January 8, 2026 - Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

Containing an appraisal of Art Village Vitland

8 January 2026 – Art Village Vitland: beautiful beachfront on the Baltic

I was no stranger to this track; to call it a road would be too complimentary. I had walked it once before, but, on the last occasion of doing so, the going had been dry underfoot, dry and extremely dusty. Then the woodland to one side and the open, tangled ground to the other had been at their most verdant, densely leaved and vegetated under a sun-crowned clear blue sky.

Contrast that idyll with the scene that lay before us today: mud, potholes filled with water, the trees on either side stripped naked of their leaves, the woodland bed soaked and sodden, the air rich and pungent with vegetative decomposition, hanging as thick and heavy in one’s inquisitive nostrils as the accumulating droplets of damp clinging to one’s clothes. This was the natural world in its post-autumnal shift. A long, damp, desolate, barren lane, delivering us inexorably into winter’s clutches, or, dear reader, as those delicate poets amongst you might be inclined to say, for the sake of reviving a well-known phrase, into winter’s cold embrace.

The last time we had travelled this route, we had no strict idea where it would come out at, and thus we ended up somewhere else entirely; exactly in that not unfamiliar place, to wit, where everyone it seems, at one stage in their life or another, ends up inadvertently, and where some, as the story goes, end up not impermanently. You’ve probably been there yourself and hopefully returned: it’s called the ‘Middle of Nowhere’.

Today, however, with precedent as our guide, memory as our compass and others to consult with, there was little danger of that. It might have felt like the road to Nowhere, but it was, in fact, none other than the beaten track to Vitland.

Art Village Vitland

It was not yet fully past the middle hour of noon, but visibility, such as it was, and enclosed as we were by trees, was already turning mind and matter into a deeper and darker shade of grey.

A gaunt, tall and wooden monumental cross, unseen but pointed out to me, rising from an eminence, then suddenly turning eerily visible through a twilight web of branches, followed me down the slope, not the metaphorical one down which I have been sliding since the beginning of being trapped in this life, but a less-kind-on-the-soles variety, not the metaphorical souls which were soaring piously heavenwards in acknowledgement of this cross, but the ones that were having difficulty coping with the squishy leaves impairing traction beneath my boots.

The cross, I was told, I think by someone, was a monument to the martyred Adalbert, who long ago had journeyed to these pagan lands to convert whom he later discovered the hard way were an obstinate tribe of people, much the better to be left alone than lectured on Christianity. A delusion which might have turned out well had the subjects of his plan been desirous of such enlightenment, only, as bad luck had it, as it often does when callings of this type usurp the restraining influence of prudent commonsense, they were, unfortunately, anything but; and rather than be converted, they bumped him off instead. Such is the occupational hazard of devoting yourself to missionary zeal.

The morbid imp within me wanted to steer me into the trees and capture this cross on film – taking photographs is an inveterate habit that few can resist these days, and who am I to buck the trend – but as the light grew darker and the air considerably colder, owing, I convinced myself, to our nearing proximity to the sea, I meekly followed the others down, leaving the immortalised Adalbert to his eternal ruminations upon what in life is worth it and what on reflection is not.

A settlement of some considerable age

We were now approaching the ancient settlement, Vitland, escorted by its past but arriving at our destination as it is today. Landmarks, artistic ones, to which in an earlier time I had been graciously introduced, loomed larger than life in my memory. There again was the metal man conceived in his iteration from a carefully welded choreography of tubes, struts, plates, nuts, bolts, a number of other interesting things and a veritable maze of wires; the striking-a-pose arrangement of otherwise everyday wooden pallets; and the thrusting-upwards panpipes, for this is what I fancied them for, assembled from prodigious sheets of corrugated metal. And rest assured, it would not have been right had there not been a giant fish….

