It seemed to Moshkin that someone else flashed on the asphalt next to his own shadow. He shuddered, turned around - no one. He tightened his grip on the plastic bag in his coat pocket. In this "quietest city on Earth" (as the posters said), they slept soundly and for a long time, it was not accepted to stagger in the middle of the night. Moshkin was sweating and biting his nails. There was no client. It is unclear whether to wait any longer or rush home, stuff the goods in your pockets and leave. Desperate for something sweet. Moshkin thought of the sweets in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and his mouth filled with saliva. The body required sugar.
Someone slapped him on the shoulder. Moshkin jumped up - he did not hear a man come up from behind. You can't make out under the hood, but Moshkin thought he saw him at a local eatery. The man muttered: "I am from Gavrila." Moshkin thrust the bag into the stranger and immediately felt the bundle sink into another pocket. Now - home, where you can lock the door and go down to the basement. Unfold the package and count the sweets - did the client cheat? And then you can eat sweets to your heart's content, get a box of goods out of the cache and sit for a long time and examine each button. Moshkin remembered at what time and on what day he had scratched out each of these tiny drawings with a needle: a chick in a nest, a mushroom or a cunning cat's face. He knew exactly where he picked up each piece of wood, pebble or piece of glass, so that later he could attach a loop to them or make holes, paint or varnish.
It all started with my great-grandfather. When Moshkin was little, the old man often grumbled that it was not the case to give people two sweets a day. Only two people loved sweets in the family - great-grandfather and little Moshkin. Sometimes the old man suddenly brought some extra sweets from somewhere. Then the two of them climbed into the basement, ate them and examined the great-grandfather's box. It had buttons, each with a colored pattern or a tiny pebble. “This is all that remains of my case,” sighed my great-grandfather. Before the intervention, my great-grandfather had his own button shop and his own production.
Sometimes the mother would chew the old man. She would lock the kitchen door and chastise him, “Stop teaching my son about the past. He will be just like you. The twenty-second century is in the yard, forget about business (Moshkin at the age of five still did not know what it was). He doesn't need to change the world. Dreams of success are for the notorious, for the neurotics, do you understand that ?! " She thought Moshkin did not hear. But he stood at the door, listening attentively and did not understand why my mother was cursing so much. And then one day my great-grandfather left - he collected his things in ten minutes, squatted down in front of Moshkin and whispered: “See you, boy. In this country you will be happier than me. " And quickly walked out the door. No one saw him again.
Moshkin was not bothered by himself - it seemed to him that the problem was in everyone else.
15 years have passed since then, and Moshkin did not feel at all happy. He was angry with his great-grandfather - for the fact that he did not really explain anything, that he talked so little about his buttons: why did he make them, why he so wanted them to be beautiful and different, what kind of “business” it was, from whom his mother so protected. He was angry with his mother too - for scolding his great-grandfather, for the rest of the time she was deadly calm and sweet. She did not wake up at night, did not bite her nails, like Moshkin himself. They were so different from her.
It seemed to Moshkin that he was not like anyone else. The psychotherapist said that a person cannot be somehow "not like that", that one must accept oneself. And if something bothers you, you need to find reasons. But Moshkin was not worried about himself - it seemed to him that the problem was in everyone else. In the evenings, lounging on the sofa at Grishkin's (the devil knows why they became friends at all, probably because they lived in the neighborhood since childhood), Moshkin asked: “Do you know that you used to drink a lot of coffee? They bought it for money, and they could write your name on the glass. " Grishkin replied: “But this is even before the intervention. Personalized marketing. Some unfortunate notorious man really wanted to treat everyone to his coffee and was promoted with the help of these cups. I don't understand what's interesting here. " Moshkin looked at Grishkin and saw on his face the same expression of blissful calm as that of his mother.
