Bog pool at dusk, Kemeri National
Park
Nine days later I was once again in the middle of a lake, this time on the island of Moricsala, Latvia’s oldest nature reserve, dating from 1912. With three others from the Photographers for Latvia 2002 initiative, I had been granted permission to visit this strictly protected ancient forest. I set out at 5.30 am after the night of our arrival. Rain streaked the already hazy view through my mosquito net. On the other side of Lake Usmas a bittern was booming, like someone blowing over the top of a large glass bottle, a dry unchanging base line to the blackbird’s improvisation on the theme of spring. Every colour was made more vibrant by the rainfall, each sound of my passage through the forest muffled under the slap of raindrops on dripping greenery. The paths through this lime, oak and black alder forest on the 352 ha island were, at best, tentatively expressed (and you might not want to go the same way as a wild boar anyway); disorientation comes easily here. The ground flora was the usual rich mix I have come to expect in the Latvian forest: Solomon’s seal, lily of the valley, yellow wood anemone, toothwort, asarabacca, herb paris and hepatica. The forest itself has not been cut for 300 years, perhaps longer and with every step I took, every piece of moss inadvertently dislodged, I was conscious of upsetting the continuity of the lives of the animals and plants that belong here.
This precious sensibility towards wild nature is one that relatively few Latvians share, not because they don’t care about it but simply because, in a landscape as rich as theirs, they can afford to take a more robust, utilitarian view of it. Wildflowers are gathered for decoration, fur is worn for its warmth and wild game is hunted because it tastes good. There is a strong sense that nature is there to be enjoyed through restrained use rather than held in awe at arm’s length. This practical engagement with the natural world is evident each weekend when Riga grows quiet as people leave the city for their summer cottages in the country; for young and old Latvians alike, shopping and indoor leisure is a lot less fun than fishing, gathering mushrooms and berries or swimming in warm lakes with friends.
To the visitor from western Europe, the lack of intensive land management is striking. While some parts of Zemgale province, especially south of Riga, do have large fields and heavy machinery, farming over much of the country is small scale, often bordering on subsistence. After independence from Russia in 1991 and the collapse of the Soviet collective farming system, the kolhoz were broken up and people whose land, or that of their ancestors, had been confiscated, were entitled to reclaim it. But for many people now settled in the cities, the poor returns from agriculture have kept them there and the land remains unworked. As a result, Latvia’s 45 % tree cover is expanding year by year. The use of agrochemicals is very limited, principally for reasons of economics and this, combined with an abundance of small ponds and lakes (more than 1000 sq km), encourages one of the highest population densities of amphibians in Europe. The Soviets also created large fish pond complexes such as around one of Latvia’s most important Ramsar sites - Lake Lubans - and some of these are gradually progressing into massive reedbeds.
Janis and Anna Macani were a couple from Riga who, with their daughter Aija, returned to their roots in rural Latgale. Their farm stands elevated on the edge of the historical shoreline of Lubans, commanding a view for many miles in this especially flat area of a generally flat country. The lake where Janis and his neighbour, Roberts, fish to supplement their incomes seemed far away, beyond the hay meadows, over the reedbeds and fish ponds. On a still evening I was struck by the juxtaposition of bittern and corncrake, a most unlikely paring of monotonists in Britain today. Latvia still hosts between 26 and 36 000 pairs of this globally threatened species (compared to the UK, c 630 pairs) although as the forest encroaches, habitat is being lost. Encouraged by plentiful frogs and insects, Latvia’s burgeoning population of white storks (currently about 10 500 pairs) raises concerns amongst conservationists as they are the principal predator of corncrake chicks.
My Latvian friends grow weary of me gushing, “But that’s really uncommon at home!” - the ladies slippers and wood sandpipers in Kemeri, sand lizards and military orchids in Slitere, large coppers and Camberwell beauties in deepest Latgale. And that’s not even to mention the country’s 200 -250 wolves or its 100 000 beavers. On the Macani farm, red backed shrikes came to hunt beetles on the bank once it was warmed by the afternoon sun. Marsh harriers were a permanent silhouette above the reed beds where black terns nest. And Roberts showed us photos and pelts of some of the wolves he had hunted.
The area’s potential for eco-tourism has been recognised by the Macani family and there is accommodation for visitors above the sauna. We ate out of doors with the family on most days. Eco-tourism remains under-developed in the country as a whole; appreciating that you live in a historic landscape and that it might be of interest to foreigners doesn’t always come easily. Moreover, the capital necessary to cater to fussy western tastes is rarely available in rural areas. When travelling, it’s best just to adopt a Latvian mindset and realise that one or two saunas a week are really all you need to keep clean. Failing that, there is always a lake to swim in.
