I awake, and lie listening to the low rumble of the first ferry arriving and opening its door to the waiting traffic. Perhaps losing the camera was a bad dream, and it is still there on the shelf?

But it isn’t.

On the way back from the shower block, I notice that the Nice Harbourmaster is back in her office. I decide to mention the lost camera to her on the off-chance that she might know if there is a place on the island that lost property might be handed in to.

“We have an island intranet where such things are posted”, she says immediately. “Here, I’ll put it on straight away. Tell me all the details of your camera.”

I describe the camera as best I can while she types it in.

“There”, she says, pressing the Send button. “It’s a long shot, as it depends on an islander having found it, and not a tourist. Unfortunately, it’s usually tourists who visit the Muhu Linnus and not locals. But you never know. If it turns up, I can post it on to you.”

It’s the best we can do. If I am lucky, I might get it when we get home.

We prepare to leave. I run through the check list. We also need to top the tank up with fuel. This time we have transferred enough money into the account, so the card should be accepted.

As I am turning on the navigation instruments, the First Mate calls down from the cockpit.

“There’s someone here to see you”, she says. “Come up quickly.”

It’s the Nice Harbourmaster.

“I have some good news for you”, she says, smiling. “Your camera has been found. They are bringing it here now. By a strange coincidence, it was found by one of my friends who was at my birthday party.”

A few minutes later, a car pulls up to the harbour office. It’s been only half-an-hour since I first mentioned it to the Nice Harbourmaster.

“It was my wife who found it”, the driver tells us. “We live near there, and she had taken the dog for a walk and came across it. It was raining, so she took it so it wouldn’t get damaged.”

He hands back the camera. I am overjoyed. My faith in human nature is reconfirmed.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I went through your photos”, he says. “I was trying to get an idea of who might have lost it. I could see you were sailing and that you were interested in historical sites.”

“Not at all”, I say. “I am so glad that she found it. I had resigned myself to never seeing it again.”

We refuel and set off, heading for Pärnu. As we leave, I see a cloud formation of a dove flying. A sign!

“It’s just pareidolia”, says Spencer. “You are pleased that you got your camera back again, and it’s making you see positive patterns in abstract things around you. It’s just water vapour.”

Does he ever enjoy himself?, I wonder.

We stop off for the night at Kihnu, a small island just off the eastern coast of the Gulf of Riga. Settled originally by criminals and exiles from the mainland, the men took to seal hunting while the women specialised in handicrafts and music. Motorbikes with sidecars are also a thing.

The next day we reach Pärnu. The previous week, the Gulf of Riga Race for sailboats had finished in Pärnu, and there are still a few of the boats and their crews in the marina. But we manage to find a berth.

Pärnu (pronounced (Per-noo) is the fourth-largest city in Estonia. Like the other towns we had visited, the original town of Pärnu was founded by the Bishop of Ösel-Wiek on the north side of the river after the local pagan stronghold, Soontagana, had been conquered by the German Crusaders. Around the same time, the Livonian Order built a military town called New-Pärnu on the south side of the river, with the river the boundary between the two territories. The latter gradually eclipsed the older town, mainly through its prosperity gained through its membership of the Hanseatic League. Old-Pärnu was later destroyed. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth had control of New-Pärnu in the 1500s, but then its history followed the broad outlines of the rest of Estonia – flipping between control by the Swedes, the Russians, the Germans, then by the Soviets again, with a brief period of independence in between.

We unload the bikes and explore the city. It has some charm, with churches, an impressive town hall, and old wooden houses nestling quietly amongst leafy avenues.

We reach the Swedish Gate, the only remaining entry through the old city walls, so-called because the Swedish built it during their stint of ruling it.

At one end of Independence Square is the monument to the Proclamation of Independence in 1918, which was read out from the balcony of one of the surrounding hotels. In this sense, Pärnu is the birthplace of the modern republic of Estonia.

We end up at the museum, where we learn about the rise and fall of the Baltic Sea level since the Ice Ages.

“The Baltic was a vast ice lake left behind after the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last Ice Age”, a panel tells us. “As the Earth continued to warm, the ice in the lake slowly melted, and the freshwater from it flooded out into the North Sea across the lowlands of Sweden through a channel roughly where the Göta Canal is nowadays. This created the Yoldia Sea, which was brackish due to the salt water flowing in the opposite direction when the levels were similar. However, as the land rose after the weight of the ice was gone, it cut off this route to the North Sea, creating the freshwater Ancylus Lake. Then as the sea-level of the North Sea rose, it broke through the narrow gap between Sweden and Denmark, and salt water flooded in, creating the brackish Littorina Sea. That’s more-or-less what we have today.”

“It’s fascinating to think of all that going on, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate. “You tend to think that everything you see has been the same forever, but these comings and goings all occurred fairly recently. And I wonder how these various seas and lakes got their names? Hardly likely to be the people living there at the time, is it?”

“It seems they are named after species of molluscs that live in different levels of salinity”, I say, consulting Google. “That’s how they worked out what was going on.”

The Red Tower, once part of the old city walls, then a prison, is now part of Pärnu Museum.

“The guide book says it’s worth seeing”, says the First Mate. “It has an interesting panoramic cinema showing the history of Pärnu.”

We climb the narrow staircase to the top floor, and sit fascinated watching how the city developed from a seal hunters’ camp, a Viking trading post, through medieval times, the various occupations, independence, to the modern day.

“For years our country has been the battleground of foreigners”, the voice-over says. “But hopefully that is the end of that now that we are an independent and free state.”

It’s time for a coffee and a cake.

“The beach is supposed to be very nice”, says the First Mate, as she cuts the cake. “Why don’t we buy some food and have a little picnic there later on?”

