A day out at the Baltic Coast

28 August 2025 – My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk by Mick Hart

Don’t you just hate it when you mislay something? It’s so frustrating, isn’t it? This year I have had trouble remembering what I’ve done with summer. I recall someone saying, “Hooray, summer is here!”, and I recollect catching a glimpse of what I thought was it, but I looked away for a second, and when I looked back it had gone. Indeed, the past few days have seen rain and floods so portentous as to be almost biblical.

A couple of weeks ago — I won’t be precise — I caught summer in the act of sneaking up on me. In complete defiance of the official weather forecast, the sun was clearly violating the conditions of its parole: it was out and about and shining.

I hadn’t had my fair share for a while — well, you don’t at this age, do you? — you do? Well, lucky you! — I’m jealous of your suntan — so, I said to the missus, or she said to me — it’s one voice after all these years (ah, hem): “Why not go to Svetlogorsk for the day?”

Checking my diary for prior engagements and finding in my calendar that what was left of my life was free, I acquiesced (some people just agree), and before you could say, “I wished he’d get on with it!”, we were on our way to Svetlogorsk.

Had I found my bicycle clips, we would have gone by tandem, but there’s more to life than losing things, apart from life itself, so I consulted a very good guide written by someone of proven veracity, and taking myself at my word, we decided to go by bus.

My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk

We weren’t working to any particular timeframe, which is a pretentious way of saying that we weren’t working to any particular timeframe, so we took a minibus, a 61, to the stop by Königsberg’s fighting bison, an imposing composition in bronze by none other than August Gaul, and walked the short distance from there to the bus stop situated on Sovetsky Prospekt (Soviet Avenue). Just as I wrote in my earlier post, and, of course, I never lie, within minutes of us being there a Svetlogorsk bus rolled in, and a few minutes later we rolled off in it.

A few minutes more saw the evidence laid before us that I was not the only one who had found a bit of summer amongst the wreckage of the season. It was just as I had written in that extremely well-researched blog post of mine: traffic build-up in the Kaliningrad suburbs on roads leading out to the coast.

Fifteen minutes into it and having been overtaken twice by the same snail in reverse, I began to wish that I had never written that post to which I keep referring; talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy!

In that post (There I go again! If I didn’t know myself better, I would accuse myself of bias!), I wrote that the time it takes to travel by bus from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk is one hour and fifteen minutes, and, though my eye for detail comes as no surprise, I somehow couldn’t believe that I had got it so terribly right! What I failed to mention in that excelent mother of all posts was that there is at least one bus on the Svetlogorsk route that doesn’t go where you think it is going; it does not stop in the centre. This bus enters Svetlogorsk’s outskirts and, just when you are slipping into a sense of false security, goes sailing off to somewhere else (“Next stop: Somewhere Else!”). So, if you find yourself on this bus (“Hello, Mrs Conductor, does it stop at the centre?” “The centre of what? The universe?”), you’d best get off as we did, at the stop in the dip near the lake.

This stop, hitherto unused by me, turned out to be more convenient than I first gave it credit for. On the way to the beachfront, it was our intention to call at the arts and crafts street market opposite Telegraph Café to collect and pay for a commissioned piece of leatherware. Could it be a pair of swimming trunks? Not telling you. Let’s just say that whilst most things shrink in the water, you wouldn’t want this one to ride up with wear.

The shortcut through the hills and wooded hillocks of old Svetlogorsk [sic] Rauschen made me wince at the outset as it was all uphill (funny that?), but the absolute joy of this route was that it took us through an interesting mix of dwellings old and new, from original German houses secreted in wooded gardens to glades containing mid-rise flats, adventurously medievalised by the inclusion of half-timbered uppers.

The other surprising thing about this shortcut, or cutshort as Olga sometimes muddles it, was that this ‘cutshort’ really was short. We emerged from the woodland shortly after entering it, and there, on the right, was the market. I don’t believe we’ve accomplished this before; we were exactly where we wanted to be and quickly.

The compact area set aside for traders at the confluence of two streets was packed today. Summer could run, but it could not hide!

Some stalls at this market are permanent fixtures; others are infills, with traders bringing their own folding tables, which is something that we sometimes did when standing at boot and vintage fairs in England. Ah, what memories such sights bring!

First sight of Olga was met with great enthusiasm by friends and associates alike; they also said hello to me. I was acquainted with most of these people, and as for those I had not met, well, introductions in Kaliningrad are evergreen experiences.

Speaking English in Kaliningrad

There was a time, when I first came to Kaliningrad, in the perestroika years, when the sound of someone speaking English, and the sight of an Englishman speaking it, transcended curiosity. The unwavering stares received had a polarising character: at one end of the spectrum, a deep suspicion lurked; at the other, the kind of fascination that vainer folk than I might have found quite flattering.

