It begins, as these things often do, with a joke. But the joke is on the British tourist, now warned that the road to hell – or at least to the Polish seaside resort of Hel – is paved with EU regulatory chaos. Poland has revived its infamous ‘666’ bus route, a direct service to the town of Hel, which had been suspended for years. The number, long a source of dark humour for locals and tourists alike, is back on the timetables. And the Foreign Office has issued a quiet alert: British travellers should brace for disruption, as the return of this line is a symptom of a deeper regulatory confusion gripping the bloc.
For those unfamiliar with the cultural lore: the ‘Highway to Hel’ was never officially called that. But the combination of the route number – 666, the biblical number of the beast – and the destination – Hel, which sounds like the English word ‘hell’ – proved irresistible. For years, British backpackers and thrill-seekers made the pilgrimage, snapping selfies with the bus sign as a badge of gallows humour. Then, in 2020, the service was axed, ostensibly due to low demand and post-pandemic cuts. A minor footnote in transport history.
Now, it is back. And the official reason is instructive. According to Polish transport authorities, the revival is driven by a need to improve connectivity under new EU mobility directives. But here is where the chaos creeps in. The directives, designed to standardise cross-border transport, have instead created a patchwork of local exemptions and reinterpretations. The 666 bus is a small piece of a larger puzzle: a bus that runs on a single route, but which is now subject to conflicting regulations between Polish regional governments and EU oversight. For British tourists, no longer EU citizens, this means navigating a system that is neither fully integrated nor clearly signposted.
The human cost is less dramatic than apocalyptic. It is the cost of confusion. A British family planning a summer trip to the Baltic coast might find that their travel insurance doesn’t cover bus delays caused by regulatory disputes. Or that a simple journey from Gdansk to Hel now requires checking multiple timetables, as the 666 is not always guaranteed to run. The cultural shift is more profound. For years, British tourists have been the loudest, most visible presence on routes like this. Now they are outsiders, reliant on goodwill and luck. The bus number 666 was once a silly joke. Now it feels like an omen: a symbol of a relationship that has soured into a bureaucratic nightmare.
On the streets of Hel, locals are bemused. “We never thought the bus was cursed,” a café owner told me. “It was just a number. Now the tourists are nervous. They ask me if it’s safe to take the 666. I tell them, safer than Brexit.” There is a wryness in his voice. The Polish are not malicious. They are adapting, as they always have. But for the British visitor, the revival of this route is a reminder that the certainties of the past – cheap flights, smooth border crossings, the easy camaraderie of being a European traveller – are gone. Now, even a joke can become a warning.
The Foreign Office advice is careful. It warns of “possible service interruptions due to unresolved regulatory frameworks.” But the real message is unspoken: expect the unexpected. The 666 bus has become a litmus test for the new disorder. And for any British tourist tempted by its devilish appeal, the choice is simple: laugh, or cry. Either way, you might miss your stop.