“Sounds like a good idea”, I say.

We cycle down to the beach and find a bench to sit on. It’s late afternoon, the sun is warm, and quite a few people are still there. We strike up a conversation with a dad with his young daughter and his mother sitting at the other end of the bench.

“Yes, we are Estonians”, he says. “Not Russians. We’ve lived here all of our lives. I used to come down to this beach when I was a child. Now I am bringing my daughter here.”

“We used to come here and sit and look across the water, wondering what countries lay beyond”, says his mother. “Of course, in those days of the Soviet Union, there was no chance to travel to see them. We used to dream of a white ship coming to take us away to see the rest of the world.”

“The ‘white ship’ is a symbol of hope in Estonian culture”, the Dad explains, seeing the puzzled looks on our faces. “It started back in the 1800s when a leader of a religious sect in Tallinn called Prophet Maltsvet promised his followers that a white ship would come and take them away to a better land. But it never arrived. Since then it has become associated with deliverance from repression in general. Estonia has had a difficult history, and it helped to give people hope that things would get better.”

The First Mate invites them to come and see our ‘white ship’, but they don’t have time.

The next morning, we set off for Salacgriva, a small harbour just inside the Latvian border. It’s about halfway between Pärnu and Riga, and an ideal place to break the journey.

After tying up, we sit in the cockpit and sip our glasses of wine, unwinding. Suddenly, there is a roar of a speedboat driven by a young chap that zooms past us. The wake rocks Ruby Tuesday violently.

“Crazy idiot”, shouts the First Mate, brandishing her fist at him. “Can’t you think of someone else besides yourself for a change?”

Eight water-skiers follow, attached to the speedboat. They are practising for the regatta that is to be held at the harbour at the weekend. Thinking she is waving, one manages a quick wave back.

“Oh, sorry”, she says, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be so cross. But I just wish they wouldn’t come so close.”

“They wouldn’t hear you anyway over the noise of the engine”, I say.

After dinner, we go for a walk to the nearest village. The supermarket is about to close. We have a quick browse through. One thing that we are struck with is the number of Russian items for sale, something that wasn’t so evident in Estonia.

“Hey, put that packet of Russian Earl Grey teabags down”, says the First Mate. “We don’t want to support the Russian war effort in Ukraine.”

We carry on the next morning, aiming for Riga. As we sail, I continue with the book I am reading, Twilight of Democracy – The Failure of Politics and the Parting of Friends, by Anne Applebaum, the historian. In it, she discusses the rise of authoritarianism around the world, and the apparent decline in democracy.

Authoritarianism is not a philosophy or ideology, she says, but just a means of holding power. Loyalty, not ability, is the criteria for success. She asks the question of whether a liberal world promoting free speech, rational debate, respect for knowledge and expertise, and freedom of movement, is just a cul-de-sac in the broad sweep of history? Is democracy in its twilight, with a reversion to anarchy or tyranny on the cards?

“Ah, but the book was published in 2000”, says Spencer, emerging from the canopy. “Since then Poland has swung away from the Law & Justice Party, the UK has voted out the Conservative Party and its far right wing, and in France the National Rally was beaten into third place. Now it remains to be seen what happens in America with the coming elections. A battle between a young, mixed-race, democratic woman and an old, white, autocratic man. Perhaps the pendulum is starting to swing in the opposite direction again?”

I am just about to answer when the VHF crackles into life.

“Gale warning for all shipping. This is to announce a gale warning in the Gulf of Riga. All ships should take immediate action and seek shelter.”

I am puzzled. The weather forecast in the morning had predicted strong winds in the evening, but not gale strength and not so early in the day. Our plans had been to be safely tied up in Riga well before they started.

“I think that we should find somewhere”, says the First Mate. “I don’t really want to be caught out in a gale. We still have about four or five hours to get to Riga. Isn’t there a small harbour about halfway?”

There is. A place called Skulte. After some discussion, we decide to alter course and put in there.

“Better to be safe than sorry”, the First Mate says, looking happier.

We follow the marker buoys into the harbour. Large ships are moored alongside the wharfs, with cranes loading timber into them. Huge piles of wood chips lie on the quay like small mountains. We learn later that the timber is shipped off to Sweden by Swedish companies, made into furniture, and sold back to Latvia.

The marina is a little way up a small river opposite a fishing wharf. We are met by the harbourmaster.

“Not many yachts come here”, he says. “Only those looking for shelter on the way to Riga.”

We tell him about the gale warning.

“Ah, the meteorological people are always exaggerating”, he says. “Anything more than a gentle breeze, they call a gale. They probably have to do it to cover themselves.”

Recollections of the ‘Boy who cried Wolf’ story from my childhood days flood back. Would anyone believe them if it really was a gale?

“But it’s true there are strong winds coming tonight”, he continues, as though reading my mind. “Although I don’t think they will be gale force. Either way, you’ll be safe enough in here.”

Somehow I manage to stub my toe on a cleat on the pontoon as we are tying up. It rips the toenail almost off. Blood is everywhere.

“I think that needs seeing to”, the harbourmaster says, shaking his head and looking at it like a mechanic looks at a car needing an expensive repair. “There’s a hospital not far from here. I am quite happy to take you there and wait while they fix it up.”

It seems a bit like overkill to go to a hospital, but I don’t want problems down the line if it gets infected. I climb into his car, trying to make sure I don’t get any blood on the seats. The First Mate wedges herself into the back seat.

“Sorry about the dog hair and the smell”, he says. “We have a dog at home who comes everywhere with us.”

