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.

We leave Helsinki the next morning, bound for Estonia on the other side of the Gulf of Finland, a distance of some 50 nautical miles. As we leave, we pass the clubhouse of Nyland Yacht Club, made famous in Arthur Ransome’s Racundra’s First Cruise. In fact, we have decided to retrace his journey on Racundra to and from Riga as much as possible, albeit in the opposite direction sometimes.

Although light at first, the wind picks up, and before long we are sailing on a fast close reach. We cross the Traffic Separation Scheme at right angles, taking care to stay away from the several Russian freighters that we see on the AIS heading for St Petersburg. One never knows what they might be carrying.

We eventually reach the small island of Naissaare just north of Tallinn, and decide to stay there the night. We had been recommended to stop there by some Estonians we had met in the Southern Finnish Archipelago.

“There are some great walks here”, says the harbour-mistress as we check in. “During Soviet times the island was used to make and store naval mines, and it was forbidden to visit the place. Now you can roam everywhere. Here, take this map. It shows you where to go.”

Despite some ominous looking rain clouds, we set off.

“What a weird place”, exclaims the First Mate. “All these mines and old military equipment just lying around. I just hope none of them still have explosive still inside them.”

On the walk, we meet another couple, and we walk together for a little while along the small railway line that was used by the Soviets to transport mines from the storage sheds to the harbour.

“Naissaare translates as ‘Island of Women’”, they tell us. “The story is that a community of fishing families once lived here, and with the men all away at sea, only women were left on the island. We don’t know if it is true or not, but if it is, it must have been a while ago as it was mentioned by a medieval chronicler in the 11^th century.”

The next day, we arrive in Tallinn after a short sail from the island. We tie up at the Lennusadam marina, which also happens to be right next to the Maritime Museum. On the other side of the jetty a destroyer of some sort is lying.

“We should be safe here with that thing next to us”, says the First Mate.

I notice that its guns are pointing towards the city, not out to sea.

“Tallinn is a beautiful old medieval walled city dating from before the 11^th century”, the guide book tells us. “The Danes conquered it in the 1200s, the German Knights of the Sword took it a few years later. It later joined the Hanseatic League as a trading post between the Russian Novgorod and Europe, but faded in the 16^th century when the Hanseatic League declined. Sweden conquered it in the 1500s, then the Russians in the 1700s. It managed to become independent of the Russian empire in 1918 until it was invaded by Stalin in 1940, then by the Nazis in 1941, and again by the Soviets in 1944. It only became independent again in 1991.”

“They’ve certainly had a roller coaster ride with their neighbours”, says the First Mate.

“Now, I suggest that we take one of the free walking tours organised by the Tourist Information”, she continues. “There’s one that focuses on the Soviet period in Tallinn. That sounds interesting.”

We join a tour starting just after lunch. The leader is a studious young man called Marco.

“I am a history teacher”, he introduces himself in excellent English. “I am actually Bulgarian, in that I was born in there, but my mother is Estonian, and I have lived in Estonia for most of my life. My mother’s mother was an Estonian Jew. There weren’t many Jews in Estonia compared to some of the other Baltic States, but when it looked like the Nazis would invade, many escaped to the Soviet Union. My grandmother’s family was amongst them. Those Jews that remained – around 1000 – were almost all killed by the Nazis. After the war, she wanted to return but wasn’t allowed to live in Estonia, so she settled in Bulgaria, met my grandfather there and raised a family, one of which was my mother.”

It’s quite a moving story, and it adds a personal touch to the tour.

We pass the Russian Embassy. The iron railings outside are covered in placards, flowers, and pictures expressing protest against the war in Ukraine. An effigy looking like a bride is daubed with red paint.

“It’s to signify the blood of the innocent that is being spilled there”, explains Marco. “Most Estonians are supportive of Ukraine’s efforts, as we know what it is like to be under Russian rule. We don’t want to go back to those times ourselves, and we can understand why the Ukrainians want their freedom too.”

“What about the ethnic Russians who live here in Estonia?”, someone asks. “What do they think?”

“Ah, good question”, says Marco. “Something like 24% of the population of Estonia is ethnic Russian. Here in Tallinn, it is nearer 40%. Most are construction workers and the like that came during the Soviet times to work on infrastructure projects, and stayed on. When we regained our independence, they weren’t granted Estonian citizenship automatically, but were given the option of applying for it through naturalisation.”

“The problem is that they have never really integrated”, he continues. “Most don’t speak Estonian, and they have their own Russian schools where they learn only Russian. Because you need to be able to speak Estonian to gain Estonian citizenship, most of them are classed as ‘non-citizens’. In any case, as dual nationality is not allowed, many ethnic Russians prefer not to take Estonian citizenship as they can still travel freely to Russia to visit friends and relatives rather than having to obtain a visa. The problem is though, that because they don’t speak Estonian, they don’t get very good jobs, so that the predominantly Russian areas in Tallinn and the east of Estonia have a lower standard of living than the rest of the country.”

“But to go back to your question, about 60% of Russian speakers in Estonia are against the war in Ukraine, especially the young people.”

We move on to the next stop on the tour, the notorious KGB cells at 1 Pagari Street.

“We won’t be going into the cells on this walking tour”, says Marco. “But I strongly recommend that you come back later and see them, as well as the Paterei prison. This is where anyone suspected of being anti-communist was brought to be interrogated. Most who came were either killed here, imprisoned in Paterei, or else deported. There is an Estonian joke that it must have been the tallest building in Tallinn, as if you entered it, you could see all the way to Siberia.”

He pauses. No one is quite sure whether to laugh or not.

“But let me tell you another relevant family story”, he continues. “Just after my parents got married, my mother’s mother came to live with them in their small apartment in a Soviet style block. She was a strong supporter of Estonian independence and became involved in some of the activities. One day my father announced that they would be moving into a bigger and better apartment. They were all a bit puzzled, but were happy to have more space. Then when my grandmother died, my father confessed to my mother that he had been informing on her mother to the KGB for years as she was a ‘person of interest’ to them. He had been given the bigger apartment as a reward.”

“What did your mother think?”, someone asks.

“Well, she felt so betrayed by him that she left him”, Marco says. “We were brought up by her to think that he was a terrible person. But more recently, I have come to realise that although he was flawed and made a bad choice, he wasn’t evil. It’s easy to be critical if you haven’t lived through the same circumstances yourself. Now let’s go and see the ugliest building in the whole of Estonia. That will be the end of the tour.”

We reach the so-called Tallinn City Hall on the waterfront. Ugly doesn’t even really start to describe it.

“It was built for the 1980 Olympic Games in Moscow”, Marco explains. “As there was no suitable venue in Moscow for the sailing, they decided to hold it in Tallinn. It was called the Lenin Palace of Culture and Sport, and in addition to being a place to watch the sailing, it also contained a skating rink and concert hall. The problem is that because Soviet construction methods are not noted for their quality at the best of times, and because it was also built in a hurry, it is extremely poorly built and most of it is very dilapidated now. But no one knows what to do with it. In some ways, it should be pulled down, but it has heritage protection. There has been talk about restoring it, but nothing has happened yet as it will be too costly. So it sits here, decaying even more.”

He’s been a great guide. We thank him for his introduction to the city and say goodbye.

Later, we return to 1 Pagari Street, the KGB cells. The outside world fades as we climb tentatively down the worn stone stairs to basement level. I shiver involuntarily as I think of the many people that must have passed down these same stairs, perhaps knowing that they would be tortured until they confessed to something they never did.

The cells are both sides of an underground passageway, the atmosphere dank and clammy. I try and imagine what it must have been like to be imprisoned down, but having been brought up in a time of relative peace, and knowing that I can leave whenever I want, I just don’t have the mental machinery to appreciate the true horror of the place.

Many of those incarcerated belonged to the ‘Forest Brothers’, a group of partisans who fought against the Red Army in both periods of occupation. They fled to the forests when the Soviets arrived in 1940, helped the Nazis to drive them out again in 1941, and waged a guerrilla war against them after Soviet reoccupation until they were wiped out by superior Soviet forces in the 1950s.

In the last cell, we are asked which freedom is the most important to us. A poignant response from a previous visitor catches my eye. He or she is from Belarus.

