Dacha Tales: Life in the Russian Hinterland

By Larisa Zalesova

Dacha Tales: Life in the Russian Hinterland is the author’s first book in the travel genre. Readers of Zalesova’s novels often asked whether she drew on her own and her family’s experience to write them. The answer was ‘yes and no.’ In Dacha Tales, she says directly that the stories retold are autobiographical, recounting her adventures recreating as a pensioner the joyful life in the countryside that she enjoyed in her childhood and adolescence. The personalities presented are real flesh and blood people: neighbors, friends, acquaintances who embody the folk wisdom and the life experience of contemporary Russia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665510967

Larisa Zalesova

LARISA ZALESOVA – DOCTOROW is a journalist and critic who is widely published in print and internet media in Russia and Western Europe, where her articles number in the hundreds. Zalesova lives in both St Petersburg, Russia and Brussels, Belgium. She is a member of the Union of Journalists of Russia and the Union of Music Critics of Belgium. Zalesova has published two novels. Live as Before, which appeared six years ago, was the first Russian novel dedicated to a heroine coping with breast cancer. The second novel, The Mosaic of My Life, released in May 2020, was written in the classical tradition of Tolstoy. It covers a broad swathe of 20th century Russian history from tsarist times up to the 1950s. The story is told from the standpoint of one family in the words of the daughter of a well-known opera diva. Since even the elite could fall afoul of the regime and wind up in a KGB prison facing possible summary execution, the story takes the reader across society from top to bottom.

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© 2021 Larisa Zalesova. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher

make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book

and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/14/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1097-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1095-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1096-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020925139

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

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Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1     The Beginning Of Our Search

Chapter 2     The Chicken Farm

Chapter 3     The First Stroll Around The Village

Chapter 4     The Purchase Of The Property

Chapter 5     The Bank Vault

Chapter 6     Choosing A Construction Firm

Chapter 7     The Start Of Construction

Chapter 8     Our First Summer

Chapter 9     The Birthday Party

Chapter 10   The Opinions Of Well-Wishers

Chapter 11   My Husband Learns To Cut Hay

Chapter 12   Meeting The Neighbors

Chapter 13   The Muscular Beast

Chapter 14   The Farmers’ Market

Chapter 15   The Rusty Nail

Chapter 16   Joining The Milk Line

Chapter 17   A Way Of Life

Chapter 18   The Nabokov Factor

Chapter 19   Trip To Siversk

Chapter 20   The Spaso-Preobrazhensky Church

Chapter 21   Pictures At An Exhibition

Chapter 22   Our Beach Chair

Chapter 23   The Paraskeva Pyatnitsa Icon

Chapter 24   False Chanterelles

Chapter 25   Community Clean-Up

Chapter 26   Peter Wittgenstein

Chapter 27   Firewood

Chapter 28   Peace Of Mind Exists Only In Dreams

Chapter 29   Lampovo And Cross Country Skiing

Conclusion

Foreword

Ten years ago, when my husband Gilbert and I purchased a 1,500 square meter plot of land in a village south of St. Petersburg, our friends were amazed. Why have you waited so long? And why do you need to build a dacha now? They meant, remembering our mature age, whether it was worth starting all this fuss when there is so little time left to enjoy it. Such remarks occurred every time we brought our friends over to get acquainted with the village of Orlino.

They did not wish us ill. It just did not come into their heads that someone of retirement age could take on such a troublesome project. After all, many friends, like most residents of large Russian cities, had dachas as part of their life since childhood, either inherited from their parents or from rural relatives. In the village of Orlino, many residents continued to live in the same houses that their parents built. Some of them had moved their year-round residences to Gatchina or St. Petersburg, but they always spent the summer season in the countryside, tending vegetable gardens and orchards, growing potatoes and other vegetables, storing supplies for the winter for the benefit of family members.

Ten years have passed, and the dacha has become an integral part of our life. These years were marked by funny events, by pleasant surprises associated with our dacha. Now I want to share them with the reader.

Another question that I sometimes have to answer concerns the literary genre of this story. Having almost finished Dacha Tales, I can say that the book belongs to the travel genre.

