From Poglish to C2, and everything in between.
Britam wasn’t just a language school; it was a small ecosystem with its own distinct weather. The main branch on Górnych Wałów sat right in the centre of Gliwice, close enough to my apartment that I could walk there in ten to fifteen minutes or cycle in five—provided the dreaded spider junction traffic wasn’t stacked against me.
One of the most surreal moments of those early days occurred the very first time I walked through the main doors at Górnych Wałów and found myself face‑to‑face with a life‑size British bobby. There he stood, smiling politely beside a classic red telephone box, holding Britam leaflets inside his cardboard pocket like a multilingual constable on recruitment duty. He was almost my physical height, which only multiplied the absurdity. I’d safely been in Poland for perhaps five minutes, and a cardboard caricature of my past career had already beaten me to the job. Every day I entered the school, I’d pass him on my way to the stairs, look him in his glossy eye, and think: Well, Gary… you really couldn’t make this one up.
Inside, especially between classes, the building hummed with an intense, organized chaos: teachers drifted in and out of classrooms, students clutched grammar books, and an infamous photocopier chugged and rattled away like an old steam engine in the corner of the staff room. Between lessons, the stairwells became rushing rivers of noise as students thundered up and down the steps — some heading home with visible relief, others bracing themselves for another ninety minutes of extra schooling. On the busiest afternoons, the staircases were so packed that the crowds on the staircase would part just enough for an accidental Moses moment, allowing me to squeeze through with two heavy bags slung over my shoulders — entirely breathless but pretending otherwise.
I always tried to remind myself that no matter their age or linguistic level, most of these students had already survived a gruelling full day at school, university, or work. By the time they reached our classrooms, they were tired, hungry, and trying hard to stay afloat. Meanwhile, I was doing my best impression of a functioning civilian adult, weaving through the crowds and on some days, climbing what felt like an unreasonable number of stairs to reach whichever classroom I’d been assigned for my forty‑five‑minute slot.
I’d stand in the corridor for a brief moment, trying desperately to get my breathing under control. The trick was to enter the room as if I hadn’t just completed a brutal mountain stage of the Tour de France — calm, unfazed, and hoping no one noticed the faint wheeze that followed me across the threshold like an uninvited guest.
It was a school with real structure and high expectations — timetables that ran like rigid railway lines, levels stretching from ‘Poglish’ to C2, and an academic culture that beautifully balanced seriousness with a surprising amount of internal warmth. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I was learning how to belong.
Four years earlier, two Polish nationals had volunteered for my community cohesion project in North Wales, both became close friends. Now, the tables had turned. Reunited in Silesia, I was the clueless outsider clutching a grammar book, and they were the established professionals — graduates in English philology and trained, confident educators. I had stepped entirely into their world. One was based at Górnych Wałów, the other in Britam’s Bytom branch, and the sheer improbability of the setup never quite settled. It felt as though vivid episodes of my past life had quietly travelled across Europe ahead of me, taking their places in the classrooms before I had even arrived.
If Britam had a heart, mine was anchored firmly in the teachers’ room at Górnych Wałów, thanks to a colleague who quickly became my rock. She was always ready to decipher a cultural nuance, always genuinely happy to see me, and always pressed a warm drink into my hand before I’d even managed to unbutton my winter coat. She taught me the vital, unwritten rituals of the academy: arrive the exact microsecond the doors open if you want any mathematical chance of conquering the dreaded photocopier; never trust the blinking toner light; and always, always keep a backup worksheet tucked safely inside your pocket. Between her presence, the school itself, and my other friend teaching down the line in Bytom, it felt as though an invisible safety net had been gently arranged beneath my feet.
The Bytom branch only added to the dreamlike sense of unreality. It occupied the upper stories of a traditional, grand kamienica on Dworcowa—a street lined with architecture so ornate and expressive it felt like walking through an open-air art gallery. Inside the school, the ceilings were extraordinarily high, the doors felt enormous, and the fixtures carried an old‑world dignity. Yet, the academy branch itself was tiny—just four classrooms tucked into the building like a quiet secret. I would never have found the entrance without a local guide, who navigated Bytom’s maze with the absolute certainty of a man who had surveyed every corner of Silesia twice. Stepping into that cupboard-sized teachers’ room and seeing my friend sitting there didn’t even feel surprising any more; it just felt quietly unreal, as if this version of my destiny had simply been waiting for my legs to catch up.
I wouldn’t be able to write honestly about Britam without including Pani Grażyna, the Director of Education and one of the school’s founders. Pani is the traditional Polish honorific for “Mrs.,” but it carries a soft depth of respect that English translations fail to capture. She possessed that rare, beautiful blend of natural authority and gentleness that steadied your nerves the moment she spoke. Nothing was ever too much trouble for her. She arranged my complex timetable with an almost maternal care, doing everything within her administrative power to keep my Fridays and weekends free, and she patiently guided me through the labyrinth of local tax forms and the quiet bureaucratic hurdles of an international move. She was calm when I was panicking, patient when I stumbled over terminology, and unfailingly kind. I couldn’t have asked for a better employer or a more welcoming introduction to working life in Poland.
Yet, one of the most surreal moments of those early days occurred the very first time I walked through the main doors at Górnych Wałów and found myself face‑to‑face with a life‑size British bobby. There he stood, smiling politely beside a classic red telephone box, holding Britam leaflets inside his cardboard pocket like a multilingual constable on recruitment duty. He was almost my physical height, which only multiplied the absurdity. I’d safely been in Poland for perhaps five minutes, and a cardboard caricature of my past career had already beaten me to the job. Every day I entered the school, I’d pass him on my way to the stairs, look him in his glossy eye, and think: Well, Gary… you really couldn’t make this one up.
Hello… hello… what’s going on here than? My cardboard doppelgänger greeting students at the front door.
Next:
Follow the Story:
Leave a Reply