Architecture on the Baltic Riviera by Campbell Jefferys
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Brisk is putting it mildly. The arctic wind blustering over the Baltic Sea is biting, teeth-chattering cold. It’s messing up hair, disconnecting men from their hats, and causing umbrellas to flutter and shake, and then turn inside out. Far into the distance, the beach is peppered with angular specs of grey and black; brave souls well rugged up and walking sideways into the wind, some rigidly tossing tennis balls for yapping dogs. The sand is white and frozen, with some marks of bare feet from the last swims of autumn. How long ago that seems, when our bodies were sculptured bronze, and the dried salt and sunshine turned our dark tresses golden.
Further along, past the stoic old-timers playing bocci, and a wet-suited man struggling to rig up his windsurfer, a derelict concrete edifice looms high over the beach. A multi-levelled terrace looks out over the sea, but there is no glass in the window frames, and the walls are covered with fading graffiti. The building has long been abandoned, with the light fittings hanging from the ceilings like broken spider webs.
Venturing inside, broken glass cracks underfoot, and I carefully climb the stairs to the top floor of the terrace. A dining area, with a few tables still pushed against the wall, and an incredible view; the sand stretching into the distance in both directions, and the Baltic, cold blue and rocking to the broken rhythm of the wind. It seems from here that life is limitless, that the beach and the sea stretch forever. The wind picks up, and in my fantasy it is a warm breeze.
The dining area is full, with adults laughing between mouthfuls of black bread and jam. The kids poke at their breakfasts, impatient for the sand and its myriad of playing opportunities. The day is warm and the stereo plays bright Russian music; summer songs of lakes and fields and long days. One by one, the eaters leave their tables to join the throng on the beach.
But no, the building is cold and empty, stale with the smell of damp concrete, and every exposed piece of metal rusted brown by Baltic salt. The beach is deserted but for a stubborn few, and this Soviet edifice is now but a window to a bygone era.
This is Jurmala (Latvian for ‘seashore’) the 150 year old resort 20km from Riga, and famously known as the Baltic Riviera. It was here that Soviets from all over the Union flooded in the 60s and 70s, with over 6 million visitors one year, and it was here that ex-military men retired and built stately homes in the Art Nouveau style. Now, the resort’s architecture is as much a drawcard as the 30km sandy beach. The streets are lined with luxurious houses of pinks and greens, yellows and blues. Security gates open to German cars and the gardens are immaculate.
Jurmala serves not only as the Baltics' number one beach resort, but is also a city of historical importance; over one third of the 12,000 buildings are considered historic, with 1,000 protected by UNESCO. Even a cold winter’s day can be enjoyed strolling the narrow streets and admiring the houses. I waste my time wandering up and down the historic lanes of the Majori settlement in the heart of Jurmala. The houses are delightful and envy throbs at my temples.
After warming up with a steaming cup of local tea and a decadent slice of a pastry and cream number, it’s back to the beach. The windsurfer is now a coloured spec motoring along the horizon, and the bocci men have been replaced by Tai Chi enthusiasts. Hard core runners pound the sand with grim determination and owner-less dogs scurry to and fro. One man, clad only in a pair of dated swim trunks, is slowly edging himself into the water. He is clearly mad.
At the settlement of Bilduri, I cut through the pine forest to the train station. The forest borders the beach the whole 30km, and gives the resort an aroma unlike any other beach resort in the world. Birds squawk overhead, and the pine needles are soft underfoot, like walking on old pillows. The houses here are more modest, but still in the pinks and blues of Majori. The colours lend a brightness to the grey and sombre winter’s afternoon.
The train barely comes to a halt as we clamber aboard for the short trip to Riga. The train is so slow, it may be quicker to walk. It rocks and shudders, the rivets threatening to pop, and the wooden seats are hard on the back. The only thing you can’t complain about is the price – 0.50Ls (55p).
We leave the forests behind and pass over swamps and marshlands before crossing the Daugava River, on which the charming city of Riga is situated. The spires of the old town dominate the skyline, tempting you towards the cobblestone streets and the architectural treasures that line them.
As the capital of Latvia, and as the largest capital city of the Baltic states, Riga is a seething cosmopolitan metropolis. Outside of the delightful old town, the streets are wide and gnarled with traffic. The electric lines for the buses and trams cover the city in a giant fishing net. The pace is frenetic: women’s heels click the sidewalks with conviction, mobile phones are spoken into earnestly, and cars honk their horns abusively. The city is alive, free from Soviet shackles and once again aspiring to its pre-war label of ‘Paris of the Baltics’. People come here for the broad avenues and trendy stores, for the fast pace and wild nightlife, but it is the architecture that etches into their memories, with the best collection of Art Nouveau buildings in Europe.
As a self confessed architecture dunce who can’t tell nordic gothic from classical symbolism, Riga was the perfect place to start my education, being that every style is on offer. The city is remarkably well preserved, given the number of foreign armies that marched through the streets. From the 14th century Riga Castle and Guild Halls of the old town to the Art Nouveau of the suburbs, the whole city is one big piece of eye candy.
Like the Soviet relic in Jurmala, Riga’s historic landmarks lend themselves so much to fantasy. There’s the famous Art Nouveau building at Strelnieku 4a, built in 1905, which was a student hostel during the Soviet years and now houses the Stockholm School of Economics. This building, with its carved stone cornices and many statues, is a work of art, a treasure that was not laid to waste by the Soviet wrecking ball. Indeed, Riga is one of the few Eastern bloc capitals not dominated by the pre-fabricated concrete buildings of the Soviet style.
I get dizzy exploring the narrow streets of the old town, and get my bearings in a cheap watering hole before taking the bus back to Jurmala. After a day in this metropolis, I’m longing for the vacant sands and brisk winds of my seaside resort. The bus, more expensive but faster than the train, cruises the Riga-Jurmala highway, known locally as ‘Ten minutes in America’; it was here that films set in America were filmed during the Soviet era. The highway is Latvia’s only six-laner.
The bright colours of the houses shine in the grey dusk, reminding you that this is after all a summer resort. But for many of the residents, who walk the beach all winter and some who swim, summer is a state of mind, especially in winter when the locals can reclaim possession of their prize stretch of beach. This is their backyard, their fitness area, and what a paradise it is, even now with frozen sands and biting winds. But summer is only a few months away.
At the hotel Rigas Jurmala, I enjoy another spa treatment. The hotel is run by the State Medical Centre and is famous for its healing abilities. It is right on the beach and resembles a large cruise ship. Do not haul anchor, Captain. I’m happy to stay right here.