David Whitley embarks on a wild goose chase in Estonia, and stumbles across a whole host of exciting discoveries.
Pet problem
“Aaargh! What the hell was that?” Clare screeches as something disturbingly rodent-like flits over her foot.
Her imagination isn’t playing tricks, either. Scurrying into a hole underneath the small concrete plateau is a bushy tail. The pub clearly has a pest problem.
Or perhaps that’s a pet problem. Moments later the tail is followed by the barmaid, shovelling a few scraps of dinner into its little hideaway.
When it re-emerges, it becomes clear why the staff of such a charming country inn would wish to encourage vermin to romp around in the beer garden. It’s a mink. And a disabled one at that. Inspiring instant sympathy, it manoeuvres around like a broken shopping trolley, the helpless back legs simply swung around using the front legs and upper body strength.
“Car,” grunts the barmaid by way of explanation as she takes over a miniature bottle of pseudo champagne to the holdy-handy couple on the next table.
Spontaneous disappointment
A fantastic rural pub, a warm evening and an adorable disadvantaged creature are just some of the rewards for a wild goose chase that finally went our way. Up until Keila-Joa, all attempts at spontaneity in Estonia had ended in crushing disappointment. The day out at the ex-Soviet nuclear submarine base in Paldiski was thwarted after spending two-and-a-half hours sat at a bus station inhaling diesel fumes from buses that went everywhere except out target destination.
Then there was the Soomaa National Park, home of kayaking and horse-riding operations that are seemingly quite content to ignore tourists eager to pay to go on their tours. Even the walk in the countryside to the ‘charming’ village of Joesuu was a letdown, largely because there’s nothing all that charming about workmen repairing a bridge and chucking all manner of pollutants into a river.
Time to concede defeat?
Keila-Joa, therefore, wasn’t just any old pin-in-a-guidebook random mission. It was a justification of all that is good about independent travel. Frankly, if this had been another setback, it would have felt like time to concede defeat; the hint that we’d be better off soullessly snapping away outside the major sites or being shunted around on a tour bus full of elderly Americans.
According to the guidebook, the main attraction in Keila-Joa is Estonia’s second biggest waterfall. Given that Estonia isn’t exactly known for its high cliffs and raging streams, this is a bit like heading to Morocco to see the Sahara’s second biggest glacier, but hey ho – where there are waterfalls, there are often other treats.
And, while it’s hardly gargantuan, it is a very pretty waterfall. Set in the forest, next to an old building that looks like a church but is actually a kitchen storehouse, it is almost a dictionary definition of picturesque. It’s not where the real adventure lies, however. That lies deep in the woods…
The village
The village itself seems to be scattered amongst the trees, as if part of a sinister fairy tale in which the odd dead body will be found in the lumberjack’s cottage. If tourism ever took hold here, it’d be a fine place for eco lodges and horse-riding tracks. Until then, it remains beautifully untouched. There are absolutely no signposts, however, and attempting to walk through the forest therefore becomes something of a nightmare.
After half an hour of following gaps in the skyline, we end up back at the main road. Another twenty minutes and we’re there again, albeit a bit further down. It’s a bit like the Blair Witch Project, and after a lot of finger-pointing and swearing, we realise that we’re probably going to die in there.
At the third attempt, a big clue comes bounding towards us, shaking itself and looking like it could happily mow down anything that gets in its way. If the dog is wet, then it must have been in the water.
Private beach
The water in question is the Baltic Sea, where the stream trickling over the not-so-giant cascade leads to. And what a sight it is after covering the theoretical 2km woodland trek via a circuitous 8km route. Stretching for miles in either direction, with the edges of the sand merging into the trees, the beach is quite a find. And, apart from the little man in his rowboat pootling around in the distance, it is entirely deserted. The beach is the sort of thing that megalomaniac billionaires would pay huge sums for on their private islands. We’ve got it for the price of a bus fare.
There is, of course, only one way to swim on a private beach. But be warned; the Baltic is brutally cold at the best of times. When it’s out of season and you’re skinny-dipping, you fully expect a polar bear to drift along on an iceberg and say hi. Still, why let the fact that you can only physically tolerate the water temperature for a couple of minutes at the most spoil a truly unique, off-the-beaten-path experience?
A view from a bridge
Getting back to the waterfall is, predictably, an exercise in largely errant guesswork. But another wonderful surprise comes at the bridge. A rusty iron contraption, it is covered in padlocks. On closer inspection, all of the locks appear to have names etched into them. And not just haphazardly hacked in with a blunt penknife either – the fancy calligraphy indicates that a lot of time and effort has gone in. Much of them are in Cyrillic script, but others are helpfully translated: Oksana & Michael for eternity reads one, clearly latched to the bridge a couple of months ago if the date on it is anything to go by. We stop there for a while, poring through the padlocks in a trance. There’s no explanation as to why the padlocks are there, but it would be a cold heart indeed that didn’t feel a warming tingle whilst investigating them.
A certain romance
As beers are raised and clinked in celebration of a successful mission, the couple on the next table raise their glasses too. Toast made, they lean over for a lingering kiss. Clearly the romance here isn’t limited to the bridge.
Curiosity wins out, and we ask for another bottle to be sent over. In broken English, the amorous chap explains all.
“Is Russian tradition,” he says, turning to shoot a sickly loved-up grin at his new wife. “When we marry, we write name.” He mimes the action of locking the padlock to the bridge, and pulls his house key out of his pocket as an illustrative aid. “This – river,” he adds, pretending to throw it.
“This way, never broken,” his wife chimes in, grabbing and stroking his hand.
This localised tradition only happens in Keila-Joa, apparently, and then only amongst the Russian community. It’s a moment that, despite all the shut down activity operators, careless workmen and aimless forest meanders, immediately restores faith in exploration. And it’s a moment that those shunted around in the tour buses will never have.
Details
Keila-Joa is around 45 minutes west of the Estonian capital, Tallinn, by public transport minibus. The buses go from seemingly random places at seemingly random times, so it’s best to liaise with Tallinn’s Tourist Office beforehand.
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