The Long Way Home
When we met, my wife had one non-negotiable: the beach.
I had one too: Estonia.
She followed me there that first time the way you follow a friend into a restaurant with no English menu: trusting yet aware of the exit.
Now, she may love Estonia more than I do.
Our travel system is simple. Estonia every year, plus a new country every two or three. This year the new country was Ireland, which had sat atop both our lists since our honeymoon.
We'd see the west of it by campervan, for the first time, with a one-year-old, in the offseason. Then we'd fly on to Estonia to put our daughter in the arms of the great-aunt she's named for. Call it the long way home, with a detour through sheep country.
Half the joy of adventure is anticipation. The other half is finding out what you forgot to anticipate.
Ireland
Four nights in the west
They say the Wild Atlantic Way takes two weeks. We had four nights, so we did one piece of it well: Mayo and Sligo, where the beaches and surf are, which is to say where my wife's heart lives. The coastal campsites, where I'd planned to stay, had closed for the year so the planning / logistics had me fraying a bit before we ever touched down.
We landed in Dublin on zero sleep and paid a taxi fare that should have come with a pint. At the rental lot, the agent offered a test drive; their last American had surrendered her van on day two. I took it and kept every word she gave me: both mirrors, always; narrow roads, slow; when in doubt, stop and let them pass.
Then we drove the longest leg first, west to Westport, on roads built for sheep. I white-knuckled two hours of bends shared with lorries while my wife and daughter slept the sleep of the unburdened.
Westport is a postcard with no room for a van, which produced our first tiff, right on schedule. We parked on a hill at the edge of town, met our first downpour (the Irish weather is infamous), and discovered I'd never clicked "book" on the first night's hotel. So we upgraded.
To a jet-lagged man, the pricey place I'd skipped was now a bargain: a big room, a spa, and a cider that hit just right. We were asleep by eight and slept eleven hours apiece.
Bless that boy
I slipped off to the sauna at seven, then joined the girls for Irish pudding, potatoes, ham, and coffee. An hour west, across Achill Sound, Keel gave us dunes, a long beach, and a playground.
On the way out I asked the young man at the coffee truck whether Keem Bay was worth the extra drive. He swore it was.
Bless that boy.
The road clings to the cliffs, and I doubted him at every curve. Then it opens onto a horseshoe of sheer rock around a pale beach, with sheep, brooks running to the sea, and hardly another soul.
It was one of the highlights of the trip and left us both speechless.
Routing back east ... Castlebar had no campervan-ready parking, so we pushed on through Boyle to Lough Key, where a gap-toothed, endlessly smiling Irishman welcomed us to a campground we shared with two other vans.
We cooked on the stovetop, ate like people who'd forgotten lunch, and turned in braced for our first night in a van with a baby.
Disaster never showed.
Sligo
Strandhill greeted us with rain of biblical proportions. We suited up and watched the Atlantic hurl itself at the seawall while surfers bobbed in the mess.
Over coffee at Mammy Johnston's, eventually, we watched them straggle in.
Schoolkids, every one. Friday surf as their "gym class" ... could you imagine?
Soup and grilled cheese with Irish ham got us out of the wind. Then, soaked and plan-less, we drove to Sligo. It looked like another Castlebar until an older gentleman pulled in outside his flat with room to spare.
I asked if we might park. Without a doubt, he said.
While Aiki napped, we walked: lively shops and pubs, mountains behind, a river through the middle. Lough Gill Brewery, in its opening weekend, poured a Nitro Red worth bragging about, and the food truck beside it served a burger to match. Sligo was the sleeper hit of the trip.
The night before had run warm in the campervan, so I cracked every window. I created a bit of an ice box for us, Aiki woke again and again, and morning arrived well before the coffee did.
Over breakfast we weighed a possibly closed petting zoo against repeating yesterday, until I remembered a photo on the brewery wall: Mullaghmore.
The girls dozed while I drove past mountains and pastures into a town shuttered for the season. But the sun was out, locals were on the beach, and the coffee truck was open.
After pastries on a little cliff, we did the only reasonable thing when on the other side of the Atlantic: we joined the locals and jumped on in.
Small waves, soft sand, warm sun. Our baby girl ruling the waterline.
Another beautiful, beautiful day.
Back in Sligo we had another round at Lough Gill and the best meal of the trip, from a pizza truck.
We got back to the campervan. Packed it up and in early. Shuttered the windows and slept like Irish standing stones.
