Lithuanian Landscapes
Exploring the Curonian Spit including peeking out over Russia, a giant sundial, and exploring the Hill of Witches
The drive from Riga, capitol of Latvia, to the Lithuanian port town of Klaipeda took 4 hours. After spending the night in a rental apartment that doesn’t merit mentioning, we awoke refreshed and ready to see the sights. We had only allotted a day for this stage of the trip, so instead of looking around Klaipeda, we drove straight onto a ferry that took us the 5 minutes across the Curonian Lagoon to our destination: the Curonian Spit.
First, a few words about the Spit. It is 61 miles long. The northern half belongs to Lithuania and the southern half to Russia. (The Russian bit is attached to an isolated parcel of land called Kaliningrad.)
The Spit is considered ephemeral, since its lagoon will probably eventually fill in and become land. Other geographical point of interest: it was created by a giantess named Neringa, who scooped up the sand to protect the fisherman inside the lagoon from the violent Baltic Sea storms. After visiting the giant-inhabited islands of Estonia, how could we NOT go?
We made land in Smiltyne and drove the 45 minutes to Nida, a resort town that borders the Russian part of the Spit. The town was crawling with tourists, mainly German.
We dodged the crowds and headed off to climb Parnidis Dune. (The Spit has the highest drifting sand dunes in Europe.) Tibor opted to stay on the beach, so Tallie and I followed the trail through the woods to the top.
On the peak of the dune, at 171 feet, stands a granite sundial that accurately tells time and is inscribed with all sorts of fascinating runes indicating hours, months and equinoxes. The current dial was rebuilt in 2011 after the 1995 one was damaged in a storm. (Can you imagine the storm that could damage a granite obelisk?)
Just past the sundial, at the edge of the dune, we looked out over a no-man’s land. That fact is prettily hidden under the terminology “nature reserve”… just one you are not allowed to step onto under any circumstances. It separates Lithuania from Russia.
It was a strange feeling, looking out over a stretch of sand toward land owned by the country who once occupied this area, and is currently fighting to conquer others. This map of borders ignited, once again, my borders obsession. However, this time I decided I didn’t really need a photo next to the boundary, seeing it would mean a mad dash across a no-man’s land.
When Tallie and I returned to the beach, we saw that Tibor had used the time to dig a giant hole. He loves to hyperfocus on tasks like this, or smashing rocks at the fossil beach, so the hour we had been gone seemed to have passed in no time for him. Digging and thinking was far preferable to climbing and discovering. It’s something I’ve come to accept instead of always forcing my kids to join in on a prescribed activity…at the end of the day everyone is happy.
(Tibor got too hot last summer in Venice and decided to spend the day in the air conditioned apartment with the dog while Tallie, their friend, and I enjoyed St. Mark’s Place, mask shops, and museums. I decided not to regret the fact that my son had barely seen Venice because in the end, we had all spent the day exactly as we had wanted.)
On the way back to our car, I began noticing these flag type of things in people’s yards. They were made of wood with a little cloth flag flying behind, and their varied designs seemed to contain some sort of heraldry.
I was fascinated, and decided to investigate further. I bought a book and a miniature version of the flags and read about it that night back at the apartment. What I discovered, I’ll tell you about in a separate post. Because it’s one of my Favorite New Things.
As we drove out of Nida, I saw signs for Thomas Mann’s house. I had read that over the years, many Baltic and German artists had made the Spit their summer residence. It turned out that one of those artists was the great writer, who I had first read in my Modern Mythology course in university.
I said to the kids, “A famous author lived in the house just up there. Do you mind if we stop?”
The eyerolls were deafening.
“Okay, you guys stay in the car and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I swear.”
I parked the car by the side of the road and began wandering up a driveway, following signs, until I saw this:
There was a large group of people sitting silently on the porch, watching someone speaking. At first I thought it was a tour group, but as I got closer I heard a voice over a speaker reading what sounded like an academic treatise. I crept around to the side of the building, in through the main entrance, and saw that I had arrived during a Thomas Mann festival.
If I had been traveling alone, I would have stayed to listen (the speech was in English, marked by a heavy German accent, but definitely understandable). But I had two passengers, more or less patiently awaiting their driver, so I settled for giving myself a quick tour of the house.
Thomas Mann visited the Curonian Spit in 1929 and fell in love with the place. He had a house built overlooking the lagoon, using money from his 1929 Nobel Prize for Literature. In summer 1932, he found a parcel in front of the home containing a burned copy of his book, Buddenbrooks. Because of this and other threats from the Nazis, he and his family fled Germany in 1933, and he never returned to Nida. (Göring later seized his house and made it a recreational home for Luftwaffe officers.)
“Wow, you missed something you would have really loved,” I remarked as I got back into the car.
“Really?” Tibor asked, looking up from his video game.
I hesitated, then admitted, “No. But I had fun.”
“That’s nice, Mom,” Tallie said, and we were off to something we could all enjoy.
Leaving Nida, we drove a half hour to Juodkrante. Our destination: the Hill of the Witches. It wasn’t exactly obvious where to go when we arrived since it was marked by a sign that seemed more non-committal than definitive, but we finally found a parking lot next to a campground and wandered our way to what turned out to be the entrance of the park.
The Hill of Witches received its name from local tales describing how demons and witches gathered for parties in the forest since time immemorial. A local forester suggested that figures from these tales be placed atop the dune. So from 1979-1981, 50 wood carvers created 71 sculptures during a series of folk-art workshops. The sculptures are replenished and renewed regularly, and there are constantly 80 oak sculptures on display.
We followed trails through a truly breathtaking fairytale world. With no signs pointing out a prescribed trail to follow, it felt even more magical when you just happened to wander off track and stumble across a flying dragon or heroic maiden. (Because in these fairy tales, the maidens are all heroic.)
We made it back to the ferry before the last boat to Klaipeda and ordered pizza in our room, retiring early because we knew that the next morning would be one of our biggest adventures of all.
Imagining the route the walk the park and unusual wood carvings! Loved reading this and love the way you and your kids travel together!