The tram to Kopli, Tallinn, Estonia.

In my estimation, an urban destination is significantly enhanced if it has trams, and Tallinn is lucky because it has four lengthy tram routes that carry passengers to some very interesting parts of the city. For my last post about Tallinn, I want to reveal what you can see if you take the tram from Telliskivi in Kalamaja to the terminus in Kopli. But first, some notes that provide context for the photos.

We returned to the tram stop at the north end of Telliskivi and took the number 2 to the end of the line in Kopli. The tram went through areas where housing mixed with industry, harbour facilities and a ship repair yard. Most housing was in Soviet-era apartment blocks about four storeys high. Although houses dominated the streets of Kalamaja and some old wooden houses existed in Kopli, the further we got from Kalamaja, the poorer most people seemed to be. When we arrived at the point where the trams turned through a half circle to return to the city centre, a massive stone building called the Estonian Maritime Academy blocked the view to the west. The academy was a vocational university.

We got off the tram in Kopli and walked to a small Russian Orthodox church built overwhelmingly with wood. Nearby, just across the railway leading into a harbour with restricted access, was a terrace of wooden houses overlooking the sea.

Kopli stood at the end of a peninsula overlooking the Gulf of Kopli to the south. To the north was a desolate sandy beach, which, the day of our visit in late February, disappeared from view under frozen sea water.

We walked along the main road to the tram stop before the Kopli terminus, noting that a kiosk and a small shop met the basic needs of the local people, a majority of whom now lived in Soviet-era apartment blocks half hidden among trees to the south of the main road. A few old wooden houses lurked among the trees and looked interesting enough to justify a return visit. But I knew I would have to be careful with my camera because some of the local young and middle-aged males seemed to be unemployed and were not always engaged in lawful activities.

Hilary rested in the hotel. I caught a tram to Kopli, but got off at Sitsi where there were excellent views over the ship repair yard mentioned earlier. The area around Sitsi had an interesting mixture of Soviet-era apartment blocks, wooden houses built at different times, breeze block and render houses of recent pedigree built for families that had benefitted from capitalist economics, patches of mud and grass overlooked by the apartment blocks, fenced-off yards full of wood and metal, rows of wooden huts and brick outhouses, and a few drab shops, bars and cafes. Damp had discoloured the brightly painted stucco walls and large wheelie-bins cluttered the open spaces behind the apartment blocks. Many inhabitants of the area were poor and some felt compelled to look for recyclable items in the wheelie-bins. Small groups of men loitered near the tram stops hoping to sell drugs to passersby. In the distance was a vast industrial complex, most of which was built with brick. The industrial complex looked abandoned, but some parts were used for storage purposes. Lots of muddy paths led among the trees and buildings, thereby providing people with the most direct routes from one place to the next, and many people used the paths to exercise their dogs (sadly, not all the owners picked up their dogs’ excrement).

I got onto the tram and broke the journey twice to briefly examine the immediate areas (I found environments similar to the one around the Sitsi tram stop, so the camera remained quite busy).

Keen to re-connect with Tallinn’s more gritty and edgy side, I caught a tram to Sitsi for another lengthy walk around the streets. By turning a corner not previously noted, new but interesting views opened up.

Areas of this nature with their wooden housing; ill-kept communal areas; washing hung on lines between rusting metal poles; garages, huts and outhouses constructed with wood and brick; and large but abandoned factories (the factory near Sitsi gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine. Shadow emphasised the brick patterns on the external walls) were fascinating places to visit. True, outsiders had to be careful where they pointed their cameras and everyone ran the risk of encounters with dogs’ excrement, barking dogs behind wire or wooden fences and men suffering from drug or alcohol addiction. But how else could people connect with a city’s more marginal delights?

I walked Hilary back to the hotel but was out almost immediately, one last visit to Kopli my intention. I tried to get into the harbour behind the Estonian Maritime Academy, but only people with passes or goods for transportation could proceed beyond a barrier across the road. Instead, I looked at trams parked in a shed beside the academy, then walked in a south-easterly direction through some trees and over very damp ground ineffectively drained by ditches and shallow pools of stagnant water. Some very large wooden houses stood among the trees, as did a few Soviet-era apartment blocks a little further away.

As I took a few photos of the wooden houses, a woman approached me with a wary expression on her face. She was walking four of her dogs with her daughter aged about 15. Once the woman had been reassured that I was not up to mischief, we had a chat about Kopli in the past. She said that Kopli had once been a small village detached from Tallinn a few kilometres to the east. Between the two world wars, the building which was now the Estonian Maritime Academy was constructed as Tallinn University’s science faculty and, following its inauguration as a teaching and learning facility, academic staff built themselves wooden houses among the surrounding trees so they could live close to where they worked (my informant insisted that some of Kopli’s surviving wooden houses once belonged to the academics. She said they had been in much better condition in the past). She also said that Kopli remained a village until “Krushchev built his houses in those blocks over there”. She pointed through the trees toward some of the apartment blocks with their discoloured stucco peeling from the brick below.

