Dear T,
Salutations from the Baltic Sea. Let me tell you of our arrival.
We took the white carriage to Berlin, as per your recommendation, and saw old sights anew, as you foretold. I must confess that had you told me the how and why of it, I might have been deterred and sought another means north. Thankfully, the capital’s near to our home and only a little over an hour was spent sitting on the floor.
To your second suggestion — the red carriage to Rostock — I can only say much the same, though here we’d not the floor but the stairs between decks for a seat. I believe our luggage had the more comfortable ride, situated in a rack by the window. (Three hours, sir, is enough to alter even the stoutest man’s mien, and I don’t claim to stand — or sit — amongst such company.)
We took the tram to Doberaner, dined, drank coffee. Though most of the provisions were good, I became acutely (painfully) aware of the prevalence of hard surfaces being offered as seats. Must one bring one’s own cushion to lunch?
The last carriage to the coast was something of a surprise. Its frequency has been changed from 10 to 30 minutes (did you know?) and when we reached the platform, we were told over the tannoy that the next train had been cancelled due to a medical emergency. Forty-five minutes we stood there till a driver arrived with a vehicle so packed that passengers’ faces were pressed against the glass. We endeavoured to join them.
“At least we’re not sitting on the floor,” my good companion joked.
No, indeed.
We reached the accommodation in the evening and installed ourselves. Numerous guard spiders had webbed the exterior, and we felt secure we would not be disturbed that night, or any other.
As the sun set and gilded their work, we watched, fascinated. Are they excited by the low rays? Do they know night approaches? Do they recognise kin? I once saw a daddy longlegs and a stubbier, broader spider battle it out in a disused privy. Neither quarter nor mercy was given, yet these spiders cohabit peacefully and even make webs that intersect.
A question for one more knowledgeable than I. (No doubt you’d have an answer of your own, somewhere well to the side of truth.)
The night was calm and we were woken by crows, which surprised us both. (Being by the sea, we’d expected gulls.)
Having neither water closet nor running water, we took a stroll to the communal facilities to both pass and collect. It was an enlightening experience. Were I a man of medicine, I might have suspected my fellow cubicle-dwellers of having succumbed to some foul malady. Seldom have I heard such huffs and grunts outside of tug-of-war matches on the village green. (I mention this only because I know it interests you.)
We hired bicycles and headed west, socks pulled high against the ticks. My companion fell prey to an inopportune rise of kerb and fell. She now has small stones embedded in her palms. Heart- and hand-rending. The rest of the journey was made without event.
We dined at the hotel in the village of Nienhagen, the one whose grounds overlook the sea. Though the building, staff, and menu look pulled from a bygone era, they provided a hearty dish of eggs, potatoes, and vegetables. They even had coffee, or what might have passed for it decades ago.
We continued on to the Gespensterwald. I know what you told me of the creatures — pixies, sprites, and the like — that dwell there, but we, not having your keen sight, saw nothing of the sort. Many birds and a few woodland creatures of mundane nature, but nothing “special”. (Your word. My companion and I found all the flora and fauna we apprehended there special. No, in answer to a question I hear you ask as I write this, we did not return to the woods at night.)
I grant you this concession: the trees there do have some aspect of the eldritch about them. Their bark is smooth, their reach long, like the crooked masts of a ghost fleet long sunk beneath the soil. Returning near twilight, we noticed some great trunks off the path that had irregular forms that looked like limbs and torsos. One even had a face with a gaping mouth.
Artefacts of biology, T, and tricks of the light. Not the living prisons of unwary travellers.
Did you know that the cliff path was cleft? We cycled past a gash many metres deep and wide, as if struck by a mighty axe. I’ll indulge your love of whim with this: the giant wielding it near split the coastal path, for a scant metre remains in front of the corn field.
It was standing here, making my observations, that I spied a most peculiar conveyance. A four-wheeled wagon, driven by pedals and gears. A family of four rode in it, and almost had a hasty descent, the father driving a little too close to the void.
On reflection, it was good that I, and not you, was standing there, for I believe you would have beckoned him over and led them all to their doom. “His choice,” you’d no doubt have said. You know my thoughts on this.
At dusk, we took the ferry across the Warnow river, arriving at the terminal minutes before her departure. We supped in our new residence beneath the stars and meteors, the Perseids being now upon us.
The night was calm, the waters still. We slept deeply.
I’ll write to you again soon; this letter grows long.
I hope these words find you well.
Yours sincerely,
C