Only we did not have to travel far: these journeys were made on the territory of the Leningrad region, all within the scope of a day trip from our St Petersburg apartment.

At the start of this book, when talking about our search for a place to buy a property, I describe the northern areas of the Leningrad region, located along the coast of the Gulf of Finland and bordering Finland. But my main interest and the major part of this book is concentrated on the Gatchina district of the Leningrad region, in which the village of Orlino is located.

I talk about this land, its history, climate, lakes and forests, but most of all I was attracted by the inhabitants themselves. I describe my meetings with them and set out their attitudes to the changing situation in the country.

In organizing my book, I did not prioritize the exact chronology of events. It was not in my plans to lead the reader year after year along the path of our life in Orlino. It was more important for me to combine events thematically and present rural life as I saw it.

Introduction

Summer cottages were an integral part of my childhood and of my youth. I don’t know where it came from, but there was always a need to have two places to live in. You get bored with one place, move to another, and then come back again. Pushkin called this the Craving for a Change of Places.

I did not notice this in America when I lived in New York. Americans decide everything more simply. If you enjoy getting out of town for the weekend, why not move out of town altogether and live permanently among trees and green grass instead of skyscrapers and dirty streets? This is how the movement of the American middle class to the suburbs was born.

But the desire to have two residences, especially among people of modest income, did not arise the States. People lived either here or there. For Russians, this passion dominates all strata of society, regardless of economic situation. The distinction is only that the more wealthy a person is, the more luxurious his second residence or cottage will be.

In my childhood, we had an apartment in the city and a dacha 120 kilometers south of St. Petersburg near Luga. My grandmother’s relatives lived there, and we joined them.

Therefore, as a child, in the summer months, I often visited the Luga district of the Leningrad region. Nature in those places is typical for the East European Plain, with the same fields, coppices, hills, an abundance of lakes and rivers. Forests and fields stretch for hundreds of kilometers. The same species of trees grow in the forests, and in the fields the inhabitants cultivate the same crops.

Near Luga there was summer happiness, but this dacha was too far away for a day visit or to spend a weekend. Therefore later, in the years of my adolescence, we took another dacha, in Zelenogorsk, a resort situated 60 kilometers to the north of the city on the Gulf of Finland, and with it came winter happiness.

Year after year, my parents rented part of the village house, consisting of three rooms, a stove, a porch, with a well in the yard. The house was surrounded by mature pine trees. But the main feature was its proximity to the Gulf of Finland. To be sure, the house was not on the front line, overlooking the beach. That is why squally winds spared us. And they did happen, although we were on the relatively protected coast of the Gulf, not on the open sea of the Baltic.

I fell in love with the Gulf of Finland, with its pine and spruce forests, sandy beaches. The coast was remarkable for an abundance of boulders left by glaciers that descended from the north and dragged these granite masses with them. The features of this landscape are typical for Russia’s northern neighbor Finland, and for Scandinavia in general. The climate here is more severe than to the south of St. Petersburg. Spring comes later. The snow stays on the ground longer than in the Gatchina district. Therefore orchards are less common. But here you can enjoy skiing in the forest and along the Gulf. The proximity to Finland and the smell of the sea give the impression that St. Petersburg and its northern littoral is really a window to Europe.

I remember snowy winters, hard frosts, dazzling March days, when everything was bathed in sunshine and pines shone with bright trunks. There was the scent of fir cones. Woodpeckers tapped at tree trunks and on the crests of slopes the snow melted and refroze to a hardened crust. Long cross country ski trails provided the main pastime, usually lasting for several hours. We would ski along the forest, climbed hills strenuously and then enjoyed the descents. Sometimes I had to stop in front of rivulets running out from under the drifts of melting snow and choose either to take off my skis and cross the stream in boots, or leave the skis on, and then stop, clean the ice built up on the skis and lubricate them with resin.

What glorious walks we took along the bay. What sunsets we watched, and how joyful it was to return home and sit down by the wood-burning stove, which I heated in the morning and which stayed warm for hours. It was getting so hot that we had to open the window.

And what icy water I got out of the well every morning. It was such fun to wash my face with it, enjoying the coldness that swept my body.

It is not surprising that my father carried his love for Zelenogorsk throughout his life. He also spent the last summer of his life there.