“I just want the KGB in my home country to be turned into a museum like this”, it says. “And not be able to conduct illegal interrogations and torture. I was an environmental activist, and when the KGB came to my home in February to detain me, I fled. They arrested my mother instead and kept her in an unheated cell for 12 days with no warm clothes. My uncle was arrested and beaten because he attended a peaceful protest against unfair elections. His kidneys were damaged and he was raped with a police baton.”

Such horror is not a thing of the past.

The next day we cycle over to the Vabamu Museum of Occupations not far from Freedom Square.

“The museum is dedicated to the Nazi and Soviet occupations of Estonia”, the girl at the desk tells us. “Much of it is told from the perspective of ordinary people. You can hear it all in your own language with one of these audio devices. Just select your language and press Start’.

We spend the next couple of hours listening to the stories of those who were deported to Siberia in the early stages of the Soviet occupation, those who fled Estonia to western countries, those who resisted Soviet occupation by hiding in the forests, those involved in the restoration of independence, and those now involved in building Estonia into a modern westwards-looking nation.

It’s intense, and at times harrowing, but also holds the promise of a better future. Afterwards, over a coffee, we discuss what we had learnt.

“Phew, you can really feel for the Estonians”, says the First Mate. “Two cruel occupiers, and having to make choices as to which one to support – if the Soviets, the Nazis will kill you; if the Nazis, the Soviets’ will deport or shoot you; if neither, then both will get you.”

“That’s the theme of a book I read over the winter”, I say. “When the Doves Disappeared, by Sofi Oksanen, an Estonian writer. It’s about the choices made by two cousins in Estonia under the Soviets and Nazis. One is fiercely patriotic and supports independence for Estonia, the other blows with the wind and works for whatever regime will allow him to survive and advance his career. There is a surprising twist at the end. It’s not an easy book to read, but worth it if you persevere.”

“It was interesting about the Phosphorite War”, says the First Mate. “I hadn’t heard of that before. It seems that the Estonian communist government in the 1980s, under pressure from Moscow, wanted to develop a mine to extract phosphorite in the north-eastern part of the country. Normal Estonians became concerned, not only for the detrimental environmental impact it would have, but also for the influence on the demographic balance of the influx of workers from other parts of the Soviet Union. When protests were organised, the government backed down. It showed the people for the first time that they had the collective power to change things, and paved the way for the downfall of the communist regime.”

“It was also interesting about the Singing Revolution”, she continues. “How they formed a chain of people stretching from Tallinn all the way to Vilnius in Lithuania singing patriotic songs. It certainly got the message across to the Estonian communist government and Moscow that most people in the Baltic States wanted independence from the Soviet Union.”

“I thought that the bit at the end on what freedom means was thought-provoking”, I say. “One person was so ecstatic when Estonia became independent that he thought he could do whatever he wanted to. But after a few days, he realised that just freedom by itself wasn’t the whole story, and that along with it came the responsibility of doing something useful and contributing to society. You need to have a balance between freedom and responsibility. We don’t always appreciate that balance in the West.”

“Look, there’s a naked man who has just dived into the water over there”, says the First Mate, pointing to the shore at the end of the bay. “And a woman.”

“They have probably just been in a sauna and are cooling off”, I say.

We are in a small inlet on the island of Skedöfladen, surrounded by forest with the occasional cabin here and there hidden behind the trees. We had left Hanko in the morning, sailing eastwards, and had decided to stop there overnight. Dropping the anchor at the top of the inlet, we had relaxed in the warm sunshine sipping wine, listening to the chorus of birdsong coming from the forest and watching the grebes diving amongst the reeds on the shore, the black-headed gulls wheeling overhead, and the solitary heron on the rock at the end of the bay.

“It’s so peaceful here”, says the First Mate dreamily, pouring her second glass of wine. “So close to nature. I can understand why all the Finns want to escape to their cabins in the summer time. It’s a spiritual thing.”

She loves her broad generalisations. But she has a point.

“I think that I can relate to that”, I say. “I wouldn’t mind spending a summer in a place like this. Just reading, thinking and writing, and a small boat to go fishing. Very inspirational.”

The naked couple climb out of the water onto the small jetty and walk unashamedly back into the trees.

“I read somewhere that there was a some opposition to boats being able to freely anchor in Finland when they were drafting their Jokaisenoikeudet, or Everyman’s Rights”, says the First Mate. “Because of people wanting to swim after having a sauna in their summer cabins. But this couple don’t seem to be bothered. They must be aware we are here.”

“The rules says that you mustn’t anchor close to private plots”, I say. “Although they leave the definition of how close ‘close’ is to common sense. I think we are far enough away.”

The next morning it is raining. We wait until lunchtime until it stops and the wind changes, then we carry on. In the late afternoon, we reach Barösund, a small harbour in the narrow sound between the islands of Barölandet and Orslandet. We tie up and go to explore.

“Look over there”, shouts the First Mate, pointing to two boats coming up the sound. “One boat is being towed. I think it’s the same one that we saw heading out when we were coming in. I recognise the sign on it – ‘Skärgärdsteatern’. Maybe they have broken down.”

Sure enough, the first boat turns out to be the coastguard, and there is a line back to the second, some sort of trawler. We had seen it earlier in the day. They reach the harbour and make a slow circle around so that the trawler is facing the quay. A second coastguard boat moves behind and gently nudges the trawler alongside the quay. They seem to know what they are doing.

A small crowd of people has gathered on the quay to watch the spectacle.

“Look out”, someone shouts. “They’re going to hit the pole. Someone do something.”

Sure enough, as the trawler comes alongside, a dinghy suspended on davits that protrude beyond its beam catches a pole with a life-ring and defibrillator on it. Being closest, I try to push the dinghy up out of the way, but I am too late. The pole snaps off at the base. The trawler gradually comes to a stop and is made fast to the quay.

“We are a theatre group from Helsinki”, explains one of the girls sitting at the bow. “We are on our way to Hanko to give a performance. We thought it would be cool to go by sea. But about an hour after we left Barösund, thick white smoke started coming from the engine. We were just thinking of going down to have a look when it stopped completely. Luckily we were in mobile range, so we called the coastguard and they came and towed us back.”

“What about your performance in Hanko?”, asks the First Mate. “Won’t you miss it?”

“Luckily it isn’t until the day after tomorrow”, she says. “We’ll just have to try and get a bus or something there. There should be enough time.”

“Quite a drama”, I say to the First Mate as we walk back to the boat.

We push on eastwards the next morning. Soon the skyline of Helsinki appears on the horizon and we make our way through the dozens of small islands and rocks that guard the entrance to the city, keeping a vigilant lookout for the many ferries and cruise ships coming and going.

We eventually tie up at the Helsingin Moottorivenekerho marina with the spires of the Eastern Orthodox Uspenski Cathedral towering over us.

“Look at the way the sunlight is reflecting off those onion domes”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go over in the morning and have a look inside it.”

In the morning we unload the bikes and cycle over. Inside, it is as sumptuous as it is outside. Commissioned by Tsar Alexander II of Russia, it was completed in 1868. I am surprised to learn that many of the bricks used in its building were ferried from the fort at Bomarsund in the Åland islands that we had visited last year.

“Apparently two of the icons were stolen”, says the First Mate. “One was stolen in 2007 in broad daylight at lunchtime with dozens of tourists present. They still haven’t got it back yet. The other was stolen in 2010 in a break-in, which they did recover eventually.”

The Lutheran Cathedral is a little bit further on, in Senate Square. Completed in 1852, it was originally built as a tribute to the Russian Tsar, Nicholas I. True to Lutheran philosophy, it is a lot less ornate than the Eastern Orthodox cathedral.

Continuing, we find the Temppeliaukio church, carved out of solid rock, with its translucent skylight and copper dome.

“Apparently, the acoustics of the rock are so good, they hire it out for music concerts”, says the First Mate, guide book In hand.

On the way back, we pass the Kamppe Chapel of Silence. Located in one of the busiest squares in central Helsinki, it is built of three different types of wood – a spruce exterior, internal walls of alder, and furniture of ash – and offers a quiet refuge almost completely shut off from the noise and bustle outside. I close my eyes and imagine I am back in the bay at Skedöfladen surrounded by live trees of spruce, alder and ash, with only the calls of the grebes, heron and black-headed gulls. It kind of works.

