Latgale Trip V3 Direct

Lunch at – grey pea soup with smoked pork knuckle, washed down with kvass. No tourists. Only a railway worker, a priest, and a woman reading a newspaper printed in Latgalian script. I try to read a headline: “Sātai vaļā” – roughly, “The heart is open.” Yes, I think. That’s the key. Day 2: The Lake Circuit – By Bicycle Through Liquid Silence Rented a battered “Ardis” bicycle from a garage near Rēzekne’s bus station. Destination: the Rāzna National Park , specifically the 30-kilometer loop around Lake Rāzna – the second largest lake in Latvia, but the clearest. The route is called “Zilais loks” (The Blue Loop). V3’s true test.

But V3 is not about despair. The fortress’s eastern wing houses the – because Rothko, the abstract expressionist, was born in Daugavpils (then Dvinsk) in 1903. The centre’s current exhibition: “Black on Grey: The Latgale Years.” Rothko never painted Latgale directly, but his late, dark canvases – those floating rectangles of maroon, charcoal, and deep blue – are Latgale. They are the landscape of lakes under storm clouds, of faith without dogma, of silence that speaks.

I stay only three hours. But I leave with a truth anyway: Latgale is not a destination. It is a method – a way of being present in a world that prefers speed. The 6:47 AM train from Rēzekne to Rīga. Same route, but reversed. The lakes now appear on the left. The grandmother with the doilies is gone. Instead, a young soldier heading to base, reading a thriller in Russian. A nun eating an apple. A child drawing a house with a blue roof. latgale trip v3

A detour. Kaunata is not on most maps. It has a Catholic church (white, modest) and a Soviet-era cultural center (concrete, boarded). But behind the center, a miracle: a across a narrow strait. Operated by Jānis, 67, who has pulled the rope for 30 years. Cost: €0.50. We cross in silence. He points to a house on the opposite shore: “Mans tēvs tur dzimis. 1923. Viņš runāja tikai latgaliski līdz 20 gadu vecumam. Tad nāca latviešu valoda. Tad krievu. Tad atkal latviešu. Tagad – klusums.” (My father was born there. He spoke only Latgalian until age 20. Then Latvian. Then Russian. Then Latvian again. Now – silence.)

I sleep that night in a homestay in (yes, the Russian name remains on some signs). The hostess, Irēna, serves sklandrausis – a sweet-savory carrot-and-potato pie, baked in a wood oven. We eat by candlelight. She says: “Latgale nav vieta. Latgale ir laiks.” (Latgale is not a place. Latgale is time.) Day 3: Daugavpils – The Fortress, The Mark Rothko, and The Unbroken A morning bus south to Daugavpils. The city is often called “the least Latvian city” – majority Russian-speaking, industrial, blunt. V3’s challenge: to find its hidden tenderness. Lunch at – grey pea soup with smoked

Later, a swim. October water is bracing, but Latgalians believe every lake has a ūdensmāte – a water mother – who heals joint pain. I emerge shivering, convinced my knees are younger. Placebo or magic? In Latgale, the distinction is irrelevant.

Thirty minutes east. Andrupene is not a museum. It is a living village of potters. I visit the workshop of , 84, whose hands are cracked like dry lakebed. He throws a bowl in 90 seconds, then explains the glaze: local sand, birch ash, and a secret he calls “zaļais spēks” (green power). I buy a jug shaped like a rooster. He laughs: “Tas dziedās tikai tad, kad būsi laimīgs.” (It will crow only when you are happy.) I try to read a headline: “Sātai vaļā”

Prologue: Why Version 3.0? Some places demand repetition. Not because they reveal everything at once, but because they conceal their essence under layers of mist, silence, and stubborn tradition. Latgale – the easternmost region of Latvia, bordering Russia and Belarus – is such a place. My first trip (V1) was a hurried reconnaissance: Daugavpils’ fortress, Aglona’s basilica, a blur of lakes seen from a bus window. V2 was a summer solstice pilgrimage, all bonfires and midnight sun. But Latgale Trip V3 was different. This was autumn. This was intentional slowness. This was the search for the region’s true signature: not the obvious landmarks, but the sajūta – the feeling – of a land where time bends.