Olga Hart & Vladimir Chileekin with Vitland fish sculpture

In any artistic environment, especially those by the sea, there’s always a painted fish – have you ever not noticed this? And so as not to disappoint, there it was alright, together with other colourful hieroglyphs, painted on the roughly hewn and unashamedly handmade fence. Through this delightful fretwork of wood knocked up from spliced branches and panels borrowed from various sources, a blazing fire burnt, and over it the smoke was rising, and on its other side the hummocky knolls and dells that comprise the Vitland café’s garden welcomed me from memory with the sight of the various wooden structures built into its contours, a novel collection of venues in which to eat and drink, to sit and smoke and barbecue, and dotted here and there and it seemed almost everywhere, for you never knew where one might be, yet more artistic symbols, which, when viewed in their entirety, converted this patch of grassy wilderness into a veritable home from home for the commune-minded boho set.

Like people whom you haven’t seen for as long as you remember but whose impressions you are likely never to forget, nothing was less familiar to me; but the devil, as they say, was in the detail, which, over the passage of our estrangement, had grown remarkably worn, taken on an aged appearance and was, for there simply is no kinder way to put it, succumbing to gentle decay. I felt a twinge of rheumatism emanate from my hip and was, by a mutual sympathy, consoled. It takes its shape from the march of time, and nothing, my friend, not even Botox, or anyone, be they so thought of by themselves and others as so powerful, has the will or the means to stop it.

Unlike the good St Adalbert, I had no need to prevent myself from converting anybody or anything. I respect Vitland for what it is and what it always will be: a genuine piece of Prussian history, which could have fared far worse in these overbuilt times of ours had it not been rescued from a fate worse than concrete when someone with taste and conservative vision decreed that it should become a unique and earthy retreat for the cohabitation of art and nature.

Bringing the two together within a sea-beach and rustic sequestered environment has turned the one-time ancient settlement into a rare fusion of space in which to exhibit art and to offer to the discerning guest a no-frills, honest-to-goodness blend of accommodation.

Accomodation at Art Village Vitland

Vitland’s guests are offered a choice of unpretentious hostel-style lodging in the main building’s loft rooms or a chance to stay glamping-style in wooden-constructed standalone units. I have seen the latter described as ‘bungalows’ and elevated as ‘guest houses’, but those descriptions are way off mark; they put me erroneously in mind of places of a quite different type, such as Auntie Mable’s house in Wigan and Mrs Musson’s Sandy Lodge at Wells-not-near-the-Sea, both of which in the strictest sense don’t fit the Vitland experience. I shy away from referring to Vitland’s ancillary lodgings as provision made in wooden huts, as it might evoke unhappy memories of that hard-to-explain and much-gossiped-of time when the wife, having locked you out, left you with little choice but to sleep in yonder allotment shed; so in search of a suitable substitute, I will christen these small wooden structures ‘chalets’.

Knowing what I’m talking about comes from having stayed in one. I entertain no delusions of tackling them in winter; such an endeavour as bold as that is the prerogative of constitutions considerably more adventurous and of greater durability than anything I own, but my summer sabbatical spent at Vitland some four years or more ago was memorably marked by a three-night stopover in one of these wooden units. The one we hired was fully equipped. It was wanting in no facilities. And as small as it was inside (it certainly wasn’t a TARDIS), nevertheless it was quaint and cosy.

The chalet slept two in virtual comfort: one, that is, at ground level, and the other, that being me, up a ladder and in the loft. On any other occasion, such as sedated by several beers, it might have been a case of out of sight, out of mind, but with the ambient outside temperature simmering not much far below a corking 30 degrees, inside our wooden abode, one of us was baking whilst the other one was basting. Being well skilled in the art and science of getting out of bed, certainly more than remaining within it, I was not surprised at all that I ended up at 4am perched on the chalet’s veranda, enjoying the thrill of the morning breeze whilst listening to the amazing sound of the sea crashing home on the shore.

Vitland’s principal hub, its rather more substantial building, is what traditionalists are likely to expect. Homely and inviting, it multifunctions perfectly as a café, restaurant, bar and sometime art exhibition space, and the rentable rooms above are all that the heart could desire.

Meanwhile at ground level, the eating, drinking and lounging area has a welcoming, laid-back vibe and, in line with the outside seating space, is decorated beachcomber fashion; for example, by hosting items and scenes nautical and marine in nature, with the wall at the back of the first raised deck draped with a sizeable fishing net, caught in which are colourful fish, humanely and strictly facsimile.