Since his great-grandfather left, he managed to graduate from school, and there he was told what business and wealth are. Earlier, many started their own businesses and sold people the necessary, pleasant things or provided services. But even then, in the 21st century, scientists found out that most successful entrepreneurs have mental disorders: they are neurotic and obsessed with the idea that the world can be remade, that one must always strive for the best - and their anxiety is transmitted to others like a bacillus. After a series of wars and international conflicts, there was an intervention, and the most peaceful of the candidates became the president of the country. His campaign consisted of the slogans "Psychotherapy - in every home", "Love yourself as you are", etc. Psychotherapists became the most demanded specialists, the number of crimes decreased every year, the suicide statistics crawled to zero. At the same time, artificial intelligence was introduced in factories, the need for workers disappeared. At first there was an increase in unemployment, but then the country was introduced to an unconditional basic income. Money was replaced with goods. Scientists have calculated how much each person, depending on his complexion and lifestyle, needs sweet and flour, how much protein food, how many sets of clothes he wears out per year. They gave out the same things - clothes and fashionable haircuts as a way of self-expression were of no interest to anyone, people began to prefer the inside to the outside.
It seemed to Moshkin that Gavrila was always there. He stood behind the counter of a local eatery, bringing visitors tasteless pies and soups. Gavrila was an old man, but he clung tightly to his feet. In all the surrounding cities, visitors to cafes and restaurants have long been served by robots. But Gavrila said that he wants to serve until he dies. He told the local authorities that this is the only way he feels happy, and asked not to deprive him of his peace of mind. The authorities waved their hand - what can you take from him, the old man. He will work for a couple of years and die, and then a robot will be put in his place. But Gavrila did not die.
There were rumors about him that his father had a restaurant before the intervention, and visitors paid huge sums of money to eat there. Gavrila started working in his father's restaurant when he was still a teenager, then Gavrila's father left, and the restaurant turned into a simple eatery, but Gavrila still worked there, now for free. They said that once some tourist came to Gavrila's eatery and complained that the pie smelled like rotten. And Gavrila did the unthinkable. He banged his hand on the table and shouted: "What, did you pay so that I could buy good meat for the pies?" After that, he was warned: this will happen again, and he will be taken away. Everyone who started loud conversations about money, success, entrepreneurial excitement, luck, went somewhere for a long time. There were rumors about some sanatoriums where, during intensive sessions of group psychotherapy, these people finally got rid of the remnants of the past.
Messages began to arrive one after another late at night. First: “THEY ARE YOU ??? HE LEFT THEM ??? " Second: "Tomorrow after closing, knock four times."
Moshkin's great-grandfather often visited Gavrila in the eatery. When Moshkin was little, he and his great-grandfather sometimes sat there until closing time: when the doors were locked, Gavrila took sweets and delicious, fresh pies from under the counter - during the day they were not served to visitors. He and his great-grandfather whispered about something for a long time, while little Moshkin was eating candy. Since his great-grandfather left, Moshkin had never been to that diner, but he knew that Gavrila was still working there. Once, a year ago, after another sleepless night, he could not stand it. He came before closing, waited for the last visitor to leave, walked right up to Gavrila and whispered: "Tell me about my great-grandfather." Gavrila looked at him as if he had seen him for the first time: “I hardly remember him. He left 15 years ago, but I didn't really know him. " He turned away and began arranging the plates on the shelves. Then Moshkin took out a tiny bundle from his bosom and left it on the table - next to Gavrilin's telephone. Then he went out the door.
Messages began to arrive one after another late at night. First: “THEY ARE YOU ??? HE LEFT THEM ??? " Second: "Tomorrow after closing, knock four times." Third: “Do you have more buttons? You still love sweets, don't you? "
When there were very few grandfather's buttons in the box, Moshkin began to make his own. Now, on sleepless nights, he did not suffer from idleness, but came up with new drawings and colors, scratched out patterns with a needle on small pieces of glass or wood. He met with clients at night, always pulling a hood over his head and a balaclava over his face. He gave away the goods in silence so that they would not recognize them by their voice. During the day, he met people on the street, whose jackets instead of factory fasteners were sewn with multi-colored buttons, and he felt pride and triumph. Now he knew that his great-grandfather was not crazy, notorious and unhappy - he was a man who knew how to please others with unique, amazing things. After the intervention, he went abroad, taking all the money he earned. He probably died there. Gavrila said that Moshkin's great-grandfather was a stubborn, energetic and quick-witted person, his store was the oldest in the world. Each button had its own design, and people from abroad bought products from their great-grandfather for private collections. “If you ever run away from here with a couple of THESE buttons in your pocket, you can sell them abroad and use that money to build your own factory,” Gavrila said that evening when he agreed to tell Moshkin about his great-grandfather. Moshkin was surprised: “What do you mean“ run away ”? Is someone keeping me here? " Gavrila looked at him strangely and shook his head. He often did not answer questions at all. For example, he did not explain what would happen if he told everyone that it was Moshkin who makes buttons and sells for candy. He only said: “Never confess to anyone. Otherwise - a sanatorium. You don't need to go there, boy. " This angered Moshkin, but he still came to Gavrila once a week. Gavrila found buyers, Moshkin finally felt happy making buttons and receiving sweets for it. He could eat as much sweets as he wanted, and from this he became much calmer than from practicing meditation.