Dublin
The van went back without drama. The Castle Hotel did not. For €220 a night it gave us a New York shoebox in a nice suit, reached by narrow stairs and a hedge maze of hallways. Its big windows overlooked an alley of garbage trucks, delivery vans, and men discussing both at volume. "You've got to be kidding me," I said, to no one, repeatedly.
The river, the landmarks, and a pub dinner were all underwhelming and overpriced, which by then felt like Dublin's house style.
Next morning, the XL taxi I'd paid for arrived ten minutes late as a Prius, and the driver started rolling while my wife was still climbing in. Dublin airport was a crowded mess and Ryanair finished the job: long lines, staff with no answers, a delay, and a seat that smelled of someone else's flight.
Dublin felt like a smaller New York: crowded, noisy, expensive. We hadn't crossed an ocean for that. By the time it was done with us, we were counting the hours to Estonia.
The long way home had taken its toll, and we were ready for what was to come ...
Estonia
Home, the long way
Here's the thing about a bad day: it makes the next good one taste better. We touched down in a cool, rainy Tallinn and couldn't have been happier. We know this place. We love it.
My parents were waiting at our Airbnb on the edge of the Old Town, and it was the anti-Dublin: two stories, room to breathe, a crib, exposed wood, old stone, warm light.
We walked to Kochi Aidad, one of my favorite places in town, for tall steins, schnitzel, sauerkraut, fried garlic bread, and cheese balls. Everyone loved everything. Then a nightcap, Aiki down, a sauna for me, and early lights out.
Laitse
This day was a big reason for the whole trip: to put Aiki Astrid into the arms of the Astrid from whom she'd gotten her middle name.
Astrid is my vana tädi, my great-aunt. She's somewhere in her mid-eighties and still working the farm, with the hands of a car mechanic, a mean way with a pot, and an A-grade sense of humor.
We caught the train out after a breakfast of buttery eggs and black bread, wandered the farm, and were called in for klimbisupp, a dumpling soup, with tomatoes, cucumbers, and pickles from her garden as sides.
Afterwards, we walked to the community center and the grocery to greet old friends of hers and of my grandfather's. Our roots run deep here.
Back in the yard, Aiki picked raspberries straight off the bush and ate an apple from the tree my grandfather once picked from.
Then came curd cake, family photos, more talk, and an unhurried train home.
The day wasn't done. My parents offered to watch Aiki and we jumped at the opportunity. Iceland was in town to face off against Estonia for UEFA soccer. My wife and I met a friend ... for €30 apiece we sat front row at midfield while the crowd sang Metsavendade laul.
Once in a lifetime, at a bargain. This is Estonia.
Three years, one plunge
The next day was our third anniversary. We walked to our favorite bakery and coffee shop, let Aiki wander the local playgrounds, then bussed out to Pirita and walked into the Baltic.
The air and wind made for a chillier dip than Mullaghmore. It was invigorating though, and especially cool, since my wife and I had done our first dip together in these waters (years before) while we were still dating.
We dried off at St. Patrick's, scene of one of our first dates in Estonia.
Tartu
The afternoon train to Tartu was one long floor show for Aiki, with us as the performers. We checked into the Antonius, then Bolted to the countryside, where old friends were putting the finishing touches on a house we’d been hearing about for two years.
Two years ago it was plans and a newborn. Now it was a big porch, a private sauna, high ceilings, and bright windows. They served smoked fish with local vegetables and bread, and we drank wine and took stock of each other's growing families. Their daughter, kind and endlessly patient, danced around the living room with ours.
Next day the toy museum put Aiki in her element, and lunch on the town square put fried cheese balls in her. A beer with most meals had become a habit, and it was starting to show. That evening we went to our friends' daughter's second birthday at a play center, where it was fun to clock what Estonian kids' parties share with American ones and what they don't.
Then we said goodbye to my parents and headed back to the hotel for a nightcap (my wife's NA since we're expecting #2).
The morning after, I took a naked plunge in the Emajõgi at Tähtvere Park. Most invigorating. Pastries from Cruffin and coffee from Karlova carried us up Toomemägi, past the cathedral ruins, and back down to find that thirty souped-up Dodge Challengers had taken the town square in our absence.
We lunched among them at RP9.
That afternoon a friend brought her great-uncle, who had known my grandfather well, for a walk along the river. Over dinner at Püssirohukelder, an old gunpowder cellar turned pub with a ceiling like a cathedral's, we caught up on life, shared memories and new news. You can't plan a thing like that.
The farm
Our friend collected us for Elistvere animal park, a home for recovering animals. The wolves and lynx kept to themselves, but a bear sat right in front of us, licking his chops. Aiki was transfixed.
