Traditional Easter in Kaliningrad, Russia

Published: 27 April 2022 ~ By Volga to Yantarny Russian Easter and Beautiful Coast

Whilst the French were masochistically (or should that be Macronistically)  condemning themselves to another five years of neoliberal arrogance in which cash is king but people and culture are, according to their president, there to be p_ _ _ _ d on, we, here, in Russia were celebrating one of the most important holidays in the Orthodox Christian Calendar, Easter ~ a time for observing sanctified traditions, passing those traditions on to the next generation and uniting family and friends.

Easter eggs play an essential role within the Christian ethos of this holiday, not the chocolate variety, but actual eggs, hard boiled and dyed typically red using onion skins. I recall one Easter in the UK when my wife Olga and her English class decorated hard-boiled eggs in a variety of elaborate and brightly coloured patterns; a labour of love no doubt but a formidable task no less. Nowadays, modern techniques make it possible to cheat just a little, using decorative highly coloured and often illustrated bands that once applied to the egg wrap themselves tightly around it.

Hand-painted or not, the eggs, which symbolise resurrection and new life, are blessed in the church and presented as gifts to relatives and friends. Other blessed Easter gifts include bought or home-made cakes and fortified Church wine. We received and gave such fare from and to our friends and neighbours.

By Volga to Yantarny Russian Easter and Beautiful Coast

On Easter Sunday, 24th April, our friends, Arthur and Inara, invited us to be driven in style in their 1970s’ Volga to the seaside resort of Yantarny.

Yantarny is much smaller and further away from Kaliningrad than the increasingly popular resorts of Zelenogradsk and Svetlogorsk. I had not been there since my brother visited Kaliningrad in May 2019.

As then, the weather today was superb ~ a gorgeous and perfect spring day ~ just right for lounging near the sea and taking snapshots.

Since I was last in Yantarny, a number of municipal improvements had been made, and in the coastal woodland, a picturesque pre-sea descent, landscape-sensitive work of both a practical and embellishing nature abounded, including more woodland paths, eclectic artworks and non-obtrusive visitor facilities. One among these is the installation of a wooden-decked observatory, enabling unimpeded views across the white, sandy beach and rolling expanse of the Baltic.

On the coastline itself a series of attractive and much-needed chalet-style café’s interlinked by wooden platforms, each offering inspiring views of the sea, have been tastefully constructed, and it was in one of these that we would stop a while to take advantage of their hospitality.

Sitting outside beneath the shade of the broad eaves, I was befriended by the cafés’ resident stray. No, not that irritating and passively (if you are lucky) aggressive stereotype that blights the British pub and whom everyone tries to avoid, but an old moth-eared and fur-matted cat, slate-grey and socially promiscuous. He obliged me by sitting on my knee and then, after 10 minutes, possibly dissatisfied that no grub had come his way, decided to bite the hand that hadn’t fed him. Ahh well, I thought, if you can’t be bitten by a curmudgeonly old cat over the Easter weekend when can you be bitten by one?

Bitten or not, I was content. I had good friends, good beer, the gentle sound and sight of the sea and was suffused with such a sense of complete and utter relaxation that it seemed to transcend almost everything, even philosophical thought and the quiet reflection with which it is nurtured. Effort was redundant, and effort, for the moment, had been effortlessly put aside.

We ~ as I perceived a communion among all present not only within our small group ~ remained thus for some time, gazing out across a sea that seemed at peace with its gently rippling self as much as we were with ourselves.

We remained this way for over an hour until the sun, shimmering silver across a broad swathe of sea where the surface seemed nearly smooth, challenging the visibility of my 1940s’ sunglasses, prompted us with the realisation that the afternoon was giving away to evening and that we would have to make a move. Alas, the time had come, as it always does; and for all that we had put it on hold, the ebb and flow of our own tide eventually carried us back into town.

The departure was sweetened, however, by calling in for lunch at Yantarny’s Amber Restaurant. What a remarkable place! I think we’ll give it three exclamation marks ~ !!! If you are curious as to why they call it Amber Restaurant, there’s no perhaps about it, you simply need to visit.

Hopefully, I’ll write a little more about it at a later date. For now, however, let’s just say that if the combination of amber, atmosphere, good food and brilliant beverages is something that appeals to you, the Amber Restaurant is the place!!!! There, I’ve gone and given it four exclamation marks. See > Amber Legend Yantarny

Fed, beerified and tripping up the step as I left ~ I always do that, it’s not because I was squiffy ~ we walked the short distance to the local church.

In German times Yantarny Church was Lutherian. The restored church is now Orthodox, The Church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God, and belongs to the Kaliningrad diocese of the Moscow Patriarchate of the Russian Orthodox Church. Mellow and mesmerising, it is difficult to imagine an environment more conducive to an appreciation of all that is dear ~ your loved ones, friends, the life you have lived and the current life you are living. Yantarny Church is not just for Easter, or any other special date on the religious calendar, it is an open sanctuary for thought and reflection, a quiet, hallowed place in which to take pause from the daily static of our estranging modern existence.

We had spent approximately three hours in Yantarny. It had been nowhere near enough and the need to return was incipient.  I could definitely feel a weekend break coming on. But first there was the question of how we would leave today.

On emerging from the church, we discovered that Arthur had left the Volga lights switched on, which wasn’t so good for starting the engine. As ordered, I put my shoulder to the front of the big old car and gave it all that I could. Miraculously ~ you might say ~ the lovely old lump (not Arthur, I mean the car) fired up, and although praised for my efforts, and also praising myself, I was secretly reflecting on the mysterious ways in which things move, are moved and how they move us and the wonderful gift of having spent a perfect Easter day.

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