A detour. Kaunata is not on most maps. It has a Catholic church (white, modest) and a Soviet-era cultural center (concrete, boarded). But behind the center, a miracle: a across a narrow strait. Operated by Jānis, 67, who has pulled the rope for 30 years. Cost: €0.50. We cross in silence. He points to a house on the opposite shore: “Mans tēvs tur dzimis. 1923. Viņš runāja tikai latgaliski līdz 20 gadu vecumam. Tad nāca latviešu valoda. Tad krievu. Tad atkal latviešu. Tagad – klusums.” (My father was born there. He spoke only Latgalian until age 20. Then Latvian. Then Russian. Then Latvian again. Now – silence.)
But V3 is not about despair. The fortress’s eastern wing houses the – because Rothko, the abstract expressionist, was born in Daugavpils (then Dvinsk) in 1903. The centre’s current exhibition: “Black on Grey: The Latgale Years.” Rothko never painted Latgale directly, but his late, dark canvases – those floating rectangles of maroon, charcoal, and deep blue – are Latgale. They are the landscape of lakes under storm clouds, of faith without dogma, of silence that speaks.
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. latgale trip v3
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.
I stay only three hours. But I leave with a truth anyway: Latgale is not a destination. It is a method – a way of being present in a world that prefers speed. The 6:47 AM train from Rēzekne to Rīga. Same route, but reversed. The lakes now appear on the left. The grandmother with the doilies is gone. Instead, a young soldier heading to base, reading a thriller in Russian. A nun eating an apple. A child drawing a house with a blue roof. A detour
Built by Tsar Alexander I after Napoleon’s invasion. Never saw a single shot fired in anger. Instead, it became a prison, a barracks, a concentration camp (first for Poles, then for Jews), then a Soviet garrison, then a museum. Walking the ramparts at 9 AM, alone except for a stray dog, I feel the weight of nested tragedies. A plaque in three languages: “Here, in 1941, 1,400 Jews were held before execution. Among them: children.”
I open my notebook. Words: clay, fog, rope, ferry, candle, rooster, silence. Not a travelogue. A lexicon. But behind the center, a miracle: a across a narrow strait
Later, a swim. October water is bracing, but Latgalians believe every lake has a ūdensmāte – a water mother – who heals joint pain. I emerge shivering, convinced my knees are younger. Placebo or magic? In Latgale, the distinction is irrelevant.