“We certainly did pretty well for churches today”, says the First Mate over dinner that evening. “But one thing I know nothing about is what the difference is between Eastern Orthodox and Western Christianity. Why did they split up?”

“There was what they called the East-West Schism, as far as I remember”, I say, racking my brains. “In 1054 AD, or thereabouts.”

I consult our well-worn copy of the History of Europe by J M Roberts.

After Christianity spread through the Roman empire, the western and eastern parts slowly drifted apart, with different languages, rituals and practices, it tells me. The Eastern church promoted the use of icons, or pictures of Christ, Mary, the dead, the saints and the angels, to give people the feeling of being surrounded by the whole church. The Western church saw this as worshipping idols and were dead against it. They also disagreed over whether leavened or unleavened bread should be used in communion. And there were differences in some points of theology – the Eastern church saw the Holy Spirit coming from God directly, the Western saw it as coming from God and Christ.

“All pretty arcane, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate. “If God exists, I wonder why he didn’t make it all clearer so that there would be no room for misunderstandings?”

“Well, it was probably as much politics as theology”, I continue reading. “The Eastern church also didn’t accept the authority of the Pope in Rome over a universal church – they were much more into smaller national church groupings with their own leaders – the Armenian, Assyrian, Ukrainian, Russian, and so on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, they decided that their differences were irreconcilable, and split up into Catholicism in the west and Orthodox in the east. Of course, since then there have been any number of subsequent splits into sects and cults, each with its own interpretation of specific bits of scripture and claiming to be right.”

“Well, they can’t all be right, can they?”, says the First Mate.

The next morning we continue exploring Helsinki on the bikes.

“I’m impressed”, says the First Mate. “Absolutely stunning. A real library of the future.”

We are enjoying a coffee in the sunshine on the outdoors balcony of Oodi, Helsinki’s central library. She has a point. Commissioned as part of the centenary celebrations of Finland’s independence from Russia in 1917, it really is much more than a traditional library.

“Oodi is in effect a living room for the 21st-century city”, says the blurb. “As with other libraries in Finland, it is open and free to all. Their purpose is to promote reading, literacy, equality, and freedom of speech, as well as a sense of community and imagination.”

In addition to light, airy spaces for reading, there are also music and video production studios, a cinema, the café, and a restaurant. Meeting rooms on every floor can be used for lectures, talks and conferences. Weekly language classes are offered. On the second floor is an ‘Urban Workshop’ with laser cutters, 3D printers, sewing machines, and soldering equipment.

In addition to normal books, it is also possible to borrow e-publications, sports equipment, musical instruments, power tools, and other ‘items of occasional use’.

“It must be a great place to come during those long Finnish winters”, I say. “You could spend all day here, just reading, writing, keeping warm, meeting people over coffee or lunch. I am starting to see why Finland tops the ‘Happiness Index’ every year.”

“Did you see the robot which transports books from one part of the library to another?” asks the First Mate. “I had to wait while it got into the lift.”

“I read that a book that was borrowed from the library in 1939 was just returned the other day“, I say. “Apparently it was at the time the Russians invaded Finland in the Winter War. It seems that the borrower might have had other things on his or her mind and forgot to return it. It languished in an attic all those years, but someone came across it just recently and returned it.”

“I wonder if they had to pay an overdue fine?”, says the First Mate, standing up to go. “It would come to quite a bit for being 85 years late.”

In the afternoon, we meet up with Outi. We had first met her when we were on Kökar in the Åland islands, and we agreed to get in contact when we arrived in Helsinki, where she now lives. Over a coffee in the Kapelli restaurant near the Old Market Hall, she tells us that she comes originally from eastern Finland, in a part called Karelia.

“It’s actually now in Russia”, she says. “Finland lost it at the end of the Continuation War.”

“I don’t know much about Karelia”, says the First Mate. “Where is it exactly?”

“Well, it’s an area between the White Sea and the Gulf of Finland”, she says. “We have our own culture and language, Karelian, which is very similar to Finnish. Unfortunately, because Karelia is only a small region with some large neighbours, we have never been an independent country. Back in the 1200s, we were fought over by the Swedes and the Novgorod Republic. In the 1300s we became part of the Swedish Empire. Then in the 1700s we became part of the Russian Empire along with Finland, and then part of the autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland. So we have been close to Finland for quite a while.”

“What happened then?”, I ask.

“Well, Finland became independent in 1917, and Karelia along with it”, she answers. “That was fine, but the problems started in 1939 when Russia attacked Finland in the Winter War. The Finns fought bravely and held the Russians off, but the resulting peace treaty in 1940 meant that the Russians got to keep the land they had occupied, much of which was Karelia. A lot of Karelians fled at that time rather than be under Russian rule. My own mother fled with her family to north Karelia which was still in Finnish hands. She was only five years old.”

“So is that where she grew up?”, asks the First Mate.

“No”, says Outi. “When the Nazis invaded Russia in 1941, Finland decided to fight on their side to try and get Karelia and the other territories back. This became known as the Continuation War. They were successful for a time, and so a lot of Karelians, including my mother’s family, moved back to their own homes. Unfortunately, though, when the Germans started losing, the Russians pursued them, and fought the Finns too, regaining the land in Karelia. So the Karelians had to flee all over again. Now she lives in South Karelia, which is in Finland. We are going over this coming weekend to celebrate her 90^th birthday.”

“It’s fascinating”, says the First Mate. “My mother has a similar story of having to flee from the Russians in Ostpruessen. What a terrible time it was for innocent civilians then. A whole continent in turmoil.”

“Yes, we are so lucky not to have experienced that in our lives”, says Outi. “At least not so far.”

“I think we have seen all the things we need to see in Turku”, says the First Mate over breakfast. “I wouldn’t mind a few days in the peace and quiet of the islands now. There’s an island not too far from here that I have been looking at. It’s called Seili, and is only about three hours away. We could sail there this afternoon.”

“Sounds like a good idea”, I say. “Let’s go.”

The wind is from the south-west, but we manage to sail close hauled, tacking a couple of times. Before long we reach the small bay to the north of the island. There is a pontoon there for boats to tie up to, but it is quite shallow and we decide to anchor.

We inflate the small dinghy and row ashore. It is new this year, having been bought to replace the old one which had decayed beyond repair. This is the first time we have used it. It floats at least.

A path leads up to an imposing looking building in the centre of the island.

“Apparently it used to be a leper hospital back in the 1600s”, reads the First Mate. “People with leprosy arriving there even had to bring their own planks to construct their coffins. Very few ever left the island alive. The church was even constructed in two separate parts – one side for the patients and the other for the staff. That way, they didn’t come into contact. Later the buildings were used as an institution for those with mental illnesses.”

“All a bit gloomy”, I say.

“But from the 1960s, the buildings have been used as a marine research station by the University of Turku”, she continues. “They are doing research in the Baltic Sea, particularly in relation to climate change and pollution by microplastics.”

After a cup of coffee in the small café in the building we walk over to the small harbour on the other side of the island. As luck would have it, the inter-island ferry arrives at the same time.

“We just came over for the day for some walking”, explains one of the small group of people waiting for it to arrive. “We’re heading back to Turku now. Others live in Turku, but come over here to work in the research station and café. The ferry can get quite busy.”

Well, in relative terms, I suppose, as we watch the seven people walk into its ‘mouth’.

For the next few days, we hop from one island to the next, staying two or three nights at anchor, before moving on to the next one. Each has its own character and set of memories. Birsskär, on the edge of its beautiful sheltered lagoon, the spectacular nature walk to the top of the highest point of the neighbouring island Stenskär, the friendly sheep we meet on the way, and the smoked fish we buy from the small shop. Norrfladen with its large bay surrounded by forest.

At Ejskäret we find the small bay on the western side of the island, and anchor in about 4 m of water. We set the anchor by motoring backwards until it bites into the mud.

“I think we will be very protected in here anyway”, I say. “It’s only open to the east, and the winds are coming from the south-east and south according to the forecast.”

“Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry”, says the First Mate. “I can see some thunderclouds over there.”

