A Nice Place to Get Lost

According to legend, the Curonian Spit was formed when the motherly Lithuanian sea goddess Neringa (whose name lives on in the Lithuanian name for the spit) laid down an apronful of sand to protect Lithuania's coast from the ravages of Baltic storms. In reality, it is a large sandbar that formed a mere 5,000 to 6,000 years ago and which separates the Curonian Lagoon from the Baltic Sea. It is 98km long, but only 3.7km wide at its widest point and a mere 350m at its narrowest. Its giant and shift dunes are both fierce and fragile, having swallowed villages, but are often closed to foot traffic to prevent erosion.

Long occupied by fishermen and amber prospectors, the Spit's shifting sands prevented the development of truly sizable towns, and today, the only two of note are Juodkrante and Nida, quiet communities that fill in summer largely with German nostalgia tourists (the Spit was German territory for much of its history) but retain a peaceful atmosphere, in marked contrast with Palanga, to the north in mainland Lithuania.

The main charm of the Spit is its natural beauty; indeed, it enjoys both Lithuanian national park and UNESCO world heritage status. Two areas are nature reserves closed to incursions of any kind. It's easy to get lost on the many unmarked walking trails, but you're never far from water with which to guide yourself: the raging Baltic (which you hear long before you see) to the West and the peaceful Curonian lagoon to the east. Quite simply, it is the most relaxing place I've been, anywhere.

The towns of Nida and Juodkrante do have sights, however. Juodkrante's Witches' Hill is a wonderful forest trail marked by carved wooden beasts. Nida's main attractions of this sort are an excellent local history museum, the former summer house of the German author Thomas Mann (a point of pilgrimage for tour groups of his countrymen but, unfortunately, of little interest inside to anyone who doesn't speak his language), and small fishermen and amber museums. The 19th-century Evangelical Lutheran church in Nida and its evocative churchyard are worth a visit as well. For all this charm, however, the Spit's true beauty is natural, rather than man-made, and best enjoyed by discovering it oneself, although I've written about a few of the walks I took and that you may enjoy.

Quick Tips:

Before arriving on the Spit, pick up a copy of Kaunas/Klaipeda In Your Pocket, which has basic listings for Nida. Nida's tourist office (near the bus station at Taikos 4) is extremely helpful -- it has maps and bus timetables. It can also book rooms in private homes. I did not personally take advantage of this particular service, but several other travelers recommended it to me.

When people speak a language other than Lithuanian, it is typically German.

Best Way To Get Around:

Getting There and Between Towns: To get to the Curonian Spit, take the Old Castle Port Ferry from the nearby port of Klaipeda. This will leave you at Smiltyne at the northern tip of the Spit (please see my Klaipeda entry for information about its sights), from which you can catch approximately hourly buses to the towns of Juodkrante and Nida. Both conventional and microbuses run north along the same route and supposedly may be flagged down, although my experience was decidedly mixed. These forms of transportation also drop you at major sights such as the Dead Dunes.

Within Towns/Points of Interest: By foot. The Curonian Spit's greatest charm is the sheer variety of leisurely walking trails, both near Nida and elsewhere. Both Nida and Juodkrante are relatively spread out, but their beauty makes them worth walking around!

Sometimes a restaurant, a cafe, or perhaps a pub perfectly captures both your mood and that of the place where you find yourself. In my case, a morning of hiking through the diverse scenery around Nida, followed by a midday drenching, left me hoping for hot soup and a centering meal, during which I could bring the two elements together in my mind.

I found both at this wonderful little cottage restaurant. Soon after I arrived, a large and clearly satisfied party of German tourists left, and I had the place to myself. The hot tea came moments after I'd ordered, and the delightful fish soup before the tea had cooled. Pleasant as these and the salad were, it was the fresh fish, cooked in a very light egg and potato batter, that continues to linger in my mind.

Quite simply, it was the best fish I have eaten anywhere, both in its freshness and preparation. I mention the party before me to suggest that, while my experience was likely unique, my high regard for the restaurant was not. While it's hard to think of a more perfect meal, I would be remiss if I didn't note that on sunny days, they serve meals in the garden (and in a sort of gazebo within it) in front of the restaurant. Consequently, it's slightly set back from Nagliu, the main street in Nida, on the side by the Curonian lagoon.

Whether you're looking for a place wholly consistent with the peace and natural beauty of the Curonian Spit or simply a very good meal, I couldn't recommend this restaurant any more highly.

I didn't take any pictures inside the restaurant, so I hope you'll enjoy these from my morning walk.

