Vilnius: Cross-section of the Commonwealth

No, Vilnius had very little to do with the British Empire - we're actually referring to the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth that lasted from 1569 to 1795, which managed what even Napoleon and Hitler never could (sack Moscow). The diversity in Vilnius' architecture reflected the scale of the sprawling polity it once was a part of. The four days we spent there were more than amply rewarded.

Below: the closest we came to colours of the wind, opposite St Anne's Church in Vilnius

The largest state in Europe - a where-are-they-now edition

We've seen how the Estonians and the Latvians came so decisively under the cosh of crusaders and of covetous neighbouring empires. So how did their southern neighbours, the Lithuanians, go from pagan minnows to regional powerhouse?

Geography and geopolitics were key in explaining this difference in political trajectories. The eastern Baltic coast inhabited by the tribes that later made up the Estonian and Latvian peoples was more easily reached from elsewhere in the Baltic (precisely where the crusaders hailed) than the inland areas where the Lithuanian tribes lived, protected as it was by wood and wetland. Also, the Baltic coast saw repeated attempts by neighbours strong enough to incorporate the area into their empire-building projects. By contrast and particularly between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, the Lithuanians' own empire-building efforts were boosted by the smashing of the regional status quo by the (long) excursions and incursions of the Mongols.

Below: Full moon on Christmas over Three Crosses Hill, the world's first since Mark Hamill first tried to destroy a spaceship that looked exactly like it.

And so the Lithuanians, through both conquest and clever politics (involving a dynastic union with Poland), came to build what was at one stage the largest state in Europe. Its territories from the Baltic to the Black Seas are represented today by the countries of Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine and Poland. Vilnius was a microcosm of this melange of cultures. Jews (most murdered during the Second World War) and Poles (also deported at the end of the war) predominated in a city where Belarusians, Ukrainians and Lithuanians (an absolute minority) also lived. In fact, between 1920 and 1939, Vilnius belonged to Poland. The Soviet takeover of these parts in 1944 saw the city given to Lithuania, as well as a series of population exchanges (and less well-publicized pogroms) that consequently homogenized the city's population. The first fridge magnet we saw on our first day reflected the current state of the world's (lack of) knowledge of Lithuania. It read Lithuania is here, and yes we exist.

Vilnius: cross-section of the Commonwealth

The diversity thread began at Hostel Jamaika where we put up, which has been one of the more intriguing places we've stayed at so far. Our top-floor room was dissected by a slanting roofbeam, which our sore crowns were well-acquainted with. Our beds were mattresses on beer crates. And the only windows faced the sky. The thin walls showed up perfectly our tone-deaf line-up of neighbours over four days - first a Russian party that enjoyed crooning to Aqua's Barbie Girl and then a merry troupe of German bachelors chirping repeatedly to Bob Marley's Three Little Birds.

Below: Our room in Hostel Jamaika. Spot the slanting roofbeam in the middle of the room. Our first instinct after getting out of bed, since, is to duck.

Along the same street as Hostel Jamaika were two monuments to writers also honoured elsewhere - Taras Shevchenko (widely regarded as Ukraine's national bard) and Frantisak Bahusevic (who was inspired by Shevchenko in his efforts to build up a Belarusian literary canon). Just to complete the literati Grand Slam, elsewhere in town stand two other monuments of note: one to Adam Mickiewicz, claimed by both the Polish and Lithuanian pantheons, and another to Elijah Ben Shlomo Zalman, the Gaon of Vilne who in his time was widely respected within Ashkenazic Jewry. All lived at least a part of their lives in Vilnius.

Above (clockwise from top left): a sample of the distinguished alumnus of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth who once lived in Vilnius, starting with the Gaon of Vilne, Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman, the "saintly genius of Vilnius" who stories tell tried to make a golem once; Francisak Bahusevic, who was inspired by contemporary Ukrainian efforts to build up a Belarusian literary canon; Adam Mickiewicz, born in present-day Belarus, schooled in Lithuania, wrote in Polish; Taras Shevchenko, widely-recognised father of Ukrainian literature, whose works inspired Bahusevic.

Below: the labyrinthine streets of Vilnius' Old Town.

We had a low key start to our stay in Vilnius. It was Christmas morning, and the streets were silent. Even McDonald's opened only at ten. By the time we were done with breakfast it had started drizzling (again!). We took refuge in the Roman Catholic St Teresa's Church, where we walked into a Christmas Mass. The ornate interior, an assault of details, defies earthly perception. As the choir sang, Mary felt as if otherworldly voices were lifting her towards heaven. Within a hundred paces of St Teresa's were the Russian Orthodox Church of the Holy Spirit and the Ukrainian Uniate Holy Trinity Church. The former was dark and silent, the latter in a state of disrepair which contrasted sharply with the enthusiastic welcome we received from its caretaker. They were the first of many churches we stepped into, a concentration which has earned Vilnius the titles of Little Rome, and the Athens and Jerusalem of the North.