Summer happiness began from the moment we left the city by bus or train and did not stop for days. Once it lasted for the two whole months which I spent in a wooden house built on the shore of a small lake.

I cherish sad and wonderful memories that bring back those days and years. Apple trees, bushes, the joy of recognizing every flower and plant, such as a spring rhubarb sprout that looked like a young baobab. Not to mention the wonderful people, guests and relatives.

The time was spent walking in the forest, picking wild strawberries and blueberries on summer days, hazelnuts and raspberries closer to autumn, swimming in Lake Volodarskoye, to which one had to walk two kilometers through the forest. In the autumn months, we came to Luga to help relatives pick apples, of which the Antonovka variety was my favorite.

Everything began in the spring, when lilies of the valley blossomed on the hillock opposite the house. The entire hillock was strewn with white, fragrant flowers. But that was not enough: we tried to find a forest carnation, an exquisite whimsical flower that we came across quite rarely but which had an extraordinary aroma. The nightingales were singing. Orange sunset clouds hung over the small lake. Night was approaching, a favorite time for mosquitoes. We returned to the house.

Peeping into the window from the garden, I saw Galina Aleksandrovna sleeping in her bedroom when I once arrived late in the evening without keys to harvest strawberries for my birthday party in the city. Then there was the neighbor’s dog, a large setter who loved to play with me. And I grew a magnificent yellow tulip, which the neighbor’s boy plucked. The stream where we went to get water is in my mind’s eye, as well as the gloomy stove in the kitchen.

How wonderful it was. We enjoyed the typical entertainment of summer vacations. Together with local kids and visitors, we rode our bicycles along the fields, enjoying the view of young wheat and rye, interspersed with cornflowers and daisies.

My book is an emotional story that explains why a few years ago we built a dacha in the village of Orlino. Sadly, none of my close relatives from my childhood and adolescence has survived. My dacha came too late for them. But I believe that its existence and my time spent there now pleases their souls.

Chapter One

The Beginning Of Our Search

It was not easy to convince my husband that we needed a dacha, especially in Russia, where the opportunity to acquire private property under guarantee that no one will take it away appeared not so long ago. Previously, the majority of dacha owners did not possess documents confirming their title to property. Instead they had gardeners’ books, since dachas in the overwhelming majority of dacha villages in Russia were part of a gardeners’ community and were collectively owned by cooperatives. My husband would never agree to this.

Russia is huge, and the territory around St. Petersburg is large. At first we were at a loss, not knowing where to start looking for our future country home. We had several requirements. The house should be located not far from water, whether a river, a lake or the sea, so that in summer we could swim and go boating.

The coastal stretch along the Gulf of Finland to the north of St Petersburg in the direction of Vyborg beckoned. Over the course of more than two years, we made a good many trips to see houses advertised in specialized magazines and on the internet. During this period prices rose steeply, as more and more coastal resorts underwent development and attracted the city’s growing middle class for both summer and year-round residential use. Meanwhile, the administrative procedures surrounding title registration in that region made little headway and a deal which could have satisfied our quest fell through precisely because one was buying a kind of promissory note from a landowners’ cooperative rather than a true deed.

Our search for a dacha somewhat inland, on the Karelian Isthmus, where the popular suburbs of St. Petersburg are located, was unsuccessful for other reasons. Either the property was too expensive or too far from the water.

Still I was not in despair over our inability to find an attractive place, a home. We reassured ourselves that even if we did not find anything, we were discovering unknown places, meeting people we would never have met otherwise.

Someone advised us to go further north along the coast of the Gulf of Finland, to the Primorsk region, but I kept putting off the trip, fearing the worst. Russian provincial towns usually look depressing. During my previous trips around the country, I saw a conspicuous lack of funds for renovation, for new buildings, and if they did appear, they were often constructed in a hurry and did not beautify the surroundings.

Finally, we chose one sunny Sunday in the middle of summer and took the Maritime Highway to Primorsk, a resort area located in proximity to Vyborg and the Finnish border.

Our meeting with the agent who offered plots of land in the area was scheduled for noon, and we had time to look around on our own. Contrary to my expectations, Primorsk turned out to be a picturesque town.

