The Curonian Spit in midsummer
Published: December 22, 2011
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The darkest days of the year are upon us. But we can take solace in the fact that as the winter solstice passes, the hours of daylight will slowly begin to increase. To get through these days, I find it helps to fall back on memories of a time when it remained light late into the evening. So I recall a journey I took to an area known as the Curonian Spit.
The Curonian Spit is a splinter of land tracing the coastline of the Baltic Sea for some 60 miles. It is separated from the mainland by a lagoon, and its territory is shared by Lithuania and the Russian Federation. As this geographical phenomenon lived in my memory, it was a sparsely touristed place. Thus it came as a huge surprise when, after a nearly three-hour bus ride from the Lithuanian city of Kaunas, followed by a 20-minute ferry ride from Klaipėda, and another half hour in a mini-van doubling as a taxi, I arrived in the town of Nida only to find all accommodation booked solid.
Nida, the largest of the four villages on the Lithuanian part of the spit, was bursting at the seams in large part due to its role as host of a folklore festival, one of the reasons I had planned my trip on this particular weekend at the end of June. But to me, folklore festivals are for those, shall we say, a bit less mainstream, rather than events to pack in the crowds.
Loathe to just give up and try my luck in a neighboring village, I knocked on doors of private accommodation and tiny hotels, only to receive apologetic replies and the same grave response, “Everything’s booked.” But someone’s tragedy morphed into my luck when I called in at a ramshackle apartment complex by the name of Zunda. A family emergency had forced an early departure from one of the units, and the majesty of a three-bedded room became mine for the weekend. The room smelled of a musty camp just opened after a long winter, but who was I to moan about something like that when five minutes before I’d faced homelessness?
Having latched onto the bottom rung of my hierarchy of needs, it was time to search out sustenance and entertainment. Although the height of midsummer, it was a drizzly chill evening, so before setting off, I donned almost every stick of clothing in my backpack. After all, it was a folklore festival, not a fashion show, taking place outside the door. And what a festival! A huge, brightly lit stage offered well-choreographed, identically costumed groups comprised of mostly older women singing in various Baltic languages. Their whoops and cries weren’t exactly beautiful, but these strange utterances, and the brightness of their costumes against the steely gray backdrop of a northern midsummer sky, felt perfectly in tune with the setting.
Exploring Nida by the midsummer twilight was a treat. I passed by charming villas with guests huddled within neatly fenced yards, cafes lit by candlelight, a busy harbor and along a strip of beach. There, at the edge of the sea, a bonfire burned brightly, so I joined the half-dozen or so already gathered round. A middle-age couple sang folk songs softly in Russian to each other, in no way part of the organized entertainment, so simple but yet to a T what I’d come to this place hoping to find.
The next morning I set off on foot, heading south along the lagoon toward the national park that bumps up against Nida. A solitary place of sweeping dunes and low-lying scrub bush, a 10-minute climb takes you to the top of Parnidis dune, capped by a meticulously restored sundial. But the real attraction here is the view. From here you see the waters that brace both sides of the spit, and stretching for miles, a vast stretch of undulating dunes and unbroken forest. On the Curonian Spit, nature still largely rules.
Back in town, the folklore groups were at it again, this time with audience participation. A Russian ensemble from Kaliningrad was particularly enthusiastic in recruiting the audience for its dance routines, and I didn’t escape untapped. After breaking away, I perused the dozens of stalls selling wooden carvings, herbs, knitwear, paintings and other high-quality handicrafts.
Although it remained cool, the rain was holding off, so I rented a mountain bike and headed toward one of the beaches on the seaward-facing side of the spit. A network of well-tended bike paths made the trip a breeze. A few hardy souls were braving the frigid temperatures of the Baltic Sea, but I was content just to watch. A few short kilometers of pedaling afterward, I reached Lithuania’s border with Russia, where traffic was queued up. It would have been fun to cross the border on a bike, but without a visa, they weren’t about to let me in, so I returned to more welcoming territory. En route back to my mildewy accommodation, I bought one of the ubiquitous smoked fish from a private home with a smoker in its backyard. Back in the room, it played the dual role of room freshener and dinner.
Back onstage that evening, the folklore groups gave their encores and thanks to the organizers of the festival. Just when I figured the show was over, a special guest group took to the spotlights --- a folklore group from St. Petersburg, young, slick, professional and lots of fun. The crowd roared its approval. Who knew folklore had its own superstars?
The last day of my stay on the Curonian Spit was dedicated to seeing as much of the territory as possible. Back on the bike with cooperative gears and a seat of granite, I pedaled alongside whimsical carved wooden posts, past gaily painted wooden villas and through dense forests. I stuck mainly to the bike paths, stopping en route to check out an abandoned schoolhouse, a fisherman’s cemetery, and to give way to a flock of flightless, motherless chicks. While the villages of Juodkrantė, Preila and Pervalka all exuded charm, I was glad I’d based myself in Nida. On the return route, I stopped to gawk at a dead forest that now serves as the noisy and messy home to one of Europe’s largest colonies of cormorants and herons.
Late in the afternoon, I turned the bike back over to the rental company, retrieved my backpack, and boarded an overcrowded bus to the port, en route back to city life and my homebound flight. I don’t know if or when I’ll ever get back that way, but the Curonian Spit is definitely in that category of special places that don’t leave the soul untouched.
Intrigued by the thought of a journey out that way? If you’re already in Europe, a weekend getaway to the region can be refreshingly inexpensive. Fly on one of the budget airlines, such as Ryanair, to Kaunas, Lithuania and take one of over a dozen daily buses to the city of Klaipeda. The bus from Kaunas to Klaipeda takes about two hours and 45 minutes and costs about 52 Lithuanian litas (roughly $21). For timetables and information, see autobusubilietai.lt (with an English option). It is also possible to take a bus from Riga, Latvia’s airport to Klaipeda. For a timetable, see airport-express.lt/regular/timetable.php?lang=en&back=1.
