Crimeal

God was in a hurry when he made Ukraine. He just slapped on a bunch of chernozem, rolling fields and a few forests; but at the end of the day realised that he had forgotten to put in the cliffs, karst mountains, vineyards, and Mediterranean climate and so quickly put them in a rhomboid piece of land and stuck it to the southern end of the country with a piece of plasticine and voila, Crimea was born. OK, geologists may be able to explain it better than me, but Crimea is different to Ukraine in almost every way imaginable: its vegetation is dry and scrubby, not verdant and rich; its mountains are sheer and craggy, not old and rounded; and its history is Greek and Turkic, not Slavic (although, thanks to our old friend Stalin, the entire historical Tatar population was deported following World War II to be replaced by Russians). The whole Ukrainian-Russian dynamic is most marked here as the province (actually an autonomous republic) is effectively Russian, with Russian flags and billboards proclaiming faith in the (Russian) motherland all very prominent. Ukrainian symbols are relegated to official buildings and signposts.

Before the Russians and Ukrainians started vying for Crimea it used to belong to the Crimean Tartars. This is the mosque of the Khan's Palace in Bahcisaray. Few now remain as they were all forcibly removed by Stalin and current authorities are loathe to let them back.

Borders And Borderlands

Apart from the crossing from Finland to Estonia border crossings have so far led to only very subtle changes. Not so coming to Ukraine. First of all there actually was a border crossing, as they have all but disappeared from within the Schengen Area. Not only is this the frontier of Schengen, but also of "Fortress Europe", and the Slovak border guards were pretty thorough, going so far as to check the level of petrol in the tank (I was given a ride by a Ukrainian anaesthesiologist who works in Slovakia - just as eastern Europeans from the EU go west in search of better-paid jobs, so too do Ukrainians, who fill the void left behind by the departed Poles, Slovaks and Czechs). The checks in the other direction, heading into Schengen, are far more stringent, and waits of several hours are the norm. (As a slight aside, I've met a few non-EU nationals on this trip and all have commented on the difficulty of getting a simple tourist visa to visit. The process can take months and may require multiple days at embassies, extensive financial statements and interviews. All this for a simple week or two's holiday in Poland or Spain. And it's not just people from poorer countries, I've also heard of Japanese travellers - who are not known for their lack of means - being refused entry because of the unbending rules.)

Crossing borders isn't always as easy as in the Biesczady mountains where the border between Ukraine and Poland is pretty porous (here my bag is in Poland whilst I'm taking the photo from Ukraine).

City With Soul

Warsaw is not a city that would ever win any beauty contests (although when it comes to its female populace that's another matter): its unending rows of Communist apartment blocks, drab office buildings and overly-wide boulevards make it, at first, an impersonal and dreary city. The Lonely Planet guide suggests devoting only a day or two to Poland's capital, and on the surface of it this seems like a reasonable recommendation. After WW II 85% of the buildings had not just been damaged, but completely razed to the ground, as the Nazis tried to obliterate it from the face of the earth. The entire old town and most state buildings and numerous palaces were systematically blown up. A town with so little in the way of historical remains must must surely be devoid of attractions and soulless. But no, following the war the plucky Poles decided to rebuild the old town exactly as it was. So, often with only the aid of 18th century paintings of the city, they set about reconstructing the medieval centre brick by brick to create the newest old town in the world. And the result is certainly convincing. From the cobbled streets and simple, everyday houses to the Baroque palaces and even the Polish Royal Castle the historic core has risen like a phoenix from the ashes.

The main square in Warsaw's old town looks like any other medieval european centre, except that this is a faithful, 20th century reconstruction following the cataclysm of World War II.

(Re)Viewing History

Travelling, for me, is a way to fill in the gaps of my understanding of the world we live in, each place visited adding a small piece of the infinite jigsaw that is the world. If you don't understand where people come from, - their past, their traditions, their culture - you can't understand where they are now and you will be forced to misunderstand the events of today.

My last stop in the Baltics was at Grutas Park. A local entrepreneur bought up many of the Soviet-era statues of Stalin, Lenin and various other local Communist personalities and has created a sculpture garden along with expositions of other memorabilia from the time, earning it the moniker of Stalin World. I find the name unjustified (probably some media hacks trying to stir up some controversy) as the park is very informative and balanced in its message, describing in detail the terror, suffering, hypocrisy and even idiocy of the regime. It was an apt summary for the region whose trio of small countries share a very similar history over the past 150 years or so, and it is one that has really made me stop and think.