We arrive at the Trauma Unit of the hospital. Luckily a doctor can see me almost straightaway. He doesn’t say anything, but motions me to lie down on the bed. I assume he doesn’t speak English. He picks up an evil-looking curved pair of scissors and deftly cuts the remaining nail off at the quick and dresses the wound.

“I wonder if that’s it?”, I say to the First Mate, who has almost fainted in the corner at the sight of so much blood.

“No”, says the doctor in perfect English. “One more thing. You must pay!”

“He probably worked for the KGB in the old days”, the harbourmaster jokes on the way home. “They were pretty good at pulling out fingernails and toenails.”

I am going to have to get used to Latvian humour.

“Hurry up”, says the First Mate. “Can’t we go a bit faster? It’s catching us up.”

She is referring to the ferry coming out from Heltermaa. We had waited for the same ferry to make its way along the narrow buoyed channel into the harbour before we ourselves set off. But we had forgotten how quickly it can unload and load its passengers and we are only about halfway along the channel when we see that it is on the move again, following us. There is very little room for both the ferry and us to pass together.

I give the engine a few more revs and slowly we reach the red and green buoys marking the start of the channel. We move to one side and the ferry passes mere tens of metres behind us. We turn south, hoist the sails, and, with the wind from the southwest, set off on a pleasant beam reach. Passing the small island of Heinlaid, I peer through the binoculars and manage to pick up the two leading line beacons far away on the isle of Muhu, just as Ransome had done in his Racundra. If we can keep them in line, we should be able to avoid the treacherous rocks and reefs just below the surface.

Two hours later we are approaching Muhu, and pick up a new set of leading lines to the southeast on the island of Kesselaid. Sheltered now by Muhu, the wind drops to a faint breeze, and for the last couple of miles we drift along at a majestic three knots. But the sun is shining and we are not in a desperate hurry, so we delay the inevitable starting of the motor until we are just approaching the small harbour at Kuivastu.

Compared with the solitary pier that Ransome describes, Kuivastu harbour now is cosily surrounded by a sea wall on all sides except for a narrow entrance, giving good shelter from most directions. Finger pontoons also stretch out from the main jetty, giving plenty of places to tie up. No need to anchor as he did.

We are met by a nice friendly harbourmaster who helps us tie up. We had hoped to top up our tank with fuel on the way in, but for some reason the machine doesn’t like our card.

“You have to have a certain amount in your account”, the Nice Harbourmaster explains. “If it is less than that amount, it will decline the card. Even if you only intend buying a little. It’s a security thing.”

“I am an art teacher at the local school”, she tells us, as we pay the fee. “But during the school holidays I work as the harbourmaster here. I enjoy meeting the lots of different people that pass through, such as yourselves.”

We have a quick explore of the harbour area. The so-called “Gates of Moon” that the wealthy landowner in Ransome’s day insisted all people and goods pass through coming to or leaving the island and pay a tax are long gone now and have been replaced by shiny drive-through ticket booths for the ferry.

A few hundred metres up the road, however, the Russian inn he talks about is still there, albeit boarded and locked up.

The next morning, we unload the bikes and cycle to the nearest village, Liiva, 12 km away. Just as we arrive it starts to rain heavily.

“Quick, let’s have lunch in here”, says the First Mate, pointing to a small café. “We can wait there until the rain goes off. All that cycling has made me hungry anyway.”

“We are from Tallinn, here on holiday”, say the couple sitting at the table next to us. “We love coming here. So much to do if you like peace and quiet. It was restricted in Soviet days, as they had military installations here. Mainland Estonians had to have permits. But all that has gone now. We are not sorry to see them go.”

On the way back to the boat, we pass a pre-Christian graveyard. The information panel says that it dates from 500 BC, the earlier burials in cist graves, the later ones cremated on pyres. As we sit in the small clearing in the forest, I find myself trying to imagine what these people were like. What did they do in their lives? What gods did they believe in? Did they believe they had souls and an afterlife? Were they good people?

“I won’t be in tomorrow”, the Nice Harbourmaster says when we get back. “It’s my birthday, and some friends of mine are coming over from the mainland to help me celebrate. A colleague will take over from me here. He’s a good man. You’ll like him. I’ll be back in after the weekend.”

We congratulate her and wish her all the best for her celebrations.

——-

The boy and his grandfather climb to the top of the small rock outcrop and look down on the forest stretching as far as they could see. The boar they are hunting seems to have escaped, and they decide to rest for a while to regain their strength. Behind them, they can just make out the wooden ramparts and the smoke rising from the fires of Asva, their village. They had left it two days previously to go hunting in the forest, but so far they have not had much luck.

As they rest, the young boy spies a bright light in the northeast sky and points excitedly.

“Look at that star, Granddad”, he shouts. “I haven’t seen that one before. Why can we see it in the day-time?”

“I’ve not seen it before either”, says the old man. “Perhaps the gods are at war again. But it seems to be coming closer.”

Together the two of them watch in awe as the light grows in size. As it streaks overhead, they hear a loud explosion as the fiery ball separates into nine smaller ones. Seconds later, the ground underneath them shakes violently as the lights plummet to earth somewhere in the forest to the west. The boy clutches the older man in terror as a huge plume of smoke rises into the sky like a mushroom, and trees are flattened by the force of the blast and begin to burn. The boom from the impact reaches them, making them clutch their ears in pain.

“What is it, Granddad?”, says the boy, shaking with fear. “Are the gods angry with us for hunting boar without their permission?”

There is a long pause.

“The sun has come to lie down”, the old man says eventually. “We must let him sleep.”

“Come on”, says a familiar voice. “We haven’t got all day. We need to catch the next bus in 20 minutes.”

