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.

Start of a Longer Journey

A little over two years ago, we started this blog to chart our travels. The first entry, written just as we were embarking on our 32-day honeymoon to Belarus and Ukraine, was similarly titled Start of a long journey. Now we have started on a longer one. Day 1 is today, written in Helsinki as we wait for our transfer to Tallinn.

Below: a thoughtful gift from a colleague, put to excellently appropriate use.

We busied ourselves in the previous couple of weeks packing the house, our backpacks, purchasing the shortfall items and finalising the arrangements for the itinerary (we missed out as a result on several meet-ups and Star Wars).

As the hour of our flight out of Singapore drew near, however, our hearts grew heavy. Mary has never spent such as extended period of time away from her family. And while I spent nearly four years abroad for my university education, it isn't quite the same as being on the road continuously for half a year. I suppose the heart yearns for a harbour to which it can return at the end of a day's travails. Especially for the rest of our trip, our harbours will be each other.

Both our families were there at the airport to see us off. We were there early, so there would be time to both enjoy this latest gathering and do some duty-free shopping (guess whose idea was this). The former we accomplished, the latter was lost to an unexpected brick wall we ran into at the check-in counter.

So the situation was that our return tickets meant we would on paper be spending more than the visa-free 90 days permitted for Singaporeans in the Schengen Area (a border-free zone comprising 26 countries in Europe). But there was no risk of us overstaying, because we are going to be in and out of the Schengen Area (Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria, Serbia, Macedonia and Albania) before we even approach 90 days. According to the Finnair staff, my paper itinerary did not suffice for documentation. Asked to produce a ticket showing travel out of the Schengen Area before 90 days was up, I quickly booked us tickets at the earliest possible point (Hungary-Romania) and we were checked in with a minute to spare.

That was the factual recollection of what happened, sans description of the anxiety and unpleasantness we experienced throughout, not to say the very inadequate service which would have averted all this:

1. Service lacked empathy. Assurance that the check-in counter would hold our flight for us came only five minutes before it was meant to close. Earlier stonewalling by the staff ("we are only doing our job, and cannot guarantee that the flight would be held for you" was the line adopted before the volte face) contributed significantly to our anxiety. So with the clock ticking and our 4G network faltering, we asked if there was a computer (or a laptop) we could borrow to hasten this process. The "no" we received was more empathic rather than empathetic (which would have been ideal). And then this particular member of staff added, unhelpfully, that consumers cannot be expected to be spoonfed.

2. Communication lacked clarity. When I completed the booking of tickets to prove our exit out of the Schengen Area (as was originally requested), the same member of staff remonstrated that it wasn't from Tallinn.

3. Staff lacked initiative. Particularly in making executive decisions in urgent circumstances. As I protested the aforementioned lack of clarity, the said member of staff called the border control in Helsinki to clarify what was necessary on our side. Our Finnish friends replied that the Singapore side would have to make the call, whereupon our Finnair staff fell into lethal prevarication. We want to give you peace of mind as you travel there, she said. Your speed is more important than my peace of mind was my response.

You can tell the above is going to form the core of our feedback to Finnair. We were checked in eventually and Finnish customs let us through. But we very nearly didn't make it, thanks to bumbling  ineptitude. And so our adventure began earlier than expected.

The Lord will guide you always. We shall need it.

Christmas by the Bay: A Dam Good Thing

It's the time of year when your senses, dulled by a brief festive freeze on all things productive, are subjected to assault. Night borrows the light of day, and proudly displays them in the redoubled force of neon and fluorescent. Sleigh bells ring if you're listening. The closest thing that's glistening is your wife's eye as she stakes out the next festive discount. It's a good time to sell snow to the Eskimos, because everybody's wishing for a white Christmas. They all seemed to know at least one. It was partly in this hope that we planned an outing to the Bay area. There, we waited out the day on Marina Barrage before heading to Christmas Wonderland at Gardens by the Bay after sunset.

Below: The lights of Christmas Wonderland at Gardens by the Bay which we moths were drawn to.

The dream to turn Marina Bay into a reservoir was the late Mr Lee Kuan Yew's. Yet it wasn't always a bay. Once upon a time (not so very long ago, in fact), the Singapore River emptied into the sea. Reclamation efforts since 1969 progressively created the bay it now flows into. The Barrage was the finishing touch that sealed the Marina Bay area off from the sea, turning it into Singapore's fifteenth reservoir. The Barrage also serves to alleviate flooding in the low-lying areas of Chinatown, Jalan Besar and Kallang, draining excess water into the sea in times of heavy rain.

The seamless integration of the barrage into the city's recreational landscape has also seen it become, since its opening in 2008, a firm favourite for Singaporeans looking to enjoy a slice of the outdoors in the heart of the city. The turfed roof of the pumphouse next to the Barrage is the principal recreational space. The grass is typically littered with mats and lounging torsos, and the sky above with kites. Beyond the pumphouse, the entire bay area is ringed by a pleasant path which is frequented by cyclists and joggers alike.

Below (top to bottom): the Marina Barrage, dam, flood control, bridge and jogging track; the panorama from atop the pumphouse, perhaps we could call this the Singapore Swipe.

By the time we got there, however, the trash bag was half-full and curry-stained. The family had already sent two kites into orbit. The weather was perfect - an overcast sky which provided deliciously cool conditions delivered no more than just two droplets of rain. The ominous promise of more to come (it never did) meant there was plenty of running space in between the invisible tethers that bound our paper sputniks to earth.

Below: the turfed roof of the pumphouse sees plenty of action. Most times, only the kites seem to be moving.

We ate, lazed, caught up, ate some more and watched people around us launch all manners of kites into flight. I was surprised by variety of shapes and sizes that could fly. One, shaped like a many-masted galleon, floated briefly in the air each time before plummeting back to ground. Some had long streaming tails like dragons. They unfurled magnificently in full flight, but thrashed unpredictably about like a whiplash when approaching terra firma. Others waited until it got darker before putting up broad-winged kites lined with flashing lights. It was like a scene from Wars of the World.

Below: Red sky at night, a last Sunday delight. Red sky in the morning, Monday mourning.

We left our spot on the lawn just before the sprinklers came on. On the path to Christmas Wonderland trudged the weekly columns of reality-dodging refugees. Much of these made their heavy-footed Monday-bound way towards the Bayfront area, where cars had been parked and buses and trains were to be caught. En route, the overwhelming waft of overpriced food floating out from Satay by the Bay stayed those whose hunger overruled, as it often does, prudence. Christmas Wonderland laid just beyond.

Below: the playground at the children's garden, so if you've never played in the rain...

Memory served as eyes in the evening gloom. It wasn't hard to find the way, for all followed the light like moths. We walked right into the midst of the nightly lights show (we might as well have walked into a wall). When the laser-entranced cameras were at last loosed from hypnosis, the procession around Christmas Wonderland began.

Below: A metaphor of Christmases in our time - a Christmas tree dwarfed by even larger trees, all of them artificial.

Mary always liked her Christmas markets. But the stalls in this one held little interest for us - imported markets meant imported prices. The main draw for us were the spallieras, intricately-carven wooden facades of Italian extraction. These, and the snatches of Christmas songs we managed to catch above the chatter of the crowd, about the only imports we could afford.

Below: The Italian spallieras, lit up like so many anglerfish in the ocean deep.

We were happy to go when we could. Go home, I meant. There was little to see beyond one round of walking. We couldn't complain. After all, we had chosen to come. Like fast food, many of us crave the apparently succulent morsels of Christmas.

Even if these flatter to deceive, we could each at least say, well I've had it.