The train rolled lazily out of Moscow’s Yaroslavl station leaving behind a hazy, polluted heat and hassled people warily acting out their post-perestroika lives. In a comfortable, well-equipped compartment three pairs of eyes betrayed admiration, cool interest and mild indifference. They belonged to my companions for the next four days, on a train journey through five time zones across almost half the world.

Like a caterpillar the train gnawed its way through traditional wooden villages, birches, larches and pines, suddenly finding itself slipping across those relentless flat yellow plains that have vomited up Siberia’s industrial cities with names that all seem to end in “sk”. More forest, more unrelenting space, more faceless industrial cities. An ancient derelict church held its head high against a backdrop of new apartment buildings with plugs that fit.

Haggard women selling provisions on grimy train platforms disarmed me with a smile. Abruptly the train slowed and I was refreshed by the cool air of the Urals’ mountain pass. It was as if the driver was allowing us to enjoy this scenic part of the journey. Time lost meaning as the train passed from one time zone to another. It was on this, the Trans-Siberian rail route crossing almost the entire North Asian continent, that I reached my destination.

Once a place of exile for revolutionary spirits, Siberia has, in years gone by, been associated with a number of negative images — concentration camps, bitterly cold snowbound conditions, industrial wastelands and skeletal men in chains serving terms in exile. I travelled across Siberia alone and found the reality somewhat different. This immense hinterland is a place of extraordinary natural beauty. George Kendan said in “Siberia and the Exile System”, that you can fit the whole of the US into Siberia without any of its borders touching. It is home to Lake Baikal, the world’s deepest fresh-water lake, and thousands of miles of completely untouched landscape. Andrushka, my train companion, said: “I have not travelled much, but in my heart I know there is no place on earth more beautiful than Baikal.” It is difficult to disagree. However, as a result of Soviet exploitation of its mineral resources, it is also home to a number of industrial cities.

In years gone, by travel in Russia was largely restricted. Grossly overpriced hotels offering shoddy accommodation and service stopped many people exploring this vast and enigmatic country. A stress free holiday it is not. If this is what you are after then Siberia, in its often harsh simplicity, is not for you. Little has changed in these remote areas. Delays often occur. Trains and buses may or may not run on schedule and banks may close for no apparent reason. This is a legacy handed down from the country’s communist past. Many people, particularly the older generation, are finding the transition from communism to capitalism difficult. However, if adventure is your motivating force, you will not be disappointed.

I eventually placed unsteady legs on the solid ground of Irkutsk, Siberia’s capital. This charming city is set on the banks of the Angara, the only river running out of Lake Baikal. It is the city where the Decembrists, named after the December 1825 uprising against the policies of Tsar Nicolas I, chose to settle after they had served their terms of exile. The Decembrist museums are a testament to the suffering these men and, more particularly, their heroic wives endured.

Irkutsk’s tree-lined avenues have some of Russia’s best preserved traditional log cabins. They neighbour grand red-brick buildings with intricate wrought iron balconies built soon after gold was struck in the 1820’s. In some ways this frontier town has a French feel although many of the buildings are in desperate need of restoration. As in all Soviet cities, you will find those grey Stalinist buildings with dark, dank corridors leading up to poky flats whose only life is drawn from the passionate souls within. Ironically these are preferred residences because they have indoor toilet facilities and heating.

For a real insight into the life of the ordinary Russian person visit the Irkutsk market. It is bustling with people selling all kinds of wares ranging from fresh produce to the most tacky and overpriced Western goods. It is in places such as this that one is acutely aware of the paradox of Russian life. Many people feel that moral standards and living standards have fallen along with communism. The older generation have suffered immensely and it is not uncommon to see old men and women working, simply as a means of survival. For many Russians the euphoria of the new dawn of capitalism is a thing of the past.

Forty minutes from Lake Baikal, Irkutsk is a good base. From the town station the overcrowded bus follows the course of the Angara along a crumbling road lined with log cabins and forest, stopping at Listvyanka. The village is set on the banks of this endless expanse of clear blue water stretching as far as you can see. If you are lucky enough to arrive on a clear evening you will see the, majestic Khamar-Saban mountain range in the distance.