In addition to Parnidis Dune (please see my entry An Existential Walk on the Dunes), I found these three walks on the Curonian Spit particularly enjoyable.

Dead Dunes: The most massive of the dunes on the spit, these amazed me even after seeing Parnidis Dune. The wind whipped so fiercely over them that my clothes dried completely, even though I had been soaked to the skin an hour before. They are so named because they buried the village of Neegeln (Agilos.) They lie approximately equidistant between Juodkrante and Nida, with buses stopping nearby. The path to the dunes is well signposted and paved with wooden planks in some places. To preserve the dunes, walkers are required to stay within set marks. While undeniably spectacular (and indeed because of it), this walking trail was the busiest I experienced anywhere on the Curonian Spit. The dunes are impressive, but if you're seeking solitude, I would advise you to seek out the dunes near Nida instead.

Heron Hill:Just south of Juodkrante, this hill takes its name from a heron colony that used to reside in its trees. They have since been replaced by cormorants, however, which now cover the trees instead of leaves since they have removed these to make their nests. The cacophony (and smell) of the colony are striking, but the sight of trees that appear to be growing birds is particularly memorable! If you follow the path running by the main road a further kilometer south to a parking lot and then take the marked path inland, you'll be rewarded with a splendid view that embraces both the Baltic Sea and the Curonian Lagoon.

Witches Hill (Raganu Kalnas): Just inland from the fishing village of Juodkrante is this marvelous woodland path that contains large playful wood carvings of figures from Lithuanian mythology and fairy tales. Although they were completed from 1979 to 1981, they draw upon much older Lithuanian traditions of woodcarving and folk art. If you're traveling with children, the carvings are sure to delight them, particularly the ones at the end of the trail that form a playground of sorts (a witch's tongue serves as a slide.)

Sprawling attractively along three kilometers of the Curonian Lagoon’s shoreline, Nida is the largest town and capital of the Curonian Spit. Although its permanent population numbers a mere 2,000, it apparently plays host to 50,000 tourists during its brief summer season. Consequently I hope that this brief guide will assist you in navigating between both distances and crowds.

Nearly all of Nida’s sights are located along the main street, which is called Nagliu gatve south of the bus station and Pamario gatve north of the station. Despite its location near the southern edge of the town, the station, from which buses run hourly to Juodkrante and Smiltyne, actually forms part of the town’s commercial center. Nearly opposite the station, at Nagliu gatve 3, is the Ethnographic Museum, a somewhat optimistic title for the immaculately restored 19th-century fisherman’s cottage which is its sole exhibit. Although the artifacts on display are interesting, it unfortunately lacks explanatory information in any language. This may be a gesture toward historical sensitivity, as the Spit’s inhabitants were primarily German prior to the territory’s incorporation into the Soviet Union after the Second World War.

The harbor just to the south affords a fine view of the 52-meter-high Parnidis Dune (the largest and highest on the Spit). If this inspires you to climb it, simply follow the footpath that runs southward along the harbor and you’ll be rewarded with a similarly spectacular view of Nida. Most of the town’s restaurants are located between the harbor and bus station, as are quite a number of souvenir stalls, largely selling identical amber objects at fairly reasonable prices, although without certificates of authenticity. It’s possible to purchase meticulously documented (though rather more expensive) amber jewelry and objects at the Amber Gallery, located directly to the north at Pamario gatve 20. True to its name, the Gallery has a modest exhibition of artwork carved from the so-called "Baltic gold" as well as a glassed-in display of amber-cutting equipment visible from the street (thus alleviating the awkwardness of stepping inside if you aren’t inclined to purchase anything).

Further north is the Fisherman’s Museum, which in all honesty should exchanges names with the Ethnographic Museum as its own collections are significantly more extensive and varied. It’s located at Kuverto gatve 2, but is entered from Pamario gatve, which runs perpendicular to Kuverto gatve. Light and airy as a result of a recent (and extensive) refurbishment, it contains exhibitions presenting early human settlement on the Spit, amber harvesting, and fishing, as well as archival photographs of the early twentieth century when Nidden (as it was then known) gained a reputation as a somewhat bohemian resort. All are exhaustively labeled in Lithuanian, German, and English, but pale in comparison to a display on crow hunting – in times of poor harvests fisherman would hunt the birds with nets, dispatching them with a swift bite to the neck (preceded by an even swifter stiff drink!).

