My dog Sonny broke my finger earlier this year. He’s a Chart Polski, which translates as ‘Polish sighthound’, and he’s one of about 700 in the world. I was trying to stop him from going after a deer. Even with a muzzle, he could’ve felled it. Chart Polskis hurl themselves in front of the deer’s legs to trip it with their impossibly strong necks. On this occasion, Sonny, who I named after the boxer Sonny Liston, pulled me down a mountain. Because of my broken finger, I came up with a new temporary playing technique. I figured that if the jazz great Django Reinhardt could play guitar with two fingers, then I could have a go on the violin with three. I played a couple of gigs in Germany and no one noticed the difference. Either that’s an indictment of my playing or their knowledge as an audience. A lot of musicians have their fingers insured, but I’ve never bothered. Why pay some monkey behind a desk to do nothing?

I live in a little village in the Pieniny mountains, in the south-east of Poland. Christmas celebrations here begin on 24 December with Wigilia, a meat-free, booze-free supper served when the first star appears in the sky, followed by Shepherd’s Mass in the village church at the end of the evening. Most years I play with a local highlander band at the mass. These guys have all got so-called real jobs, but in their spare time they play the most glorious traditional music. Sometimes kids of 12 or 13 come up to play with them, so the music is handed on to the next generation. I’m not Catholic, but I like being part of the community here because it’s so small. My Polish isn’t great, so during the sermons, when I don’t have a clue what’s being said, I look around, admiring the beauty of the church, while other band members break their abstinence by sneaking out the back for homemade vodka between songs.

There are only about 80 households in our village and now there are also 40 or so Ukrainian refugees, mostly women and children who don’t know if they are going to see their husbands or fathers again. Poland has taken in more Ukrainians than any other country since the war began – one and a half million – and the new arrivals are proving to be a bit of a strain on health services, social security and education. Yet even in a small, tight-knit village like this one, I don’t sense any resentment whatsoever. A friend of mine who normally rents his spare rooms to families for holidays has decided to give up this chunk of his income while he looks after Ukrainians. A year and a half later, he doesn’t give it a second thought.

What interests me is the emotional intelligence of music, not the formal aspects, which might be why I like old film music so much. I’ve been playing Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence a lot lately. Ryuichi Sakamoto, who composed the music for the 1983 David Bowie film, is a beautifully sensitive musician and I have an affinity with his music in the same way that I have with Bach or Jimi Hendrix. I’ve not written a film score before but it’s my ambition to do so. I’m used to working with moving images. When I’m back in England I practise playing along to Judge Judy (not that there is much relationship between Bach and Judy). Cricket is also great to play to because it’s so slow-moving. I can take my eyes off it for a minute and when I look back nothing has happened, except one batsman has got a bit fatter.

That said, I don’t go back to England very often these days. During the pandemic I was so grateful I lived in the mountains among people who don’t give a toss about whatever the World Health Organisation is saying. You can’t tell a highlander what to do. Nobody wore masks or adhered to any lockdown and the police never bothered to do anything about it. While I was carrying on with my life as normal, I read with horror the stories on the BBC about people reporting each other to the authorities for going out jogging twice in a day, or for sitting too close to someone on a park bench. It’s as if some people were envious of the Poles for having lived under communism and they were desperate to become little informants themselves. I have to believe the dire picture I formed of home wasn’t the truth. People weren’t ratting on each other for going jogging, were they? Did everyone really stockpile toilet paper?

Another reason I’m avoiding England at the moment is there seems to be an attack from all directions on people enjoying themselves. You can’t say the wrong word or you’re banned from the media. You can’t drive more than 20 miles an hour in built-up areas, even though that’s actually more dangerous because you’re nervously watching your speedometer instead of the road. Oh, and if you’re young you’re never going to be allowed to smoke. In a way I love Rishi Sunak’s idea because it’s so wacky. I never thought he had a personality before but now I see he’s a comedian.

My village has a small music club in a converted sheep barn which is half the reason I moved here. It’s a completely crazy idea that it would be a success in this remote part of the world, and yet it is. It’s always full up and the crème de la crème of jazz musicians from Poland and Germany come and play. I feel so lucky that I don’t need to get on an aeroplane or drive for miles when I want to try out new music in front of a live audience. I can just trudge down the hill with my violin.