Luckily, the southerly wind takes the threatening clouds around us and leave a beautiful warm summer evening. I take some drone shots of us anchored in the bay.

We settle down for the night and are soon fast asleep. In the early morning I am awoken by a loud crack. Like something has hit the boat. I leap out of bed and look out.

“It’s thunder!”, shrieks the First Mate, as there is another crack.

A sudden squall buffets us, the wind increasing from-near calm to 40 knots in a few seconds. It starts to rain heavily. A flash of lightening! I count the number of seconds between the flash and the peal of thunder. Two! It’s almost overhead. Then another flash, then another. They’re all around us. We huddle in the cockpit, not touching anything metallic, and hope that the next flash doesn’t choose the mast as a conductor.

“Look out, we are getting very close to that pontoon!”, shouts the First Mate. “I think the anchor is dragging!”

We are certainly closer than we were the night before, but we don’t seem to be moving, only swinging backwards and forwards. At least, I hope it is.

I grab a boathook to fend off the pontoon if we do happen to be blown closer. Not that I could hold the weight of the boat and the force of 40 knots of wind, but it feels better than doing nothing. We cower lower and wait agonisingly, wondering when it will all end.

Gradually the lightning flashes seem to be moving away from us, and there is more time between the flash and the peal of thunder. The wind begins to lessen.

“I think it’s easing “, says the First Mate, white-faced. “Phew, that was scary.”

Half an hour later, the clouds have disappeared, the water is calm, and the sun comes out. It all feels like a bad dream.

“We did move a little bit”, I say, after looking at the GPS track. “But overall the anchor held remarkably well. I am not sure what we would have done if it had dragged and we had collided with that pontoon.”

We weigh anchor and push on, reaching the busy harbour of Hanko in the late afternoon.

“I think I might just get some washing done before we have a look around”, says the First Mate. “You have to take what opportunities you can when you are sailing.”

Hanko was a Russian naval base when Finland was a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire. During that time, it was also a favourite spa resort that the Russian elite would come to holiday on account of its warm sunny weather and fine beaches, sometimes being called the “Riviera of Finland”.

We set off to explore the town. The Russians built graceful villas, most of which still survive.

“I just love these villas”, says the First Mate. “I just can’t stop photographing them. Though what I am going to do with all the pictures, I just don’t know.”

“This looks like a nice place for lunch”, says the First Mate, as we reach the Hanko Casino. “We can pretend that we are the Russian elite come to take the waters.”

Despite its name, it was a banquet hall in Russian times, and is now a restaurant. Three Barnacle geese roam the garden welcoming visitors.

We help ourselves to the buffet of salmon, brown rice, and salads of different sorts, and take a table looking out over the lawn to the sandy beach and bay beyond.

“Phew, we’ll need to go for a walk after this”, I say. “I am full. And there’s still dessert to come.”

“I saw a sign saying that there is a nature walk in a loop around that rocky headland over there”, says the First Mate. “We can do that. Apparently, it’s where the high-society Russian ladies used to walk for fresh air.”

There are also fortifications where the Finns fought against the Russians in the Continuation War in 1941.

We continue on exploring the town and come to the city water tower. There is a lift to the top.

“The original wooden tower was built in 1886”, the woman at the small desk tells us. “The Soviets blew it all up when they left after the Continuation War in 1941. It was rebuilt out of local red granite in 1943 to supply water to the townspeople. It gives a great view out over the city. Look, you can see the naval ships arriving for tomorrow’s Flag Day.”

Mother duck and her ducklings, I think.

On the way back to the boat, we pass a sculpture of birds in flight. The guide book tells us that it is to commemorate the many Finnish emigrants who left for a new life in North America. Apparently, Hanko was the port of choice for their departure.

The next day, it is the National Flag Day for the Finnish Defence Forces.

“There is a particularly close bond between the FDP and the general population”, one man tells me. ”Not only because they guaranteed our freedom by stopping the Russians from invading the whole country during the Continuation War, but also because every citizen must do six months’ national service, and so they know what it is like to be in the armed forces. ”

We wander around the equipment display. Tanks, missile launchers, field radar, navy patrol boats, mines – they are all there. Weapons of death, but unfortunately necessary in today’s world – not only for deterrence, but also for actively defending against unprovoked aggression.

We are struck by how young most of the personnel are – barely out of their teens.

 “The military parade is at 1230”, I say. “Let’s get a quick bite to eat, and we can go and find a good spot to watch the parade go past.”

We find a place just opposite the War Memorial. On it, the words “For our Freedom” are engraved. It seems appropriate. The parade begins. Unit after unit of fighting men and women march solemnly past, led by their commander followed by the standard bearers carrying their particular flag.

The tanks arrive, clanking and belching smoke from their engine exhausts, their tracks scraping the tarmac with a sound like cut glass as they turn the corner.

“They are pretty big when you see them up close”, says the First Mate.

“And a lot noisier in real life compared to just looking at them in pictures”, I say. “It must be horribly claustrophobic being cooped up inside them. I am not sure that I could cope with it.”

The air force fly-past is at 1530.

“Why don’t you come up to the roof area of the Harbour Office?”, says the harbourmaster. “It’s mostly for staff, but you’ll get a better view from up there. By the way, your mail arrived this morning. Here it is.”

We climb the stairs to the roof. There’s not long to wait.

“Here they come”, someone shouts.

Sure enough, on the dot of 1530, four aircraft appear flying low. As they zoom past just above us, they release their smoke, and for the next half an hour, we are treated to a dazzling display of aerobatics and smoke trails.

“Apparently, when they fly in formation, there are only two metres between the wing-tips”, the harbourmaster tells us. “No room for any error.”

When we get back to the boat, two burly men in black uniforms are waiting for us on the quay. On their shoulder labels, we see the word ‘Tulli’. They are Customs officers.

“Is this UK-registered boat yours?”, they ask. We reply in the affirmative.

“Can we see your papers, please?” they ask. “In particular, we want to see that your boat is here legally and that VAT has been paid in the EU.”

I disappear into the boat and start rummaging. I find the documents and take them out. One of the men takes photos of the documents stating that VAT was paid on the original sale when the UK was still in the EU, and that the boat was lying in the EU on 31 December 2020, meaning that she is classified as ‘Union Goods’ for tax purposes. Luckily everything seems to be in order, and the mood relaxes.

“Everything is fine”, says one. “We hope you have a good time in Finland.”

“Interesting”, I say to the First Mate later. “That’s the first time we have been asked for our documents since we have been in Europe with her. It just shows that it pays to have everything in order.”

In the evening, there is a jazz concert. A giant stage has been constructed just in front of the Casino where we had had lunch the day before. After a quick bite to eat, We take a rug, something to drink, and join the crowds of people heading to the same place.

“Let’s sit on the beach”, says the First Mate. “The sun will last longer over there, there are not so many people there, and we can still see as well.”

We find a place to sit. All around us are little groups, families, couples, enjoying the balmy evening with an air of expectancy. Soon the music begins, and the dissonant chords of well-known traditional jazz and soul music are booming across the bay.

“I always enjoy a bit of jazz”, says the First Mate, as the band makes its last encore and leaves the stage. “The next band on is called the ‘Showband of the Defence Forces Conscript Band’. A bit of a mouthful. Apparently they are chosen from this year’s conscripts.”

They are exuberant, to say the least. A Freddie Mercury imitator prances across the stage, microphone in hand, giving it his all. Not to be outdone, a young woman follows. Both excellent performers. Perhaps not as musical as they could be, it is nevertheless hugely entertaining.

Soon the last rays of the sun reflect off the cupolas of the Casino one last time and are gone. Immediately it begins to cool down.

“Come on”, says the First Mate, pulling on her fleece. “It’s been great, but I am starting to get cold now. Time to get back to the boat and get warm again.”

“We enjoyed the jazz band at the beginning”, our neighbours in the marina say when we get back. “But not so much the last band. Too much noise and not enough music. Nevertheless, it was great to see the young people getting together and produce something, even if it is not to our taste.”

Like us. I suddenly feel old.

We set sail in the morning for Turku. It’s nearly 60 nautical miles, but the winds are from the southeast giving us a comfortable beam reach, so we want to make the most of it.

