Two barns sit on the edge of the coast forest. I couldn’t tell if they were aban­doned or still in use. Their appear­ance gave away noth­ing, as even the inhab­it­ed build­ings of the coast would often have a bit of a ram­shackle and weath­ered look. Though I found this to be part of their charm. The­se pic­tures were tak­en walk­ing with a friend from Irē to Vaid. The day was over­cast with inter­mit­tent sun­light, but even dur­ing a rel­a­tive­ly stormy and cold sum­mer, the forests and fields of the coast felt beau­ti­ful and alive with activ­i­ty.

The coast has very lit­tle indus­try, but walk­ing through Pitrõg, we found this fish can­nery. We walked up to the main gate and knocked on the front entrance where we were met by a wom­an who answered us in dialect, the dialect of Lat­vian spo­ken in this part of the coun­try that formed under the influ­ence of Livo­ni­an. Her accent was so heavy, that even as a native speak­er I could bare­ly under­stand her. For a moment it felt that may­be all the Livo­ni­ans were not gone after all.

The main road through Pitrõg lined by typ­i­cal coast homes weath­ered by storms and salt air.

Vil­lage homes with the Bap­tist church in the back­ground.

Look­ing north along the coast towards Sǟnag, the next town along the way.

Look­ing north towards Sǟnag, the ele­ments of the Livo­ni­an Coast, forest, sea, sand, and sky, con­verge in the dis­tance.