Dreams of Travel: the Pagan North

A friend recently asked me about this photo: "It's so beautiful, it must be from your beautiful island!" Interestingly, it's not - this was taken in Lithuania, and I realised not enough people know what a gem it is. But his question brought me back to the greenery of beautiful, elegant Lietuva.

There are some countries that you simply cannot erase from your heart, and the tiny Baltic country of Lithuania is one of them for me. There is something about its forests, its traditions and its artistic cities that stirs my heart. Maybe it's one of my soul homes.

^"I loved you before I even knew you". The above wall is in my favourite part of Vilnius, a street called 'Writers' Street' where the wall is adorned with pieces of ceramic art.

Sadly though, on social media, I saw an ad where Lithuania tried to promote its tourism sector by branding itself as the G-spot of Europe... Given how terrible this advertisement was, I hope, for all our sakes, that it stops being so invisible. But also because it's a really beautiful country. Its nature sings to me, and I love its echoes of paganism, its strong, proud roots and its unique culture. I feel sad that most people combine the three Baltic states as they travel and really gloss over what each one has to offer.

For a tropical girl like me, the tendrils of cold ice, the smell of pine and birch and woody smoke, the cobbles and architecture and reserved nature of its people are a polar opposite to the loudness, brashness and vibrant colour that I'm used to.

But there are colours, even here.

Look at the gorgeous autumn foliage of Lithuania's historical site, Kernave. Its grass, vibrant and green, steeped in history.

This is truly, old old Europe.

The end of summer brings out the exquisite romance of the place.

I wish I could come back at solstice and dance with the pagans, celebrating the earth, the sun, the trees.

Driving back to Vilnius, I veered off into the botanical flower farm between Kernave and Musninkai, the private dahlia collection of Dr. Jadvyga Janina Čeplinskienė

The soft light from the autumn sun brings a wistful warmth to the palette of colours erupting in the flower bushes: honey, gold, orange, burnt and pale pink, blush, lilac, magenta and plum.

I think all of us have, at some point in our lives, dreamt of giving up our modern, fast paced lives and settle down in a farm. The garden here allows us to live out that fantasy, if only for a while. You can stroll through the blooms, secateur in hand, choosing a bunch of flowers as you fancy.

As if the fresh air in Kernave hadn't made me giddy with joy already, there was a flower maze that I could get lost in.

Autumn really is the most marvelous, magical time. Cosmoses and zinnias, each competing in colour, putting on a final, fierce display before they go to sleep over winter.

And it's not just the flowers. I admit that I have never interacted with the earth in such a way. And I loved the locals' approach: harvest what Mama Earth gives you, infuse your homes and kitchens with flowers, pine cones, wooden materials and dry and store the summer bounty in pickles, jams and juices. Including cranberries (spanguolė) or lingonberries, whatever the hell these are, which taste gross to this tropical girl.

Yup, nope.

Harvesting, in fact, was exciting: I went mushroom hunting. Mushrooms, a real treat - Northerners, you are used to picking them but for me, it was a unique experience!

Here in Lithuania I felt I couldn't help but appreciate the gifts from the Earth, to celebrate summer: crisp apples, massive pumpkins. Plumpkins.

Everything is carefully reaped, the remaining flower bulbs will be tucked away over winter to protect them, and planted in spring. This is what I loved here: organic isn't a label that you buy in the shop. It's part of the way of life of many families who handpick herbs and leaves from the forests and nature, carefully drying, pickling and preserving them.

I love how the seasons here are really something to be celebrated, something which gently guides your lifestyle. Maybe I'll come back in spring for solstice after all.