Walks in Gdańsk

Imagine a crossroads of trade routes in 1185: merchants from all over the world stop at a small Romanesque church. This is the beginning of a story that would last for centuries. In 1227, Prince Świętopełk handed the shrine over to the Dominicans, and soon intellectual life was thriving here. It was within these walls that the act of election to the throne was presented to King Sigismund III Vasa in 1587. Later, in 1945, monks expelled by the Soviets arrived here from Lviv, bringing the miraculous icon of Our Lady of Victory, which remains here to this day.

Photo: Krzysztof Rakowski, CC BY-SA 3.0

Imagine the 15th century. This tower, one of the oldest in Gdańsk, was part of the mighty defensive walls encircling the Main Town. But its fate was dramatic: in 1945, amidst the whirlwind of war, the tower was almost completely destroyed. It lay in ruins for decades until 1997, when it was reborn in a completely unexpected role — a museum opened its doors here, where trophies, bicycles, and footballs became the main exhibits instead of knightly armour.

Photo: Artur Andrzej, CC0

This bronze king on a rearing horse, now gazing west from the Wood Market, remembers entirely different landscapes. He was created for Lviv to guard the city, facing southeast from where danger always came. In 1944, new authorities wanted to remake the monarch into Bohdan Khmelnytsky, but the monument was miraculously handed over to Poland. It languished in Warsaw's Wilanów park while Kraków and Wrocław fought over it, yet it found its new home right here in Gdańsk.

Photo: Nemo, CC BY-SA 3.0

On December 17, 1981, just four days after martial law was imposed, Antoni Browarczyk was on his way home from work. Tension filled the streets of Gdańsk, but no one expected an ordinary commute to become a death sentence. It was here, at Rakowy Market, that a shot rang out and struck him in the head. He became the very first fatal victim of the new order in all of Poland. This monument is not merely a stone figure, but a silent reminder of a life erased in a single instant.

Photo: Fallaner, CC BY-SA 4.0

Pause before this portal. Imagine the early 17th century: an unknown architect, perhaps Abraham van den Block himself, creates a masterpiece of Dutch Renaissance style. But the most intriguing story began later, in 1686. Cistercian monks from Pelplin desperately wanted their own inn in Gdańsk, but church law forbade them from owning city property. So they resorted to a trick: they made a deal with Voivode Władysław Łoś. He formally bought the building in his own name, but secretly held it in trust for the monks. Thus, the house became a covert monastic residence for nearly a century and a half, right under the city's nose, until the order was finally dissolved.

Photo: Pumeks, Public domain

Behind these walls, people prayed while the Reformation raged outside. This was once a leper colony, then a monastery for the Carmelites — the 'White Friars' expelled from the Young Town. They dreamed of a vast three-aisle church, but funds only stretched to the presbytery and a single nave. In March 1945, over a hundred civilians fled here seeking refuge. Red Army soldiers violated the right of sanctuary: they rolled in barrels of flammable liquid and set them alight. The people burned to death along with the roof and all the interior furnishings.

Photo: Starscream, CC BY-SA 3.0

Imagine medieval Gdańsk: a shelter for the poor and sick. At the end of the 14th century, a chapel honoring St. Elizabeth was added to it. Later, in 1417, a full-fledged Gothic church grew in its place, which we see today. The Reformation drastically changed its fate: from 1557, it became a long-standing home for Gdańsk's Calvinists, until the city authorities sold it to the army in the 19th century, turning it into a garrison church.

Photo: Artur Andrzej, Public domain

Imagine the echoing platform of 1939. Four trains, between May and August, carried 130 Jewish children away from the Free City of Gdańsk to London. Their parents, trapped in a city consumed by antisemitism, watched them go, knowing they might be seeing their children for the last time. The monument's creator, Frank Meisler, was himself a ten-year-old boy on one of these transports. He was saved, but his parents soon perished at the hands of the Nazis. His sculpture is not just bronze; it is his own childhood pain and hope, frozen in time forever.