Above (top to bottom): Churches of Vilnius, of various shapes, sizes and denominations, the Church of St Teresa, where Mary was nearly carried away by heavenly chorals of Alleluia; the Ukrainian Uniate Holy Trinity Church, worlds apart in maintenance levels but only two walls away from St Teresa's; the Russian Orthodox Church of St Paraskeva

Below (top to bottom): More churches, Vilnius Cathedral, built to resemble a Greco-Roman temple outside, and a massive examination hall inside; the Church of St Catherine, whicj we couldn't enter because there a concert waiting to begin; the Franciscan Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, like a number of other churches in Vilnius, barely holding together, but still looking like Jane Fonda at 75.

Waiting a while for our white Christmas

The streets grew more crowded as Christmas Day wore on. We followed the throngs on the main north-south artery to Cathedral Square on the Old Town's northern edge, where - surprise surprise - we found a bustling Christmas market, comprising cookie-cutter stalls made uninspiringly of white chipboards. Mary didn't care so much, and promptly tucked into a cup of churros bought from a corner Russian-run stall.

Below: Mary's Christmas churros, and no we don't talk to our food.

Christmas passed, and the days grew colder. There was still areas in Vilnius we didn't explore, despite a full day's walking on Christmas itself. On our penultimate evening, it started snowing, the snowfall intensifying as evening turned to night. We couldn't have asked for a better timing. We retreated to our room, and stepped out the next morning to a city coated enchantingly in a thin layer of fresh snow.

Below: Stepped out into a winter wonderland on our last day in Vilnius.

At this point I must add that all the weather forecasts we've consulted on our trip have had a 100% hit rate. Never let it be said again that meteorologists are paid for getting things wrong on the job! So, snow meant it was a good time to get a different panorama of the Old Town from Gediminas Hill, named after the Lithuanian chieftain who established the city. On its slopes we were hit with the embarrassing realisation that gravity works harder on overcautious inching foreigners (unused to snow) than on steady plodding elderly or heedless prancing youth.

Below: Gediminas' Tower, built on a hill overlooking the Old Town, and the wonderful views from its stone walls.

It was a befitting moment to crown our stay in Vilnius - the view from Gediminas Hill, I meant. Snowfall heralds very visibly the transition from autumn to winter, and can be very charming before eventually being crushed underfoot to sooty slush.

But we didn't get any snow where we headed next. Instead we got clear blue skies for the first time on this trip, and lots of shivers.

Sigulda: walks in the woods

All my travels I've been trying to come to terms with bad weather. Rain means Gortex out, items in daypack to be rearranged so gadgets go under more water-resistant layers (I know, we need rain covers) and above all bad visibility, particularly if the day has been earmarked for hiking in the mountains. I think I've coped better in recent years, what with Mary next to me reminding me that I can't be in control of everything.

Our two days in Sigulda proffered a mighty test of this newfound sangfroid. It rained the moment we arrived at nearly half past four in a darkening afternoon, and only stopped on our last day (of which only a quick two hours was spent sightseeing).

Below: Mary and I do our best "Welcome to North Korea" impersonation at Paradise Hill.

Sigulda is situated on the left bank of the Gauja Valley (and amongst the wooded hills of the similarly named Gauja National Park), nearly fifty kilometres east of the Latvian capital Riga. Popularly promoted as the Latvian Switzerland, the label stands more as a metaphor of relative beauty. There are no mountain vistas, and we came in the hope of finding ourselves in a Brother Grimms' setting of bare boughs under a blanket of snow.

We found only bare boughs.

Above: We had hoped for snow. We got lots of rain instead, which made walking around town a lot wetter and more uncomfortable. But hey, it meant also we could play a game of spot the castle (in the picture just above).

Below: We sought shelter for a bit in this Lutheran church, which housed on its second level an impressive collection of artwork made out of buttons.

The Gauja River was historically significant in two ways. One, in a land already criss-crossed by rivers, it provided yet another trade route linking the Baltic Sea and the wooded interior, bringing amber, fur, leather, timber, wax (amongst other local products) and crusaders both ways. The twelfth-century arrival of crusaders saw the construction of three castles in the area, which was partitioned between the crusading order and the Archbishop of Riga. Two, the river also marked the boundary between the Finno-Ugric speakers (like the Estonians and the Livs after whom the region Livonia was named) to the north and the Baltic speakers (the tribes from whom many present-day Latvians are descended) to the south. Unfortunately, many Livs have today been assimilated into Latvian groups as war, plague and famine decimated their numbers.

Below (top to bottom): Castles in Gauja National Park, from the New Castle built in the nineteenth century by a Russian prince; to the ruins of the original crusader castle; to faraway glimpses of Turaida Castle, in which the Archbishop of Riga used to stay at times, on the other side of the valley.

