the road to Sigulda

Turaida Castle, a slightly ruinous complex of brick and stone. A tall tall tower, a long wall, gates and a three storey keep. Its redness contrasting greatly with the wild greenery. The castle stands guard over a deep green hole cut by a gurgling river far below. Far across, though you cannot see it, sleeps Sigulda, a quiet tourist town with an old soviet train station.

Taking the train from riga can be haphazard in nature. Especially if you act hastily upon hearing what you think is 'Sigulda' issuing from the announcing speakers. This will lead you to a tiny village of neat gardens, scything grannies, spread out wooden houses and a sandy maze of roads. There's a trick following the main road out of that place in order to hitch-hike to your proper destination of Sigulda should you decide not to wait around an hour for the next train. A wrong turn takes you towards a stream snaking away from a vegetable garden and a yelping dog. Fear not, for the sound of fast moving cars can be heard. it's up to you to make it through the forest to that motorised salvation. it is difficult work, best done with footwear that can get wet, for the many crossings over the stream are easier than taking the high road. The way becomes boggy and you may start to worry.

Nothing for it but the high road after all. Beavers engineered the bog, so it can't be terribly vast, as fears thought. Cutting a trail up the steep sides of the stream bank the cars get louder. Trees give way to meadow and there, yes, a glimpse of automobile. Finally the road, finally a lift to Sigulda. It took an hour, the same as waiting for the next train...

But when you trek through the ruins of Sigulda Castle, see the redness of Turaida level with you standing upon the opposite outcropping with the rivers green canyon between you, it was worth it. Should you decide to take the train back to Riga and ask a taxi driver for confirmation that that soviet era building of concrete is indeed the station, do not be surprised when he says, "Choo-choo, da".

And the moral of the story? Learn to speak Latvian to avoid such a mess, or, don't be hasty, you'll only get your feet wet.

Riga

Under the giant square gramophone tent ceiling the rain can be heard quietly if at all. For across the latvian piazza, above the little round tables for two or four, stands a small stage where a pair of muicians ply their trade. A soothing jazzy duet of tenor sax and joanna. The beer is a good robust nutty quality that makes the best brown ale. It's taste lingers on the tongue and olfactories through the bites of potato pancake and slightly salted salmon filet. Background of leftover carnival bulbs that remind me of christmas and a pleasant chatter-murmur of human speech deep in a delightful evening out. Regular rounded brick pavers twist and turn drawing patterns amongst the feet of chairs and man. Surrounding us stand late nineteenth century creamy erections with the occasional rowan chestnutty pepperpot style roof. The waitresses bustle. The patrons drink with gusto and eat with grace. The drinks are poured. The music is played. The aromas grip your being with a certain amount of pleasure on their part and yours. There is a nagging, growing suspicion that this evening will undoubtedly end. Yet that matters not. For there are always more nights to be raptured in Riga.

Tallinn

I step out from Olevimägi willing my feet to decide my route for me. My ears pick up the sweet sounds of a working yet laidback city. My nostrils sort through the smells of spice bread and, inevitably, beer. Will these feet of mine take me down Uus, or sulevimägi or vene? Or will they lead me down along the Laboratoorium with its many regular tiled towers? They lead me down cobbled Sulevimägi and onto Pikk, my stomach now pulling me forward as only a stomach can. It whispers, 'stuffed pancakes' and then 'dumplings, russian dumplings.' But no, the first suggestion was the better. Pikk takes me to Rataskaevu and thence to Kompressor, the pancake place. The close cream houses have an almost Mediterranean flavour around me as I enter for some savoury comestibles. After an enormous chicken and feta pancake, Voorimehe street leads me into Raekoja Plats, the square before the Town hall where hangs a crowned dragon protecting or enslaving the local populace. I decide that I'd enjoy some altitude, and to that affect I climb the many stairs of Lühike Jalg through the doored gateway-tower up onto Toompea, the hill above the lower town. Skirting Lossi Plats and the onion domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral I walk along Piiskopi street to Kohtu Street. The cobbled lane opens to a patch of park shaded on both sides by old buildings. I sweep along the path from Kohtu and come to the primary reason of this high open park. There before me rests the little old town of Tallinn, with its orange-topped tower walls and winding cobbled alleys, the wonderful food wafts its perfume towards me, reminiscent of my recent meal. The lilting rhythmic speech that is Estonian fills my ears as I am joined by a handful of locals to savour all that is Tallinn.