“Krushchev’s houses. His houses ruined the village and brought in many Russians from far away to work in the harbour and local factories. The growth in the number of people and the changing nature of the population led to a lot of heavy drinking, domestic violence and other crime. But, for the last two years in July, people in Kopli have organised events, a sort of festival to celebrate the history of the area and to encourage people to take greater pride in their community. With a little effort, Kopli can be beautiful and peaceful again.”

I agreed with the woman about Kopli’s future prospects. In fact, Kopli was fascinating, which was why I had come back. I continued walking around for another half hour, on this occasion concentrating on the south side of Kopli overlooking the gulf with the same name.

Kalamaja, Tallinn, Estonia.

Kalamaja is a trendy and increasingly desirable area of Tallinn. It lies north and west of the Old Town, roughly from Linnahall in the east to Volta in the west, but also stretches as far south as the south end of Telliskivi. The notes below convey something of its seductive appeal.

We walked along Soo because Soo led into the up and coming area of Kalamaja. We had in mind a bar for a drink, but the bar no longer seemed to exist. Moreover, because Soo led into an overwhelmingly residential part of Kalamaja, for a while we thought we would draw a complete blank. However, we saw a bar called Tops at a crossroads. It had attracted a lot of customers, most of whom were either young professionals or older middle class couples. We ordered two beers and found somewhere to sit. Being very much a bar for middle class people, prices were a little higher than we were used to in Riga, but they were on a par with many similar but less interesting places in the UK. The bar had the atmosphere of a cafe rather than that of a pub, and the decoration evoked that of a house rather than somewhere for public use. With its light and airy appearance, Tops was essentially Scandinavian in character. Most of the furniture derived from the 1970s and 1980s, which, as we found during the days ahead, was all the rage among the hip young things of Tallinn (unless the hip young things preferred furniture dating from the 1950s and 1960s). The bar was female-friendly, so much so that as many women as men were drinking and eating (tea was almost as popular as beer). Our introduction to Tallinn in general, and Kalamaja more specifically, was very encouraging.

We walked the short distance to Balti Jaam (Tallinn’s main railway station), then continued south-west to Telliskivi, a street on the edge of Kalamaja which had some restaurants we were keen to try before returning to Riga. We found an interesting mixture of residential, commercial and industrial buildings with railway tracks leading to and from a large marshalling yard. We were reminded of small cities in the US where landmark buildings often existed in areas with a little bit of edge. Some of the local shops occupied one-time industrial buildings and stocked unusual clothes, furniture and items for the kitchen. Telliskivi seemed to be a magnet for some of Tallinn’s most hip and artistic young professionals. Moreover, the restaurants looked very good.

We caught a tram as far as Volta, which seemed to mark the western edge of Kalamaja. We walked along Volta and began a meandering stroll to the hotel via streets which became less industrial and more residential the closer we got to our destination. Between the Volta tram stop and the seaplane harbour to the north, Kalamaja had very few shops, bars, cafes or restaurants, but there was a fascinating mixture of housing. Some Soviet-era apartment blocks were along or near Volta, as were a few shabby or abandoned factories, but old and new houses and enviably designed modern apartment blocks dominated the streets both sides of Soo. We were warming to Kalamaja with every encounter, no matter how brief the encounter was. Once an area in which a considerable number of poor or troubled people used to live, the latter with drug, alcohol or mental health problems, such people were now being edged out as land values increased. People in other parts of Tallinn recognised the appeal of living so close to Toompea and the Old Town, but in an area very different in character and socio-economic structure (Kalamaja was the hip place to be in Tallinn), and the beneficiaries of capitalist economics were attracted by the restoration of old properties and the construction of new ones, the latter blending successfully with the old because of their similar scale and appearance. It was always sad when long-standing local people were edged out of neighbourhoods as cities slowly developed and transformed, but such dislocation had been a harsh fact of life since people started to live together in large numbers. It would not surprise me if some of Kalamaja’s poorest people found their way into the less attractive housing further west along the tram route to Kopli.

My thanks to Külli in Tallinn who not only told me about the delights of Kalamaja, but also revealed that some of the city’s best restaurants were in the same area. Külli: we followed your advice and had very good meals at F-hoone and Kolm Sibulat, but also enjoyed Klaus (which is near Moon) and Bistroo Kukeke. We also went to Diip, which you could not tell me about eight months ago because it has existed for only a few weeks (correct in March 2014). Diip is very special. Moreover, we ate there on the eve of Independence Day. We had a wonderful time, not least because Estonian fruit wines are irresistible.

Linnahall, Tallinn, Estonia.

