Jawor - ZAMEK BOLKÓW

Long weekend, two riders of the apocalypse, their faithful steeds, and the Lower Silesian hills and storms... between one day of brewery intoxication and the next, the mentioned riders decided to enrich themselves a bit and take a piece of local history... starting in Jawor, supposedly the capital of Lower Silesia, the first few kilometers on a rather busy asphalt road lead us to Gross Rosen, the concentration camp in Rogoźnica. There isn't much left of this place, although the field crematorium and the wall of death are impressive... to put it mildly, unpleasant... After moments of reflection and contemplation, we head towards Bolków. Our goal is the ruins of the castle. We ride all the time on asphalt, so at some point, for variety and for 'fun', we venture onto a stony dirt road, which seems gentle :] but it can't be done without adrenaline, so one of the riders pedals with all his might to overtake his faithful steed after a few seconds and land just in front of it, unfortunately without a telemark. Fortunately, our fearless riders are almost indestructible and after drinking in the next village by the picturesque shoreline of what flows down from the mountains (it was brown in color), a non-alcoholic beer, complete regeneration of strength occurs. At almost light speed, we reach Bolków. We drive up a fairly steep cobbled street towards an even steeper cobbled street leading to our destination. After climbing to the top, it turned out that one-half a beer doesn’t last long, as can be seen in the attached photos, we and our steeds are grazing in a beautiful meadow at the foot of the castle. The locals here, probably all Bolkos, are very nice, first they let us into the castle for half price, and then they take care of our two wheels, although they don't have to keep an eye on them because no one else except us knows how to ride them. The most interesting exhibit in the castle is the brown socks pulled up to the knees and the suede shoes of some German, which gave us a good laugh. As we mentioned, one beer doesn't last long, so on the way back, supposedly in Wiadrow (apparently everyone here has buckets instead of bathtubs), we stopped at a delightful little shop 'REJS' shaped like a bucket of course. The lovely shop assistant directed us to the feeding trough, where we were supposed to indulge in the endless tasting of chilled Harnasi. But here we were greeted by an even nicer surprise, two locals with heads resembling buckets, levitating just above the ground probably since their 10th year of age. They were extremely happy to see us, although it was hard to tell as they were slightly blurred. After a brief chat, we learned that the fields of Wiatrowa come from Rzeszów. However, the hardest part was remembering 67 versions of the return roads to Jawor drawn with a fingernail on the wooden table. With an indescribable smile on our faces, we left our locals. With a reserve of strength, now without stops we headed to the plot, where nude girls were waiting for us preparing sausages on the grill.