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.