It’s the First Mate. We are at the Kaali meteorite crater on the island of Saaremaa. We had taken the bus from Kuivastu harbour, had gotten off at the small village of Kaali, and had walked the short distance to the crater nestling amongst the copse of trees surrounding it. The meteorite had fallen sometime between 1530–1450 BC during the Bronze Age in Estonia, at a time when the island was already inhabited by humans. I am trying to imagine what it might have been like for people living in the area at the time.

Weighing between 20 and 80 tonnes, it had broken into nine smaller pieces at an altitude of 5-10 km, each of which had all caused craters in a 1 km radius. The impact had caused a huge plume of heated gas and dust to rise 8 km into the air and had incinerated trees and other vegetation within a radius of 6 km.

As time went on, the lake at the bottom of the largest crater acquired religious significance. During the Iron Age, a stone wall was built around it, and the lake was used for ritual sacrifices of domestic animals. One idea is that it was the inspiration for some of the Finnish myths and legends – the god Ukko, for example, had ordered that fire be given to humans, and this had fallen to earth at Kaali for the Finnish heroes to come and collect.

We catch the next bus to Kuressaare. As we sit in the market square and have a coffee, the bikers arrive.

“Brothers of the Sword”, I say.

“I don’t think they are a gang”, says the First Mate. “They just look like ordinary bikers to me.”

“No, I mean it was the Brothers of the Sword who built the castle here”, I say, putting down the Lonely Planet guide. “In the 1200s during their Crusades. I was just reading about them.”

We wander up to the castle. Inside is a museum on its history.

The German bishops ruled the area, called Ösel-Wiek, for 300 years, we learn. Then the Danes took it over in the 1500s, followed by the Swedish in the 1600s. They held it until the end of the Great Northern War in 1721, when it then became part of the Russian Empire. During WW2, it was used as a stronghold, by the Soviets, then by the Nazis.

“The bishop of Ösel-Wiek was the one that lived in Haapsalu Castle as well“, says the First Mate later. “I wonder why he needed two residences?”

“Probably as a show of power”, I say. “The islanders here in Saaremaa put up a spirited resistance to being Christianised, so having the castle here would show them who’s boss, I suppose. It seems that he would come here twice a year, in spring and autumn. ”

“The Church must have been pretty wealthy to be able to build and maintain all these castles”, she says. “I wonder if all the people who gave their hard-earned cash to the Church would have agreed with how it was spent?”

“I don’t think they had much choice in the matter”, I say. “In any case, they probably just thought that it was doing a good job by converting all these pagans into obedient Christians. The way God said it should be done.”

“Did you see the Lion Shaft?”, she asks. “The legend is that one of the bishops would hold court in one of the adjoining rooms, and anyone sentenced to execution would be taken to the door that opened on to the shaft running up and down the castle. There were hungry lions kept at the bottom who did the executing. A bit gruesome.”

In reality, the shaft was used for disposing of waste from the kitchen and the latrines. But the lion legend makes a good story. But whether it was lions or sewage at the bottom, one of the bishops did lose his life in it when he was imprisoned and thrown into it for selling off church property illegally.

“And the Legend of the Immured Knight”, I say. “A Spanish knight came to help out one of the bishops but secretly fell in love with a local girl. One of his love letters to her was found inside a loaf of bread that accidently ended up on the bishop’s table rather than going to her. Because the knight had broken his vow of celibacy, he was put to death by being immured in a cellar in the castle wall.”

“It sounds a bit like the story of the White Lady in Haapsalu castle, but in reverse”, says the First Mate. “The bishops seem to have had a thing for bricking people up behind castle walls in this part of the world.”

“And it’s always because of sex, isn’t it?”, I say.

We take the bus back to Kuivastu and the boat.

“Excuse me”, says the woman sitting behind us to the First Mate. ”You have a price tag on your head. Do you want me to remove it?”

“A wanted woman”, I joke. “With a price on her head. Perhaps I should collect it! Now where’s the police station?”

“It’s probably from one of the jumpers that I was trying on in the market”, she laughs.

“Well, it looks very nice on you”, says the woman. “The jumper, I mean. Here’s the price tag.”

On the last day, we load the folding bikes onto the bus, and get off at the Nautse stop. I am quite keen to see the Muhu Linnus, the last stronghold of the Estonians where they held out against the onslaught of the German Livonian Brothers of the Sword in 1227 AD. It is still remarkably well preserved.

“The Brothers of the Sword had trekked 100 km across the frozen sea from Pärnu”, the nearby panel tells us. “They surrounded the fort and both sides called on their respective gods to give them victory – the Christians on God, and the Estonians on their god Tharapita. Eventually the Christians breached the walls. Giving praise to God for their victory, they then killed all the pagans, laid waste to their town, plundered all their possessions, drove away all their livestock, and set fire to their fort.”

“Are you sure we are talking about Christians here?”, says the First Mate. “It doesn’t seem to be the best way of converting people to your way of thinking by killing them all off.”

“Well, I don’t know”, I say. “At least there would be no-one left who disagreed with you.”

We cycle over to Koguva, and decide to have lunch at the small restaurant overlooking the sound between Muhu and Saaremaa islands. The food arrives. It is beautifully presented.

“Why don’t you take a photo of it?”, says the First Mate.

I reach for my camera in the rucksack. It’s not there.

“Where did you last have it?”, asks the First Mate.

“Back at the Muhu stronghold”, I say, feeling the dread welling up. “I took a photo of the standing stone in the middle. I must have left it there. I’ll have to cycle back and get it.”