True, recently they began to look at him strangely. The Governor came to the City. He stopped Moshkin on the street: "Young man, tell me, wasn't your great-grandfather running a button shop?" Clients were more often late or did not come, and every time Moshkin's heart sank into his heels. He no longer wanted to hide, he saw no crime in the fact that he himself makes beautiful buttons and sells them for sweets. He wanted everyone to know about him, talk about him, and often dreamed of a magical world where this was possible. There were no police in the country, and no laws prohibiting wearing buttons. But, according to Gavrila, if someone found out that Moshkin was taking payment for his work, he would be taken away for a long time - "to a place where nothing will be left of you, boy." Gavrila also behaved more and more strangely. From him often began to receive messages: "Do not come today." Strangers hung around Moshkin's house. He began to bite his nails again and sleep poorly. One evening Gavrila sat down quite close and whispered: “If they come, run to the river. There is a border. Maybe you can go on the water. " Moshkin did not understand anything, but that evening he gnawed a nail on his thumb under the root.
The Governor came to the City. He stopped Moshkin in the street: "Young man, tell me, was it not your great-grandfather who kept a button shop?"
That night, when the client kept himself waiting longer than usual, Moshkin felt uneasy. As he returned, it seemed to him that screams were coming from somewhere. This is deception, he told himself. And then I saw smoke - from the side where Gavrila's diner was. Moshkin quickened his pace - he was in a hurry to the house, to check that he was still standing, that the basement had not been opened, but the buttons were in place. On the way, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw messages from Gavrila. First: "They know who you are, run." Second: “Buttons. Do not forget". Third: “Great-grandfather left them on purpose. For you". Moshkin put the phone in his pocket and rushed as fast as he could.
His pants and boots were completely wet from the wet grass. Moshkin wandered through the forest for several hours, he fell many times, all covered in mud. It stung in the side, the legs did not obey. At dawn, he came out of the thicket to the river. In the morning fog, the opposite bank was barely visible. Moshkin knew that the border was somewhere nearby, but he had no idea how to get there. Moshkin was crying. He felt sorry for Gavrila - for the whole night he never wrote anything else and did not answer a single message. I feel sorry for my home, homemade buttons, which remained in the box. I feel sorry for the mother, who, probably, will not understand anything.
There were several great-grandfather's buttons in his pocket, but he didn't know why he needed them now. Maybe throw it into the water? He still won't get out of here, they will find him and send him to a sanatorium, and the devil knows what will be there. Maybe Gavrila was lying? Maybe both he and his great-grandfather are crazy old people, and in the sanatorium Moshkin will finally get rid of all worries and bad habits? Maybe it's not for nothing that you can't trade anything in the Country? After all, this is only a problem. Moshkin walked quite close to the water and reached into his pocket for the buttons. And suddenly a strange object was nailed right to his feet by the current. Moshkin bent down to take a closer look. It was a half-soaked cardboard glass. On it - some kind of inscription with a felt-tip pen. After standing a little longer, Moshkin straightened up and tucked his great-grandfather's buttons back into his pocket - they will still come in handy. Unfolding the candy on the way, Moshkin quickly went against the current - to where he brought a glass with an inscription.
After the fire, Gavrila hardly left the house. There was now a robot behind the counter in the rebuilt diner. Moshkin was not found. When the commotion subsided, Gavrila tried to call him, but he only heard that "the subscriber is out of reach." Gavrila hoped that the guy was already somewhere far away, building his own little factory.