The second outside seating deck extending from the building offers an elevated view across a gorgeous stretch of golden sand into the foaming sea. At the furthermost end of this platform stands a convenient set of steps where you can descend yourself to the seashore or sit, as the mood so takes you, with a beer and a bite to eat whilst the mermaids sway seductively past en route to or returning from that sandy stuff on which, abetted by the laws of summer, they are pleased to set out their feminine stalls or emerging from that watery thing in which they swim and frolick, then glisten in the sunbeams.

Though naturally busier in summer than it is in winter, Vitland’s remote location makes it the perfect leisure alternative to the other hustle and bustle resorts. The beach is amber territory, the surrounding countryside is rustic-wild, the area is rich in history, and the aura is mystically tranquil. Vitland is a thoughtful place and is so during summer when it is occupied by more people and remains so in the winter when visitors grow less. It makes you put your thinking cap on when the sun is shining and leave it where it is when the snow is falling. I wouldn’t say Vitland can be lonely, no, I wouldn’t want to say that, but whatever it is that dwells there is a firm believer in personal solitude and a patron to all its excesses.

On the day of our most recent visit, I could not determine whether the irresistible feel of Vitland, its entrancing and enchanting essence, borrowed from The Shining’s least disturbing scenes, yet from its most evocative, or was rooted within a line or two I had read in James Hilton’s Lost Horizon. A proposed compromise could possibly be that the spell was a subtle coalescence of both confluent influences, with some magic dust thrown secretly in by a hyperactive imagination.

Those of you who are susceptible to what is commonly known as ‘energies’, those invisible peronalities demarking one place from the next, will understand instinctively what it is that Vitland does within minutes of your arrival there.

Within minutes of our arrival there, Mr Chileekin’s group, among whose lucky number I was one, was treated to an exhibition by the accomplished metal sculptor Alexsander Braga. I am tempted to say that overall I detected in his work the influence of steampunk, but in the likely event that my eye, as unaccomplished as it is, coupled with a marked lack of knowledge in such a specialist genre, should cause the artist to take exception, I will moderate my initial comment and rewrite it so that it reads ‘generates a steampunk interest’.

Mick Hart and Olga Hart with artist Alexsander Braga

As with almost any art form, it is easy to overlook the complex interaction that exists between creator and creation. In order to appreciate if only the obvious intricacy of any metal sculpture, one is called upon to recognise the fine-line marriage between the inspirational impulse and the practical-technical skills required to bring the concept to fruition. It is not enough to think it through; the artist has to do it. He has to have in his possession knowledge, as well as a firm working grasp, of the processes involved and practical skills required in every applicable aspect, including cutting, shaping, fitting and the finishing in metal, of which there are many and various.

As an individual who realised at quite an early age that he was completely bereft of such talents and who chose to take a cookery course in place of doing metalwork when steered in that direction whilst he was at school and who received a clonk around the ear with a heavy metal saucepan from a hysteria-prone young lady teacher for cooking up something facetious, the extent of my appreciation for the properties of metal probably runs much deeper than the average man who works in a scrapyard and routinely feels the need to shout, “There’s a lot of metal here!”

There was not a lot of metal at the Vitland art exhibition, but what there was, was heavy man! I marvelled at the ‘Catherine wheel’ that symbolised the force of life, the public mask so universally worn and the sailing ship called Königsberg, but in the end, hands down, it was the mannequin that won me over, the symbolisation of female anger (I never asked if she once taught cookery or owned a heavy saucepan) which, at the risk of becoming fashionable by dint of alleged misogyny, pressed every button on my sniggering keyboard.

Sounding like Corporal Jones convulsed by a fit of “They don’t like it up them!”, the artist divulged to me that on acquaintance with his sculpture and its underlying meaning, there were women who became incensed not by the concept itself but rather by one aspect of the mannequin’s composition, which was its intimidating trumpet mouth. I was intrigued at this divulgence, for as objective as I was trying to be, the more I looked at this woman, the more the conviction grew in me that I had met her somewhere along the way; but then, along the way, you come across so many of them, don’t you? Quite unable to make up my mind about this female Plethora, I came away from staring at her with a second-best exultation, that of how much more disturbing her anger would have been had the master in metal who made her equipped her with two arms and hands and a pair of heavy saucepans. They say if you can’t stand the heat, it is best to keep out of the kitchen, and the kitchen is the woman’s place. Thus, if your problem is keeping out of it, you’ll just have to learn how to duck.