Fifteen minutes on was the family farm: a barn, a sauna house, and 30 hectares of fields, berry bushes, and apple trees, with his wife, kids, and parents waiting.
The kids were playing before the coats came off.
We had homemade pizza, toured the tractor and the orchard, and spent forty minutes laughing in the play area while the children all had fallen for afternoon naps. These are the little moments that make for the fondest of memories.
My friend drove us to town and help carry bags into the station. People like him (the sweet, sweet people of Estonia) are Huge part are why we love coming back.
The train to Tallinn was so packed we stood or sat on the floor the whole way. Aiki napped for part of the ride and held out until the last ten minutes. It had been a long couple of days for her too.
Tallinn, again
This time we took a little room at the von Stackelberg. I'd been so focused on Ireland that I'd flubbed this booking; an apartment would have served far better.
Overtired and overstimulated, Aiki gave us two rough nights in a row.
My "me morning" became breakfast and laundry, though I stole a workout before finding the girls at the Kadriorg playground.
Then, came our last social day: lunch at Lido with friends and their one-year-old, a long walk, a retreat from cold rain, then dinner at Kochi Aidad and drinks at Sessel with the eclectic crew who've called Tallinn home for years.
Back home it can feel like everyone's shouting past each other. Here, people simply spend time together.
The last day
We kept the last day open: no plans, no obligations. On a gray, rainy Tuesday my wife took her "me morning" while I pushed Aiki through Kristiine, where I once lived. She stared, fascinated, as we passed under the railroad bridge, and fell asleep before we reached my old building.
We'd planned a spa afternoon after her second nap, and killed the wait at Kompressor with two crepes, one brie and pear, one raspberry jam and condensed milk, while Aiki made faces at strangers. It more than made up for my wife's morning, which had gone sideways on advice from AI and Google.
So did our spa plan. Kalev turned out to be adults-only on weekdays. Luckily I'd kept us near Metropol, the backup I'd picked the old-fashioned way (using a human brain).
We spent two hours there, Mamma dipping her legs in the jacuzzi and floating in the pool, Aiki floating between water and stairs and me bounding between sauna and steam room. Mamma and Pappa relaxed, and Aiki thought the whole place was built for her.
For dinner we leaned toward home: Bad Habits, by Balti Jaam, all boutique burgers and BBQ. Decked-out mac and cheese and two burgers later, we agreed it was a perfect last day: slow morning, good brunch, warm water, heavy dinner.
Next morning we were all, even Aiki, done with hotel breakfasts and ready to cook our own food.
We found a sunny park near Kalarand we'd never seen and sat an hour. Then I ordered a Bolt.
The driver wouldn't let the stroller ride in the back seat, as it had all trip, then drove around the corner and tried to charge us a waiting fee. Bolt refunded it. The second driver was no better. Neither would lift a bag, speak English or Estonian, or look at the baby kindly.
Encounters like these are part of why, over the years, we've come to prefer Tartu and the islands, where things feel more Estonian, people are warmer, and we get to use the language.
We made it to Ülemiste, where my wife got her last viineripirukas, and walked the last few minutes to Tallinna lennujaam, my favorite in the world.
Aiki was a gem as far as Helsinki and less so on to JFK. A rental car and a few pockets of famous New York traffic later, we were home in New Jersey before ten.
Funny thing about the long way home: when you have two homes, it runs through both. We'd left one, found the other right where we'd left it, and come back to the first a little fuller. It was an incredible adventure, and we'd take the long way again.
What we learned
On the flight home we made a rule: until the kids are older, one country per trip, ten days at most. Two countries cost us money and sleep, and asked too much of a one-year-old with no routine to lean on.
The rest, for couples and parents of small travelers: • Take the test drive. Pride is cheaper to swallow than a ditch. • Pick a region, not a route, and fly straight into it. • Ask locals one question: "Is it worth the drive?" • Spend money where the sleep is. Just not in Dublin ;) • A hotel room is a bed. An apartment is a home base. • Travel at nap time when you can, no matter who's along. • Leave white space. Even good company wears out a one-year-old. • When someone offers to show you their farm or country home, go. • Find cold water and get in it.
But mostly, make time for your people, with no clock running. The best hours of this trip were on no itinerary: a slow evening with my parents, talk at Astrid's table, a visit to a friend's farm, a stroll through town catching up with old friends. The little moments, together, are what it's all about.
One last thing: a trip that goes to plan makes a fine itinerary and a dull story. Take the long way home.