Our family and the sea are closely bound together. By ship is how our grandmother and father arrived in the distant islands the Estonians call New Sealand. Our grandfather had an ice yacht. A grainy photo shows him racing on the Baltic ice, skating swiftly on ice runners. An ice yacht, very similar to one our grandfather had As kids, dad taught us to sail, although my talent is limited; Greg is the one with a yacht, and the best I can do is work as crew. At least, I can claim

Many years ago a traveller I met in southern Chile said to me: in life, you decide where to live, who to live with, and how to make a living. The three align. And all these years later – there come also the children who grow up, parents who get older and so do we, and then to care about our health. Time is running out. But time for what? The search begins anew. If Estonia is an answer, what are the questions? Driving past old farmhouses, endless rows of trees and fields of gr

In the Kalevipoeg epic, the raven or kaaren is a wise bird, and gives the legendary hero advice, echoing a view of ravens throughout wider northern European tradition. Ravens are to be respected and not harmed, or misfortune will fall upon the household, a similar tradition in Estonia as for snakes. In legend, the kaarnakivi is a smooth black stone, thought to have positive magical powers, especially if found in a raven’s nest. Where the stones come from has inspired various

It has been said of Estonians that their lives are closely tied to the lives of snakes, at least in the view of some Estonians. Adorning the wall of one home I visited is a representation of the serpent-king of legend. And yet the only snakes in Estonia are small things to be seen occasionally, harmless grass snakes, and venomous adders and vipers. When picking berries, my friends advise me to wear closed-in shoes and to tuck long trousers into my socks. So, what’s going on w

They know each other well, a grizzled Jaan Tätte sharing a stage at an outdoor venue with a much younger Mari Jürjens, among Estonia’s leading singers. It’s folk music at one level, at another, an expression of Estonianness, a celebration of freedom post the 1991 reindependence. This genre has an emotional weight that brings out goose bumps and shining eyes in even the most stoic Estonian. This is why I have come, along with a sell-out crowd of 850. No one speaking Russian, s

A doctor I know speaks Russian, works with Russians, treats Russians, and some of her best friends are Russians. As far as she is concerned, Russians are much like anyone else. Some speak better Estonian than others, and apart from showing, perhaps, more emotion and hysteria than Estonians, they get on with life like anyone else. Whereas a Ukrainian I met, a student, tells a story of a Russian in Estonia who was strident in his praise of Russia and contempt for Estonians. He

The Estonians I met during my travels were initially astonished at the idea that I might buy property in the old country. Why, was the first question. Who knows, the Russians may invade and then your asset will be no more. It’s true there is a lot to think about before taking any further steps. It has become a fashion to restore old farmhouses and surrounding buildings, the barn, woodshed, sauna house, potentially a well, and a cellar, dug separately half into the ground to k

“What land is this / there is not single mountain / only forests, cut down, and boggy meadows / But the people here are awestruck / and strange are the lines of their song.” The first verse of a song Siiri Sisask wrote and performed in 1998, the tenth anniversary of the start of the Singing Revolution that heralded Estonia’s reindependence in 1991. I travel to northern Estonia, to a remote outdoor concert ground in fine weather, to see and hear a diva, and expecting to hear M

If there is something in the Estonian language that joins the speaker and listener more closely with the natural world, how does this appear in everyday life? I have noticed care taken to avoid expressing over-confidence, and a tendency to downplay. I have spoken at length on this topic with friends, and maybe there’s some clarity. For centuries Estonians have lived amid uncertainty, whether of the forces of nature, or among other human beings. To be definite on anything invi

As the fields roll by, and time in Estonia passes, stalky buckwheat has come into creamy flower. and the canola is fading out into green. Baby storks are half grown, and look too big for their nests. Lilac, orchid and dandelion flowers have run their course, and in the forests wild strawberries are ripe and juicy, blueberries make their appearance in forests, and cloudberries have in bogs. In one pine stand, we find enough chanterelles for a hearty dinner, and, in another, mo