I gobble down my lunch, and minutes later am pedalling furiously back to the fort. It’s about ten kilometres. I reach the turnoff, panting and sweating. Another cyclist is coming down the small track between it and the road.

“No, I didn’t see any camera”, he says. “I hope you find it.”

It’s not there. I spend half-an-hour searching high and low for it, but it is nowhere to be seen.

“I think I can say goodbye to that”, I say to the First Mate when we meet up again. “Even if someone has found it, how would they know who it belongs to? It’s a shame, as I had about a week’s worth of photos since I last backed them up. All gone now.”

“Cheer up”, she says. “It could have been worse. At least you still have your phone you can take pictures with. And you never know, it might still turn up.”

“Before we leave tomorrow morning?”, I say morosely. “I doubt it. I liked that little camera. It’s like losing an old friend.”

“Look at that old car over there!”, says the First Mate excitedly. “He’s parked it there just where everyone can see it.”

“It’s an Auburn Speedster”, I say, quickly doing an image search on Google. “Supercharged in-line eight cylinder from the 1930s. Beautiful.”

We are having coffee and cakes in the main street of the picturesque city of Haapsalu in western Estonia. We had left Tallinn a few days earlier, and followed Arthur Ransome’s route in Racundra down the west coast of Estonia as much as possible, passing Baltic Port (now Paldiski) and the Pakri Islands. We had overnighted at Dirhami marina, just over the other side of the small peninsula from Spithami where Racundra had anchored. Ransome had gone for a walk to the top of the dividing ridge and looked down on Dirhami, an anchorage in those days, commenting that it was a better anchorage than where he was, but it was extremely risky coming in with only a narrow channel between dangerous rocks. Even today with all the electronic navigation equipment we have, we still had had to take care lining up the transit marks on the shore until we were safely in the marina. Rocks don’t move much.

From Dirhami, we had then followed the buoyed route down the Nukke channel between the mainland and the island of Vormsi, passing the place where Racundra had anchored overnight as it was too difficult to tack through the narrow channel in the gathering dusk. Then into the channel itself, with its twists and turns and gleaming black rocks breaking the surface on each side, ready to impale themselves on any boat that strays too close. To do all this by tacking against a head wind with only someone hanging over the bow and shouting if they saw any rocks coming, as Ransome had done, was nothing short of foolhardy, fearless, or both. But they had made it, and so had we.

“Come on”, says the First Mate, finishing her cake and jumping to her feet. “Enough daydreaming. Let’s go and see the Bishop’s Castle. It is one of the sights of Haapsalu, after all.”

Haapsalu is another old medieval town dating from before the early 1200s. When none other than our old friends, the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, had conquered the region, they installed a bishop in Haapsalu in a magnificent castle with a cathedral. Although originally just a church official, over time his successors came to own all the lands, forests, rivers and lakes of the region, which included the island of Saaremaa in the west and quite a large chunk of mainland Estonia. They also gained the power to administer it and make and enact laws.

“Then in the 1500s, the then Bishop sold everything to the Danish Crown, but after a short time, it was lost to the Swedish in the Livonian War”, the audio guide tells me. “The Swedes had it until 1721, when they lost it to the Russians in the Great Northern War. The castle was destroyed by fire in 1688, but since 1889, the cathedral and castle has slowly been restored.”

“Wow, it’s certainly had its ups and downs”, says the First Mate. “But I have to say, being a bishop in those days seemed to be a good career choice. I wouldn’t mind living in a pad like this. I have always had a soft spot for turrets, ever since I was a little girl.”

The cathedral is attached to the western side of the castle. Its claim to fame is a window halfway up a small tower, where at full moon the shape of a woman dressed in white appears.

“The story is that there was once a monk who lived in the castle as part of the bishop’s entourage”, a nearby panel says. “Unfortunately, he fell in love with a beautiful young maiden who lived in the village outside. To be together, he dressed her as a choirboy and brought her into the castle. The plan worked for some time, but one day the bishop became suspicious, and after an investigation, discovered the hapless girl in the monk’s room in her female clothes. It was decided that her punishment was to be walled into the tower just being built, with only a loaf of bread and a jug of water to sustain her. Needless to say, she didn’t last long, and ever since then her white ghost appears in the window of the tower at full moon.”

“I am always amazed at how they managed to devise some pretty gruesome punishments in those days”, says the First Mate, shuddering. “And being Christians too. Imagine the last few hours of the poor girl’s life in there knowing she would never get out.”

In the same tower are a collection of books with the names of all the Estonians who were deported to Siberia during and after WW2. Although I know none of the people, it is nevertheless moving to see whole families taken from their homes and sent to the barren wastes of the east, many never to return. Even more poignant are those families that were split up, with some members being told to stay in Estonia, and others being deported. All ordinary people caught up in the forces of global geopolitics – decisions concerning their lives being made by faceless bureaucrats blindly following leaders driven by ideology.

We explore the rest of the town. The railway station is now defunct, but has been converted into a museum of life on the railways during Russian Empire and Soviet times. I try and imagine Arthur Ransome catching the train here after being transported from Vormsi island in Captain Konga’s skiff.

Along the waterfront is the attractive promenade where the well-to-do ladies and gentlemen would parade to see and be seen.

At the end of the promenade we find the Kuursaal where those feeling in need of a pick-me-up could treat themselves to a mud-bath. Apparently the sea-mud in Haapsalu is of superior quality to anywhere else in Estonia, and would draw the rich and famous of the Russian Empire and Soviet Union from far and wide.

As luck would have it, there is a lunchtime concert next to the Kuursaal, so we stop and listen to the music and try a spiral potato chip.

A little bit further on is Tchaikovsky’s bench, where the great composer would relax after his mud-bath and dream up his next symphony.

