can also move on water.
I read some books from the series a few times coz the plot is so exciting.
They even made a TV series based on one of the most interesting books : Knights` Templar Treasure.
Yes, it is to most people. Johhny uses it against me quite often when he intends to abuse me. E.g, he writes: you dumb ass Polack hahahaha But I don`t mind. :):):
Will they go to war if Russians attack Europe one day?
We hope so. :):):)
But a few weeks ago I talked to my close friend, a blue collar worker and extremely decent coz all my close buddies are such. He has always had problems with making ends meet, spent a few years abroad, now works hard for peanuts in a food processing plant in Poland. He refused to go to any war and if Russians attack, he is gone to another country. He is gravely disappointed with Poland and its elites which contributed to his financial difficulties.
Can he be elected for Polands president? Will it be a god choice?
Much better than the current President who is too dependent on his party buddies. Tusk would be a truly independent President. But he isn`t going to be one.
For that reason German remains immensely practical throughout much of Eastern Europe,
Yes. My parents forced me to learn German since I was 6 coz they always repeated only the knowledge of German saved Poles from instant execution during WW2. If you knew German, you could explain to German police or soldiers that you weren`t a partisan or underground courier.
