But such discoveries of the grandeur of Russia were still before us when we arrived at Moscow Airport to be met by our guide, the imaginatively named Natasha. The name, old Russian veterans enlightened the rest of us, is rivalled only by Olga for its popularity among Russian guides. Over the next few days, we were to come to know well her devotion to the official itinerary ('your voucher'), her evident nostalgia for the Soviet era, when 'the voucher' was no doubt legally enforceable, and her thus rather incongruous enthusiasm for the purchase of 'extras' from her. These extras, as we discovered, varied from the ridiculous (although, in fairness, it was decided that the performing goats at the Moscow State Circus were lost on us without a translation), to the sublime; the Stanislavsky Ballet's story of boy-meets-swan was, in fact, sublime beyond the belief of many. According to our voucher, meanwhile, we paid a visit to Lenin, shuffling around the body with the reverent haste which the numerous guards, still in Red Army uniforms, thought appropriate. Outside, we were sold army surplus hats by street-corner capitalists, which were, as they assured us aggressively, as comfortingly warm as they were reasonably priced. The cold outweighed our pride and, looking like a real group of western tourists, we were to incur the very evident disapproval of the army battalion, also Red Army uniformed, who left Moscow from the platform opposite our own in Leningrad Station. Intimidated but unbowed, we travelled to St Petersburg in safety, the night train protecting us, if not from the lice, from the ravenous wolves, which, according to some, stalk the moonlit cabbage fields.
To the surprise of many, and the impoverishment of those who had made rash bets with old Russian veterans, the St Petersburg guide was, in fact, called Olga. The encyclopaedic knowledge of the statistics of the city, the quiet contempt for her boorish charges, and the mysterious 'technical stops' at most of the major tourist shops all marked her out as a true professional of her trade.
St Petersburg was universally liked: museums and palaces, whatever they contained, always contained the biggest and best of it; 'extras', including a show of Kazak dancing, the Russian answer to Morris Men, were quite spectacularly silly; refreshments were cheap. An efficient underground, driving Northern Line users to intense envy, gave us comparative freedom of movement, carrying those interested in their stomachs to the food markets and those otherwise interested on pilgrimage to the site of Rasputin's murder. By the time of our departure, the enormous iced fairy cake of the summer palace had fully sated the one group, and the unpleasantness of St Peter's Prison the other. Even the Tsars' political gaol, however, could not inspire a sombre mood for long, when locals were sunbathing nude on the frozen ice of the frozen river outside.
On the passing of the days, suffice it to say that a monarchy of absurd wealth and a government not averse to looting art have left sights that were worth seeing; on the passing of the evenings, that a judicious silence shall be maintained; and on the return home, that it came before we, if not our wallets, were ready. Our deep appreciation to Jonny White, who masterminded the trip, and Brian Smith, his accomplice.
Thomas Munby (Milne's)