I walked north and then east from the hotel (Ilmarine Residence) as if bound for the harbour used by the cruise ships and the ferries to and from Stockholm and Helsinki. Access to the area was easiest by following a street called Kalasadama. I went past two restaurants; a few businesses associated with the sea; some old brick buildings, two of which had octagonal ground plans; a tall chimney; and a small but partly frozen harbour with swans, ducks and two fishing boats. It was about 7.30am and only a dull grey light pierced the overcast sky. But ahead lay my true destination, Linnahall, a vast concrete, stone and brick slab which initially looked ugly, derelict and deserted.

When I undertook my first look around Linnahall, a rotting and graffiti-smeared monster that would have thrilled Jonathan Meades had he seen it before recording his excellent two-part BBC4 series entitled “Bunkers, Brutalism and Bloodymindedness”, I felt confronted with a place of utter urban desolation, which, if it appealed to anyone, it had to be the most marginalised, troubled and criminally-inclined of Tallinn’s citizens. That morning, I thought I had been correct about its appeal to such people because my only “companions” were a few young males in hoodies who walked around alone or in pairs. At least two of the males were under the influence of drugs or alcohol. But, on a return visit early one evening, many people, family groups included, strolled around the ruin and enjoyed the views from its different but easily accessible levels. For people in the know with an affection for wildly eccentric architecture, Linnahall is an absolute must.

Linnahall was built for the 1980 Summer Olympics as a multi-purpose cultural and recreational centre. Since its construction, it has had a concert hall with 4,200 seats, an ice rink and cafes. Parts of it were converted into a small ferry terminal and heliport. It had a sort of ziggurat ground plan and a few different levels, all the latter accessible by flights of crumbling stone or concrete steps. However, I was left with an impression of a vast but nearly flat structure hugging the ground as if worried it might be blown away by the strong winds that arrive so frequently from Russia or the Baltic Sea. Oriented almost exactly north to south, the elongated north arm of the ziggurat extended into the sea. The south arm pointed toward the Old Town and had a wide flight of stone steps leading to what was obviously intended as an elevated space on which to promenade. But once the 1980 Summer Olympics had concluded and initial curiosity about the structure began to wane, perhaps because it had been built to order by Estonia’s Russian colonial masters in Moscow, it proved difficult to utilise the facilities in the way originally intended. Moreover, shoddy construction work had a detrimental effect on Linnahall less than a decade after its completion.

On the internet, I found the following information about Linnahall in more recent times:

“A few years ago, Linnahall was given to American investors who formed a company called Tallinn Entertainment LLC. In return, Tallinn Entertainment LLC was expected to invest money in Linnahall to reconstruct it as a modern venue centre.

“In April 2009, Linnahall had its last public events and, since then, it has been closed to the public.

“Tallinn Entertainment LLC promised that Linnahall would be restored by 2011. So far, nothing has happened. Investors have not even produced development plans and for a long time they have refused to meet with city officials. In Hungary and the US, several people involved in the project have been arrested and accused of corruption, bribery and tax evasion.”

Although all internal spaces at Linnahall were closed to the public, people could walk where the flights of steps led to. The complex was fascinating to explore, so much so that many people, old and young, took photos of it and the views it provided (inevitably, some of the best views were toward the Old Town). There were arches; fenced-off tunnels; walls reminiscent of naval fortifications; sunken spaces enclosed by moss-covered stone walls and rusty metal panels, the latter splattered with brightly painted graffiti; and a raised promenade with large slabs of concrete arranged with geometric precision down the centre. In other words, there was always something bleak, brutal or compelling to examine. Of course, Linnahall was not pretty; such structures rarely were. But because so few similar structures survived in the UK (some for good reason, I admit), I am pleased to report that this monster has been listed by Muinsuskaitseamet, Estonia’s national heritage board, as an important example of 1980s’ architecture. However, legitimate concerns have been expressed about its condition almost since its completion. I hope its listing as an important example of architecture will ensure that it is retained and not demolished. But should it be restored? I am not convinced that restoration should be undertaken because in many respects Linnahall looks superb as it is. A pristine Linnahall is unlikely to compel attention in the way it currently does. Why not just let it slowly rot away with the passage of time?

Toompea and the Old Town, Tallinn, Estonia.

Taken together, Toompea and the Old Town in Estonia’s remarkable capital city of Tallinn comprise one of the most beautiful urban environments I have ever encountered. Yes, they comprise one of the most beautiful urban environments I have ever encountered. Inevitably, therefore, Toompea and the Old Town are NOT particularly unusual destinations because people from all over the world undertake visits. This said, I justify the post for two reasons. First, it establishes a context for future posts about destinations in Tallinn that ARE unusual. Second, most of the photos below derive from or near Lai, Aida, Kooli and Laboratooriumi, streets in the Old Town which tourists rarely visit.