The embassy staff went on a teambuilding trip on the 14th of September. Instead of the traditional go-to-a-cabin-and-drink-and-eat-for-a-weekend it was decided that we should go on a one day trekking excursion to the remote island of Osmussaar, which lies one and a half hours drive and 45 minutes sailing from Tallinn.
The only way to get from the mainland to Osmussaar is to charter a boat. The embassy had chartered a small fishing boat, which seemed barely able to traverse the waves we encountered en route. The skipper was not impressed by the size of the waves and hardly found them worth mentioning, even though people were being thrown back and forth in the little cabin. In any case I puked my guts out on the way back and forth.
After surviving the first leg of the journey and kissing ground after the landfall, we were faced with the big question of where to go. For such a small island of six square kilometres and two inhabitants Osmussaar had surprisingly many roads and signposts, pointing in every direction. After a bit of parley we toddled along one of the gravel roads between juniper shrubberies, succulent weeds and heather. Here and there bogs and small lakes reflected the crystal blue September-sky. The landscape had a harsh quality to it which the advancing autumn did nothing to soften. We were not alone, that was clear. Everywhere there were small piles of poo of a size which I was sure no rabbit could produce. And yes, soon we started to encounter sheep which blocked the trail in front of us until they chickened out and bounced away, bleating stupidly. Some of the rams had some really nasty horns.
The only way to get from the mainland to Osmussaar is to charter a boat. The embassy had chartered a small fishing boat, which seemed barely able to traverse the waves we encountered en route. The skipper was not impressed by the size of the waves and hardly found them worth mentioning, even though people were being thrown back and forth in the little cabin. In any case I puked my guts out on the way back and forth.
After surviving the first leg of the journey and kissing ground after the landfall, we were faced with the big question of where to go. For such a small island of six square kilometres and two inhabitants Osmussaar had surprisingly many roads and signposts, pointing in every direction. After a bit of parley we toddled along one of the gravel roads between juniper shrubberies, succulent weeds and heather. Here and there bogs and small lakes reflected the crystal blue September-sky. The landscape had a harsh quality to it which the advancing autumn did nothing to soften. We were not alone, that was clear. Everywhere there were small piles of poo of a size which I was sure no rabbit could produce. And yes, soon we started to encounter sheep which blocked the trail in front of us until they chickened out and bounced away, bleating stupidly. Some of the rams had some really nasty horns.
Soon we encountered a small ruined church, hidden among the ground hugging trees, which had served the 140 Swedish-Estonians living on Osmussaar before they fled during the Second World War. The church had been hit by bombs during the war. The tower was now the only part left which kept the surrounding graves company.
According to one legend Odin, the chief god of the Vikings, is buried here, hence its Swedish name Odensholm. But the only thing which seems to be buried here besides Swedish farmers are rusty Soviet war machines and bunkers en masse. Beneath the heather and shrubbery, brown and bend metal was betraying the calmness and pristineness of the island. Ventilationshafts and half flooded entrances led down into the dark concrete burrows of long gone Soviet soldiers.
After an hours worth of trekking we came to the home of the sole inhabitant of Osmussaar. An old man and woman greeted us in front of their tiny house. The lived of the sheep and by seeing after the land for the state. Their home was surrounded my small half-buried building which included their sauna, cold cellar and outdoor toilet. They also had
a satellite dish which I suspect might be their only entertainment during wintertime. In front of the house lay an old torpedo. Anybody who has seen “Dr. Strangelove” will understand this picture.The old man took us to a nearby platform of a never completed
soviet long-range canon. Operational, it was supposed to be able to reach targets 36 kilometres away. The Russians had used the scorched earth tactics and blown the canon up when they deserted Osmussaar in the face of the advancing German army. Now all that remained was half broken concrete and a vast hole filled with intricate but corroded metal constructs.In the end we reached the lighthouse at the opposite tip of the island from where we had landed. The coast was much more dramatic here than on the other side, rising straight from the sea. Here we stopped and ate before we turned home. All in all a very enjoyable day, except for the puking.
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