“Yes, yes, I thought of that one too”, I say before the First Mate can get a word in, a minor achievement in itself. “Now he is decomposing, surrounded by all the mud he could wish for, wherever he is buried.”

She groans. So do I. But someone had to say it.

We end up at the Rannarootsi Museum, with its Bayeux-like tapestry dedicated to preserving the memory of the small Swedish fishing and sealing communities that had settled on the west coast of Estonia in the 1200s, possibly earlier. They had carried on living there for generations under the various rulers that came and went, somehow managing to preserve their distinct culture. This was helped by the granting of a charter by the kings of Sweden which allowed them to live free from serfdom under Swedish law rather than the local laws.

“In some cases, these charters were lost”, it says on one of the panels. “When that happened, the local landed-gentry would take advantage and pay the Swedes the lower wages and charge them the higher taxes they did with the local Estonians.”

“In 1781 under Catherine the Great,  some of the Swedish islanders were forced to relocate to a specially prepared village and lands in Ukraine”, I read. “Half of them died en route, but when the survivors got there, they found everything that had been promised was lies. Nevertheless, some stayed on and built it up. Now that village has been almost completely destroyed by Russian artillery fire in the current war in Ukraine.”

“Look at this one”, says the First Mate. “It says that missionaries came out from Sweden to make sure that these islanders were staying on the straight and narrow. They made the women wear blouses with long sleeves and high collars, and taught that dancing was the work of the devil. One missionary even collected all the musical instruments and burnt them on a bonfire. What killjoys!”

In 1944, almost all of the remaining Swedish-speaking islanders fled to Sweden to escape the Russians, and their houses and farms were taken over by Estonians fleeing from the eastern part of the country. Nowadays only a few descendants remain, and few speak the original colonial Swedish.

A poignant and interesting little footnote of history, I think.

The next morning we sail for the island of Hiiumaa, 20 miles west of Haapsalu, still following Racundra’s route.

We pass the lonely lighthouse on Rukkirahu island on our port side (referred to as Rukeraga by Ransome), and to starboard, the low-lying islands of Eerikulaid, where the British ship Toledo had run aground in the 1920s. Its Captain Konga and his crew had remained on it for two years, living on fish and seals and the occasional vegetables bought on Hiiumaa after a brief row ashore. Eventually it floated off and was towed off to Helsinki for scrap.

We reach the red and green buoys marking the beginning of the long and narrow buoyed channel to the small harbour of Heltermaa. The ferry is coming at speed behind us, so we wait for it to pass us, as there is hardly enough room in the channel for the two of us together.

In the evening we go for a walk along the road leading from the harbour. We reach a multi-windowed wooden building which may have been the Russian posthouse/inn that Ransome tried to obtain milk from. A man is working in the garden, but he doesn’t speak English and so is not able to tell me anything about the background of the house.

“History repeating itself”, I tell the First Mate. “The inhabitants in Ransome’s day also could only speak Estonian. He ended up buying some very expensive eggs instead of milk.”

“We have plenty of eggs”, says the First Mate. “So don’t go buying any more.”

The next day, we take the bus up to Kärdla, the main town of the island. The town’s prosperity was based on a broadcloth factory started in the 1830s by a Baltic German baron.

“He probably made his money by exploiting the cheap local labour”, sniffs the First Mate. “Germans always love a good bargain.”

A little bit further on is the unusual war memorial with an Estonian soldier sitting on blocks of stone inscribed with the names of those who died fighting in world wars.

We stop at the marina and have lunch at a small café there.

“I read that Kärdla is one of the jumping off places for sailing between Estonia and Finland across the Gulf of Finland”, says the First Mate. “It’s only about 50 miles or so.”

We amble back to the town square where the buses leave from.

“Quickly”, says the First Mate. “The bus is just about to leave. Get on!”

We climb on and sit in the front seats to get a good view. The bus wends its way through rolling countryside of forests, ripening crops, and occasional small hamlets.

“It’s beautiful scenery”, says the First Mate dreamily. “So green and peaceful.”

Something doesn’t seem quite right. We seem to be heading away from where I think the harbour is. More to the west of the island.

“Are you sure this is the right bus?”, I ask.

“I think so”, says the First Mate. But she doesn’t sound very sure.

“Are you going to Heltermaa?”, I ask the bus driver at the next stop, a village called Käina.

He looks at me blankly.

“Heltermaa?”, he says, in broken English. “No Heltermaa going. This bus Emmasta go.”

Emmasta is a village in the south-west of the island. Panic! We decide to get off and try and catch another bus either to Heltermaa harbour or back to Kärdla. In any case, there is no point going even further away.

“You just missed the last bus back to Kärdla”, says a man seeing us trying to decipher the bus timetable. “And the next bus to Heltermaa goes in the morning.”

More panic! We are stuck in a village in the middle of the island with no public transport until tomorrow, and with nearly 20 km to walk.

“The best thing to do it to walk out to the roundabout on the main road and see if you can thumb a lift”, the man suggests helpfully.

Twenty minutes later, we are standing at the side of the road with our thumbs out.

“Tidy up your hair”, says the First Mate. “I wouldn’t stop if I saw someone looking like you wanting a lift.”

Despite having seen a car pass just before we reached the roundabout, there are no further cars going in our direction. I glance around, looking for a place in the fields where we might have to sleep the night. I earmark a soft looking spot under one of the hedgerows.

After half-an-hour or so, a car stops. Two young Estonian girls are in it.

“Sure, we can take you”, they say. “We’re heading down that way to meet some friends at a restaurant. It’s no problem.”

Instant sighs of relief!

