Like the Mona Lisa and the Taj Mahal, the fishermen’s sheds at Altja are smaller than expected, still impressive. Five of solid timber construction line an inlet in Lahemaa National Park. We lean the bikes on a wall on a fine afternoon, and take a rest, gazing at dinghies dragged onshore, and the ever-present erratic boulders punctuating the Baltic coast.
Richard Uutmaa, a genre painter, was born here in 1905, and returned repeatedly, brushes and water colours in hand.
“His paintings of villages and fishing harbours, often depict coastal folk engaged in everyday activities, among them scenes of fishermen defying the elemental force of the sea,” says a billboard dedicated to his life and works.
A biography says Uutmaa could have fled Estonia in 1944 as many others did, but he chose to stay. The homeland would have been poorer without him.
The northern Baltic coast repeatedly attracted him from his teaching post in Tallinn, and no wonder. Lahemaa is Estonia’s first national park, established in 1971, and we arrive here towards the end of our journey, riding in and out of forest, passing by restored Baltic German manors earlier in the day.
The streams here have more flow to them than elsewhere in Estonia; we follow a beaver trail, though seeing no beavers. We chase after blueberries instead. Our hospitality for the night is at a secluded talu, or farmstead, to enjoy a sauna in fading light, a bat or two flitting about as we drink beer and talk, then down a bank to splash into a rocky stream to cool off, and then dinner.
Lunch the following day is taken in the dark, log-lined interior of a kõrts or pub in Altja, fried herrings, boiled potatoes, freshly marinated cucumbers, accompanied by slices of rye bread and a local beer.
Many months later as I write these words, I am struck with a memory of Altja, a place where the tides of history have ebbed and flowed, and in our time lucky to be able to enjoy it. Never mind if the sheds are a restoration of original buildings, or that the old pub was built in 1976. A slice of old Estonia remains.
Summer cycling trips cannot last, and on a day of rain we cross through forest, skirt the coast, and arrive at our last campsite, Tsitre at the western edge of the national park, in coastal forest. Greg chops dinner plate-sized parasol mushrooms into our pasta and sauce; I write in my diary, trying to avoid drips from the roof of a picnic table shelter. Tallinn beckons.
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