Tõnu Runnel

The Estonian summer is a great nostalgic brand, a destination on its own. But once the autumn hits, everyone leaves. Not just the migratory birds and the summer-Estonians of the world, but also those who go to school and work in our few bigger towns. They leave their country houses, put on straight faces and go to meet their new beginnings.*

Paljassaare, Tallinn. In the end of the summer, the weather starts to change. More clouds and rain, lower temperatures. The beaches are the first places that get left behind.

Meelva, Räpina. The landscapes start to go through dramatic changes. The fog visits more often, the fields turn gold. Yet the trees don’t yet give in staying as green as ever. Some evenings are still relatively warm, the days are still long. It’s still kind of a summer in case it isn’t raining.

The Old town, Tallinn. The rain isn’t bringing escape from the heat anymore. Instead, it makes you think about cardigans, gloves and curling up indoors, in front of fireplaces. The universally shared feeling that this year, summer almost didn’t get started before it was already over.

Rotermann, Tallinn. Soon enough, outdoor restaurants fall into desolation. Restless people proclaim to move to the Mediterranean – or Bali – and leave this upcoming hell for good. How could you survive seven months without sipping your morning coffee outside, on the balcony? No more shorts? Come on.

Supilinn, Tartu. But not all is lost. The autumn is not so much about the endings as it is about the new beginnings. The autumn is the time to rouse from the midsummer laze, move back to towns, back to work. Schools claim our children – the traditional start of school on 1 September is like an unofficial national holiday. Everything is new.

Lake Meelva, Põlvamaa. And on the weekends you can head back to the countryside. There are all those new activities waiting for the adventurous. The forest berries and mushrooms you used to pick with your grandmother. Remember those? For years you didn’t care. Now, a bit older, you gather your friends and go wandering in the autumn forest anew. In a few years, you’ll be bringing your kids along.

Meelva, Räpina. And all that food that gets ripe in the end of the summer and the beginning of fall. The abundance of fresh ingredients demands our attention. As the weather grows colder, we gradually rediscover ovens and long-baked foods.

Kirna, Alam-Pedja. Slowly, more colours seep into the landscapes. One by one, the different botanical species decide, enough is enough, and let go. From green to red and brown – under the blue array of clouds – the whole palette is out there.

Toome, Tartu. Then the leaves start to turn in tides – the golden apex of the autumn is upon us. A dreadful time for all the diligent park supervisors who try to mitigate everyone’s awe with their gasoline-powered leaf blowers. That’s the actual beginning of the autumn –  the first loud scream of the first blower when first yellow leaf falls from in the park.

Karlova, Tartu. I wandered into this courtyard and complimented the locals for the beauty of it. Their tired response: “Yeah, right, it will be November in no time” – alluding that this all is just deceptive pre-rot. Yes – all those leaves are beautiful only until it’s not your responsibility to clean this mess up after the show.

Kassitoome, Tartu. It’s not a very long show. Not every year the fall of the leaves is accompanied by the sunny weather. But then they get in sync and it will be really powerful, like a bunch of dragons lying in their piles of gold.

Karlova, Tartu. Everyone jumps on this short golden period with their cameras – it really is beautiful. There’s more you can do with the autumn colours than just shoot the golden dragon piles. A touch of yellow is enough to give quite a different look to your ordinary scenes too.

Lake Meelva, Põlvamaa. The winter draws closer and the nature falls silent. No need to join the nature and start hibernating, though. Instead, it’s the best time to wander in the woods and marshes – the mosquitoes are gone, it’s quiet and inviting outdoors.

Lake Meelva, Põlvamaa. You can have it all – the entire lake. The whole forest. All the streets in a village. No one is usually there – except you. And it’s more beautiful than ever. If only there were more light, more hours in a day. By the end of November, it’s starting to get dark already after three o’clock in the afternoon.

Vaksali, Tartu. When the leaves are gone and the snow hasn’t arrived yet, the cityscapes go through an intermission that is hard to swallow for many of us. But, somehow, some parts of the town actually become more picturesque during this time. The old wooden districts, where houses aren’t disconnected from the street by large gardens, turn on their most painting-like faces.