As we sail, my mind drifts back to the conversation we had had the night before with Robert, the harbourmaster at Sandvik harbour on Kökar. He had cooked us dinner at the harbour café, two massive chunks of salmon, potatoes in herb butter, and a salad. Oh, and a dessert of his special rhubarb ‘experiment’, as he called it.

With us the only customers, he had stopped to talk to us. The conversation had turned to the Russians and their attempts to interfere with the GPS. He had heard the stories, but didn’t believe that it would have much effect on marine navigation, but could be quite serious for aircraft.

“That’s why Finnish Air have suspended their flights to Estonia”, he says. “The airport at Tallinn relies purely on GPS data for guidance and has no traditional equipment that other airports have for backup. But it is so typical of the Russians. They are intent on sowing as much confusion and doubt in the West as possible.”

It resonates with a book I am reading at the moment, Road to Unfreedom, by Timothy Snyder. In it, he describes how Russia’s aim is to destabilise the West. One of the ways to achieve this was the creation of a company called the Internet Research Agency in St Petersburg in 2015, whose purpose was to use social networking sites and other online platforms to disseminate Russian propaganda from fake accounts. This even extended to influencing elections and referendums in the West. But why do they want to do it, I think?

“You have to remember that Russia sees itself as engaged in an existential war between itself and the evil West”, says Spencer from the canopy over my shoulder. “Central to this is the concept of ‘hybrid war’, which is a mixture of traditional warfare and cyber warfare.”

“What do you mean?”, I ask.

“Well, cyber warfare aims to create chaos in the enemy by sowing doubt amongst its citizens so that no-one trusts anybody or anything, even when it is true”, he responds. “Often several different narratives are developed so no-one knows what to believe. Western media even unwittingly help this process along by reporting on obvious lies and untruths. It doesn’t even matter anymore whether something is true or untrue – what is more important is that it is in people’s minds and they are talking about it.

“But aren’t people clever enough to know what is true or false? Won’t it backfire in the long run?”

“Well, it seems to work”, he says. “Both the Brexit referendum and Donald Trump’s election were influenced by the Russians. And they got the result they wanted.”

“Are you talking to that spider again?”, calls the First Mate from the cabin. “You’d better stop now. There’s a huge cruise ship coming up behind and we need to be careful it doesn’t run us over.”

We approach Turku in the early evening. We furl the sails and motor through the buoyed channel to the Aura river that runs through the city and to the City Marina, passing on the way some stately tall ships.

The moorings are box berths, which are not so common in Finland. We approach them with trepidation, as our experiences with box berths have been usually confrontational, with the box-berth normally coming out best. Especially when there is a strong cross wind. Luckily there is no wind this time and we manage to tie up in masterclass fashion. I receive admiring glances from the audience of seagulls perched on the tops of the neighbouring posts.

“A perfect mooring”, says one. “Congratulations! Top marks!”

“It was nothing, really”, I say nonchalantly.

While the First Mate goes to pay at the harbour office, I have a quick scan through the guide book.

Turku is the major city of southwest Finland, it says, and also Finland’s oldest, having been founded in the 1200s AD. The cathedral was built in the 1300s, and the city was part of the Hanseatic League of trade in the 1400s. Finland was part of Sweden until 1809, when Sweden had to cede it to Russia after the Finnish War. For a short time, Turku was the capital of the Grand Duchy of Finland under the Russian Empire, but Tsar Alexander I felt it was too aligned with Sweden, and decided to make Helsinki the capital. Then in 1918, Finland became independent and Turku along with it.

“Quite a story, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate on her return. “I am quite looking forward to exploring it.”

The city centre is a little way from the marina. In the morning, we unload the bikes and cycle along the river bank until a street market and thronging browsers block our way.

“There’s no way we can cycle through these crowds”, I say. “We’ll just have to push the bikes.”

We slowly make our way through the market, stopping to browse at the occasional stall. Lunchtime approaches and we are both feeling peckish.

“Look, there’s a stall selling Lapland food”, says the First Mate. “Let’s try some of that.”

We go for the fried muikku – a small freshwater fish caught in the lakes and rivers of Lapland and other parts of Finland. In English it is called vendace.

“It’s one of the favourite foods of Lapland”, the vendor tells us. “We make the batter from rye flour seasoned with salt and pepper, and fry them in a mixture of butter and oil, and serve them with a delicious garlic sauce.”

“Mmmmm, it is good”, says the First Mate. “I could have another plate, but I had better not.”

As we leave, a group of girls singing and shouting passes.

“We’re celebrating my wedding”, one of the girls explains to the First Mate. “I’m getting married tomorrow. This is my, how do you say it in English, …?”

“Hen party?”, prompts the First Mate.

“Yes, this is my hen party”, says the girl. “Tell me, what is the best love song in English?”

The First Mate thinks for a few moments.

“Well, the one that comes to mind is that of Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones, where it says ‘Catch your dreams before they fly away’. That’s what you need to do.”

“Oh, yes, I like that”, says the girl. “I’ll remember that.”

“That was quick thinking of you”, I say afterwards.

We eventually reach the cathedral. It is closed to the public for a wedding. It is obviously the season for weddings in Turku.

“This notice says you can come back at 1700”, I say. “Never mind, let’s go to the museum. The archaeology and art gallery are in the same building. You could go to one and I the other.”

The museum and art gallery are closed for refurbishment.

“We aren’t doing too well”, complains the First Mate. “It’s nearly summer. You’d think they would have things ready for the tourists.”

We decide to split up and do our own thing. I opt to go and see the castle while the First Mate chooses to see the Wäino Aaltonen Museum of contemporary art and sculpture.

I take the small foot ferry across the river and cycle along the right bank of the river until I come to the castle.

“The castle was originally built in the late 1200s when Finland was part of the Kingdom of Sweden”, the girl at reception tells me. “It was then on a small island at the mouth of the river, but land rise eventually joined it to the mainland. It was gradually added to over the mediaeval period and the Renaissance until the 1500s. Over that time, it has been both a defensive fortress and a royal residence. In fact, we have a special exhibition on Catherine Jagiellon at the moment. She was one of the queens who lived here. I am sure you’ll find it interesting.”

I have no idea who Catherine Jagiellon was, so I have something to learn.

As I wander through dimly lit rooms of the older medieval part lower in the castle and the bright and spacious rooms of the Renaissance period on the top floor, it strikes me how closely the history of Finland at that time was connected to Swedish history. And for good reason – Sweden ruled much of what is Finland nowadays from the 1100s to the 1600s. All the old familiar names we had learnt of during the last two years of exploring Sweden reappear here – Gustav Vasa I who threw off Danish rule and converted the countries from Catholicism to Lutheranism, his two sons John and Eric who fought each other for the throne of the Swedish Empire.

“Ah yes, I remember them”, says the First Mate, when we are talking later. “Wasn’t one of them imprisoned in Gripsholm Castle in Mariehamn which we visited a couple of years ago?”

“Yes, that was John”, I answer. “When Gustav I died, Eric was crowned king, while John became the Duke of Finland. However, Eric took exception to John marrying Catherine Jagiellon. a Polish princess.

“Why was that?”, she asks.

“Well, unfortunately Sweden was at war with Poland over Livonia, which is roughly present-day Estonia. Eric interpreted his brother John’s marriage to Catherine as supporting the enemy. Which may have been partly true, as John seemed to have his own designs on Livonia. Moreover, she was Catholic, and Sweden and Finland were now Lutheran.”

“So what did Eric do?”, she asks.

“Well, he sent his army against Turku castle where the happy couple had taken up residence”, I say, “They were captured, taken back to Sweden, and imprisoned in Gripsholm Castle.”

“A bit tough for Catherine, wasn’t it?”, she says. “Just married, coming to a country where you don’t speak the language and has a different religion, imprisoned in yet another country where you don’t speak the language and has a different religion, all with a man you hardly know.”

“Yes, it can’t have been easy”, I say. “And the exhibition on her at the castle shows her personal side – letters she wrote to her sister back in Poland, her thoughts about Catholicism, Protestantism and the Counter-Reformation, and the like. I think that she must have found it a bit lonely.”

“But I seem to remember that John eventually became king of Sweden?”, asks the First Mate. “So she would have become Queen.”