After washing the dishes, Gavrila brushed the crumbs off the table - it was not enough for strangers to come into the house and guess everything. Outside the window it was already late at night, but the time was now hectic: strangers were walking around the city and were asking everyone for something. Grunting and holding his back, Gavrila went to turn off the light. “It's long time to go to the coffin, but everyone, like a boy, I participate in secret conspiracies,” he thought to himself and smiled. There were four knocks on the window — two quick strikes and two long ones. Gavrila made his way to the door and unlocked the latch. A man in a black hooded coat slipped through the door and immediately closed it behind him. “I took out coffee, grain, a whole pack. Will you give five pies for him? " Gavrila went to put the kettle on: "Yes, take off your clothes, we'll discuss it." The man took off his coat. Instead of a zipper, his sweatshirt had buttons.
Only 20 years ago, Russia was torn apart by economic and military problems, and then it seemed that there were simply no quiet cities in the country. Now the quietest city in Russia, like its closest persecutors, is trying to do everything so that citizens do not have to worry about their lives and their own health.
The quietest and safest city in the country
Sociologists have repeatedly conducted research to identify the quietest city in Russia. In the calculation were taken indicators on the level of crime, and the number of criminal units in the village. Surprisingly, in recent years the undoubted leader of this rating is the city of Grozny.
Despite its sad past and the military conflicts that tore apart the country 15-20 years ago, now you can live in Grozny without unnecessary worries about your own safety. After the capital of the Chechen Republic was completely rebuilt and restored, a blissful peace and tranquility was established here. The crime rate is really low here, and local residents try not to stir up conflicts once again.
The only thing that girls who go to Grozny should remember is that the customs of the country are very specific. Muslim culture does not allow women to wear too open clothes, and one should not behave provocatively on the streets of the city so as not to face problems.
The Kommersant newspaper also conducted research on finding the safest city in Russia. According to research, Kaliningrad received this honorary title, where the crime rate was surprisingly low.
Some more of the safest cities in Russia
Irkutsk, Krasnodar, Belgorod and Podolsk are also on the list of cities best suited for a safe and quiet life, compiled by the Kommersant newspaper. It is believed that these cities not only have a low crime rate, but also create the best conditions for business development.
Sociological studies also place the settlement of Khasavyut, located in Dagestan, on their list of the quietest cities in Russia. It is believed that in a small town there is practically no crime, but the unemployment rate here is quite high, which affects the general economic condition of the town.
It is also noteworthy that sociological studies have demonstrated a low level of security both in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Both cities were not even included in the top twenty of the quietest settlements in Russia. Most likely this is due to the fact that, due to the large number of the population, it is very difficult to organize full-fledged protection of citizens from criminal units. However, the high level of danger of living in the capital and in St. Petersburg does not in any way affect the popularity of these cities.
The list of the safest cities in Russia may surprise someone, but these settlements have long since proven their honorable status. Despite the fact that it is really safe to live in Kaliningrad and Grozny, the overall level of criminal activity in Russia is quite high.