Juuru, Raplamaa. And there it is. The first snow sometimes covers the gardens already in October, but most years, the truly frosty winter doesn’t arrive before January. It’s a long and dark November and the many following months. Still – with the occasional colder weather every now and then there’s a higher chance of seeing the sun.

Mardu, Soomaa. The late autumn is a fine time. If you feel the cities turning too gloomy, get out every now and then. Take your friends and discover the woods – it’s the opposite of gloom there.

* This is the fifth part of the Estonian urban and landscape photo series, originally published on 5 December 2017. The first one, Eesti Blues, was published on 17 January, the second one, Eesti noir, on 6 February, the third one, Eesti mist, on 25 April, and the fourth one, Eesti home, on 6 June. 

Cover: Narva-Jõesuu. Without people, the modern urban architecture and cityscapes are sometimes hard to distinguish from prison complexes. Still – as in this case there are no barbed wires and the sea on the backdrop so aptly symbolises freedom, this time it must be a beautiful, brutal city park. Add just the right kind of turning of the weather and you get a magnificient photographer trap.

Thousands of Estonians of the worldwide diaspora are flocking towards their tiny home between the Baltic Sea and Lake Peipus every summer. More locally, those living in the cities and towns move to villages and summer houses – almost like a great seasonal migration between the summer and winter pastures.

Estonia lies so far north that during the brief summer we don’t see much darkness. As if it’s just one very long day filled with near-constant light – and flies past in an instant.

Here are some pictures from the places that feel like home to me.

Supilinn, Tartu. When temperatures start to rise, clothes fall off and windows fly open. There’s really no time to waste  –  each warm day is counted and skis are already lurking behind the door. Soon it would be too hot, but occasional rain and thunder bring temperatures back down to bearable levels.

Supilinn, Tartu. As grown-ups retreat indoors and sit on window sills during the powerful summer rains, kids remain outside  –  this is their kingdom now.

Supilinn, Tartu. Singing with joy in his natural habitat  –  water. Another situation that makes one sing at home besides bathing and showering is cooking   –   if you take it slowly enough.

Supilinn, Tartu. Everyone wants to have their own home. Built by yourself, with your own hands. It can be small  –  it can be really tiny   –   but it’s yours and yours only. Home is where your bed is.

Annelinn, Tartu. I grew up in Soviet modernist projects like this one. Not quite as dense and a bit more green, but the overall feeling was similar. You can’t do much here outdoors   –   therefore many spend as much time in their small summer houses (dachas) in the countryside. Both the houses and the pavement radiate heat   –   so it gets pretty hot here. And it‘s actually oddly enjoyable.

Tähtvere, Tartu. Back in the day, streets here were filled with kids. Now families are smaller and children have calendars full of expensive hobbies, organised by their parents. They don’t have as much time to slack off as we did a few decades ago. Even birthday parties aren’t usually held at homes but at some rented event location. Therefore seeing a swarm of neighbourhood kids like this at someone’s home is a pretty special occasion.

Annelinn, Tartu. Old family photo albums mostly have pictures of birthdays, weddings and funerals. People are stiff, looking into the camera. Everyday domestic life is a rare find. My photo stack is pretty much the opposite. So here’s one family photo as it’s supposed to be.

Supilinn, Tartu. Around the world, home means Sunday morning with pancakes and coffee. Local speciality is to have the cakes thick and small   –   made with sour milk or quark.

Supilinn, Tartu. Well, this photo is an over the top cliche of the idealised summer day in Tartu. Just counting the characteristic elements makes you wonder whether it’s staged or a real thing. The only error is the pair of mass-produced beer bottles. Surely it would be a commercial if those were local craft beer flavours instead.

Supilinn, Tartu. Supilinn has its fair share of cats looking out of the worn-out window frames. This one guards a travelling art exhibition set up in someone’s nice little home   –   and becomes itself inspiration for subsequent pieces of art.

