Before my trip to the Baltic coast, Poland was about the last place I associated with golden beaches and summer fun. The Iron Curtain continued to cast its mighty metaphorical shadow and, like many Canadians, when I thought of this part of the world, I pictured cold, fog, struggle, war – anything but a beach-side paradise.In this, the Canadian imagination lags well behind that of the European. Germans, especially, flock to the Baltic coast of Poland in the summer months, drawn by the uncrowded beaches, delicious food and low prices. The Poles, too, tend to spend their summers on the Baltic, and it was a Polish-Canadian friend of mine who suggested this unlikely trip.
My itinerary had me travelling from west to east between a pair of major resort towns. Swinoujscie, near the German border, has the quiet feel of faded glory and is popular with retirees. Sopot, near Gdansk, is elegant and flashy – a Polish Monaco, home to centuries-old spas, endless festivals and the most expensive real estate in the country.
While both towns have much to offer, including excellent beaches, the real charm of the Polish seaside lies between them, in the tiny resort towns that line the Baltic coast. They might not be as slick as Sopot or as serene as Swinoujscie, but their charm lies precisely in their intriguing mix of mindless summer fun with the lingering sombreness that Poland never quite escapes.
Many of these small resorts were developed during communist times, when state-run businesses built holiday camps for their employees. Though communism is long gone in Poland, this network of vacation retreats remains in place, and it was through my friend’s relative – a Polish public servant – that I secured a reservation in a pine cottage in the village of Lukecin (pronounced woo-KEN-cheen, surprisingly).
Past the forest, you come to the third zone, the resort towns, all of which share the lively feeling of a dilapidated carnival. The streets are devoid of chain stores and restaurants, and are instead lined with ice cream shops, fish stands, arcades and souvenir stores. This is where you’ll find the gorgeous and inexpensive amber for which the Baltic is famous. Young families and school-aged children at summer camp fill the sidewalks. There are go-karts for rent and pony rides on offer.
On cloudy days there is plenty to keep you occupied. With seaside towns spaced out about every kilometre, it’s easy to walk between them, either on the endless beach or on marked trails through the forest. My walks from Rewal landed me in Trzesacz, where the main draw is the picturesque ruin of a 10th-century church built on the edge of a sandy cliff, most of its structure lost to erosion. In Niechorze, I climbed the 200 steps to the top of a red-brick lighthouse that provides a gorgeous overview of the coastline.
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Then there’s the food. Fish is extremely fresh and extremely cheap. Polish dishes familiar to Canadians, such as perogy and borscht (barszcz in Polish), somehow taste better when eaten in their native land and seasoned with the sea air. One Polish word all visitors need to learn isgofry, a sweet favourite of ice cream served on a waffle topped with berries and whipped cream. But the most delicious – and strangest – meal I had on the coast was in Lukecin, at a roadside stand where active members of the Polish army serve hearty and fantastically inexpensive portions of grochowka wojskowa (literally “military split pea soup”). The dining atmosphere, with steam rising from a mobile military cooker and improvised benches under camouflage netting, is not to be missed.
Such are the bizarre and unknown pleasures of the Polish Baltic. If you’re looking for gratuitous, luxurious, hedonistic summer fun, your global options are almost limitless. But if you like some shadow mixed in with your sunshine, some history to provide ballast to your floating lounge chair, the small towns of the Polish coast provide an experience like no other.
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IF YOU GO
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