Quiet city
The world is great interesting places there is a lot in it. Although for someone like. One, even leaving the house, will notice something amusing in the usual landscape seen every day, give the other exoticism, since now everyone is free to fly anywhere, there would be money. Again, everyone has different approaches to choosing a place to stay: someone needs a drive, someone needs a party, someone climbs the mountains, and others just want to lie on the sand by the warm sea. I will not deny that I had a chance to travel around Russia and beyond. But, since there is a lot of information on the web, my impressions are unlikely to add anything significant. In addition, before you start learning about the world, it would be nice to get to know your country. Is it worth dreaming of the Louvre for someone who has never been to the Tretyakov Gallery or the Hermitage before? Moreover, Russia is not only rich in museums, in terms of natural beauty, there is also something to see, something to marvel at. And there is at all unique places: Kamchatka, Baikal, Mountain Altai ... You can list for a long time. For example, who has not heard about Baikal? Everyone knows that this is the deepest lake in the world and that there is more water in it than in the Caspian, and that it is of extraordinary purity. But how many people have seen Baikal? And in winter? I was honored and I will report to you, friends, an enchanting sight, you will not see such a thing on any northern sea. I don’t know why this happens, but Baikal freezes only in the second half of December. Local residents assure: the ice is so clear and transparent that you can see through the meter layer of floating fish. I haven't checked it, I haven't watched the fish through the ice, I won't lie, but I saw something else. Imagine. The beginning of December 1993, frost for thirty, and even from the sea (and the locals call Baikal just that) blows noticeably. I am standing on a hillock, the view is excellent. Before me is a huge bowl of water, through which even on a clear summer day the gaze does not reach the other side. Which is not surprising: there are forty kilometers to that coast, and the horizon, even if you climb the hillock, is only seven to eight kilometers away. And all this boundless mass of water is smoked with smoke. More precisely, not smoke, but steam. Air is -30 o C, and water is +4 o C, the temperature difference is huge, that's why the water soars with might and main. The purest, transparent air and dense, like a material wall of steam. And since windless days on Lake Baikal are rare, the columns of steam do not rise to the sky exactly. They mix, twist into spirals, take bizarre shapes that you can gaze at endlessly. In about the same way, we often look at clouds, seeing various figures in them. This is a very rough comparison, since the clouds of steam over winter Baikal make a much stronger impression. You sing beautifully, another reader will tell me, it would be nice to visit, only it will be much cheaper to fly to Thailand than to Baikal, not to mention Kamchatka. And he will be right (unfortunately!). Well, in our country there are many more affordable (both in terms of distance and price) places, one of which I want to talk about. Moreover, you will not find anything about this city on the Internet, except, perhaps, scanty reference information. Let me introduce you: the city of Bobrov, a regional center in the Voronezh region, with a population of about twenty thousand. I got to know him back in the last century, in the year 97. My close friend has ancestors from there, so I once joined him. But on the first visit Bobrov was not impressed, just a regional center, of which there are many in Russia. All the charm of this cozy town, I saw later, when I began to travel there regularly. It turned out this way because seven years ago my friend, having retired, moved there for permanent residence. I bought a house, repaired, insulated it, made an extension with a bathroom and toilet, piped water, main gas. In short, it turned out like a comfortable apartment, but in a private house. And the best part is that the river is five meters away. The fact is that Bobrov is located on a hill. Not very large, but still noticeable. The lower part of the city descends rather steeply to the river. A railway line runs approximately in the middle of the slope (there is even a platform), and even lower, along the river bank, the extreme street named after the hero of the Patriotic war, pilot Turbin, is laid. And this street is built up exclusively with private wooden houses, which makes it look typically rustic. And the river, of course. I haven't said anything about the river yet. She is called Bityug, flows into the Don. If you look in the reference book, the river, seemingly small, is inferior in all respects to the Moscow River (by the spillway as much as five times!), But when you look from Turbina Street, it does not seem so: Bityug in this place is quite wide, it will be half a kilometer. This is because picturesque islets are scattered along the riverbed here and there. Small, but densely overgrown with trees. There are, however, meadows, ideal for a picnic. And since every second has boats, sailing, if the desire arises, is not a problem. The banks of the river are very picturesque. The Voronezh region is already a forest-steppe zone, that's why there are no continuous forests, only individual groves, which, in my taste, is more pleasing to the eye than a wall of trees. Even tourist kayaking routes have been laid along Bityug. It is clear that fans of