This is a Soviet-era story of one man’s passion for inventing rose varieties in a country of short summers, and heavy winter snowfalls. Vello Veski wrote the definitive monograph on Estonian Roses in 1972, and his legacy runs to several recognised cultivars. Roses hold a fascination in popular culture, and among devotees the world over. Love is a red, red rose, we are told, and The Name of the Rose, a best-selling novel by Umberto Eco. In Sufi lore, love between the nightinga

As a child I would listen to our father read from the national epic, the Kalevipoeg, enthralled. The words on the page had a magic to their look and sound. Growing older, I wondered if learning Estonian would open up a new way of thinking about the world, or about life. Then on visiting the old country in 2023, it felt that such thoughts were overdone. The Estos we met are much like New Zealanders - matter of fact though cautious in their praise of others, reserved in express

At first a dozen wood pigeons or so flit about, feed on the ground, and fly in and out of trees. At this rate, the wildlife experience at Alutaguse is costing me 10 euros per bird. Then two hours of sleep after a late night, and a racoon-dog shows up. A tree stump has been covered in seeds, and this foxlike native of East Asia inches closer, sniffing the air for danger. Shortly after 8pm a young brown bear enters the stage, appearing swiftly from out of the forest. After wand

It is 7 July, St John’s Day or Jaanipäev in the Eastern Orthodox calendar. Around 100 of the Seto community mill around, setting up tables by carefully tended graves of their forebears, and preparing lunch as we arrive at an improvised car park of mown grass. The weather is fine, and it is warm when the sun shines. In this peaceful setting in a stand of birch, linden, pine, spruce, oak and aspen. it is hard to believe we are only 4 kilometres away from the border with Russia.

For the latest travel advice, I was advised to head from Pärnu southwards on the old coast road, and it’s been a magical day of wandering through berry-carpeted pine forests, boglands of dark ponds and stunted trees, straight out of a fairy tale, and along glacial erratic-strewn beaches of white sand. This time it was a botany professor at Tartu University who guided me. I had woken up that morning slightly out of sorts, my doing entirely, and if nature can revive, today’s so

Ahto Kaasik has helped put more than 2,500 sacred places on an interactive Estonian map, a massive undertaking that is unique in the world. And yet he is barely known within his own country for a task started when he was 18 years old, at times working closely with the Hiite Maja Sihtasutus (a foundation) and other institutions. I meet Ahto with friends to help translate our conversation, and before long we are chatting enthusiastically about his life and work. In ancient time

In Estonia, singer-songwriters are in the ascendant. They follow a long tradition that extends over hundreds of years, and runs to more than 1.3 million pages of lyrics in the Tartu literary museum. A 2024 outdoor concert replayed on TV on St John’s Day astonished me in the beauty of the music. A legend in his lifetime, Jaan Tätte brought in friends to sing a large and mostly original repertoire of folk music. The arrangements were spare – accordion, acoustic guitars, bass -

On arrival in Latvia’s capital, the city declares itself to be old and modern, proud of its Art Nouveau quarter, elegant and clean, planned and logical, on either side of the Daugava river, festooned with parklands, and the language is like nothing I have ever heard. As to the people, the old and the very young everywhere look alike. Among men, one type is thin and wiry; they look like a Giacometti sculpture that has had a car accident. Their asymmetric faces have strong char

A near car collision at a tricky intersection is the start to a long-arranged meeting with Valdur Mikita. He didn’t seem to mind. Parked the Yaris, and he drove us into a forest in his SUV while I told him of tracking down a rare copy of an earlier book of his, Theorem (2011). “That b/s,” he said and laughed. I had hopes of gaining the autograph of one of Estonia’s best-known thinkers and writers on the flyleaf, and felt I had to ditch the idea. The thing cost me 30 euros in

Meelis asks me why he is flying his Estonian flag at half-mast. I don’t know, and he says 14 June 1941 – leinapäev - is when the Soviets started deporting more than 10,000 Estonians to Siberia. This occurred almost a year after the Soviet invasion of Estonia on 16-17 June 1940, by secret agreement with Nazi Germany. Our grandfather, Johannes Napp, was conscripted into the Red Army, to be never seen again by our immediate family. Raising the Estonian flag at the 105th annivers