The water off Palanga’s sandy white beach is tinged pale green – the colour of the feathery clouds of Furcellaria lumbricalis that occasionally brush against my calves. Underfoot, the Baltic seabed is ridged, the sea so clear and shallow that every ripple is visible. The water deepens very gradually – making it ideal for families. I’m quite far from the coast, but still only thigh deep, the sea still cool as I duck beneath the surface.
Elsewhere in Europe, another heatwave has prompted health warnings and school closures. But here in Lithuania, children scamper on the sand and splash in the shallows as temperatures remain, if not cool, bearable. I’ve come to explore some of the Baltic beaches – here and on the Curonian Spit – which are fast gaining popularity as the Med heats up and prices in southern Europe remain stubbornly high.
Palanga has been drawing Lithuanian holidaymakers since the wealthy Tiškevičiai family transformed it into a seaside resort in the mid-19th century. Today, there is a certain rowdy seaside vibe in parts: the central beach can get crowded and the promenade is on the kitsch side too, with many of the historic wooden buildings – demolished or damaged in the Soviet era – replaced by brash signage, entertainment venues and raucous restaurants.
Nonetheless, the main beach is reassuringly devoid of construction and characterised primarily by its distinctive 19th-century L-shaped pier, a popular sunset-catching spot. Away from the shore, you need only stroll the 100-hectare (250-acre) botanical garden, home to the 19th-century Tiškevičiai Palace and amber museum, with its thousands of prehistoric exhibits, to witness a different past. A bronze sculpture of Feliksas Tiškevičius stands just outside the park; legend has it that if you rub his foot with yours and kiss his cheek, good luck will follow.
Just a 10-minute cycle ride away from the pier, my hotel, the Gradiali (B&B doubles from €118), is another peaceful oasis. From here, a 500-metre walk through aromatic pine forest leads to an uncrowded section of Palanga beach, where €75 (£64) gets you all-day use of a curtained cabana, complete with a bottle of prosecco and a mountain of ice-cream. (I’ve paid at least double that on the Greek island of Mykonos – and that was just for the bed.)
There are other ways to get into the water around Palanga, including wakeboarding at the 313 Cable Park (from €20), about 2.5 miles (4km) from the town, or plunging into one of the 16 leisure and mineral pools at the Atostogų Parkas complex (from €30), about 4 miles away. But I’m on a mission to explore Lithuania’s more untamed side – the Curonian Spit, a protected 61-mile stretch of dense forest and Blue Flag beaches accessed only via the modern port city of Klaipėda, a half-hour drive away. Trains run to Klaipėda from the capital, Vilnius, too – and electrification of the train line next year will reduce the 205-mile journey time by 30 minutes to four hours.
With its waterfront setting, compact old town and restored castle complex, Klaipėda makes for a pleasant afternoon stop – but I’m eager to board the ferry (approximately €1.70), which has me on the spit within 10 minutes. Threaded by bike and walking trails, this narrow stretch of sand peninsula – flanked by the Baltic Sea on one side and the Curonian Lagoon on the other – is occupied in the south by Russia. Observation decks near the border allow glimpses of a similarly forested landscape, but one punctuated by watchtowers.
As fascinating as this off-limits area is, it’s the older stories about the spit that bewitch me. Legend has it the giant Neringa formed it by pouring sand from her apron to create a protective break between the irascible Baltic Sea and her people. The amber fragments, which still wash up on the peninsula’s beaches, are said to be the debris from an underwater amber castle, shattered in rage by the thunder god Perkūnas when Jūratė, goddess of the sea, fell in love with a mortal.
But some of the area’s most haunting tales are not mere myth. On an evening trip in a traditional flat-bottomed fishing boat from the harbour in Nida – the spit’s largest town – our skipper Aurelijus Armonavičius speaks of the vagaries of shifting sands and the 18th-century felling of forests, which led to the slow burial of 14 villages and two cemeteries on the spit. Only through the building of a sand ridge and concerted reforestation efforts has this – now Unesco-listed – landscape been preserved.
My accommodation, Hotel Nidus (B&B doubles from €119), lies between lagoon and beach, and features basic, comfortable rooms and expansive gardens. I head to the harbour for dinner at Nidos Prieplauka, watching the sunset and sampling the cold, kefir-based beetroot soup – a traditional Lithuanian dish so adored that there’s an annual springtime festival held for it in the capital.
The following day, I meet Angelina Ivanova, from Nida’s tourism centre, to bike to Vecekrugas Dune. At 67 metres (220ft) above sea level, it is the spit’s highest point: the flatness of the landscape, as well as its pine needle-strewn bike paths, make it manageable for even the least experienced cyclists. As we walk from our bikes to the peak, the ground is scarred with furrows of dark earth; the work of wild boar. Clusters of mushrooms stud the soil; foraging is a beloved Baltic activity – although the protected status of the Curonian Spit means that it is off limits in certain areas, such as the Nagliai nature reserve, about 11 miles from Nida.
The area is also a migratory path for millions of birds such as peregrine falcons and red kites. This being high summer, we see mostly gulls and cormorants. “The shoulder seasons are our busiest for twitchers,” says Angelina, as we reach the top of the dune. And, with water on both sides – at points separated by as little as 400 metres – the spit sustains not only these migratory birds, but also the fishing traditions that have traditionally shaped life here.
We continue on to Preila, about a mile away. A tiny village on the lagoon, it is home to a row of smoke-fishing shacks. “Everybody has their favourite,” says Angelina, as we peruse that day’s offerings: hers is Rimo Žuvis, owned by the parents of her schoolfriend. Eel, considered a delicacy, is the most expensive dish on the menu, but we opt for sea perch and turbot, which we eat at picnic tables overlooking the water, accompanied by bread, fresh tomatoes and cold beer. Later, we will end the day back in the sea at Nida, with the midsummer sun hanging high in the sky and temperatures still hovering pleasantly in the 20s.
The trip was provided by the Neringa, Klaipėda, Palanga and Kretinga tourism offices, with accommodation at Hotel Nidus and Hotel Gradiali