At the lake some contented looking cows and goats gathered in the middle of the road. A group of Russian tourists were sitting outside the only shop in this lakeside town drinking, as Russians often do, to excess. I had plenty of time to absorb the atmosphere as I waited for the ferry to take me across the base of the Angara to the small village of Port Baikal where I would spend the next few days. Some time later I was following the locals along the rusty, single-track railway line to a cluster of log cabins set back from the lake amidst rolling green hills.

I plucked up the courage to ask a local, in pidgin Russian, where I would find my hosts. I was pointed in the direction of a pink house on the road running above the embankment. Here I found Masha, a comely thirty-something woman with perfect olive skin and a heart as big as the lake itself.

My arrival caused a flurry of activity. Postal services in this part of the world are irregular and unreliable and the agency in London, through which I had booked my accommodation, had not made contact yet. Nevertheless, I was welcomed by the all-enveloping warmth of Siberian hospitality.

Sauce pans on the stove began to sizzle, the table was laid with a fresh cloth, the best glasses escaped their esteemed place in the living room cabinet, a pixie-like waif of a girl scurried outdoors, returning shortly with a bunch of wild flowers, and Masha talked. She talked non-stop in Russian and, somehow, made herself understood. Vitalya, her 16-year-old son, showed me to my bedroom.

Like the rest of the house my bedroom was sparsely furnished. The wild flowers had been placed on the bedside table and a pair of red slip-on shoes put at the end of my bed. I felt like a modern day Cinderella.
Vitalya spoke about as much English as I spoke Russian, but I managed to establish that Masha wanted me to go berry-picking in the forest the following day. I soon found that I did not need him to translate the little he could. I had the company of Masha. From her I learnt about the family, about life in Siberia, about the long, dark and bitterly cold winters. And that the loss of a loved one is a universal human suffering. Like many of the women I met in Russia she was the pillar of the family, taking all the responsibility of my presence onto her shoulders.

This trip to Siberia left me with a life-time of memorable impressions. It is unlikely that you will not experience some sense of displacement. Life here is far removed from Western comforts. On my first visit to the long drop at the bottom of the garden, hanging from a nail at the back of the door were the pages torn out of an English book. Mary Wesley in the form of toilet paper. Despite this, a combination of the fresh lakeside air and a session in the banya, a traditional wet sauna, will leave you completely revitalised.

This nature lovers’ Utopia has a delicate ecosystem boasting flora and fauna largely unique to the area. In these icy pure waters you will find the world’s only fresh-water arctic seals. The mountains surrounding this 650 kilometre-long lake offer enormous potential for keen hikers. In the spring and summer months fruits and vegetables flourish. You will drink copious amounts of vodka washed down by water carried from the lake. And those of you for whom fishing is synonymous with poetry will find there is no better place on earth to be. Fishing is an intricate part of Siberian life. Even in the winter when the lake is solid enough to drive across, Siberians fish these waters. The delicious omul, a type of salmon, is a Siberian speciality. It is eaten smoked or frozen and salted.

Time passes slowly in Siberia and I had plenty of time to watch the Lake’s moody changes. It was at once grey and choppy, revealing little, then suddenly tranquil like someone secure in their love. The weather changes quickly too. On my first morning the Khamar-Saban mountains to the east, that had been clearly visible on my arrival, were shrouded by mist. Mid-morning brought violent wind and rain. Masha’s panic stricken eyes pleaded with me to help carry in the grass that had been drying in the previous day’s sun. After the storm came sudden sunshine that made the earth smell distinctly of the summer. The evenings were long and clear, gradually fading into a star-splattered, velvet, darkness.

I visited Lake Baikal in the summer, but, with a little help from my Siberian friends, it was not difficult to envisage the forest ablaze with autumn colour or bathed in that translucent green of spring. And in the winter when all is glittering white, the landscape, in its ice-glazed, wind-stricken vastness must almost surpass the surreal. Gorky talked of Russian peasant life in terms of poverty, squalor and suffering. He also said: “Life is always surprising us — not by its rich, seething layer of bestial refuse — but by the bright, healthy and creative human powers of goodness that are for ever forcing their way up through it. It is those powers that awaken our indestructible hope that a brighter, better and more humane life will once again be reborn.”

It was with this feeling of hope that I left Siberia. Anyone who visits Siberia will long to return. “You will return Pam. Siberia has your soul,” said Yuri, one of my new friends. Somehow I think he is right.