There is a place on the Curonian Spit where fish fall out of the sky. No, really, my guide assured me — but by then, I would not have been surprised to find mackerel raining down on me. On the spit, one feels, anything is possible.
This fishy phenomenon, however, has less to do with the many local myths of witches and demons than the greedy, butter-beaked cormorants. So I waited, neck craned to the skies. Today, alas, the birds did not want to drop any of their catch.
The Curonian Spit, named after one of the early Baltic tribes that inhabited the region, is a curious place, a 60-mile-long finger of sand that stretches upwards from Russian Kaliningrad to the Lithuanian mainland, separating the waters of the Baltic Sea from the Curonian lagoon.
Across borders
The northern 32 miles of this peninsula belongs to Lithuania and can be accessed by ferry from the port of Klaipeda. Make a short hop across the strait and reach a national park and Unesco World Heritage Site.
I arrived about 10pm and drove southwards through a darkening forest. The spit averages over a kilometre wide, with a main road running between dunes to the Russian border.
After half an hour, we reached Nida, the southernmost settlement in Lithuanian: A tiny town of 1,500, which swells with visitors every summer and resonates to the sounds of Lithuanian, German and Russian.
The arrival of the Teutonic Knights in the 13th century paved the way for Prussian rule over the next 700 years, to be succeeded by the USSR after the Second World War.
Stay at the Nida Hotel or rent a guesthouse converted from fishermen's wooden cottages. Every house has a little restaurant in its garden, in which holidaymakers linger over beverages, while bicycles — the favoured form of transport — lean in wait.
This is far from a trendy resort. A haven of peace, the Curonian Spit has changed little since the 19th century, when a colony of German artists settled in Nida. Thomas Mann built a house, which is the focus of a music and art festival every July.
It is a place for nature lovers and, being on the migratory path of 20 million birds, a twitcher's delight.
It was the Sahara-style sand dunes that piqued my curiosity. Soft and creamy, they rise in places to almost 230 feet. With deforestation for ship-building between the 16th and the 18th centuries, the unfettered dunes began to drift with the winds, allegedly burying 17 villages.
The forests, which cover 70 per cent of the land, are the result of replanting in the 19th century. Signs explaining local flora and fauna lead through the forests while nature reserves protect the ecology.
The cycle route along the lagoon, past reed banks and swans guarding fluffy cygnets, is one of the most pleasant rides.
Lining the shore, colourful weathercocks, intricately carved with symbolic ensigns, swing on tall poles. Typical of this region, they were used to identify boats and control fishing quotas. Past the fishing harbour, we soon found ourselves in the forest, fragrant with wild strawberries. Elk and wild boar roam here.
Luxuries of a small town
Passing Vecekrugo dune, the highest forested hill on the spit, we reached the small fishing village of Preila. "This is where they make the best smoked fish on the spit," Neringa, my guide, told me. At a small market, nameless fish from sea and lagoon hung from hooks.
The four main settlements of Juodkrante, Pervalka, Preila and Nida, collectively known as the City of Neringa, are lagoon-side.
The Baltic shore, reached over the hump of dunes, is a long stretch of sand and Blue Flag beaches of shallow water.
Well tended, it is ideal for families, the greatest hazard being tripping over a half-buried bottle of refreshment left to cool in the sea. You can even hunt for tiny pieces of amber.
The spit is famous for this "Baltic gold" and Nida is full of shops selling amber jewellery.
Traditional ways
Algirdas Marcius, an amber master, explained the medicinal properties of this fossilised resin — from curing earache to regulating blood pressure. I watched him fashion a necklace of white amber, "a colour formerly reserved for the tsars".
The evening Sun smiled as Captain Aurelio hoisted the sails of his flat-bottomed, oak fishing boat — a copy of the traditional kurenai of the region, which disappeared in the Fifties.
We sailed along Parnidis Dune and Gliders' Dune beyond a nature reserve stretching into Russia. Grey herons and seagulls wheeled overhead.
"The spit is so unique that everyone must see it," wrote philosopher Wilhelm von Humboldt on his visit in 1809. Two hundred years on, his words still hold true.
