I look at the group of people and think to myself that there are way too many children. There is no way this is the group heading to Vaindloo. I glance at the harbour flags whipping wildly in the wind and the sea covered in white foam. This is not going to happen today, or at least it really should not. The weather is clearly not on our side, but I have not received any email or SMS. They were supposed to inform us.
But then it hits me. Which number did I even give them?
I log into my email and there it is. “We can’t make the trip today because of the wind. We will get back to you.” Sent at 7:34 am. I laugh quietly to myself. This is so typical.
I had spent the night in Tartu, in a hotel decorated in a strangely manor-like style. They describe it themselves as having the atmosphere of an old-time museum, which actually matches my own impression quite well. The building does have historical value, dating back to 1870 when it served as a red-brick horse stable. Now it sits awkwardly between a car showroom and a new Lidl. Never mind. I had started early because the trip to Vaindloo was supposed to depart at 10 am from the harbour. From Tartu, it is a two-hour drive, and I wanted to play it safe.
It had rained heavily overnight, and more rain was forecast along the way. The puddle in my parking spot had not gone anywhere. I had to squeeze into the driver’s seat, reverse out, and only then load my luggage into the trunk. I checked my messages again. Email and SMS, nothing. I assumed it was happening, entered the address into the navigation, and set off.
After thousands and thousands of kilometers driven across the Nordics, I have learned one thing. Police tend to appear exactly when you least expect them. Like on a calm Sunday morning. It took only a few hundred meters before I encountered the first police car in a 30 km/h construction zone. I drove exactly the speed limit. The temptation is always there to push a little and shave off a minute, but that is exactly why I had left early.
The main roads in Estonia are in good shape, I would argue. It is always a matter of perspective, of course. Driving culture has changed significantly over the past decade. Back then it felt chaotic. Now most people drive exactly the speed limit, and honestly, it makes things easier. In Sweden and Finland it often feels messier. Some drive ten kilometers over, some under, some far over, and overtaking becomes constant. Estonia feels calmer, more controlled.
That morning, I stuck to the limit. One or two drivers rushed past, but soon a blue van merged in front of me. I ended up following it for over an hour. At some point my mind started playing tricks on me, wondering if we were heading to the same destination. I imagined the driver checking the rear-view mirror, thinking the same thing. A blue team. Eventually, the van turned into a driveway a few kilometers before my destination.
There were two heavy rain showers along the way. In hindsight, this would have been a good moment to check my email once more. But I trusted the forecast. The wind was supposed to calm down, the sky to clear later in the day.
And then I was there. Standing by the sea. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the entire purpose of the trip. Plan A. There would be another chance someday, but when, I had no idea. I noticed another person staring at her phone. She must have missed the memo too.
This is when negative thoughts start creeping in. I would be lying if I said I did not spend a second or two annoyed at having driven two hours for nothing. Could they not have informed us the day before? The forecast had not suddenly worsened. Maybe they had been hopeful, like me. At least I had food for a decent breakfast. I had missed the hotel breakfast anyway since it only started at eight.
It did not take long before I opened the navigation and switched to Plan B. Narva. The easternmost point of Estonia. One and a half hours away. I cursed briefly at the realization that it would have been the same drive from Tartu to Narva as it was to the harbour. But then excitement took over. I skipped breakfast and decided to eat on the road. First stop, a gas station.
Long drives leave room for thinking. With Vaindloo off the table, my thoughts drifted between Narva and a date invitation I had received the night before. The girl was much younger than me, her head somewhere in the clouds, her expectations firmly rooted in luxury and provision. Something extra. Meanwhile, just the day before, I had willingly stood in an Estonian forest being eaten alive by mosquitoes, happier than any five-star hotel could have made me. I knew she was not right for me, and that is not the best starting point for a date. Still, I did not know how to politely say no, so I said yes. After all, we had agreed to be friends, right?
Then, out of nowhere, a message arrived from someone I will call, for the sake of this story, the love of my life. In another universe, this could have been the love story of the decade, if not the century. But not this one. The radio played Think of Me by HUGEL, David Guetta, Kehlani, and Daecolm.
I needed a pause.
I took the next rest stop, pulled over, and opened the message. Just a random reel. I messaged a friend I had discussed the date invitation with the night before. She replied with a simple, “How random.” It felt like the universe making its point. That girl was not for me. Why even go? As if on cue, someone had written on the pavement in front of me, “LOVE DOES NOT EXIST, LIES EXIST.” You could not make this up. If I had enough imagination to invent moments like this, I would already be a successful writer.
Hopefully no one takes this the wrong way, but Narva still carries a strong Soviet atmosphere. Tallinn feels modern now, but Narva holds onto that older layer of history. I set the navigation to a point near where the easternmost location should be. I missed a turn at a roundabout and ended up in front of the border crossing. I have never liked borders. There is something inherently oppressive about them. Necessary, yes, but heavy. I turned around and took the correct exit.
After a small detour, I parked in what I would call wild parking. No clear signs, just Soviet-era apartment blocks nearby. I hoped the car would still have its wheels when I returned.
Narva has a long history. The name was first mentioned in 1172, but people have lived here since the fifth or fourth millennium BC. There are better sources for history than me. For me, the focus was the Joaoru hiking trail, a 1.7-kilometer path through Joaoru Island in the middle of the Narva River. Perhaps hiking trail is a generous term, but it is certainly worth walking, offering clear views toward Russia.
I started from the southern end. The first thing I saw was Russia’s Narva Hydroelectric Station. Massive. A man stood nearby, smoking and admiring the river. He lingered next to the Estonian border marker. I waited, studied the river, and the opposite bank. When he left, I approached the marker myself. There was a steep drop down to the river, so I kept my distance.
Continuing north, I noticed how many people were out. Estonian was rarely heard. Russian, Ukrainian, perhaps both, dominated the air. Eventually, I reached the easternmost tip and documented it as one does. People were fishing on both sides of the river. Then a military green Volkswagen Touareg drove onto the trail and stopped near the fishermen. I watched closely, but it turned out to be police patrol, not military.
I continued toward Narva Castle, Hermann Castle. Strangely, the Russian side felt morevisually compelling. Ivangorod Fortress stood massive, with people visible on its towers. Tourists, not soldiers. The border crossing remained open, though limited to pedestrians due to construction. Anyone traveling by bus had to walk across the bridge and switch vehicles.
I sat on a bench by the river near Narva Castle and watched boats fishing midstream. I wondered about the fishing rules and how one avoids crossing the border. I could have checked, but I put my phone on airplane mode to avoid connecting to Russian networks. That has happened to me before, in Finland and Norway.
Heading back to the car, I noticed proper free parking spots near an observation deck. A Finnish-registered car stood there, abandoned, winter tires flat and studded. It looked like it had not moved in a long time. I wondered what story it carried.
My own car was still intact. And the day was not over yet. I had failed to reach the northernmost point of proper Estonia, but there was still time to visit the northernmost point of mainland Estonia.