Kalamaja, Tallinn. When moving to a new place, one needs to make it feel like home. Peeling off a layer of shabby decoration in order to replace it with one of your liking reveals another and below it another layer of previous similar attempts. So far for me every little peel-off has resulted in a total teardown. And right before the start of reconstruction it tends to look most picturesque.

Meelva near Räpina. In southern Estonia, smoke saunas were as important parts of the household as showers and baths are now. Now old ones are being restored and some new ones get built.

It’s a much tougher task to heat one compared with modern saunas with chimneys   –   first you burn wood for hours and then you ventilate it for half that time. There is no way to increase the temperature after venting. But then again, this slow and diligent process is part of the appeal.

Raekoja plats (Town Hall Square), Tartu. We spend a big part of our time at work that it should feel like home. Better yet   –   build a kitchen and invite friends over if you can.

Kulgu, Narva. Some older Soviet-flavoured couples keep peace in their marriages so that the lady is in charge at the apartment whereas the husband keeps tinkering in the garage  –  whenever the weather is fine enough. The garages are clustered into blocks away from the house. Slowly each garage becomes a kind of a summer house and the cluster around it starts to look like a village   –   inhabited exclusively by men.

Meelva near Räpina. Most of the Estonian villages are sparsely populated. Instead of cramming houses into one place and tilling the fields around it, each house was surrounded by its own fields and woods when possible. You often don’t see any other house than your own.

Supilinn, Tartu. For those who don’t migrate away in August, a peaceful time begins in the autumn. There’s no rush, no need to fill up your calendar with friends, events and almost obligatory enjoyment. Now you don’t have to worry about the unforgiving pace of time anymore. You can just work, learn or hibernate. Finally you are free again.

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This is the fourth part of the Estonian urban and landscape photo series. The first one, Eesti Blues, was published on 17 January, the second one, Eesti noir, on 6 February, and the third one, Eesti mist, on 25 April.

Cover: Supilinn, Tartu. The Japanese moment of Estonia  – instead of the cherries blossoming  – the apple trees signal us the beginning of the summer. We move outdoors, to cook and to eat, to read and to sleep. This is a rooftop terrace on top of a wood shed – summer literally throning above winter.

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The feeling that the day is ours, whereas the darkness of the night belongs to someone else. We are strangers in those realms. Yet the lack of light is almost constant in the late autumn and early winter for those confined to the office space during the short hours of daylight.

Here’s a set of pictures of memorable buildings and landscapes that I’ve encountered in the Estonian darkness over all four seasons.

Rotermann, Tallinn. What once was the coolest cinema in town has slowly become a city planning error. The deserted factory zone, once hidden behind its empty backside, has now been renovated into one of the crown jewels of Tallinn, a city inside the city. The cinema now looks out of place, having not anticipated the phoenix rising behind its back. The strange ramps for both humans and cars beside it cut Rotermann away from the rest of the city.

Aparaat, Tartu. The now demolished courtyard houses of a factory looked more like half-conscious machines  –  as if a scene from a Simon Stålenhag painting. The former factory around the yard now houses restaurants, studios and offices of the creative class – just as you’d expect.

Pelgulinn, Tallinn. The wooden residential districts of Põhja-Tallinn are some of my favourite parts of the town. Human-relatable size of the streets and houses, a photo waiting to be taken on every corner, in front of every house. It takes some time walking around to start noticing the noteworthy compositions in the setting that looks banal and ordinary on the surface.

A courtyard beside the Town Hall Square of Tartu. This beautiful small square lies between my Tartu office and a nice little restaurant. A tree in the courtyard turns the space into a thing in itself, rather than a piece of land forgotten behind the walls of the surrounding houses. The growing trend of decorating the trees with lights and flags adds a finishing touch to it.

Balti jaam, Tallinn. The fog is somehow especially fitting for a train station. Probably the steam engines form cheesy films, where someone is leaving into the dark by train. In a paradoxical way the feeling of darkness gets amplified by the spotlights and the feeling of depth gets amplified by the fog that cuts short the visible distance.

