Latgale Trip V3 ❲FAST ✯❳

I open my notebook. Words: clay, fog, rope, ferry, candle, rooster, silence. Not a travelogue. A lexicon.

The asphalt ends after 6 km. Gravel begins. Then, pure dirt. But the reward: the village of , population 37. Its Old Believers’ prayer house is a masterpiece of unadorned faith – no icons in gold, only hand-painted wooden saints, their faces eroded by candle smoke. An Old Believer named Agafya invites me in. She speaks Russian, but writes a word in my notebook: “Pokayaniye” – repentance. Not sorrow, she explains. “The act of turning around.” Latgale is full of such turning points.

An elder named Timofei invites me into his izba. He serves sbiten (a honey-spice tea) and shows me a handwritten prayer book from 1789. He asks: “Why do you come here, to the end of the road?” I say: “To understand slowness.” He nods. “Then you must stay three days. One day is curiosity. Three days is truth.”

Walk from the fortress to – an Orthodox cathedral of brick and five gold domes. Unlike Rīga’s tidy churches, this one is raw. Inside, no pews. Worshippers stand. Women kiss icons. A deacon chants in Old Church Slavonic. I light a candle for my grandmother, who fled Eastern Europe in 1944. The flame trembles. So do I. latgale trip v3

I skip the city center’s chain cafes. Instead, I take tram #3 to , a working-class district on the old Polish border. Here, wooden houses lean into each other. A bar called “Pie Alekseja” serves piva (beer) and šprotes (sprats) on black bread. The clientele: factory workers, a retired KGB officer (he tells me; I don’t ask), and a young Latgalian poet named Zane. She recites a line from memory: “Mūsu valoda ir migla / Mēs elpojam cauri vēsturei” (Our language is fog / We breathe through history). She gives me a photocopied chapbook. Price: a promise to read it on the train home. Day 4: The Sacred Triangle – Aglona, Andrupene, and The Old Believers’ Island No bicycle today. A hired car (€35, driver Jānis, who chain-smokes and listens to Latgalian folk metal). Destination: the holy triangle of Latgale.

At the window, the landscape blurs. But Latgale holds. It is the water mother in my bones. The unglazed bowl in my bag. The promise to Zane the poet, kept now.

Walk on, then. Into the blue-grey. October 2026 | Rīga–Rēzekne–Rāzna–Daugavpils–Aglona–Jaunsloboda I open my notebook

Rēzekne is often dismissed as grey, post-industrial, forgotten. V3 forced me to look again. The city’s heart is the – a towering, brutalist-symbolist sculpture of a woman holding a cross, erected in 1939 and defiantly restored after Soviet neglect. She stands on a hill overlooking the railway yards. From her feet, you see the real Rēzekne: not the crumbling factories, but the wooden houses with sky-blue shutters, the Orthodox church with a green dome, and – crucially – the new Latgale Culture and History Museum (reopened 2025 after a decade of renovation).

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.

Aglona is to Latgalian Catholics what Mecca is to Muslims. The basilica, built in 1760, is baroque but humble – white, twin towers, a statue of the Virgin on the roof. Inside, the famous icon of Aglona Mother of God (painted 1698) is covered in votive offerings: silver hearts, crutches, wedding rings. Mass is in Latgalian – a language that sounds like Latvian spoken underwater, soft and guttural at once. I am not religious, but when the choir sings “Esi sveicināta, Marija” , I feel what the anthropologists call hierophany – a rupture of the ordinary. A lexicon

Jānis the driver whispers: “My grandmother walked 90 kilometers here in 1944. Barefoot. For peace.”

A final detour to the remote village of on the shores of Lake Peipus (the border with Russia is 2 km east). This is an Old Believer community that fled Tsarist persecution in the 17th century. They do not use electricity on Sundays. They pray in a chapel with no windows. They bury their dead in unmarked graves facing east.