©Site content is copyright P. Breathnach unless otherwise made clear

Gellert Hill. We hadn't done it last time, so it was something of a moral obligation this visit. It is the salient feature of the riverside, a steep hill surmounted by a spectacular sculpture (commemorating the liberation of 1945, such as it was) and a fort. The ascent is not seriously difficult, but it represents 15 minutes' good exercise which are well rewarded by the spectacular view over the city. We checked the menu at the restaurant in the citadel, liked the look of it, and decided to dine there one evening. But I had misjudged the weather, and my light jacket was poor protection from the cold spring breeze which blew unimpeded over the exposed hilltop. LS, more warmly attired, might have lingered longer but didn't want the responsibility of shipping my frozen corpse home to Herself, so we descended, keeping as much as we could in the lee of the hill -- thus ending up some distance from anywhere we knew, and having to make a good hike to get back to familiar territory.

The other promise we had made to ourselves was to visit a spa. A friend who has a genuine need for soulagement (sorry about the apparent pretentiousness, but the English word "relief" does not have the right connotations in an establishment that offers massages) had told me that the spa treatment did him a great deal of good. There is, apparently, a proper programme to follow, with timings. Not really knowing the procedures, we did a preliminary reconnaisance of the Szechenyi Baths in the City Park. We found that almost all the information signs were in Hungarian and incomprehensible to us. The solution, we thought, was to use the Gellert Baths, which are far better known to visitors, and where we might hope to find more guidance in English. So we betook ourselves there one morning, and entered one of Budapest's most photographed buildings, an art deco palace of water treatments. But easier to understand? No. Limited signage in English, and the three attendants to whom I spoke all responded in what I suppose was the only foreign language they knew, German, a language in which I am only marginally more competent than Hungarian (I know next to no German, as opposed to no Hungarian). So I sat in a hot bath, got my stiff back massaged with jets of water, and swam some lengths of the beautiful but cold(ish) pool, then dressed and wandered around admiring the architecture. And I still don't really know how best to take a spa treatment.

We visited the zoo. In many ways it was as I would suppose a zoo of about 1900 to be -- more thought seems to have been given to the requirements of spectators than to the welfare of the animals. Don't get me wrong: I am sure that the keepers care for, and do their best for, their charges. But, particularly in the case of the larger animals, there is simply not enough space for them to exercise, and to experience even a poor simulation of a natural environment.

LS and I have a great liking for the Central Market, as do large numbers of other visitors to Budapest. The stalls at street level offer a fascinating selection of foodstuffs at prices that seem very modest, while those on the gallery cater principally for the tourist market, offering a wide variety of souvenir stuff of quality that ranges from fair to very good. I was happier looking at the food, in particular trying to understand the differently-butchered meat and marvelling at how much fat Hungarians seem to like on their bacon. I have often thought, when visiting interesting local markets, that I would like to have a kitchen available to me so that I could try the produce for myself. Well, this time I had one. But I didn't shop. Call my reasons excuses, if you like, but I didn't like the knives and cooking utensils supplied with the apartment, and further, to produce one meal I would have had to stock up with kitchen basics like salt, pepper, oil, and so on, as well as the ingredients for the particular meal. Furthermore, restaurants in Budapest are good and not too expensive. Maybe sometime I will stay long enough to make it worth my while setting up to do some cooking.

Yet again I didn't fall victim to street crime. I attribute this to a combination of taking care, being fortunate, and looking impecunious. On a busy street crossing a man coming towards me stumbled and reached out as if to steady himself on me. My mind went into overdrive: he was probably in his sixties, and if I stepped aside he might have an unpleasant fall; but such a move is a pickpocket's stratagem and I didn't want to be taken in; I moved half a step to one side, so that his outstretched hand landed on my shoulder, safely away from pockets containing anything of value. While he was attempting to thank me, my hands went fast to check the valuables that I had distributed about my person, and then I took off away from the crowd as fast as I could, leaving him speaking to the air. I am sure that many people will understand why: my actions had revealed where wallet, passport, and cards were, and there was the possibilty that this was the game, a game I didn't want to play. I think that all that happened was an innocent stumble, and that the man found my reaction strange. But he suffered no harm, and neither did I.

I commented to one local I met that Andrassy ut was a fine boulevard, and he replied emphatically that it used to be. But a lot has happened since Budapest was the second city of a major European empire, and a degree of genteel dilapidation is unsurprising. It is still a fine boulevard. Now that Hungary is moving forward again, there seems a good chance that delayed maintenance will happen, and I hope that the powers-that-be do not confuse progress with destroying the built heritage. There are worrying signs of such things happening elsewhere in the city; retail trading seems everywhere to be the implacable -- and victorious -- enemy of urban architecture.

As I alighted from a tram at Octogon I saw a slim blonde walking -- no, sashaying -- towards me. Although it was quite cool, she was wearing little more than a short skirt and halter top. She reached behind her neck, undid a knot, and dropped the front of her top, exposing her breasts. Now, this is not the sort of thing I am used to seeing on busy streets, and it took me a few seconds to notice the cameraman walking backwards in front of her. I suppose the film will appear on the internet, along with scenes of her on the Chain Bridge and on Gellert Hill, with a title like "Busting out in Budapest". But I could derive no salacious pleasure from the scene, because I saw her eyes: dead eyes that recalled a fishmonger's slab.

Almost as if it were planned in compensation, the next time I passed through Octogon I encountered a young couple in full wedding regalia walking hand-in-hand towards a waiting car, just the two of them, no swarm of supporters, and they brightened the day with their obvious happiness.