WHY I LOVE

‘Krak-uff!’ said the crows perched on the icy bough just outside my window, and then again, ‘Krak-uff!’ It was December 1998, my first trip to the once royal capital of Poland (its Wawel Castle still houses the catacombs of the country’s kings and queens). Having survived a freezing night in an old lady’s spare room, I was enchanted to be informed of my whereabouts in such an unusual way, and I soon discovered this sense of wonder to pertain to the city as a whole.

Tucked away in the Galician Valley of Despair, Krakow is a city of cellars and spires, of buskers and birds, of festivals and flowers. It is impossible to look down a side street without seeing yet another beautiful church, my favourites being St Thomas’s, on ulica Tomasza, and the Church of the Transfiguration, imperious at the end of ul Jana. Indeed every vista in the Old Town is informed by a spire or crucifix if not a frieze of the Virgin Mary, such is the faith of this deeply Catholic nation. The last pope, John Paul II, was an archbishop here, having been born in Wadowice.

If a sense of religious zeal is ubiquitous above ground, then below the surface it is all about whispers in the warmth, especially in winter when the harsh nights drive the locals into candlelit cellars where they drink Zywiec beer. Intriguing bars and jazz venues can be found in medieval vaults beneath the streets. Klub Kulturalny on ul Szewska is a fine example, while the cabaret venue Piwnica Pod Baranami has gained legendary status for producing the best in Polish song, and for its lively resistance to communism.

Indeed, the legacy of those years can still be felt. Queueing is a national tradition and you can wait for half an hour in the post office for a stamp. Roads are notoriously bad, with wheel-swallowing potholes, while bus rides out of town in battered minibuses can sorely test your spirit of adventure. In this respect, Krakow feels like a fairy-tale city that has emerged from more than one bad dream in need of a good scrub.

But don’t be deterred. From the cobbled streets of ul Kanonicza and Jagiellonska to the Italianate townhouses and Gothic palaces that huddle round one of the largest squares in Europe, the city offers endless examples of beauty. Delightful cafés and restaurants can be found in hidden enclaves where it is possible to sample God’s Tea, a delicious brew with honey and spices. For those who want a traditional obiad (dinner) of vegetable and noodle soup followed by a ‘piece of meat’ (exactly what it says on the menu), potatoes and cold sour cabbage with cumin, look no further than U Stasi, where old ladies in mohair berets sit among students, workers and tourists. Yes, here it is possible to observe the sanctity of soup, as two dozen heads are lowered over bowls of steam to a unanimous scraping of spoons.

After your meal, you’ll want to take a stroll through the city gardens, known as the Planty. Hundreds of benches and trees line this wonderful walk that can be just as exhilarating in the snow as when bursting with the freshness of spring. The Planty is split into districts. There’s a section where every bench is taken by students reading. One is of old women, and nuns and monks. Another is of buskers – the latest, an opera-singing woman with a lyre. At night, drinkers and lovers take over, and staggering tourists who have underestimated the strength of the local beer.

If the Old Town is the body of the city, then perhaps its soul can be found in Kazimierz, the Jewish district. A tragic feeling of absence informs the synagogues destroyed during the war and the adjoining streets. There are winding streets and alleys, atmospheric cafés, and myriad antique shops. And if you happen to be passing at dawn on a Thursday you can witness the sight of hundreds of old men in leather jackets producing birds from their pockets during the famous pigeon market. If the neglectful practices of communism inadvertently saved the city from the depredations of the West, then EU accession has led to a rapid acceleration in growth. The oldest cinema in town, the Art Nouveau Kino Wanda, is now a supermarket; property developers are making a killing. And perhaps, most visible (and audible) has been the sudden invasion of stag parties.

Krakow has produced a pope, two recent Nobel Prize winners for literature (Wislawa Szymborska and Czeslaw Milosz) and has a thriving arts scene. It is a city of grace and of grubbiness, of charm and a certain naivety, but it is important to remember what it has been through: Poland disappeared off the map for 123 years during the Partitions, later came the Nazis, followed by 44 years of communism. So when you come here, come with respect for its history and traditions, for its beauty and its frustrations, and for that very special Polish spirit of resistance. Come quietly, and listen for the crows.

James Hopkin’s novel Winter Under Water (£7.99, Picador) is out now.