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.
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