“Yes, eventually Eric upset too many people, including his own nobles, so they all rose up against him, imprisoned him in Kalmar Castle, had him certified mad, and declared John the king. John wasn’t too keen on having Eric stay around, even if he was imprisoned, just in case his supporters stirred up trouble, so he slowly poisoned him by adding arsenic to his food over the next few years.”

“So much for brotherly love”, says the First Mate.

“Well, they were half brothers actually”, I say. “So perhaps that explains it.”

On the way back from the castle to meet the First Mate, it begins to rain quite heavily. As luck would have it, I am close to the Sibelius Museum, and I decide to take cover there and more learn about the famous Finnish composer at the same time.

“Jean Sibelius was born in 1865 in Finland, which was at the time an autonomous Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire”, one of the wall panels tells me. “He made a major contribution to the development of a Finnish national identity at a time when there were attempts to ‘Russify’ the country.”

I put on some headphones and listen to the stirring chords of Finlandia, one of his most well-known works. Written in 1899, it is a representation of the Finnish national struggle against foreign rule, and to avoid Russia censorship, had to be played under different names to avoid crackdowns by the authorities.

The particular version I am listening to was played in 2015 on the 150^th anniversary of his birth, with different sections of the orchestra located on one of the seven hills of Turku, with the music from each mixed electronically.

Downstairs is an eclectic collection of various musical instruments. One organ in particular looks as if it needs the player to have a commercial pilot’s licence.

Luckily the rain has stopped when I leave.

“How did you get on at the other art gallery?”, I ask the First Mate.

“It was closed”, she says morosely. “No surprises there. But I did have a good poke around the shops in the city centre.”

In the morning, I prepare my fruit and muesli. The First Mate has spilt some sugar on the worktop the night before. Casually, I lick my finger, wipe it up, and put it into my mouth. Instantly, I realise from the harsh metallic taste that it is a mistake. It’s not sugar. I read the label on the side of the package that I hadn’t noticed standing there: ‘Dri-Pack Soda Crystals, suitable for use in septic tanks’.

“I was using it last night to clean a few things, including the tea stains from your cup”, says the First Mate, as I imbibe my third cup of water, slosh it around inside my mouth, and spit it out vehemently. “It’s only sodium carbonate decahydrate. It’s not poisonous. At least not in small doses. Look on the bright side, you won’t have any tea stains on your stomach lining now.”

Ah, what it is to have someone who cares for you.

“We could stop at Fejan”, says the First Mate, looking up from the harbour guide. “It’s not far from here, and it would be a good jumping off place for the Åland islands. It’s just up around the next headland.”

We have started our summer voyage at last. We had left Svinninge marina in the morning, and had wended our way through the islands of the Stockholm archipelago, managing to dodge all the ferries coming and going. The wind had been fitful – sometimes strong gusts, then dying to nothing. Nevertheless, it had been an opportunity to check that everything was working on Ruby Tuesday, and accustom ourselves to the art of sailing again.

“Fejan sounds fine to me”, I say.

The small harbour comes into view. We tie up alongside the outer pontoon. We are the only boat there. There appears to be no-one on the land either.

“It looks like there has been quite a storm here”, calls the First Mate. “This steel signpost is all buckled. And look at this bridge to our pontoon. It’s been ripped from its metal fixings on the main pier. I am a bit scared to even put my foot on it.”

We had heard while we were preparing the boat that there had been a violent storm in the Baltic back in November and that many of the small harbours and marinas had been substantially damaged. There was doubt in many cases as to whether they would be repaired in time for the 2024 season.

“The harbour guide says that Fejan used to be a quarantine station”, says the First Mate. “It was built way back in the early 1800s when cholera was spreading through Europe, so any new arrivals to Sweden had to stay here until they were cleared to enter the country. Needless to say, many of them died before they were cleared.”

At the end of WW2, a lot of Estonians fled their country as they feared retribution for being on the wrong side of the invading Russians, while others didn’t want to live under communist occupation. The ones that came to Sweden were kept on Fejan in quarantine.

We explore the small cluster of houses surrounding the harbour, dominated by an imposing-looking restaurant. Apparently it used to be the autopsy building and morgue for the quarantine station. There is a feeling of sadness, not helped by the solitude.

“Come mid-summer, it’ll be a hive of activity, though”, says the First Mate. “I wonder if they will realise that there were once dead bodies on the tables they are happily eating their fine food from?”

“The meat-eaters amongst them are eating dead bodies anyway”, I say wryly.

We set off the next morning sailing for Kökar, an island cluster in the south of the Åland islands. It is nearly 60 miles away, but the south-east winds are favourable. The sails fill on a pleasant beam reach, and soon we are comfortably speeding eastwards at 7-8 knots.

We near Kökar in the evening. Furling the mainsail, we turn to the north to round the headland into Sandvik harbour. On the hill above us, we see the white walls, red roof, and spire of Kökar church.

“Have you seen that ferry behind us?”, says the First Mate, just as we enter the narrow buoyed channel to the harbour. “I am not sure there is enough room in this channel for both of us.”

I had seen it. Luckily the channel widens a little just before the ferry dock, so I furl the genoa and tuck into there. The ferry passes with mere metres to spare.

We soon reach the small harbour for sailboats at the top of the bay and tie up. Once again, we are the only boat there. A beached ancient hulk greets us.

“Did you know that you are supposed to pronounce Köker ‘Shirker’?”, I ask. “The K often has a ‘sh’ sound in Swedish, and the ‘ö’ has a short ‘ir’ sound a bit like in German. And it has nothing to do with the inhabitants being work-shy.”

“Ho, ho”, groans the First Mate with a look of weary resignation. “I think your jokes are getting worse, if anything.”

The next morning we borrow some bikes from the café and cycle up to the church we saw on the way in. It is locked, but the key is kept by one of the islanders living nearby who is usually happy to open it to visitors. It turns out that he is the church organist.

“Originally, there was a Franciscan monastery here dating from the 13^th century”, he tells us. “You can see the ruins of it within the small museum behind the church if you are interested. Then a wooden church was built in the 14^th century. Of course, both were Catholic, dedicated to Anna, the grandmother of Jesus, but in 1544 AD it became Lutheran when King Gustav of Sweden split from the Catholic church and converted the whole country to Lutheranism. Åland and Finland were part of the Swedish Empire at that time. But this actual church we are standing in dates from 1784 when it was rebuilt, although the baptismal font over there is from the original church.”

”And this beautiful ship here”, asks the First Mate, pointing to a model of a ship suspended from the ceiling. “What does that signify?”

“Well, the story is that a local farmer was travelling somewhere by ship in the 1700s, but was captured by North African pirates”, the organist explains. “He was held by them for several years, but eventually managed to escape, and when he made it back to Kökar, as a mark of his gratitude to God for saving him, he decided to build a model of the pirate ship that captured him.”

“A poignant little story”, I think, although the thought crosses my mind as to why God would be interested in a model of a pirate ship.

We walk to the top of the hill overlooking the vastness of the Baltic Sea interspersed with islands of the archipelago. Behind us the wind whistles through the pines surrounding the church, conveying a sense of loneliness. And yet, to weary seafarers arriving from a long storm-tossed voyage it must have looked like a sanctuary offering protection from the elements. I read later that Kökar was one of the resting places on the ‘Danish Itinerary’, a 13^th century sea route from Utlängan in south-east Sweden to Tallinn in present-day Estonia.

A sailboat appears from behind one of the islands from the north.

“I wonder if that is Simon and Louise?”, I say. “They are certainly coming from the right direction.”

Simon and Louise are a couple we met on the Cruising Association Rally in Åland last year. We had arranged to meet up again this year if we are near each other. We are, so they had suggested meeting up today.

We watch the boat until it passes below us.

“It’s definitely them”, says the First Mate. “I recognise the boat. Look, there is the Red Ensign on the stern.”

We wave, but they don’t see us.

We meet them as they arrive in the harbour and give them a hand tying up. Over coffee and cakes we catch up on everything each other has been up to since last year.

As the sun goes down and it suddenly grows cold, we decide to adjourn to the local hotel restaurant for something to eat.

“We had a bit of an ‘adventure’ here in Kökar last year”, says Simon over dinner. “One that we are not too keen to repeat.”