Eventually, I grew accustomed to the habit of being gawped at and even got to enjoy being regarded as an exotic object, apparently too much so, because as the years rolled steadily by and a new generation arrived on the scene, replacing the Soviet mindset with their internet view of the world and the more savvy grasp it gave them of the ways of different cultures, modesty forbid, but I missed the attention my simple presence had once so effortlessly generated. But one grows older, as one does, and as one does, one hopes, less needful of the spotlight. “I wanted so much to have nothing to touch. I’ve always been greedy that way.” (Thank you, Leonard.) And then, just when you least expect it, like some of the buses we travel on, the bell rings and it’s all change, please.

Hunkering down in Russia during the coronavirus period, which was a much-to-be-preferred option than returning to hysteria-blighted Britain, I discovered once again that the sound of someone speaking English and being English on Kaliningrad’s streets had overnight become something of an anomaly, more so than it would, given Kaliningrad’s exclave status, than in Moscow or St Petersburg, and that this trend would be intensified by developments in Ukraine as visitors from the West diminished, particularly those who wear cravats and speak with English accents.

But I digress (“Cor blimey, don’t you!”) Helloes, how-are-yous, introductions and curious observations over and with our business at the market done and dusted, we wended our way at a leisurely pace along  Svetlogorsk’s charming streets, taking note on our way of the capital renovation that had rescued the Villa Malepartus from almost certain extinction. 

A new café lifted on wooden decking at the entrance to the public space containing Yantar-Hall was designed to attract attention. We contemplated the prospect of offering it our patronage but decided not to after all, turned off by its ‘boom boom music’.

We continued our walk to the coast, strolling across the landscaped parkland be-fronting Yantar Hall, marvelling at the transformation from all it had been in my days, a soggy chunk of decaying woodland (there are some who would say that they liked it that way), and ended up for that bite to eat, which we would have had at the previous café had the volume been turned down, at the glass-plated, steel-framed and, on a bright and blue-skied day, aptly named Sun Terrace.

Strategically situated on the coastal headland on route to the Svetlogorsk Elevator, The Sun Terrace is the perfect place to pause and enjoy, as I did, over a pizza and coffee, twenty minutes of quiet repose. The sunny skies above, the green lawns all around, the garden beds with their shrubs and flowers, the birch-tree woodland backdrop, the little birds singing and chirping happily in the boughs and branches of trees – what more could one possibly ask for? Noise, it would seem, is the answer. A couple seated opposite us outside on the café’s patio was respectfully asked by the waiter if everything met with their requirements.

The male contingent replied that whilst they could find no fault with the food, the one thing lacking was music.

I wondered if The Sun Terrace were to act on his advice, what music they would opt for. Would it be, let’s hope not, the kind that had driven us quickly away from the café we would have frequented had it been less musical? Could it have been less musical? Hmm? There’s no accounting for taste.

No music is good music when that music is bad. So, Sun Terrace be advised: continue to do what you do well – provide the space, the food, and beverages and leave the music to Nature’s Orchestra.

The Svetlogorsk Elevator, which, being English, I am disposed to call a ‘lift’, is an architectural landmark forged from glass and steel and something that is too compelling not to have been covered in two of my earlier posts:
👉 Svetlogorsk a Tale of Two Lifts – Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia
👉 Whenever I need a lift, I go to Svetlogorsk – Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

As the Elevator’s website highlights, there is no better place to be than aloft inside its vast glass gallery if stunning views of the Baltic Coast are the sort of thing that floats your boat.

Olga likes to go there to take selfies for social media; I go there to take an interest in the luxury seafront apartments‘ latest phase of development. As you can see from the photo below, they, and the promenade on which they are based, have really taken shape.

👉Svetlogorsk Promenade Perchance to Dream – Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia
👉 Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History – Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

Older than the Elevator but refurbished since my first trip on them in summer 2001 are the small suspended yellow pods, at one time Soviet red, which, capable of transporting in their enclosed and glazed interior two standing or seated passengers, are a cable car and ski-lift hybrid. Essentially, the vehicle is a funicular, conveying passengers to beachside level from the upper reaches of the steep coastal bank and, more importantly, back again. They offer a convenient and comfortable alternative to foot-slogging the uphill path that, once completed but with great difficulty, leaves even the fittest person pretending not to be out of breath.

The cable-strung contraption is a particular favourite of mine. Whenever I visit Svetlogorsk, I look forward to the prospect of sailing up and down in it, even if getting on and off, with its slightly alarming bounce and the need to open and latch two doors whilst the conveyance sways in contradiction, demands a certain degree of elasticity more suited to supple youth and to the rest-assured action of younger sinews.

The queues for this novel but practical mode of transport show no sign of getting shorter as bathers head for the only substantial open stretch of beach sufficient in capacity to accommodate their growing influx.

Svetlogorsk’s oldest promenade is still very much under wraps due to ongoing restoration, a programme that has effectively closed the greater percentage of the beach resort’s beach.