Vitland Art Exhibition 'Angry Woman' sculpture by Alexsander Braga

The heat in Vitland café met with no complaints, but on the outside the cold was taking hold, so I was not particularly peeved when someone interrupted the walk that we had been seriously contemplating, but which now would never take us along the spirited-windy seafront, by suggesting the time had come to make our way to Vitland’s main exhibition room. This apartment lies upstairs and is at the front of the building, but because of the lay of the land, with its different gradient levels, access to the room is via a short flight of steps located on the higher ground at the back of the building.

Vitalnd Art Village – a unique experience

On our way to the hall of pictures, I was reacquainted with further examples of Vitland’s garden sculptures, most of which I had shaken metaphorical hands with four or possibly five summers hence. Contiguous to this welcome went dramatically sailing past us, like a whisky-fuelled Hogmanay haggis, one of the biggest and fattest tabby cats seen this side of Wonderland. There consistently comes a time at Vitland when you forget which side of Wonderland your feet have decided they belong.

The exhibition laid before us featured a quite considerable canon of paintings by artist Alexsander Pasichniy, who has also written, illustrated and produced two children’s books and does a fine line in portraits of the German writer Hoffmann as he appeared in his younger years. The metal man, Braga by name, had not been a bragger by nature, and here we had yet another example of modesty becoming one, but when he unfairly denounced himself as not a professional artist, I couldn’t help remarking that “If this [your art] is not professional, then show me art that is!”

Artist Alexsander Pasichniy at Vitland village

Portrait of Hoffmann when young by artist Alexsander Pasichniy

Places
Angel Park Hotel
Zelenogradsk Coastal Route
Fort Dönhoff
It happened at Waldau Castle

Would it be too pretentious of us, or judged as such by others, if, at what I consider to be a relevant juncture most opportune, we were to pause together and in that space consider how we relate to art and the value, or not as the case may be, that we accredit to it given the all-displacing digital world in which we have to live and which, in turn, lives in us?

We live today in an imagistic age, a period plastered in images. Thanks to the digital matrix in which we wallow and flounder – our smartphones, laptops, the omniscient Google and our slavish devotion to social media – we have the motive, means and opportunity to Blitzkrieg each and every facet of our post-Kodak daily existence with any image that takes our fancy. This explosion of the visual icon has the same effect on value as asking for a glass of water and getting a bucket of water thrown over you. Our eyes and our senses are soaked with imagery.

Outside of exclusive art-world circles, that self-imploding waltz occupied by cryptic critics and crusty connoisseurs, original works of art, those produced by the artist’s hand, are losing their authenticity to an authenticating culture founded on mass mediocrity. Our minds are sodden, sponge-like, with an overkill of imagery fed to us by a digital powerhouse that eschews the virtue of quality and espouses the glut of quantity.

The value of a genuine, that is, first-hand, work of art does not derive exclusively from the features of its composition, despite this being the principal force by which our inclinations are attracted to it. Intrinsically and essentially, other magnetic forces are at work behind the scenes acting upon our stolen sentiments, and these are those that cannot in any shape or form be forged or framed or fabricated, digitally or otherwise. They are so imperviously set in stone as to exist without fear of contradiction outside of the excluding scope of the critic and the connoisseur, for they are, indeed they are, the when and where and why and the ultimately by whom, and these things are immutable. There is nothing in the digital world that can replace the artist’s brush as it moves across the canvas at a given, single, specific and never-to-be-repeated moment, for it is what it is and when.

You now can see for yourselves that this is one of the joys of Vitland. It is without equivocation a thought-provoking place. In the sun at its most beautiful; in the eclipse of the sun, at its most introspective. It is natural, attractive, down to earth, a retreat into one’s own sanctuary; here you can escape for a while from the penny arcade of life.

It is also, and most essentially, the perfect marriage of art and nature, an intertwining timeless ceremony which never can grow old and where history can never repeat itself, purely because it has no need to do so. Some things, you can tell, have never not always been there, and once you have been to Vitland, you can tell that the same applies to you.