Suzdal Sauna

'First banya then dinner,' says Sergei, who is coordinating my itinerary in the Golden Ring. 'When in banya, do only as long as your heart can take,' he adds. I laugh, but he isn't joking.

That evening, I meet a strapping youth outside the bathhouse. He raises a hand nonchalantly in greeting, and I get the impression he has better things to do on a Friday evening than tend to my banya. 'First sauna – fifteen minutes,' the young chap says, before leaving me to undress without wishing me an 'easy steam'.

I have sat in a few saunas before, though never for very long. My first experience was as a child when, after swimming lessons one afternoon, I managed to sneak into the men's sauna next to the changing rooms and singe my bottom on the bench. This time, as I step into the hot, womb-like darkness, I note that they have – with charming attention – laid out sheets for me to lie on, and left a fragrant (and reassuringly leafy) bundle of birch branches to soak in the corner.

Fifteen minutes is a long time in a sauna. First your skin prickles, then you begin to sweat – and sweat in earnest: great bucket loads streaming down your face to sting your eyes. Then – Sergei was right – your circulation really gets going, and you feel the thrashing thump of your heart in your chest. By the time the youth returns, stripped to the waist, I am recumbent in a puddle of sweat. He gestures at the upper bench and, light-headed, I obey.

It is definitely hotter up here – and it gets hotter by the minute as the youth douses the hot rocks with water, sending plumes of steam hissing into the darkness. Then he reaches for the birch branches and, with a great sweep of his arm, wafts the blistering air down on my flesh. I bury my face in the crook of my arm, feeling suddenly like a hobbit in a dragon's lair. I find myself panting. Am I hyperventilating? Hyperventilating isn't good. There is a strange salty taste on my lips, which I take a while to recognise as blood, not sweat – my parched lips have split in the heat.

And then he starts attacking me with the branches. Thwack, thwack, thwack! Lightly at first, so it feels as if I've fallen into a hellish pile of autumn leaves. Then, stripping off fistfuls of leaves, he starts thrashing me harder – though he must have been under orders to take it easy, so that I am not in danger of being birched within an inch of my life.

The session ends when the youth has had enough, and I emerge like a wilted lettuce to find that someone has set a small table for me with bottled water and a jug of red juice – both refreshingly cold. I have an overwhelming urge to fling myself into a deep snowdrift but, as it's too early in the season for snow even in these latitudes, I content myself with a cold shower instead.

Ice Fishing

The lads come early for me on Christmas morning. Igor and Sergei are there, together with a mate of theirs, a slightly shifty-looking character who greets me through narrowed eyes. 'This is Kotya – fishing expert,' says Sergei, and off we go.

By the time we get to the frozen lake somewhere in the neighbouring Oblast, near Chelyabinsk, I am buzzing on a caffeine- and sugar-high. Igor feeds me another syrupy cup of coffee from the thermos – to keep out the cold – and we kit ourselves out and head onto the lake.

It quickly becomes clear that the three chaps are out to do some serious fishing, while I am just there to take a few snaps and enjoy the view. We bore a few grapefruit-sized holes in the ice (clearly not after giant sturgeon, then) and I settle down to tend mine while the lads dot around the lake. Igor kindly baits my hook for me, no doubt thinking I'm too squeamish to handle the bloodworms ('baby mosquitoes'), but the truth is it's fiddly business and my fingers are so numb I don't trust myself not to skewer my thumb in the process.

Kotya turns out to be a fishing expert after all, landing the first three catches of the morning in quick succession and chucking the hapless creatures onto the snow. 'What kind of fish?' I ask. 'Окунь*. Good for soup.' So it was catch-and-keep as opposed to catch-and-release.

I manage to get one later in the day. 'Think I've got something!' I say, grinning like a fool, while the poor fish flops about at the end of the line. Igor helps me pluck it from the hook and I am given a big shot of vodka to celebrate. The fish takes a heroically long time to freeze to death in the snow.

I think it might be a while before I turn professional.

* Perch, I would later learn.

Koptelovo

Never in all my years as milk monitor did I imagine I would one day be standing in the frosty air in a Siberian village inhaling diesel fumes while observing fresh milk being pumped into a fleet of trucks, to be shipped to the nearest town (Alapaevsk) for processing. Despite the industrial quantities of milk involved, the cows seem strangely absent. No cowsheds, and no contented lowing from the surrounding fields – just the distant barking of an alarming number of stray dogs. Puzzling. Worrying, even – but the mystery of the unseen udders does not unduly trouble my very attractive guide (pictured above), who is utterly convinced of the health-giving properties of farm-fresh milk. She has come – bottles in tow – with the express purpose of purchasing six litres for personal consumption.

'You must try some,' she says to me and, before I can protest, an old babushka dunks a mug into a nearby vat and brings it over for me to taste. 'Mmm,' I say, sipping gingerly. Salmonella. E. coli. Listeria… What else can you get from unpasteurised milk? I pass the mug to our driver, who drains it gratefully, and turn and smile at my very attractive guide. As I can't think of the Russian for 'Do I look sexy with a milk moustache?', I wipe my mouth and announce instead that it was 'very nice, very rich and creamy'.

I suppose I needn't have worried about the lurgies in the milk. As honoured guests in the village, we are treated to a simple but hearty rustic meal for lunch, accompanied by a suitably strong local brew called Koptelovsky Balzam. After the first glass, I can feel the warmth slowly seeping back into my fingers. By the third, I can feel the fire in my belly, and am sure that any nasties in the milk have suitably been dealt with. My very attractive guide too is all aglow.
'Now we can go outside without any clothes,' she declares, given the warm fuzzy feeling that has descended upon us.
'Ladies first,' I think gallantly.

Roerich Exhibition - Ekaterinburg Museum of Fine Arts

'You must feel!' commands the young lady. The gaze behind her stern, black-rimmed glasses is one of unsettling intensity. I focus on a cluster of three paintings and try to obey. 'Erm, they're beautiful,' I whisper furtively, only to be silenced with a withering glare.

We are standing in the middle of the Roerich exhibition at the Ekaterinburg Museum of Fine Arts. 'Some people say Roerich, he is – how you say – saint.'
'A holy man?'
'Yes. His philosophia is in his painting. He lived in India. In 20's, he went to India, China, Altai, Tibet for five years. He have good mind inside his head. Later he make painting.' Paintings which would form the Himalayan series assembled for the exhibition – haunting scenes of various peaks through changing moods of weather and at various times of day, painted some 10-20 years after his initial expedition.

'My friend, he is alpinist,' continues the lady guide. 'He can tell the mountains.' I, on the other hand, am not an alpinist, and am all at sea when it comes to telling the peaks apart.

On the far side of the room is a large strip of cloth with three encircled red dots arranged in the form of an upward-pointing triangle. 'What is that?' I ask, to change the subject. 'That is the banner of peace. Roerich believed that when the spirit becomes like mountain top, there will be peace.' The summit as a symbol for the highest attainment of the soul – a noble thinker, this Roerich!