Sigulda isn't very big, thankfully, so one could with some patience cover the major sights on foot. Poor visibility scuttled plans to take the cablecar (the only in the three Baltic states) across the Gauja Valley to the right-bank castles of Krimulda and Turaida. We stuck to the left bank, visiting the several viewpoints looking out over the valley. At the Paradise Hill viewpoint, rain and low cloud adorned what would otherwise have been a canvas of rolling green upon blue with an unexpected autumnal mystique. It was the highlight of our stay, which wouldn't have been without rain. Suffice to say we were completely drenched during the forty-minute walk back to town.

Below: Walking to the lookout at Paradise Hill. Check out Mary's same-arm-same-leg march, and her newfound Force powers.

Our second and last day in Sigulda dawned more kindly than our first. We took a walk to the Emperor's Chair and Emperor's View in a suburb west of Sigulda's town centre, so named because of Tsar Alexander II's visit to these spots in 1862. Yes, tourism has a long history in these parts. It didn't rain, and we beheld a canvas of wood, water and sky, only the blue and green here were dulled by a stubborn canopy of grey.

Above: The Emperor's Chair, on which my Tsarina sits.

Below: The panorama from the Emperor's View, about 300 meters west of the Emperor's Chair.

Mary's all-weather equanimity wasn't affected by the rain. She remembers Sigulda chiefly by the succulent kebabs and inexpensive coffee and desserts at Mr Biskvits, a bistro near the bus station. I would like to think that I emerged from the incessant drizzle with my festive cheer intact, and that I've finally come to existential grips with bad weather.

Rummu: glimpses into Soviet captivity

How many times will one actually be able to walk in and out of a prison compound as one pleases? Well, we got to do just that on our third day in Tallinn, when we visited Rummu.

Below: Looking down on Rummu's flooded quarry, and the derelict buildings that once made up the adjacent prison compound.

Located 43 kilometres west of Tallinn, there's little of interest in the nondescript town of Rummu itself. But south of town stands a pretty lake surrounded on three sides by forests, which would be similarly nondescript if not for what borders it on its fourth side - a neglected former prison compound and a bare hill raised from the tormented earth by prison hands.

The prison, known as Murru Prison, was first established in the 1920s (during the Estonians' first short-lived spell of independence) as a penitentiary camp, and it wasn't until 1938 that the limestone quarry, which by its later abandonment gave birth to the lake, started operations. Manual labour, as you might have guessed, was performed by prisoners from nearby Murru. The Soviets carried on business as usual when they arrived, until 1991 when they went out of business. Consequently, work in the quarry was reduced in scale. The pumps which previously kept the pits dry stopped running, flooding it so rapidly with groundwater that there wasn't enough time to even move the mining equipment to higher ground.

Below: the gravel path that followed the former prison walls led to the lakeshore.

We followed a gravel path along the still heavily fenced prison wall south to the lakeshore. Once there, we started scrambling up the 70-metre high slag heap next to the lake to get to the best possible viewpoint. While not very tall, its slopes have been well worn by rain into steep, knife-edged inclines which crumbled under the slightest misplaced weight.

We walked up a gully all the way to the top, which was nearly as scoured as its sides. There, we appreciated once more how flat Estonia actually is, and beheld in the prison compound the drear of order and compulsion spelt out in brick and mortar. The lake's glassy surface next to it all seemed almost redemptive, a colossal act of ablution to dispel the godlessness of the Soviet regime. In the summer, Estonians arrived in droves to swim and even (scuba-)dive. This being winter, we didn't linger and so gingerly made our way down to the lakeshore.

Above: the gully which we scrambled up to get an overview of the vicinity, and the view once we got to the top. Every attempt by foolhardy travellers (and any subsequent instance of rainfall) to scale it sharpens the crumbly terrain, making it tougher for those who would follow. 

Below: the panorama that rewarded our slog up the hill.

Much of the infrastructure actually remains intact. It seems as if operations would be readily resumed once inmates were supplied, and once the broken panes on the watchtowers were replaced. Mercifully, all this isn't happening anytime soon. The prison closed for good quite recently in 2012, and the entire plot of land has been put up for sale.

An investment alternative, perhaps?

Logistics

Bus 148 runs from Tallinn's Baltijaam bus station to Rummu. Schedules can be found on www.peatus.ee. A one-way ticket from Tallinn (not sure they do returns) costs 3 euros, and that from Rummu 2 euros. We took the 8.40 bus from Tallinn, got to Rummu at 9.49 and hurried to the quarry and back in time to catch the 10.50 bus back. While of course we could have taken our time, the next bus after would leave at something like one in the afternoon. Believe you me when I say there's absolutely nothing else to do in Rummu.