“We were just about to leave”, Louise continues. “We were reversing out, and suddenly there was a horrible graunching noise and the engine stopped. Something had caught itself on the propeller. Simon put on his wetsuit and went down to investigate – it turned out to be a submerged stern buoy that was being held down by its chain. You couldn’t see it. We had reversed right over it, and the chain had caught around the propeller.”

“Every sailor’s nightmare”, I say.

“Luckily, the harbour did eventually accept responsibility and agreed to pay for the damage”, says Simon. “But trying to get the money from them was the next part of the saga. We kept on emailing and phoning them, and they kept saying, it’s alright, we’ll pay for the damage. But the money never appeared.”

“In the end, we found their insurance company”, continues Simon. “They confirmed that the damage would be covered, and told the harbour to pay us. So in the end they did, but it was a lot of hassle. With all the delays, it ruined our sailing season.”

On the way out of the restaurant, we briefly chat with a German girl at the next table.

“I am on a project at the University of Trondheim in Norway”, she tells us. “Trondheim used to be a major Christian pilgrimage centre in medieval times. People would come from all over Europe to visit the shrine of St Olav who was buried in Nidaros Cathedral there in 1030 AD. We are trying to resurrect some of the major pilgrim trails leading to the city, both for those wanting the spiritual experience, but also for recreation. The one that I am working on at the moment is called St Olav’s Waterway, starting in Turku in Finland. It’s about 340 km long, and the only water-based route. You walk through the islands on the route and catch a ferry from one island to the next. Kökar is one of the islands on the route. When you get to Eckerö near Mariehamn you take a ferry across to Hudiksvall in Sweden. From there you can walk all the way through to Trondheim in Norway.”

“That’s quite a walk”, says Louise, no stranger to trekking herself. “Why are you doing it?”

“I am not religious myself”, the girl says. “But people go on pilgrim walks for all sorts of reasons – the sense of achievement, creating the time to resolve crises in your life, enjoying the camaraderie of others doing the same thing, pondering the big questions of life. Most people say it is a life-changing experience one way or another. For me it’s being in the great outdoors and the sense of achievement.”

“I wonder what was so special about St Olav?”, the First Mate asks me later.

I read that he lived from 995-1030 AD, was a king of Norway, and instrumental in bringing it together as a country. He was made a saint as he was credited with introducing Christianity to Norway. This was despite not actually having all that much to do with it, and what little he did do, did fairly violently in that people who refused to become Christians had their heads cut off.

“Interesting criteria for becoming a saint”, says the First Mate.

“Perhaps it’s the results that count in religion, not the means”, I say. “Anyway, it says that miracles starting happening near his remains after he died, so they thought this deserved a sainthood. People then started making pilgrimages to his grave hoping some of the miracles might rub off on them.”

“I am sure the church didn’t do too badly either from the influx of pilgrims all coming to spend their money on indulgences and the like”, says the First Mate. “The forerunner of modern tourism. Create an attraction, and just wait until the punters roll in.”

“Now, now”, I say.

“Let’s take the bikes and go out to the museum today”, suggests the First Mate over breakfast the next morning. “It’ll be a chance to see another island.”

It is about 8 km. We pass over a bridge to the next island and through some gentle rolling pastureland. Only two cars pass us on the way.

“It’s so peaceful here”, says the First Mate. “It’s so nice not to have the noise of cars everywhere you cycle.”

We arrive at the museum. It’s closed. But in one of the small adjoining buildings near the entrance, we see a girl in her 20s with a furry dog. A Finnish Lapphund, perhaps.

“Yes, I am afraid it is closed”, she tells us. “But two buildings – the traditional farmhouse and traditional fisherman’s cottage – are open all the time. You can go and have a look through those if you like.”

“Are you one of the staff?”, asks the First Mate.

“No”, says the girl. “Not museum staff, at least. I have just started a small business here making ceramics. But I have lived on the island for nearly seven years. I came originally from Helsinki.”

“You must find it very quiet here compared to the city”, says the First Mate. “Most of the people we have met here so far seem to be of retiring age. Don’t you miss your friends in Helsinki?”

“It’s true that most people on the island are older”, the girl says. “And yes, I do miss my friends a little bit. It’s not like I can just pop around and see them after work, and it’s quite an effort for them to come over here and visit me. But I had had enough of the city stressing me out, so I decided that what I needed was peace and quiet – ‘me-time’ – so I came to Kökar. I love it here. I find the landscape and the coastline very inspiring, and, yes, the people too. I try to incorporate my inspirations into my ceramics.”

“And you have your dog for company”, I say, stroking the fur behind the dog’s ears. “He or she is beautiful.”

“It’s a she”, she says. “But unfortunately she’s not mine. I am just looking after her for someone.”

“I think I would find it too lonely to be here all by myself”, says the First Mate as we look around the traditional fisherman’s cottage. “I need people around. And the number of potential partners on the island must be limited.”

“It takes all sorts”, I say trying to be profound. “But I can see where she is coming from. Maybe you need isolation to be creative. Away from the distractions of civilisation. Including potential partners.”

“Well, that was quite a coincidence”, says the First Mate, as we drive off the ferry at IJmuiden in Holland. “Fancy meeting your old colleagues like that.”

We have just arrived in Holland. The day before, we had driven down to Newcastle to catch the ferry across to IJmuiden on the long journey back to Stockholm to re-join Ruby Tuesday. Just as we had emerged from the car deck clutching our overnight bags, we had bumped into three of my former colleagues who were on their way to northern Germany to do some fieldwork. We had arranged to meet in the bar after dinner. Much reminiscing over several beers ensued.

“Yes, it was great to catch up on everything that had happened since I saw them last”, I say. “It seems that nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. They are having another round of redundancies at the moment. I don’t regret retiring when I did. It seems that funding is as hard as ever to get. Brexit didn’t make it any easier to work with the rest of Europe.”

We stop for a few days with the First Mate’s family in Germany. Her mother had just gone into a care home a few months previously, and we spend time visiting her each day. She is happy to see us.

“You look so thin”, she tells me. “Aren’t you eating properly? Here, have a piece of this cake someone brought me.”

I politely decline. But I feel secretly pleased that my efforts to lose the winter flab over the last few weeks are recognised. Worth the pain.

We eventually set off northwards, the car laden with cheap food and drink from Germany, heading for expensive Scandinavia.

On the way, we stop off for lunch with Gabi and John, fellow sailors whom we had met in the Åland islands last year. They live in Ostfriesland in Germany.

“Come and have a look at this map”, says Gabi, showing me one of those old medieval maps hanging on the wall. “Frisia is all this bit along the Wadden Sea, stretching from the Netherlands to Germany. There are three parts to it – West Frisia in the north of Holland, East Frisia, in Germany where we are now, and North Frisia, which is up in Schleswig-Holstein in the north of Germany. Each has offshore islands associated with them as well.”

“Ah yes, we visited a few of the Frisian Islands as we sailed that way in 2021”, says the First Mate.

“The modern Frisians are not actually descendants of the original inhabitants, but of the Angles and Saxons who emigrated here from further east after the Romans left”, continues Gabi. “Here’s Saxony here. We all know where else the Angles and Saxons emigrated to.”

“We were in the Angle homelands the year that we overwintered in Kappeln”, I say. “There are still a lot of place names that refer to them.”

“Although West Frisia and North Frisia still have their own languages, here in East Frisia they speak Plattdeutsch, which is a German language, not a Frisian one”, says John.

Finishing our excellent lunch, we bid our farewells and continue our journey. We have arranged to meet with some more sailing friends, Axel and Claudia, who are preparing their boat for the season in a marina on the Kiel Canal near Rendsburg. We had first met them in Dover many years ago on our circumnavigation around Britain, and had kept in touch since then. The last we had seen of them had been in Kalmar in Sweden two years ago.

Google seems to think they are further along the canal than they really are, and takes us along a muddy track following the canal side for two to three kilometres. Eventually we come to a bridge leading across the water to a small island where their marina is located. We spot Astarte, their boat.

“Great to see you”, says Axel. “We thought that you had got lost, but what with Google Maps, that’s almost impossible these days.”

“You’d be surprised”, I say.