Photo: LukaszKatlewa, CC BY-SA 3.0

This church began not as a temple, but as a refuge for the outcast – first for lepers, then for the elderly and lonely. The first mention of the chapel serving the hospital dates back to 1385. Imagine a medieval city where, behind these walls, those who were feared and shunned found their last shelter. The modest Gothic chapel grew, survived a war and sieges. Heavily damaged in 1577, the temple was restored to its present form. Interestingly, from 1592 it became a Lutheran church for a long time, which completely changed its fate and architecture.

Photo: Artur Andrzej, CC0

Before you stands not just a bronze figure — this is Świętopełk II, called the Great. Imagine the 13th century: he ruled here in Eastern Pomerania, and it was he who granted Gdańsk its city rights. In his hand is that very charter, a symbol of independence. The prince fought desperately against the mighty Teutonic Order, preserving the autonomy of these lands. His cloaked figure, with sword and shield, seems to say: this city was born free.

Photo: Starscream, CC BY-SA 3.0

Imagine the 15th century. This tower, one of the oldest in Gdańsk, was part of the mighty defensive walls encircling the Main Town. But its fate was dramatic: in 1945, amidst the whirlwind of war, the tower was almost completely destroyed. It lay in ruins for decades until 1997, when it was reborn in a completely unexpected role — a museum opened its doors here, where trophies, bicycles, and footballs became the main exhibits instead of knightly armour.

Photo: Artur Andrzej, CC0

Imagine the year 1298: inside this still-young church, Władysław the Elbow-high is dispensing royal justice. It’s the oldest parish church in the Old Town, founded by the dukes of Pomerania. For nearly 400 years, it belonged to the Protestants. The tower survived a lightning strike in 1905 and the terrible fire of 1945, which brought down the roofs and the main altar. But the most dramatic scene unfolded in May 2006: flames engulfed the roof again, and firefighters formed a human chain, carrying ancient paintings and icons to safety from both water and fire.

Photo: Brosen, CC BY 2.5

Imagine a place where time doesn't just pass, it lives. We're stepping into the tower of St. Catherine's Church, lent by the Carmelite monks for a unique collection. This museum was born in 1996 from an unusual agreement between city authorities, the museum, and the monastery. Mechanisms were brought here from all over Poland — survivors of wars and fires that had lost their original towers. Here, they found a second home. But the museum doesn't just preserve the past; it's a workshop where the future is constructed, creating the most precise clocks on the planet.

Photo: Barbara Maliszewska, CC BY-SA 3.0 pl

Behind these walls, people prayed while the Reformation raged outside. This was once a leper colony, then a monastery for the Carmelites — the 'White Friars' expelled from the Young Town. They dreamed of a vast three-aisle church, but funds only stretched to the presbytery and a single nave. In March 1945, over a hundred civilians fled here seeking refuge. Red Army soldiers violated the right of sanctuary: they rolled in barrels of flammable liquid and set them alight. The people burned to death along with the roof and all the interior furnishings.

Photo: Starscream, CC BY-SA 3.0

Pause before this portal. Imagine the early 17th century: an unknown architect, perhaps Abraham van den Block himself, creates a masterpiece of Dutch Renaissance style. But the most intriguing story began later, in 1686. Cistercian monks from Pelplin desperately wanted their own inn in Gdańsk, but church law forbade them from owning city property. So they resorted to a trick: they made a deal with Voivode Władysław Łoś. He formally bought the building in his own name, but secretly held it in trust for the monks. Thus, the house became a covert monastic residence for nearly a century and a half, right under the city's nose, until the order was finally dissolved.

Photo: Pumeks, Public domain

This bronze king on a rearing horse, now gazing west from the Wood Market, remembers entirely different landscapes. He was created for Lviv to guard the city, facing southeast from where danger always came. In 1944, new authorities wanted to remake the monarch into Bohdan Khmelnytsky, but the monument was miraculously handed over to Poland. It languished in Warsaw's Wilanów park while Kraków and Wrocław fought over it, yet it found its new home right here in Gdańsk.