Has anyone seen my thumb? One of the myriad Lenin statues that dot Grutas Park

Short And Wide, Long And Narrow

From Ventspils I continued south through Courland passing the towns of Kuldiga and Liepaja on my way to Klaipeda in Lithuania. The former is a rather unremarkable, little provincial town were it not for its rumba. No, it is not the Baltic capital of raunchy Latin dancing - rumba is the Latvian word for waterfall. With a maximum height of only 2m it may not be particularly high - even for a country as topographically challenged as Latvia, but what it lacks in height it makes up for in girth, claiming the title of Europe's widest waterfall at 250m (and I have it from several reliable sources that girth, apparently, is everything). Kuldiga was also home to Jakob Kettler, duke of Courland, who in the 17th century not only managed to maintain the region's autonomy between the rival forces of Sweden, Russia and Prussia, but also got in on the colonial boom of the time, acquiring the island of Tobago in the Caribbean and and island at the mouth of the Gambia, making Courland probably the smallest colonial state ever. Liepaja, on the other hand, was strategically important for the Russians (both Tsarist and Soviet) who built a huge naval base, called Karosta, there. In Soviet times particularly the town almost doubled in size and yet, paradoxically, became a closed town, with non-residents requiring permits to visit family there. Today the naval base and its residential areas are a virtual ghost town, with half the buildings abandoned, empty, stripped, and returning slowly to the earth. To get an idea of what the world would look like after the Apocalypse Karosta does a pretty good job.

One of the many Tsarist barracks buildings left abandoned and boarded up in Karosta. Notice the trees growing through the roof.

Estonishing

From Helsinki I hopped aboard the express ferry (which, surprisingly, was cheaper than the standard, slow ferries) to Tallinn across the Gulf of Finland. Despite zipping across the water at some 60km/h the waters of the Gulf were as still as a mill pond, giving the crossing an otherworldly feel. And although the physical Gulf is only some 80km across the difference between Finland and Estonia is far greater. As soon as I stepped off the ferry I could sense that I was in an ex-Communist country - I don't know exactly what it is, perhaps the slightly overgrowing vegetation or the liberal and unimaginative use of concrete pretty much everywhere; either way, I have seen enough of it whilst in the Czech Republic to recognise it as soon as I see it.

Ethno-linguistically the Estonians are related to their northern, Finnish neighbours, and also share some of the latter's abruptness and standoffishness: I have learnt not to ask an Estonian how they are feeling unless I am prepared to really, honestly, find out. Although never really conquered by Germany (except for a short period during WW2) there is a strong German influence in the city as it was, for most of its history, essentially a German town, having been a major depot of the Hanseatic League (honestly, I swear, they're following me around). In fact a wander round Tallinn's old town is like being transported to Central Europe, with its well preserved Gothic buildings eerily reminiscent of many a provincial Bohemian town. At the other end of the architectural spectrum are the ghastly remains of Communist power and hegemony: Stalinist grand works; swarms of sprawling tower-blocks; giant heavy-industry complexes that now lie dormant; and abandoned secret (now not so secret) military bases that are gradually being reclaimed by mother nature. Wandering amongst the ruins of the latter, in places such as Paldiski, a town that was off limits to all but the inhabitants during Soviet times, makes you realise how far we have come since those grim times.

Communism has, of course, left a deep scar on Tallinn and Estonia, and it is impossible not to notice it, be it in the large Russian minority who form a separate population within the country and who rarely mix and interact with the Estonians, or the many memorials, museums or even personal stories of the hardships and deportations brought on by the occupation. But that is also now firmly in the past and Estonians can make fun of the Soviet times and look forward with relative confidence as the country has managed its capitalist transition better than most and will be adopting the Euro from next year (although possibly not the best timing for that as far as they are concerned).

Desperately Seeking Spring In Sweden

From Copenhagen I crossed the Øresund, over the mighty Øresund bridge, to Sweden. Unfortunately my hitching exploits didn't get me far and I got stuck in Malmo and had to continue by train (the Swedes are notoriously reticent in picking up hitchers). The difference in landscape is immediately visible as so far the countryside had been dominated by flat farmland with the odd hill here and there, but now forests were holding their own against the agricultural hegemony and brick and cement houses have given way to brightly painted (mainly red or yellow) timber. And although the scenery might have changed a bit one thing that has remained constant during my trip has been the weather. I have been making my way steadily northeastwards and so have remained one step ahead of spring. Wherever I have been the signs of its imminent arrival have abounded: pre-spring flowers like daffodils, snowdrops and forest anemones are everywhere; the buds on the trees are awaiting to explode into leaf; and the weather's more changeable than a teenage girl deciding what clothes to wear to a party. The one constant has been the cold weather, with it barely ever exceeding 10 C so that my one jumper and thermal long-johns have become a permanent fixture of my daily wardrobe.

I headed quickly to the east coast towns of Karlskrona and Kalmar, which are interesting as they chart two tumultuous phases of Swedish history. Kalmar, the older of the two, used to mark the border between Denmark and Sweden and is famous for the treaty that was signed there which united the kingdoms of Denmark, Norway and Sweden. It was never really popular in Sweden though as they felt they were getting a raw deal from the Danes (with whom they have fought numerous times over the years and have a love-hate relationship) and it only lasted for 125 years. During that time Kalmar was at the centre of the Union, afterwards it withered away to a provincial backwater, albeit one with some nice old bits. As Sweden rose as a regional power (to the detriment of Denmark), with possessions on both sides of the Baltic, it decided to build a super-duper new naval base from scratch on a deserted archipelago on the south coast which became Karlskrona. Built in the latest baroque style the main town was off limits to civilians well into the Cold War era, but with the decreasing importance of the military it is now diversifying into a student and IT town.