They are leaving the next day to sail along the German Baltic coast, so we have caught them just in time. It’s good to see them again.

Over kaffee und kuchen I tell them about my project for the next four years to update the IMRAY Cruising Guide to Germany and Denmark, one of the guides used by cruising sailors. I had been asked over the winter by the publishers if it was something I would be interested in doing, and I had accepted. One of the things they want me to do is to take more drone photos of various harbours to illustrate their layout. We have just bought a drone, so we are complete novices, but Axel & Claudia are seasoned drone fliers.

“You need to be careful taking drone photos in Germany”, says Claudia. “Especially if they are published. I don’t know about the other countries, but there are so many rules and regulations here.”

“You can get sued if you take pictures of private property and use them for commercial gain without written permission from the owner”, says Axel. “The same goes for identifiable people in the photo. It makes it almost impossible to take aerial photos of harbours as there is always bound to be private property and people in them, and you can’t go around them all to get their written permission.”

I begin to wonder if I am taking on an impossible task. That evening, I write to the publishers to see what their take is.

We have arranged to stay the night in Kiel with Volkmar, one of the First Mate’s old friends. In fact, Volkmar has already sailed with us in 2021 along the Kiel Canal from Rendsburg to Kiel. Over breakfast the next morning, he asks us where we are planning to explore this year. We tell him.

“Ah, the Baltic States”, says Volkmar, buttering his brötchen. “An interesting part of the world. There was quite a German influence there, you know. Back in the 13^th century, the German Teutonic Knights invaded the area to convert the pagan Balts to Christianity in what are known as the Prussian and Livonian Crusades. However, their activities there were less to spread Christianity than to acquire large estates, and many of them settled there, marrying into the local population and becoming the de facto rulers.”

“I guess there must have been other Germans that followed them?”, I say, reaching for the mettwurst.

“Yes, lots of German merchants and clergy followed in the wake of the Knights”, he says. “Eventually they formed the medieval country of Livonia. Over the centuries they retained their German-speaking identity despite being part of various empires, such as the Swedish and Russian, that came and went. Then just before the start of WW2, most of these Baltic Germans were coerced by Hitler into resettling in Nazi Germany and present day Poland. Many more were expelled after WW2 ended. Nowadays there are not many of them left in the area.”

“It’s fascinating stuff”, says the First Mate, pushing the plunger down on the coffee. “My mother’s side of the family came from Ostpreussen, or East Prussia in English. I have always wondered how they came to be there. Perhaps they were some of the settlers that followed the conquests of the Teutonic Knights. They were farmers.”

“Could be”, says Volkmar. “A Balt tribe called the Old Prussians originally lived in that area, with their own Indo-European language. However, when the Teutonic Knights conquered them, they were either killed if they resisted Christianisation, or assimilated if they accepted it. Their language died out in the 1700s, although there are some similarities to present-day Lithuanian. Nowadays the area is in Poland. It would be interesting to find out more about why your mother’s ancestors ended up there.”

It’s time to press on. We bid farewell to Volkmar and hit the road.

“We’ve done pretty well so far on this trip in learning about movements of people around Europe”, says the First Mate. “First the Frisians, now the Baltic Germans. I wonder who will be next?”

We push on up through Denmark, catch the ferry across the Øresund to Sweden, and continue on the long drive up north. Trees. And more trees. And still more trees. Late in the evening we arrive in Stockholm and find our AirBnB near the marina where Ruby Tuesday has been for the winter having repairs done.

In the morning after breakfast we drive down to the marina, not quite knowing what to expect. We needn’t have worried. The work done to repair the bow and the keel and hull is finished, as is the polishing. The keel had been removed and the hull strengthened.

“It’s all much stronger now than when it left the factory”, says John, who did the work.

“They’ve done a really good job”, says the First Mate after a close inspection only she can do. “She looks like she can’t wait to get back into the water and continue her adventures.”

A familiar face appears over the stern. It’s Spencer, overjoyed to see us.

“Boy, am I glad to see you two”, he shouts in excitement. “It’s been a terrible winter for me. Down to –20°C! I almost didn’t make it. And then the dust! Some guy came on board and started sawing into poor old Ruby Tuesday with a machine. I did my best to stop him, but of course he didn’t take any notice.”

“I thought that we told you that she was having some work done on her”, I say sympathetically. “You must have forgotten. But thanks anyway for keeping an eye on her over the winter.”

We spend the next few days preparing Ruby Tuesday for the season. Back on with the anchor, which had been removed and stowed on board. The propeller had been serviced by the manufacturers in the UK, so it is reinstalled too.

This year we have decided to replace the zinc anodes with aluminium ones, as they are supposed to work better in both freshwater and saltwater, more suitable for the brackish water of the Baltic. We’ll see how they work out.

My phone pings. It’s a text from Andy, the leader of the Cruising Association Rally around the Åland Islands last year. We had kept in touch over the winter, and in fact we had met up in Perth in Australia. He has overwintered his boat just south of Stockholm, and has just had it put back in the water. He has his brother, son, his son’s partner, and another friend with him. He invites us for a drink that evening to catch up.

The waiter takes a photo of us all.

“It’s terrible”, says the First Mate later. “You can’t put that in the blog.”

“I know”, I say. “But at least it gives a flavour. Readers can use their imagination as to who’s who.”

“We did the Baltic States a few years ago”, Andy says. “I think you will enjoy them. Lots of history, lots of culture, and the people are very friendly. In fact, I think I still have the charts and harbour guides somewhere you could borrow. Let me go and have a rummage.”

He disappears downstairs. There are sounds of things being moved around. He emerges, beaming.

“Here they are”, he says. “Charts and harbour guides for southern Finland, Estonia and Latvia. You’ll find them useful. Especially with the Russians interfering with the GPS. You can use traditional navigation like we used to before the age of electronics.”

We had been discussing reports that the Russians had been transmitting signals to override the real GPS supposedly with the aim to disrupt aircraft and shipping. One of the most intense areas or interference is the Gulf of Finland, right where we are headed.

“That puts my mind at rest”, says the First Mate. “I have been worried sick about us taking the wrong course, ending up in St Petersburg, and imprisoned as spies.”

She isn’t joking.

The day arrives for the relaunch. The transporter arrives and Ruby Tuesday is lifted on. Before we know it, she is back in the water. John comes over to check for any leaks in his handiwork. There are none.

Then over to the crane to have the mast lifted on again.

“She’s starting to look like a real sailboat again”, says the First Mate.

We finish the unloading of items from the car to the boat. We have bought a new rubber dinghy to replace the old one which was deteriorating rapidly. It has done good service, lasting for 17 years, but the wooden transom is now rotten and letting in water. We fold and pack the bikes and stow them on board. We are pretty much ready to go.

In the evening, we sit outside on the cockpit seats eating our taco kits that the First Mate had bought earlier in the day, waiting for the much-feted Aurora borealis to appear.

“Well, that was a bit of a disappointment”, says the First Mate as we prepare to go to bed. “I was really hoping to see the Northern Lights. Especially in Sweden. We are pretty far north.”

“At least it was a beautiful sunset”, I say trying to see the bright side, although I too would have liked to see them. “I am sure that there will be lots of photos in the newspapers tomorrow. We can see what they were like then.”

“It’s not the same as seeing them yourself”, the First Mate complains, as she disappears downstairs. “It’ll be just our luck if they appear later tonight when we are sleeping.”

My mind drifts back to memories of my youth. I am driving along the Summit Road of the Port Hills near Christchurch one night, and round a bend in the road looking down into the vast volcanic crater where the port of Lyttleton nestles. There, in front high above me are the eerie green and purple lights of the Aurora australis as the charged particles streaming from a solar storm reach the earth’s atmosphere. I stop the car and watch spellbound as they writhe this way and that like giant glowing curtains.

No wonder ancient peoples had imbued them with meaning from their own lives, I think – the smoke of fires for the Australian aborigines, the souls of the dead for the Sámi people in Lapland, a fire-fox dashing across the sky for the Finnish, and bringers of good luck in fishing for Swedish fishermen. I cross my fingers that their non-appearance doesn’t mean any bad luck for our upcoming voyage in Ruby Tuesday. Superstitious, moi?