“I work in Boston in the USA”, the driver says, after we have clambered into the back seat. “I am in public health. There are a lot more jobs to choose from over there than here, and the pay is better. But I am back here for a few weeks to visit my family and friends. That’s what tonight’s dinner is for.”

They drop us off at the harbour. All’s well that ends well. I decide that I prefer my own bed to under a hedgerow somewhere.

“You know that Arthur Ransome was a spy, don’t you?”, says Spencer from the canopy that evening. “He went to live in Russia at the time of the 1917 Revolution and became close to Trotsky and Lenin. He even married Trotsky’s secretary, Evgenia Shelepina, after his marriage to his first wife ended in divorce. Evgenia was one of his companions on the Racundra cruise. He passed information on the progress of the Revolution to the British Government.”

“Yes, I had read that somewhere”, I say. “And that he might even have been a double-agent passing information back to the Russians. It’s hard to imagine that the author of such wholesome children’s books as Swallows and Amazons could have been such a complex character.”

“I’m going back to Tartu for my little sister’s graduation”, says the young man with a topknot sitting in the opposite seat to us. “Being the good brother, that sort of thing. I know Tartu well – I also studied there. By the way, my name is Sander.”

We are in the train from Tallinn heading to Tartu, Estonia’s second largest city, in the middle of the country. The weather forecast was for strong winds to persist in Tallinn, so we had decided that it would be a good opportunity to explore other parts of Estonia while we wait for them to subside. We had booked the tickets online – all tickets are booked online in Estonia as there are no ticket offices at stations any more –  ridden the bikes to the station, packed them up, and stored them in the bike section the last carriage. It normally costs €5 to take a bike on the train, but folding bikes are free if they are folded and packed.

“Wow, that’s cool”, says Sander in response to his question of what we are doing in Estonia. “Sailing around Europe. That’s something that I have always wanted to do. My goal is to make lots of money, retire early, and do something exactly like that. You have really inspired me.”

The train enters the central forested area.

“What do you do?”, I ask.

“I actually work in London”, he tells us. “I am involved in writing software for specialised financial services for a large international company. The pay is great, and I invest most of what I earn. If it all goes according to plan, I am on target to retire in 15 years’ time when I am 40. The only thing is that I don’t have partner at the moment, so that is one of my priorities.”

“There must be lots of women who wouldn’t mind an exciting lifestyle without having to work”, says the First Mate.

“I actually had a date last night”, says Sander. ”It was a bit strange – although we are both Estonian and speak Estonian, we conversed in English. She also works abroad. We’ll see how it works out.”

There is a kerfuffle in the seats across the aisle from us. A loud bark and a plaintive meow. A woman with a cat in a cage has tried to sit down next to a girl with a nondescript-looking dog lying on the floor. The cat hisses in fright.

“I’ll find somewhere else to sit”, the catwoman says, moving further down the carriage.

“I think that you will like Tartu”, continues Sander, his topknot bobbing. “It’s a very beautiful city. It has the University, of course, and a lot of it was rebuilt in the old style after the city centre was destroyed by the Nazis and the Soviets in WW2. In fact, the Germans have had quite a bit to do with the city. The Livonian Brothers of the Sword came here in the mid-1200s and conquered it. They were on a crusade to convert the pagans up here to Christianity. Anyone who didn’t convert was put to the sword. The Brothers of the Sword were the ones who built the castle and cathedral on top of the hill. They also named it Dorpat which was used up to the time of independence when it was renamed to the old Estonian name of Tartu.”

Across the aisle, a little girl starts playing rock-paper-scissors with her father. Her face lights up each time she wins a round. The father tries to read something on his phone, but it is a lost cause.

“Shortly after the Brothers of the Sword took the city, it joined the Hanseatic League and became very prosperous through trade”, Sander continues. “Then over the next few hundred years it was fought over by Russia, Sweden and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. The University was founded in the 1600s when the Swedish were in charge. Perhaps because of that it has always been central to the Estonian national revival – it is where the peace treaty between Estonia and Russia was signed after we became independent in 1918, and it was also where resistance to the Soviet Union and the Singing Festivals started in the 1980s and 1990s. This year it is the European Capital of Culture.”

The forest gives way to rolling farmland as we approach Tartu.

We wish Sander all the best with his future plans and romances, find our AirBnB to leave our overnight things at, and cycle into the city centre.

On the way we pass the Sacrificial Stone on Toompa Hill. Its surface is pockmarked with depressions in which pre-Christian people apparently left their offerings to their god Tharaphita. The guide book tells us that it is still used by university students who ceremoniously burn their lecture notes on it after they graduate.

“I think that is a story for the tourists”, says one person we ask about it. “I graduated from Tartu University, but no-one I knew ever did that. Anyway, its graduation day today, and there are not many ashes on the stone.”

We reach the city centre. The streets around the university are flooded with newly graduated students in their finery. Proud parents look on, meet their offspring’s boyfriend or girlfriend, and take endless photos.

We leave the celebrations and explore the town.

Appropriately, there is a sculpture of two kissing students in the Market Square.

“The story goes that they were student lovers who wanted to stay together forever”, says the First Mate. “Then one rainy day, they were struck by lightening when they were kissing, and were fused together in their embrace. They got their wish. But why they weren’t incinerated instead of being turned to metal, I don’t understand.”

“Don’t overthink it”, I say.

A little bit further on is the ‘Father and Son’ sculpture by Ülo Õun, with the two figures of the sculptor and his 18-month-old son the same height. It’s a little bit weird, but is supposed to represent the connection between generations.

Next up is the sculpture of Oscar Wilde and Edvard Vilde, the Estonian writer, sitting on the same bench. They share a surname, but were not related and never met.

