Too Cross to Handle

Without a doubt, we began our week in Lithuania at one of Europe’s eeriest and most extraordinary ‘attractions’ though reaching it required hours of countryside lanes and bumpy farm tracks as we crossed what must be the nation’s least trafficked border with her neighbour, Latvia. As the last remnants of daylight faded on day one, we continued searching for our rest stop in almost complete inky blackness. With one flickering headlight that appeared to be losing the will to live, my sense of imminent doom only increased until a remote farmhouse caught my eyes. We relievedly pulled in, dodging a motley collection of farmyard animals who clearly weren’t expecting our presence, and met our friendly host for the evening. Our anxiety momentarily melted until we understood the power of what lurked just beyond the hill—a shadowy and mysterious presence whose force we were about to experience firsthand.

The Hill of Crosses, a haunting fusion of pilgrimage site and tourist attraction, stands as one of Lithuania’s most iconic draws. Situated in a windswept field roughly twelve kilometres from the nearest city, Šiauliai, its origins date back to 1831, when the first crosses were placed following the November Uprising. Over the years, it has evolved into a surreal landscape of devotion, adorned not only with crosses and crucifixes but also statues of the Virgin Mary, intricate carvings of Lithuanian patriots, and countless tiny effigies and rosaries, each left by Catholic pilgrims. Attempts by leaders and regimes to remove the relics—whether for political control or religious suppression—were met with quiet defiance, as new crosses would mysteriously reappear overnight. The exact number of items on the hill remains unknown, but the last official count in 2006 tallied over 100,000—a figure that has undoubtedly multiplied, leaving the Hill of Crosses a mesmerising testament to faith, resilience, and the enduring power of human expression.

Eager to absorb the full spiritual weight of the site, we arrived at dawn, the first and only visitors on the scene. The thick fog that often shrouds the hill—lending it an almost cinematic eeriness—was thankfully absent, replaced by crisp blue skies. Yet even under the cheerful sunlight, the sprawling labyrinth of crosses exuded an undeniable unease. Lowri’s nerves reached a crescendo when she heard the unmistakable crunch of footsteps echoing around a particularly secluded corner of the site. Knowing we were the only humans this side of the gift shop, her panic bloomed into full flight mode—until she finally spotted our supposed intruder: the decidedly menacing Šiauliai sheep. With their unflinching stares and unsettling air of hilltop guardianship, the sheep seemed to lay claim to the sacred site as their own. Deciding not to challenge their dominion, we swiftly retreated, leaving the hill to its woolly sentinels and making a hasty escape to the comforting chaos of the city, where, mercifully, creepy ewes dare not roam.

To reach Kaunas, our next destination, we traversed vast stretches of rural farmland and endless forests that seemed to blanket much of Lithuania, a landscape not entirely unlike our Welsh homeland but on a grander, more expansive scale. It was only upon joining the A1 motorway—the country’s vital artery linking Klaipėda on the Baltic Sea to the capital, Vilnius, via Kaunas—that we caught a glimpse of modern Lithuania, with its smooth highways, industrious towns, and occasional bursts of urban sprawl breaking through the greenery. After hours of driving, we finally parked up outside the gates of what should have been our campsite, only to find it frustratingly closed. Undeterred, we left Vishnu in situ and hopped on a bus into the city to explore.

Kaunas, the fourth largest metropolitan area in the Baltic States after the three capitals, is a vibrant hub of Lithuanian economic, academic, and cultural life. Its Old Town, far more charming and atmospheric than the starkly utilitarian New Town rebuilt after World War II, sits at the picturesque confluence of the Nemunas and Neris rivers. Recognizing the strategic significance of this location, early rulers constructed a sprawling castle and a series of forts in the 14th century to defend it. Though only a third of the original castle remains, its weathered stones stand as a poignant symbol of Lithuanian resilience against centuries of invasions and domination. Like its Baltic neighbours, Lithuania’s fertile lands and unenviable position at the crossroads of empires made it a prime target for conquest, with a turbulent history of subjugation that only truly ended with the hard-won independence of 1991.

Trakai Island Castle, further along the A1 and just a stone’s throw from the capital, offered yet another glimpse into Lithuania’s tumultuous past. Originally a formidable stronghold, the castle fell into ruin over centuries of conflict, but, defying Soviet disapproval, the Lithuanians painstakingly rebuilt much of the structure during the 1950s and 60s. Today, it’s a magnet for city dwellers seeking a serene escape, its red brick towers reflected in the still waters of Lake Galvė. Serene though it may have been, our visit was anything but cosy—biblical cold seeped into every corner, even inside Vishnu, with our temperamental diesel heater no match for the chill of a Lithuanian winter. The promise of a weekend in the capital, however, with its hot showers, soft carpets, and dirt-cheap minibar, offered hope and comfort as we prepared to celebrate Lowri’s birthday in well-earned warmth. Next stop: Vilnius.

J