The Lutheran Parish Church, built between 1887 and 1888 in the same rustic German style that characterizes much of Klaipeda’s architecture, crowns a small hill just past the Ethnographic Exhibition. The interior has recently been restored to reflect the original furnishings (although, because a Lithuanian Catholic congregation that now Further north still, Pamario gatve turns to Skrudzynes gatve-–its name a relic of the village of Skrudzyne, which was incorporated into Nida. It contains Nida’s most famous sight, the summer home the German author Thomas Mann built in 1929 with the money he received for winning the Nobel Prize for Literature that year. The museum which it contains is a place of pilgrimage for the Germans who comprise the bulk of foreign visitors to Nida, but as it lacks labeling in any other language, is somewhat less interesting for others. Fortunately the traditionally built house’s beauty, including the seahorses on its roof which are intended to guard against evil spirits, like that of the Spit itself, transcends mere words.

Before visiting the Curonian Spit, I was aware that its scenery had the potential to shape minds and life views. A combination of travel book photographs and the knowledge that both Thomas Mann and Jean-Paul Sartre were awed by its dunes whetted my enthusiasm. Thus, I easily could have been let down. Instead, what I experienced in a morning’s walk in the country between Nida and the Lithuanian/Russian border was so extraordinary that words and photographs will in no way do justice to it. Just recalling it makes me very happy and if you enjoy reading this, and better yet, decide to visit yourself, it will make me more so.

Near Thomas Mann’s house, on the northern edge of Nida, I saw a break in the forest that indicated one of the many unmarked trails that crisscross the Spit. I’m not blessed with a good sense of direction, but I knew that, given the Spit’s narrowness and topography, it would be very difficult to get lost. My eventual goal was the border (to be fully accurate, the border of a nature preserve that serves as a buffer zone between NATO-member Lithuania and its erstwhile colonial ruler), and I knew that if I continued to walk south, I would reach it. I also hoped to see the Baltic shore and therefore moved west as well, which meant uphill.

The first forest I entered was deciduous, and once I left the sound of the highway that runs the length of the Spit behind, a very quiet one. After a few minutes, I heard no sound save a repetitive one, not the hum that forests often seem to have in summer, but something with more of a beat. I stopped, started again, and understood that literally the only sound to be heard was my own footsteps. Soon after, the trail petered out. I retraced my steps to another one, which led almost due west. The woods were noisier here, and I even met a pair of fellow walkers. Soon, a dull and growing roar began to mitigate these sounds and finally overcome them. I had heard the Baltic long before I saw it.

Though it was late June, the day was cool and windy. Once I reached the shore of the Baltic and saw the force of the waves hitting the Spit (in sharp contrast to the lapping of the Curonian Lagoon I’d seen perhaps half an hour earlier), I understood both how it had formed and why early Lithuanians had believed it was designed by the goddess Neringa to protect their country. Trudging back uphill once again (the center of the Spit often resembles a ridge of sorts), I came upon pine forests, and at its crest, a lighthouse. I found it striking that the lighthouse was located so far inland and was equally pleased to be able to see both the Curonian Lagoon and Baltic Sea from this vantage point.

I also saw what appeared to be a stream or waterfall in the distance and followed the hill toward it, surprised that no guidebook had mentioned it. On closer inspection, I found that it was a trail where the vegetation had been burned and cleared, leaving only the underlying sand. The efforts to preserve the Spit came into clearer focus for me then, with the understanding that everything upon it is literally built on sand and the life that has managed to accrete upon that sand over time to form soil and, ultimately, forests.

Soon afterwards it began to rain, but, save for a slight annoyance that I might not be able to photograph the land to do it sufficient justice, I was not terribly worried, even though I was soaked to the bone. The rain had come at a particularly inopportune moment, however, since I reached what was largely open country. By this point, I was moving almost due south and came upon a small collection of crosses, a traditional Lithuanian monument. I later traveled quite a way to see the well known Hill of the Crosses outside Siauliai and can say that I found this collection of sticks, in the midst of a desert-like landscape, just as evocative of the determination and faith of the country's people.

The very emptiness of this land, scoured by wind, which I would later remember was the Parnidis Dune, seemed lunar, and I thought, seeing another walker perhaps 500 yards away and waving, that being in this landscape might be how the first or last human on earth might feel. I pressed on amid a purple-red shrub of some kind that surrounded the path, toward the border that was marked out with police tape. As I neared it, I saw a huge flock of birds pass over it, leading me to think the inevitable about wildlife not being governed by international boundaries. Holding my jacket over my camera (as I had throughout the journey), I took the obligatory picture and turned back to the edge of Parnidis Dune.

I saw Nida in the rain and distance and wished I could climb straight down the dune to it, but I dutifully marched along the tape, set up to protect the sand from erosion, to the steps. Within what seemed like only a few moments, I was rather anticlimactically walking along a flat paved path, straight back to it.