“It’s just a joke”, says a woman who stops to take the photo of the two of us sitting between them. “Everyone likes Oscar Wilde in Estonia because he reminds them of our own Edvard Vilde.”

Eventually we reach the Emajðgi river running through the city.

“Apparently it just means ‘Mother River’ in Estonian”, says the First Mate.

The next morning, we cycle up to the Estonian National Museum on the outskirts of the city.

“It’s enormous”, says the First Mate. “I wonder why they made it so big?”

“It seems that it used to be a Soviet airbase where they kept their strategic nuclear bombers”, I say. “I suppose they needed a bit of space for that.”

We start with the Echo of the Urals exhibition, which explores the Uralic family of languages that both Estonian and Finnish belong to. It is thought to have originated in the foothills of the Ural Mountains and from there spread westwards as far as Norway and as far eastwards to eastern Siberia. The Finno-Ugric languages are a sub-group within this broad family.

We learn how researchers have pieced together evidence that these languages are related, not only through words, but also through the many overlaps in the pre-Christian religious concepts and folk poetry relating to farming, hunting, fishing. For example, many maintain contact with ancestors through prayers and laments, sing long dreamlike songs, and offer sacrifices to gods and spirits to help them survive in the harsh environment. They believe that a person has several souls, although only one is reborn.

Interestingly, language and culture are not always linked to the genetics. For example, Latvians and Lithuanians have a similar genetic heritage to other Finno-Ugric peoples, but their languages are Indo-European in origin, while Hungarians have a European heritage, but their language is Finno-Ugric.

“Fascinating”, says the First Mate. “I never realised before that there are so many different languages in this part of the world. And so many different national costumes too.”

“It was interesting to see the very first Estonian flag”, I say over a coffee in the restaurant later. “Apparently is was designed by a theology student here in Tartu back in 1881 when Estonia was still part of the Russian Empire but nationalist feelings were emerging. Blue represents the country’s bright future, black represents its dark history, and white the gaining of enlightenment and learning. It had to be kept hidden in Russian times, but was brought out at the times of independence in 1917 and 1989. Now you see it everywhere.”

“Did you see the joke about life in Soviet times?”, asks the First Mate. “Everybody goes to work, but no-one does any work. Nobody does any work, but the plans are fulfilled. The plans are fulfilled, but the shops are empty. The shops are empty, but the homes have everything. Homes have everything, but nobody is happy. Nobody is happy, but everybody votes in favour of the government.”

“It is amazing how rapidly they have embraced modern technology since those days”, I say “It’s only been about 30 years, but within that short time they have created a modern digital economy. Most interactions with government are done online now. And did you see the little cube satellite that was built at Tartu University and sent into space with a European Space Agency rocket to test a solar sail? The camera they developed for it was so good that it was later used in earth orbiting observation systems.”

We cycle back into the city centre. Preparations are underway for the Midsummer Festival procession. It starts at four o’clock, but unfortunately we can’t stay to watch it, as we have our train back to Tallinn to catch.

“At least we can get a few photos of the various costumes”, I say. “We can pretend we saw the procession.”

We arrive back in Tallinn in the early evening. Later, we cycle over to Stroomi beach on the opposite side of the peninsula from where we are moored. There is supposed to be a midsummer celebration there with a fire. Sure enough, we find a band playing, a fire burning, and people dancing¸ drinking, eating, and wading in the shallow waters of the bay.

We find a place on the beach and eat our snacks and drink our wine. The First Mate strikes up a conversation with a woman nearby. It turns out that she is Russian.

“Yes, I am Russian”, she says. “My parents came here to work when Estonia was a Soviet Republic. I was born here and have lived here all my life. Tallinn is my home. Most of the Russians live in the area at the back of the beach. It’s definitely the poorer end of town. ”

We had passed through it on our way.

“We are certainly discriminated against”, she continues. “We don’t have Estonian citizenship and we don’t get such good jobs. Our unemployment rate is higher than Estonians, especially amongst women.”

“But why don’t you automatically get Estonian citizenship if you were born here?”, asks the First Mate. “That would be fair.”

“Well, when Estonia became independent in 1991, they decided to make it a restoration of their independence before 1939 rather than create a new state”, the Russian woman says. “That meant that anyone that came into the country after 1939 and their descendants were not granted automatic citizenship but had to apply for it and meet the requirements, one of which was to speak Estonian. It was basically targeted at us, the ethnic Russians. The Estonians are paranoid about being outnumbered in their own country.”

“Do the ethnic Russians protest much about it?”, the First Mate asks.

“Not really”, the Russian woman says. “Most of them don’t want to stir things up as they have a much better standard of living than if they were in Russia, and also living in Estonia gives them the right to travel and work in the rest of the EU, which they wouldn’t be able to do if they lived in Russia. I am married to a Danish man, for example.”

It’s a tricky one. The ethnic Russians do seem to be discriminated against in some aspects, but equally I can understand the Estonian viewpoint – having a significant proportion of their population originally from a hostile neighbour is not conducive to sleeping easily at night. Especially looking at the pretext justifying the Ukrainian war.

There is a loud shout from the crowd. A fire engine has arrived. It is past sunset and is time to put the fire out. The firemen unroll their hoses and turn on the pump. As the jet of water hits the fire, there is a loud hiss and clouds of dense steam billow skyward. They spray water on the remaining logs from every angle to make sure there are no glowing embers left. Soon all that is left are one or two charred logs on the sand. The evil spirits have been chased away by the noise of the band and the dancing, and the harvest will be good. The love spells have been cast and will ensure that a new cohort of Estonians are born in the springtime.