Tallinn & a portrait of the little country that could

Are we at the right place? A middle-aged lady in a jacket as fair as her blonde tresses asked. We were at Gate 22 in Helsinki Airport, waiting for our flight to Tallinn to take off. There was nobody else.

By then we've checked at least thrice, and assured her that it's still early, probably. We learnt that she's been leaving in Ottawa, Canada, for the past 24 years and that she's headed back to Estonia to see her mother over the festive season. I regretted not pursuing the conversation further, because I'll never find out why she left. 24 years ago was when Estonia regained its independence upon the implosion of the Soviet Union.

From Soviet-imposed obscurity (there was no such country in the atlas, published 1989, which my Dad bought me as a child), Estonia has since become the foremost Baltic Tiger, the little country that could. While Estonia's land area is 63 times that of Singapore, Estonia's 1.3 million souls is more than quadrupled by Singapore's 5.5 million.

So who are these plucky people who've defied the odds?

Below: Tallinn's old town, a jewel box of handsome facades, narrow alleys and lofty spires.

The Estonian tongue belongs to the Finno-Ugric group, which is quite unlike most other European languages. Finnish and Hungarian are two other well-known members of this language group. No other Finno-Ugric speakers have achieved statehood, which for the Estonians has been briefer (in 2015 totalling 45 years over two spells - 1918 to 1939, and since 1991) than for Singaporeans (50 years). Foreign rule predominated for much of Estonian history - Danish, German, Swedish and most recently Russian.

Tallinn in fact betrays the Danish strain in the city's heritage, taani in Estonian being Danish and linnus being castle, although until 1917 the city was known as Reval. Perched astride the trade routes linking the Baltic Sea to the Russian interior, Tallinn had a long history of inhabitation. Like the written histories of most other urban settlements in the southeastern Baltic littoral before their absorption into national states, Tallinn progressed from being an outpost of the northern crusades against the pagan Balts and Slavs in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, to prosperous members of the mercantile pan-Baltic Hanseatic League in the late medieval and early modern periods, and then to pawns vied over by the emerging regional behemoths of Romanov Russia and Hohenzollern Prussia.

Below: one of the ways leading up to Toompea, the upper part of the Old Town.

We spent much of our time in Tallinn in the Old Town, which has been divided into upper and lower parts. The upper part, known as Toompea, was reached by a long sloping street and was where the Danes set up after winning control of the city in the twelfth century. From the Kohtu viewpoint on Toompea, an impressive panorama unfolded of terracotta roofs punctuated by soaring spires and brooding bastions. There tourists and gulls flock, the former for vistas and the latter victuals, generously strewn in crumbs along the stone ramparts.

Above: sharing the panorama from Kohtu viewpoint on Toompea with curious feathered companions; (bottom-most) not the only Alexander Nevsky Cathedral we'll be seeing on this trip. The cathedral, completed in 1900 under the Russians, was named after the Novgorodian prince who famously defeated the northern crusaders on Lake Peipsi in 1242.

Below: Elsewhere in the Old Town, there was hardly a view that didn't contain a church spire. While this, and Tallinn's crusader roots, may point towards the city's deep religiosity (or its unflattering flatness), a 2011 survey found that Estonians (of whom only 20% agreed that religion played an important part of their lives) were possibly the least religious people in the world. A history of being under the thumb of foreigners who were either fanatics (crusaders) or godless (Soviets) probably didn't help also.

But medieval heritage, aptly represented by dim, elk sausage-serving taverns advertised unenthusiastically by hooded hangman-promoters, has helped the city embrace modern tourism. It used to be largely Finnish and Russian tourists who visited Tallinn. We found Chinese and Korean groups, two Chinese restaurants nestled in arched alleys and an Irish pub fronted by a Scotsman trawling the Town Square for customers. Amidst all this, wifi was ubiquitous. Nearly all restaurants offered it. Malls, too. It is not without reason that another of the country's sobriquet is e-Stonia.

Above: Much of the walls which used to surround the Old Town still stand. Some parts have been incorporated into parkland, others house shops selling souvenirs, flowers and knitted wear.

Below (top to bottom): the Christmas market on the Town Square; one of the many medieval get-ups in the shadow of the Town Hall; the dim, elk sausage-serving tavern in question - "no we don't have a menu", says the waitress at the doorway; a 30-piece matryoshka doll set going for 1,300 euros.

Estonia, and Tallinn, has always functioned as a window to modernity for the region. 300 years ago, Peter the Great ordered the construction of St Petersburg on the delta of the river Neva, over 300 kilometres to Tallinn's east, for this very reason. The site of the Neva was Peter's second choice. His first was, at that time, occupied by the Swedes.

This other site was none other than Tallinn. The eastern Baltic shores would certainly look very different today if Peter had had his way.