I Flew 3,500 Miles Across Siberia for a Beer. COVID Gave Me 24 Hours, a Giant Lenin Head and a Panicked Escape

I've always had a weakness for unusual destinations.

Give me a choice between Paris and somewhere most people have never heard of, and I'll usually choose the place that's harder to pronounce. It's not that I dislike famous cities. It's just that the stories tend to be better in places where guidebooks become slightly nervous.

That's how I ended up booking a trip to Ulan-Ude.

Located deep in Siberia, east of Lake Baikal and closer to Mongolia than Moscow, Ulan-Ude had all the ingredients I look for in a destination. There was fascinating history, a unique local culture, Buddhist monasteries, local beer and the world's largest Lenin head. As somebody who has spent years travelling in search of unusual drinks and unusual places, it felt almost irresponsible not to visit.

The plan was simple. Fly to Ulan-Ude, discover the local booze, explore the city and return home with a few stories. Instead, I accidentally found myself in a race against the Russian government.

First Impressions: Siberia Is Bigger Than You Think

One thing I've learned about Russia is that maps are deeply misleading. You look at the country and think, "That doesn't seem too far." Then you board a plane and six hours later you're still travelling across Russia.

The flight to Ulan-Ude felt less like a domestic route and more like an international expedition. By the time I arrived, I'd travelled further than many European holidays and was standing in a city most people couldn't place on a map if their life depended on it.

Which immediately made me like it.

Ulan-Ude feels different from the moment you arrive. Russian influences mix with Buryat traditions, Buddhist culture sits alongside Soviet history and the whole place has an atmosphere unlike anywhere else I've visited. It doesn't feel like western Russia.

It feels like somewhere entirely its own.

The World's Largest Lenin Head

Naturally, my first stop was the giant Lenin head.

I've seen a lot of Soviet monuments over the years. I've driven through Transnistria, explored forgotten corners of the former USSR and spent more time photographing communist statues than any wine merchant probably should.

Nothing prepared me for this thing.

The Lenin head dominates the central square with an extraordinary level of confidence. It doesn't look like a statue so much as a Soviet engineering project that escaped supervision. Standing beneath it, I found myself wondering who first proposed the idea and how nobody in the planning meeting suggested perhaps making it slightly smaller.

Thankfully, they didn't.

Travel would be poorer without giant Lenin heads.

The photographs alone justified the journey.

Monasteries, Mountains And One Extremely Dedicated Monk

The real highlight of the trip came later.

I joined a local excursion that took us beyond the city and into the surrounding countryside. The landscapes were spectacular, rolling across Siberia beneath huge skies that seemed determined to remind visitors how small they are.

Our destination was a Buddhist monastery.

Actually, several monasteries.

The region is one of Russia's most important centres of Buddhism and visiting these sites offered a fascinating contrast to the Soviet history I'd spent much of the morning exploring. Prayer flags fluttered in the wind, monks moved quietly through the grounds and the atmosphere felt remarkably peaceful.

Then I met a monk who had been dead for decades.

This was not where I expected the day to go.

One of the monastery's most famous attractions is the preserved body of a revered monk, often referred to as the "incorruptible lama". Sitting in a meditation position, his body appears astonishingly well preserved and remains a source of fascination for visitors and pilgrims alike.

The experience was genuinely remarkable.

It was also one of those moments where you realise your day has become impossible to explain to friends back home.

"So what did you do today?"

"Well, I saw the world's largest Lenin head and met a monk who still appears to be meditating."

Travel occasionally writes its own comedy.

The Churchill Pub Plot Twist

After a day of sightseeing, history and cultural exploration, I decided it was finally time to focus on my original mission.

The booze.

This was, after all, the reason I'd come.

That evening I found myself sitting in the Churchill Pub in Ulan-Ude, enjoying a beer and congratulating myself on a successful trip. The city had been fascinating, the monastery visit had exceeded expectations and the local beer was performing exactly as required.

Everything was going very well which should have worried me.

Because whenever a travel story starts feeling too straightforward, reality usually prepares an intervention.

Halfway through my drink, news began spreading through the bar and across travellers' phones. COVID restrictions were escalating. The Russian government was preparing major border measures and uncertainty was growing by the hour.

Suddenly, what had been a relaxing evening became something else entirely.

The atmosphere changed.

The Great Siberian Escape

Within a remarkably short period of time, I went from leisurely beer drinker to mildly concerned international traveller.

The calculation was simple. Stay in Ulan-Ude and risk becoming stranded thousands of miles from Moscow, or get on the next available flight and worry about the details later.

I chose the flight.

This decision felt sensible at the time. Looking back, it was definitely the correct call.

Within hours I was heading back towards the airport, preparing for another six-hour journey across Russia. My carefully planned booze-hunting adventure had transformed into a race against changing regulations.

This wasn't quite the ending I'd imagined. Then again, the best travel stories rarely follow the itinerary.

Pobeda Airlines And The Culinary Experience

The return flight was operated by Pobeda Airlines. If you've never flown with Pobeda, imagine an airline that has studied the concept of hospitality and decided to conduct a minimalist experiment.

Food was not part of the experience.

Snacks were not part of the experience.

Luxury was certainly not part of the experience.

At one stage, warm water appeared to be the closest thing available to onboard catering. Somewhere over Siberia, I found myself staring into a cup of lukewarm water and reflecting on the fact that this was not how I'd imagined concluding a booze-focused expedition.

The irony was difficult to ignore.

I'd flown across Russia in search of alcohol and ended up celebrating hydration.

Ulan-Ude Airport Smelled Like A Distillery

Before departure, however, there was one final reminder that Siberia remained committed to its reputation.

Several fellow passengers appeared determined not to waste their final hours on the ground. Bottles emerged. Toasts were exchanged. Vodka disappeared at a pace that suggested some form of organised competition was underway.

By boarding time, parts of the departure lounge smelled less like an airport and more like a small but ambitious distillery. Nobody seemed particularly concerned. In fairness, they were probably having a better journey than I was. At least they weren't surviving on warm water.

Why This Became One Of My Favourite Travel Stories

Years later, I barely remember the beer I drank in the Churchill Pub.

I remember the giant Lenin head.

I remember the monastery.

I remember the preserved monk.

I remember sprinting from relaxed tourist to emergency traveller in the space of an evening. Most of all, I remember the absurdity of flying thousands of miles to Siberia for a day trip that somehow contained more adventure than many week-long holidays.

That's why I love unusual destinations.

It's the same reason guests enjoy our tours in Moldova, Georgia and Transnistria. People think they're booking a winery, a brewery or a sightseeing experience. What they actually collect are stories. The destination simply provides the backdrop.

Was The Booze Worth It?

Absolutely.

Not because I discovered the greatest beer in Siberia. Not because I became an expert in local drinking culture.

The trip was worth it because it delivered exactly what good travel should deliver. It surprised me. It confused me. It gave me stories that still make me laugh years later.

I flew across Russia looking for booze. Instead, I found giant Soviet monuments, Buddhist monasteries, a legendary monk, an airport that smelled like vodka and an emergency escape worthy of a low-budget action film.

Looking back, that's considerably better than the original plan.