I expected to see a poor provincial town, half destroyed by Soviet designers, for whom renovation meant prefabricated concrete slab houses. Instead, we faced winding streets lined with fruit trees. The dark green wooden houses, closed off from the street by low fences, breathed with the romance of provincial Russia from the times of Chekhov or Bunin. The flower beds in front of the houses delighted passers-by with blooms and with lilac bushes.

Primorsk is located on a hill overlooking the sea. Before our arrival, we found out that it is the terminal of a large gas pipeline used to fill Russian tankers which deliver hydrocarbons all over the world. But we did not see any industrial facilities or tankers from the city proper.

On the highest hill stood a Finnish Protestant church, which was converted into a church of the Orthodox faith. Closer to the water, a pine forest opened up, and vast sandy beaches stretched in both directions. Two islands were visible in the sea, located a few kilometers from the coast.

While we were admiring the view, a man came up to us. New here? he asked. Dressed in jeans and a tweed gray jacket, the fifty-year-old looked like a successful entrepreneur. He seemed local.

If you are looking for a plot near Primorsk, I can help. He took out a business card and handed it to me. My real estate agency is right around the corner on the Main Square.

‘I declined his offer. Perhaps later. We’re busy now.

He was not insistent, and we held onto his card. Then we went to the meeting place we had agreed with our agent, who was not long in coming.

A young, blond man in a new white Toyota met us. His t-shirt was decorated with the big blue logo of Zenith, a local football team. Denis, he said, introducing himself.

We quickly got down to business.

Several great lots are waiting for you, he said enthusiastically. His tattooed arms gesticulated to accentuate the point. Very attractive, I would call them exclusive, rare. Imagine yourself being here, next to the sea in an unspoiled part of the world where you are privileged to get a piece of land and can do on it whatever you want.

But I hope the parcels are not in the heart of a forest, I asked tentatively. There should be houses and people around. This is a settlement where we are going now, isn’t it?

Settlement? Oh, yes, of course. After some years there will be a settlement, a great settlement. We are doing everything to assure it. Nothing comes impromptu. Sorry for my French slang. Looking at you now, I am sure that as soon as you see the lots you will fall in love with them. I have three for sale. And I will show you all of them. So, let’s go. And with that, he pressed on the accelerator and we were off.

The road leading to the first great place was unpaved and his fastidious Toyota started wheezing, because the motor took in too much dust. Denis stopped the car at the corner where the road turned inland from the sea shore.

I will show you the beach. The weather today is not very accommodating but still you will find people who are not alarmed by clouds and who won’t miss their day at the sea shore for anything.

We followed Denis on foot along a narrow trail leading to the beach.

White Nights, great swimming. The sand is perfectly clean and useful for your skin. You can rub it on, keep it for a while and then wash it off. Your skin will be silky and you won’t need to go to a cosmetician. It is amazing what miracles nature does for us.

On the narrow stretch of a sand spit, three people were sunbathing. They covered themselves with beach towels while protecting themselves from the steady wind behind canvas screens. The wind was coming in from the sea and a small blue and white flag over a kiosk selling Coca Cola and sandwiches was swaying this way and that with a mournful complaint. So far, so good. A bit further I noticed a wooden construction with a sliding roof, just enough for one person and guessed correctly. It was a toilet.

The waves splashed. But nobody entered the sea. Two islands loomed just offshore. Their imposing dark green shapes resembled destroyers ready for action, with their torpedo launchers prepared to strike.

What islands are they? I asked.

Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, the frontier guards lived there and the islands were out of bounds for everyone. But the guards have left. Now people go there to fish before winter strikes. Then the water freezes and cuts off the connection with the mainland.

People say the forests over there are good for mushroom hunting, he added, as if he guessed my passion.

We returned to the car. The dirt road passed through a field at the end of which I spotted a wooden shack. Above it a sign was fixed, its white paint faded. The sign read "unny oad.’ Perhaps it was too ‘sunny’ for the sign.

How big is the settlement? I asked Denis.

He cast a strange look at me.

"It will be considerable. Things happen really fast. They started preparation for construction last year and a lot is done. Trees were cut, undergrowth has