extreme sports have nothing to do there: the current is sluggish, no rapids, no rapids. But for those who just want to admire nature, rowing not for the result, but for the hunt, for their own pleasure, this is it. And those who wish are found. While swimming, I saw kayakers more than once. Such a tourist will swim to the beach, the boat will pull it out, collect it and up, hurry to the train. But the main charm of Bityug lies in the purity and amazing softness of the water. I even get up early on vacation, I do my first ablution at eight o'clock, since the nearest village beach is ten meters from the gate of the house. You enter the water up to your chest, and fry scurry between your legs at the very bottom. Later, when there are more tourists, the water becomes cloudy, but there's nothing you can do about it, the sand. Clean river sand, of course, not mud, but still morning, early swimming I love more. The water looks so clean that it makes you swallow. Of course, I didn't dare to try: we, people of the 21st century, know from childhood that one should not drink water from open reservoirs. But tell me honestly, do you know many places where you can wash your hair right in the river? They are, of course, but they are not found at every step and, what is most offensive, there are fewer and fewer of them. Bityug is one of them. In the summer, a good half of the women from Turbina Street wash their hair (and they are usually long for the ladies there) in Bityuga. The water is the softest, that's why the hairstyle turns out to be lush without any conditioners. I myself have bathed in the river more than once, it is much more pleasant than taking a shower. Despite the fact that in my friend's house the same river water flows from the shower. I understand with my mind, but my body is still more pleasant in the river. But Bityug is good not only for sunbathers, but for splashing in clean water. Fishermen have no less freedom. The only inconvenience is that fishing from the shore is not very handy. It is better to take a boat and swim to the reeds. I'm not a fan myself, but I've seen people fish. And they do not just sit with a fishing rod, but return with a decent catch. Previously, beavers settled along the banks of the river (the city was named after them), but nowadays there are no beavers left, they are exhausted. But fish and crayfish failed, which pleases. It is difficult to describe what a pleasure it is: to leave the house in the thirty-degree heat in some swimming trunks and fall into cool (25 degrees, not lower) water. And then, after swimming, lie down in a sun lounger, in the shade with a misted bottle of beer. Beer in Bobrov, by the way, I only drink local, "Voronezh Zhigulevskoe". The price cannot be compared with the Moscow one, but the quality is excellent. Well, if there is a desire to use vodka with a kebab, then only Buturlinovskaya, also local. Well, I'll tell you about it separately, it's worth it. Not bad in the evening too. As I already mentioned, Turbina Street resembles a village one. Not only reminiscent of architecture, but also the daily routine local residents ... After sunset, life stops. As soon as the living creatures (both wild and domestic) dies down, silence falls on you. No not like this. Not silence, but Silence with a capital letter. From time to time the train will knock and again it is quiet. The fish in the river mold - hear from afar. When my friend and I drink coffee in the fresh air before going to bed, we involuntarily switch to a whisper. You can literally listen to Bobrov's silence. To be honest, I have always considered this phrase stupid, something like a worn-out cliche. Until I felt it myself. Upstairs, in the city itself, it is not so, Bobrov, although small, is a regional center. And although there are no trams there, and there are noticeably fewer cars than in Moscow, there is no absolute silence in the city. And on Turbina Street it happens! Here, perhaps, one of the readers, wrinkling his forehead thoughtfully, will be sincerely surprised: is this rest? What's good about him? And this is how anyone. At work, I have to communicate a lot and get tired of it. I love work, I like it, but I get tired. The nervous tension that has accumulated over six months requires release. And I get relaxation where it is quiet and calm, where no one gets it. And in this sense Bobrov is an ideal place, a very calm city. Frankly, I fly to Thailand with great pleasure, but from time to time I am drawn to Bobrov, especially in terms of money incomparable. Nobody is in a hurry there. Even a person walking at a brisk pace, you do not meet every day, and I have never seen a running person, except for those who are improving their health. I don’t know why, but as soon as I go to the shore of Bityug, I feel such peace that my lips stretch by themselves in a blissful smile. In Moscow I sleep five to six hours and never, even on weekends, rest during the day. Doesn't pull. And in Bobrov, something strange happens to the body: after dinner, the eyes begin to stick together and for two hours, at least, I sleep like a marmot. Plus eight or nine at night. Why is that? Probably because the air is clean and the nerves are not naughty. After spending a week visiting a friend, for two months I feel an unusual surge of energy and practically do not get nervous. Then the body gradually returns to its usual Moscow state and I again start counting the days until the next trip ... Anyway, today, on Turbina Street, native Bobrovites, God forbid, make up two-thirds. The rest of the houses were bought by nonresident