More than half of Estonia’s land area is forest, and so the forest figures large in the Estonian imagination, in myth and legend, culture and ritual.
We cycled through seemingly endless stands of silver birch, Scots pine, spruce, as well as oak, alder, maple, trembling poplar, ash, and hazel.
The forest is often where Estonians build and enjoy their summer houses, ideally near a stream or lake for cooling off after a sauna. We saw many a suvila as we pedalled along earthen tracks, sometimes ending in a front yard, to then retrace tracks and continue our route.
Food is found in forests, necessary for survival during Soviet times, and still a favourite activity today. In late July we caught the last of the wild raspberries and red currants; in August blueberries carpet dry pine stands; and we found the mossy floors of spruce forests suited to finding chanterelle mushrooms.
“The three most crucial things for the Estonian are: a country home, a family, and a forest,” writes Valdur Mikita in his 2020 essay collection, Forestonia. “They are our national survival units.”
“Rooted in these three things is an inexpressible and all-encompassing strategy, with which we Estonians have made our way through the centuries – one, which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t originally meant to endure,” Mikita says.
In earlier times Estonians believed that trees of some species have magical properties, no doubt inspired by observing the progress of the seasons. When the bird-cherry or toomingas flowers in May the nightingale begins to sing. The toomingas was said to be able to heal sufferers of plague, among ailments.
Also planted traditionally around Estonia’s log-built farmsteads are rowantrees, pihlakas, to ward off malevolent spirits.
On the island of Hiiumaa, at Ülendi, we explored an ancient lindentree, where in pagan tradition Estonians leave offerings. Fire had taken out the core, and the linden had survived, low spreading boughs guarding the access to it. Visitors had draped Nepalese prayer flags; others had left coins. We spied a finger ring, one edge jammed into decaying wood. We took it out for a closer look, and put it back in place.
Throughout Estonia are hundreds of campsites administered by the state forestry department, identified by the abbreviation RMK. They are free of charge, and usually come with a fireplace, a woodshed, a sheltered picnic table, and places to put up tents, a home from home among the trees. We camped at many of them.
One memorable night friends took us to a small log cabin they had made deep in the forest years ago, a sight from a Grimm’s fairytale. We drank tea made from the stems of raspberry canes, and boiled chanterelles over a campfire in fading light, stars gradually appearing through dark spruce stems, telling stories, and listening to the silence.
Commentaires