Balti jaam, Tallinn. There are no real passenger lounges anymore at the main train station of Tallinn. Nor do the platforms with beautiful futuristic streetlights offer much protection from the rain and wind in case your train is late.

Tähtvere, Tartu. An ice skating rink in the winter and a song festival ground in the summer, this Soviet-era colosseum stays empty on most days. Like a landing space ship, its roof  – built both to enhance the acoustics and protect from the rain  –  hovers above the place.

Rotermann, Tallinn. Probably the coolest office I’ve had  –  from the outside at least. The red-eyed terminators are switched on in the dark after everyone has left. The towers sit atop of an old stone building, making the whole scene one degree more bizarre, as if they’re just resting for a while.

Lohkva, Tartu. The amount of light emitted from this industrial scale cucumber farm on the edge of the town makes Tartu visible over long distances during the night time. Coupled with the huge chimneys of a heating and electricity plant beside the farm, it feels like a military-run research facility from the X-Files.

Telliskivi, Tallinn. The dystopian landscapes of the half-deserted industrial zones in Tallinn are well suited for shooting sci-fi or post-apocalyptic movies. As the real estate prices rise and residential and soft commercial areas keep encroaching closer, the industry moves away and leaves us without some strange yet undoubtedly enjoyable spaces.

Uus Maailm, Tallinn. You don’t get to witness demolition of huge buildings in city centres too often. A significant piece of Soviet-era architecture, belonging to the ministry of finance, was “reconstructed” to house a lot more government officials.

Vaksali, Tartu. A relic of the czarist era, the majestic railroad station of Tartu stayed in a bad shape for many years before opening up once again to the passengers just a few years ago. Almost all railroad stations in Estonia  – most of them wonderful pieces of architecture –  have either stayed empty or changed their function to something unrelated to travel. The once busy stations of Tallinn are now poorly planned retail spaces, leaving the Tartu station the crown jewel of the revitalising rail transport.

Tartu Town Hall Square. The Mediterranean-looking bank building from the 19th century that no one misses to notice at the central square of Tartu. Its Neo-Renaissance style must have felt kitschy to the contemporary progressive minds. But as it often goes  –  time washes schmuckiness away and now everyone sees it as a valuable piece of beautiful architecture.

Tallinn Old Town. The urban spaces with small enough buildings and narrow enough streets often feel cosier after the night has fallen. The street lights carve warm, inviting pockets into the darkness. The fresh snow brings a lot of extra light so the remaining shadows look more friendly.

Käsmu Captain’s Village. A former lighthouse facing the sea in the north and glowing from the faint midnight light of the midsummer. This is the smallest house I’ve spent a night in –  yet it’s big enough for Aarne, the keeper of the Maritime Museum behind it, to sometimes live and work in during the warmer months of the year.

Supilinn, Tartu. The view from my kitchen on a still winter night. Standing on a slope of a hill with a wide view over the gardens, sheds and neighbouring streets, my windows are an ever changing canvas. The fog, snow and rain clouds can each drastically alter the mood of this picture.

Mardu, Soomaa. We are drawn to the light in the night time  –  just like the insects. During the Midsummer Day festivities, bonfires are lit all around Estonia. Sometimes other, stranger art performances with the light and smoke from the burning wood take place. Like this one, during the Concert of the Beginning of Mosquito Buzz. Yes, it’s a thing.

Meelva near Räpina. Humans always bring light with them  –  you can therefore never experience total darkness in the inhabited places  –  except maybe during some odd blackout. Yet there are enough remote corners of Estonia to get away and listen to the total silence of the moonlit nights.

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This is the second part of the Estonian urban & landscape photo series. The first one, Eesti Blues, was published on 17 January.

Cover: Vaksali, Tartu. Some foggy mornings bring so little color to the surroundings that it’s later hard to distinguish by the photo whether it’s the moon or the sun. Fog is like a little night  –  it too cuts the vision short, undersaturates the colors and makes you feel like a stranger.

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