citizens (mainly Voronezh residents) and are used as summer cottages. Why not? Fortunately, the cost of living in Bobrov is noticeably lower than even in Voronezh, not to mention Moscow. Five or six years ago, one could have dinner at Victoria, the central restaurant of the city at that time, for one and a half thousand rubles for four, surprising those around with a rich order. Around the same time, private taxi drivers were trying to give change from fifty rubles. Of course, over the years, prices have grown, but the quality of life has also improved. The level of provision of citizens of almost any city is clearly visible from the cars, especially when you observe the process of development. Seven years ago, a foreign car on the streets of Bobrov was a rarity (like a Mercedes on a Moscow street in the seventies). Nowadays there are quite a lot of them (although less than half so far) and not all are used. But even today you can relax in Bobrov qualitatively and cheaply, no matter who might think about this. For those who, like me, believe that it is possible to have a rest at home (and not necessarily in Sochi or in Kislovodsk), getting pleasure from such a rest, I will give a small transport and logistics information, and then I will continue. Getting to Bobrov from Moscow will not work directly. There seems to be a bus going almost to the destination. Almost, but not quite, because the city is located ten kilometers from the Rostov highway. Anyway, the bus, in my opinion, is not comfortable, although it is much cheaper than a train. But the train is simpler and more convenient, there are many of them to the south, so there are usually no problems with tickets, even in the holiday season. True, you have to go with a change, the railway line passes through Bobrov, but it is, so to speak, of local importance. It is best to take a ticket to Liski (formerly Georgiu-Dej), and then take the train. The distance from Liski to Bobrov is forty-five kilometers, by train an hour, by taxi - thirty minutes. You can also get to Voronezh by a local fast, but from there it is further to Bobrov, about a hundred kilometers to the southeast. So, we have silence, peace and excellent swimming in clean water (and, if desired, good fishing), but that's not all! And what about natural products? Many products of everyday use in our menu are only homemade. Who has not tried it will not understand me. For example, ham. The store has it, of course, and not bad, but why? Why, when a familiar specialist from your pork will make you want ham, you want boiled pork. Yes, one that you will never get at a meat processing plant. Have you ever tasted a smoked goose from a young goose, who only yesterday nibbled grass? Have you tried sour cream, which you can smear on bread instead of butter? And the testicles right from under the chicken, which go well in their raw form, but ... In general, that's enough, otherwise I'll salivate. But I promised to tell you about Buturlinovskaya vodka. Buturlinovka is a neighboring regional center just forty kilometers from Bobrov. And there is a vodka factory. Small, but the product gives out, of such quality that no other vodka, whether domestic or foreign, can not stand comparison with it. Unfortunately, a Muscovite has no chance to try this drink, little is produced, everyone is on the spot and consumed. Unless some Bobrovite will come to visit and treat. I admit that by this passage I have deprived myself of several important points from the vegetarian judges, but there's nothing you can do about it. Although we are primates, we are predatory animals, and, in my opinion, in high latitudes, where winters are longer than summer, meat is indispensable. As for vodka ... Firstly, we are all adults here, and secondly, a high-quality product cannot harm health. If, of course, you know when to stop. Because a sense of proportion is the main quality that distinguishes a reasonable person from an unreasonable person. And the fact that any medicine in excess of the dose can become poison, any doctor will confirm. Those who yearn for more active rest, can wander or travel around the area. Nature will delight, believe me. But there are also worthy objects of material culture. First of all, this is a shitty stud farm. It was founded in the town of Khrenovoe (emphasis on the last o) on October 24, 1776 by Count Alexei Grigorievich Orlov-Chesmensky. In the century before last, it was at this plant that Bityugov, a famous breed of heavy draft horses, whose name became a household name, was bred. In the 19th century, almost all horse-drawn transport in the Russian Empire was kept on Bityugs (horses were named after the river, as you might have guessed). Later, already in Soviet times, when the more successful Vladimir heavy trucks were brought out, Bityugov ceased to be bred and today the breed has practically disappeared. But the plant is functioning, now Oryol trotters and Arabian horses are bred there. However, the Khrenovskaya plant is interesting not only for its horses, but also for the fact that the entire complex of industrial buildings was designed by the architect Gilardi. Yes, yes, by doing so. So you can admire the creations of Italian masters not only in St. Petersburg. It's easy to get to Khrenovoy, just 23 kilometers from Bobrov. In search of peace of mind, you don't have to retire to the desert. Clear water is not only found in the Maldives, and organic dairy products are not only in the Alps. And the patriot of his country is not the one who often talks about it, but the one who simply loves her. Completed in March 2013.