Meanwhile, at the new promenade, a ribbon of sand implanted at the point where the structure meets the shore provides an attractive, albeit limited, beach alternative. It is an integral feature of the coastline complex, which in essence, and for the present, siphons off overflow bathers from the opposite end of Svetlogorsk, but the reality on the ground is that by far the greatest proportion of sand is still very much off limits, pending the completion of the renaissance of the earlier promenade.

My Special Day Out in Svetlogorsk

Not being a beachy person, not even in the slightest (I haven’t been since Charles Atlas warned about the inherent risk of sand being kicked in one’s face.), the prospect of being barred from the beach is somebody else’s – not my – problem; whereas no bar on, overlooking or at an equitable distance from the beach, is very much my problem.

I have to say, therefore, that on my most recent visit to Svetlogorsk, I was well chuffed by the discovery that the portion of beach still open to those who like nothing more than to laze and swim, swim and laze, laze and … (It is fairly easy to see how writing about this aimless practice could become habitual, even if actually doing it could not.) has a small food and drink outlet held up to the sky on stilts.

For a man who has just descended by cable car, the challenge of climbing two flights of steps to buy a bottle of beer was a less arduous undertaking than perching on a wooden plank for the 25 minutes it took for my other half to grow tired of splashing about in the briny.

Strange things happen at sea, or so I have heard it said, and just to prove this point, whilst she was in the water, Olga made a new friend. She wasn’t a mermaid nor sea monster but a young woman with a delightful mien who had authored a book about Japan, possibly making her stranger than both those marine creatures put together, and though she failed, mercifully, to address me in Japanese, when she spoke she spoke the King’s English almost as good as Charles himself and nearly better than me. (I just can’t seem to stop these days using words like ‘like’ and ‘innit’. “Ee, mon, I haven’t the faintest where me gets de ‘abit from! It makes me eddy at me!”)  

These facts alone were enough to qualify both her and her husband for an invitation to join us this evening at that well-known restaurant Wherever. We did not know where the restaurant was and would not know until later, when we would rendezvous with a friend and follow her to wherever it was that she saw fit to take us.

We met our female companion in the rip-roaring, rollicking centre of town, which, I am fairly certain, must be twinned with Great Yarmouth, where people crowd intently and to the beat of open-air music, sing, dance, eat and carouse as though they are on holiday, most likely because they are.

Although the restaurant to which we were taken was not familiar to me, the building that it occupied had, for as long as I could remember, been an object of admiration as well as one of intrigue. I could not understand for the life of me why such an obvious Rauschen relic, an edifice of historic importance, had lain for so many years in such a sad and sorry state of destitution. Shame on me, I know, but in the early twenty-tens, I had regarded its exotically planted but much neglected gardens as nothing more than a cutshort, though I always peeped inside the building whenever I went stampeding past on my way to wherever it was I must have been going, wondering why this rarified building, whatever it was supposed to be, seemed to have no other use than a place for stacking chairs. However, mystery on mystery, or simply a case of misplaced memory (it’s gone the way of the sun), for when we asked one of the waiters how long the restaurant had been open, the answer we got was ‘always’. It was a Delbert Grady moment: “You’ve always been the caretaker. I should know, sir. I’ve always been here.”

Anyway, to put you out of your inquisitive misery, the beautiful building’s restaurant goes by the name of Kurhaus. The building itself is restored-Rauschen, but the restaurant has more than a lingering flavour of what it must have been like to dine there during Soviet times. The absence of loud music is a blessing!

In describing my day at Svetlogorsk, I have unwittingly provided you with a blueprint for an excursion. It is easier to remember than trying to say ‘fiddlesticks’ fast, so put your map-head on your shoulders and get a load of this:

How to get there. Where? Precisely

Get off at the bus stop near the lake; turn left, then immediately right; keep a straight line at the back of the houses and climb the steps into the wood; keep on walking until you reach a broad glade ‘ringed’ with houses and flats; climb the steps or slope to the right; turn left at the top of the hill, past the flats with the wooden fretwork; then turn immediately right. (How are you doing so far?) From here you will see the open-air market and, across the road, the Telegraph café. From the café, hang a left and then immediately left again. The Starry Doctor Hotel is on the left and the Villa Malepartus a little further on your right. This street is a wonderful street complete with old and new-old houses of an extremely evocative nature, which any one of you or I would love to live in if we had the chance. When you reach the junction at the top of this road, Yantar Hall is unmissable — it is large, modern, futuristic and also, they tell me, multifunctional. Head along the winding path in front of this wave-like structure, and there you will find The Sunshine Terrace (as its name is written in English, you will find it hard to miss), and after you’ve taken refreshment there, it’s straight on to the lift.

To find your way to the cable cars, direct your feet towards the centre of town (you could try asking where this is!). The ticket office can be found to the right of Svetlogorsk’s railway station just inside a small, paved area where amber traders sell their wares. Treat yourself to some of this before you make your descent. (It’s more than a million years old, you know! Not the chairs, the amber.) And now that I’ve got you down on the beach, have a beer for me!

Copyright © 2018-2025 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.