nothing.

It was a huge luxury: I had a room of my own and total freedom.

The sun shone from the moment I stepped off the train in the city centre, and it carried on more or less for the entire month, punctuated by storms that were preceded by texts from the Polish government warning me to shelter. I arrived in the city thinking that I would mainly be at my desk writing, but actually I found myself endlessly, endlessly exploring. Krakow is a city overflowing with stories, and during the month I was there, I averaged over 15,000 steps a day as I went out looking for them.

I had a YA novel under contract with Penguin, due for publication in 2027, and I knew that it was going to be set in Krakow but didn’t have a plot. For a month I interspersed working on this novel and working on existing projects, with getting out and finding my way around. I’d never been anywhere as pedestrian-friendly as Krakow (seriously: if you look as if you might want to cross the road cars and sometimes trams stop for you, and yes this did get me into trouble once I got home). Nor, I think, had I been to a city so full of stories. Everywhere you look, there’s ancient or recent history. From a preserved 14th century footprint in the stonework of a church, to Oskar Schindler’s factory, Krakow will always remind you of its incredible past. On my second night I was invited to the opening of the PEN Congress, where it became clear how fragile peace is, and how close we were to Ukraine, and a couple of days after that Russian drones were shot down in Polish airspace.

When I look back on the month now it’s a blur of sunshine, walks, bookshops, history, coffee, writing. My favourite bookshop was De Revolutionibus, across the river: its bookshelves were interspersed with tables in nooks, its cafe staff friendly and relaxed. A vinyl record was always playing, and the little courtyard at the back was the perfect place to sit with a coffee and a book. I also loved Massolit, an English-language bookshop that was a warren of rooms stocked with everything you could possibly want to read. I went often to Chimera, a restaurant that is a Krakow institution, where a salad bar offers plates piled up with food, and where I was always one of several women sitting alone with a book or notebook. On one visit a table of students sitting by the piano burst into song.

The main square, outside my apartment, was always bustling. Every single hour a trumpeter plays a fanfare in four directions from a tower of the cathedral, St Mary’s Basilica: the music is cut off mid-note, and rumour has it that this is in tribute to a sentry who sounded the alarm about invaders in the 13th century and was shot mid-warning.

I had a night-time bar tour of Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter, from Goska, a friend of my brother’s. This part of town is full of bohemian shops, bars in courtyards, hidden corners and, of course, a heavy history. Goska showed me things I’d never have noticed, and told stories that included the tale of the teenage serial killer Karol Kot and the filming of Schindler’s List. For a few days my husband Craig managed to arrange his schedule to let him pass through the city, at which point we sat in sunny courtyards, visited the salt mines, and climbed the Krakus Mound to stare at the city spread out in front of us. One night we took a random set of metal stairs to an underground bar, and found ourselves in a smoky graffitied basement serving beer and cocktails, definitely the oldest people in the room.

Back on my own, I took a day trip to Zakopane, in the mountains (Polish trains compare favourably to their UK counterparts). I followed the crowds and took the cable car up a mountain, where I found a raucous carnival atmosphere, with food stalls, games and a mountaintop ‘beach’ that was dotted with pre-Halloween pumpkins. Back in Krakow, the staff of the Festival Office, located in my building, were endlessly helpful with research for the novel that was emerging, and one day they invited me to an English language event that was about to happen, which turned out to be a discussion with Adam Gopnik and Anthony Lane of the New Yorker. Random, and joyous.

Then, suddenly, the month was over. I dragged my suitcase over the cobbles, to the station and the airport. As soon as I arrived home my sunny month of walking around the city began to feel like a dream, but now the novel it inspired is coming to life, and a part of me is back there, walking the streets in the sunshine.