Kalmar castle, at one time the capital of the short-lived union of Sweden, Denmark and Norway.

Viking Wisdom

As you head north from Lübeck you start travelling through the Jutland Peninsula. Had you been wandering around this area some 1200 years ago you might not have survived for very long as it was the heart of the kingdom of the Danes, who liked to go viking (apparently, the word viking, as indicated by its gerund ending, is actually a verb, and refers to the act of piracy and plundering that was carried out by various Norse peoples, and not to the people themselves - but seeing as that's not how people know them let's just call them Vikings and be done with it). Even though their pillaging days are over you can see their legacy in place names: the further north you venture the greater the number of towns that end in -by or -lund.

The two greatest Viking cities of the time, Haithabu and Ribe, were both situated on strategic crossing points of the peninsula and controlled the burgeoning trade between the North and Baltic Seas (much like Lübeck was to several centuries later). Their halcyon days, sadly, are long gone. Haithabu was sacked by some marauding Slavic tribes, and, although it reformed as the Germanic town of Schleswig and enjoyed moderate prosperity, it was never to regain its former glory when it was the largest city north of the Alps; and Ribe? well it never lived up to expectations and remained on the periphery of Danish affairs, especially once the capital left Jutland and moved to Copenhagen.

The Viking past does, however, live on in other ways (and not just the museums that try and cash-in on the Viking popularity with dress-up actors with long hair, stick-on beards and uncomfortable looking woollen shirts) - not so much in military terms, but in the towns' mercantile natures and openness to the world, mirroring the days when Norse traders roamed as far afield as Baghdad and Iceland and even the shores of the New World. Both towns were centres of learning, punching above their weight in terms of literary sons, and both were home to many sailors and merchants as I discovered when ambling through the old streets of Schleswig, taking pictures of picturesque old buildings.

"So you like old knick-knacks?" demanded an older, heavy-set man with a pail as I was kneeling down to get the right angle for my composition. "You're not Chinese are you?"
When I told him that I thought the old town was very pretty and that no, I wasn't Chinese, but Scottish, he brightened up and launched, unbid, into a reminiscence of his seafaring days.
"Ah, I was in Scotland once. In Lewis. Didn't like it though - I got fined £25 for wolf-whistling this lady there. £25 was a lot of money in those days."
"Indeed," I agreed, as I thought it was better to just nod sympathetically.
"But at least you got somewhere with them, mind you, not like those French Canadian lasses; there was one nice one in Montreal but you couldn't get (and at this point he made a gesture with his fist where he held his thumb between his second and third fingers - I had never come across it before but the meaning was pretty evident). No sir. Not without a ring on her finger, being Catholic and all. No ring, no - (and once again the sign)"
Again I thought it best to nod and make a few acquiescing "mmmm" sounds, as I didn't quite know what the appropriate reply was.
"Do you like fish?" he asked, changing the subject (or at least I hoped he was changing the subject). "I'm off to get some herrings," he said, pointing at his bucket.
Sensing a possible escape route I truthfully said, "Sorry, I'm allergic."
"Too bad," he muttered, before trundling off to the quayside.

And as quickly as he came he was gone again, ready to bestow his worldly wisdom upon other needy youngsters.

Hansa

The low, flat landscape of the northern Netherlands imperceptibly gives way to the low, flat landscape of northern Germany. Having spent a year at school here I always feel comfortable travelling through Germany, both from my ease with the language but also from a sense of familiarity. During that year our history lessons spanned the 14th to 16th centuries. At the time Western Europe, and especially Germany, was split into many little fiefdoms and kingdoms. One of the most important, and breaking the whole feudal trend, was the Hansa, or Hanseatic League. The League was comprised of (semi-)independent trading towns around the North and Baltic Seas, stretching from Scotland and Norway all the way to Russia in the east and Belgium in the south, interested in freeing and facilitating trade. In many ways the Hansa was ahead of its time, an early forerunner of the EU, with its emphasis on the rule of law and free trade to maintain stability in what were, for the rest of Europe, tormented times. The Hansa became so powerful that it even took up arms against countries, managing to sack Copenhagen and earn a draw with England. The Hansa have stuck in my memory probably because our class managed to persuade our (very easy-going) teacher to play a computer game, called Patricians, which aims to simulate the Hanseatic trade, as part of our lessons. (Which just goes to show how useful computers are as an aid to learning.)

Lübeck's iconic Holstentor and a couple of the city's churches with their spiky spires (Lübeck is also known as the City of 7 Towers because of them).