Photo: Nemo, CC BY-SA 3.0

This octagonal red-brick beauty appeared here in the second half of the 14th century to protect the medieval walls of Gdańsk. Just imagine: its name probably comes from the straw thatch that originally covered its roof. It was later replaced with more durable tiles. But the most unexpected thing hides inside: the small tower held a powerful gunpowder magazine. Built as a redoubt for prolonged defense, it eventually turned into a giant barrel of gunpowder — quite the straw-fire combination!

Photo: Andrzej Otrębski, CC BY-SA 3.0

Imagine the year 1298: inside this still-young church, Władysław the Elbow-high is dispensing royal justice. It’s the oldest parish church in the Old Town, founded by the dukes of Pomerania. For nearly 400 years, it belonged to the Protestants. The tower survived a lightning strike in 1905 and the terrible fire of 1945, which brought down the roofs and the main altar. But the most dramatic scene unfolded in May 2006: flames engulfed the roof again, and firefighters formed a human chain, carrying ancient paintings and icons to safety from both water and fire.

Photo: Brosen, CC BY 2.5

Imagine the 15th century. This tower, one of the oldest in Gdańsk, was part of the mighty defensive walls encircling the Main Town. But its fate was dramatic: in 1945, amidst the whirlwind of war, the tower was almost completely destroyed. It lay in ruins for decades until 1997, when it was reborn in a completely unexpected role — a museum opened its doors here, where trophies, bicycles, and footballs became the main exhibits instead of knightly armour.

Photo: Artur Andrzej, CC0

Before you stands not just a bronze figure — this is Świętopełk II, called the Great. Imagine the 13th century: he ruled here in Eastern Pomerania, and it was he who granted Gdańsk its city rights. In his hand is that very charter, a symbol of independence. The prince fought desperately against the mighty Teutonic Order, preserving the autonomy of these lands. His cloaked figure, with sword and shield, seems to say: this city was born free.

Photo: Starscream, CC BY-SA 3.0

In the mid-14th century, only a small chapel stood here, hotly disputed by two parish priests. The Gdańsk commander settled the dispute himself, and soon a mighty three-nave basilica began to rise. In 1453, the Teutonic Order halted the tower's construction by decree — they feared that tall buildings near the castle would pose a threat in case of a city revolt. However, during the Thirteen Years' War, as Gdańsk returned to Poland, work resumed. Ironically, this is exactly how the church gained its final Gothic silhouette we see today.

Photo: Julian Nyča, CC BY-SA 3.0

Picture the late 14th century: right here by the water, a small watchtower gate with a pointed passage rose up. The knights are long gone, and by the 16th century, it lost its warlike spirit, transforming into a crowded house full of workshops. Imagine the clatter of crafts instead of the clash of swords. Later, the gate donned a classicist uniform with a pediment. During World War II, it burned to the ground; only the ancient brick passage survived. This was carefully woven into the modern reconstruction, restoring the memory of its medieval beginnings.

Photo: Gorwiu, CC BY-SA 3.0

Built at the beginning of the 16th century, two mighty defensive towers earned the nickname 'Milk Churns' due to their distinctive shape. Imagine the rhythm of life on Granary Island: merchant caravans once streamed through this gate. But the most dramatic moment came in 1813, when part of the gate was destroyed during the siege of Gdańsk. Restored, it suffered again in 1945 — that time, flames consumed all the interiors and caused the roofs to collapse. From 1972, artists settled here, breathing new creative life into the old walls.

Photo: Rafał Konkolewski, Public domain

Imagine the late 14th century: outside the city walls, amid the marshes, a hospital appears for the most feared—the contagiously ill. Beside it, a tiny chapel. This place of sorrow and hope is where St. Barbara's Church began. Over the centuries, it survived three fires, a conversion from Catholic to Lutheran, use as a Napoleonic warehouse, and total destruction in 1945. When rebuilding it, one nave was deliberately removed to emphasize the Gothic core. It's a story of how a place of compassion became a symbol of incredible resilience.

Photo: Sławomir Milejski, CC BY-SA 3.0 pl