Ķemeri National Park

Listen for the boards first. Each step on the wooden walkway makes a soft, hollow knock, and then the sound is gone into the moss. Around you, the ground is not quite ground. It is a wide, wet carpet of green, red, and rust-brown, with dark pools that hold the sky like small mirrors. A faint smell of earth and water hangs in the air. Welcome to Ķemeri National Park, on the western edge of Jūrmala.

This park is one of Latvia's national parks, created in the late 1990s to protect a rare mix of landscapes in one place. Here, the Baltic coast, dune forests, lakes, fens, and raised bogs sit side by side. Most visitors to Jūrmala know the long sandy beach and the wooden villas. Fewer realise that only a short drive inland, the resort town gives way to one of the wildest wetlands within easy reach of Riga.

The heart of the experience for many people is the Great Ķemeri Bog, known locally as Lielais Ķemeru tīrelis. A boardwalk trail loops across its surface, so you can walk over the bog without sinking into it. And this matters — a raised bog is mostly water, held in place by living moss. Step off the boards and your foot can disappear into cold, soft peat. So the planks are not only for comfort. They also protect a surface that took thousands of years to form.

Here is the first surprise. A raised bog grows upwards, very slowly. The main builder is sphagnum moss. As the top of the moss grows, the lower layers die but do not fully rot, because the water is acidic and low in oxygen. Over time, this dead moss becomes peat. Scientists usually describe the growth in fractions of a millimetre per year. So the layer under your feet is a slow archive of the last few thousand years.

Look closely at the plants along the boardwalk. You will see low, twisted pines that look much older than their size suggests. Life is hard for a tree in a bog. The roots sit in cold, wet, poor soil, so the pines grow slowly and stay small. Between them, you may find heather, cotton grass with white tufts in early summer, and cranberries trailing across the moss. Look down near the pools, too. You might spot sundew, a tiny plant that catches insects on sticky red hairs.

The dark pools are another feature that people often miss at first. Locals and naturalists call them bog lakes or bog pools. Their water is brown, a little like tea, because of the peat. On a still day, they reflect the clouds almost perfectly. On a windy day, the surface shivers and the reflections break apart. Partway along the trail, an observation tower lifts you above the bog. From the top, you can see how the pools form a pattern across the open plain.

Now, a second surprise, and this one you may already have noticed with your nose. The water in this area is linked to sulphur. Underground, water passes through layers of gypsum and peat, and some of it rises as sulphurous springs. That smell of eggs near certain springs and ditches is natural. In fact, it is the reason the town of Ķemeri exists at all. The springs and the healing mud from the bogs brought people here long before this land became a national park.

From the nineteenth century onwards, Ķemeri grew into a spa resort. Visitors came to bathe in the sulphur water and to use the warm mud in treatments for joints and skin. The resort was popular across the Russian Empire and later in independent Latvia and the Soviet period. In the town, a large white hotel from the 1930s still stands. Its long, pale shape gave it the nickname the White Ship. Walking through Ķemeri, you can still find old spa buildings and a small resort park with bridges and pavilions.

The national park is more than the bog. To the north lies the Baltic coast, with low dunes and pine forest. Inland, there are lakes such as Kaņieris, a shallow lake with reeds and small islands. It is an important place for water birds, and birdwatchers come with binoculars and patient habits. In spring and autumn, migrating birds pass along this coast. You may hear cranes calling in the distance — a loud, trumpet-like sound that carries far across open land.

Larger animals live here too, though they are shy. Elk, roe deer, and wild boar move through the forests. Beavers are active along the rivers and ditches, and you may see their work before you see them: gnawed tree stumps with pointed tops, or small dams across slow water. Birds of prey, including eagles, hunt over the wetlands. Do not expect a safari. Instead, look for tracks in soft ground, feathers on the path, and movement at the edges of the reeds.

The seasons change this place completely. In early summer, the bog is fresh and green, with cotton grass and long evenings of light. In late summer, the berries ripen and the air hums with insects. Autumn brings deep reds and oranges to the moss and heather, and morning mist often lies low over the pools. In winter, snow and ice can turn the boardwalk into a quiet white line across a silent plain. Each visit can feel like a different park.

There is also a human story in the land itself. For a long time, people in many parts of Europe drained bogs for farming and dug them for peat. Here, some areas were drained in the past, and ditches changed how water moved. In recent years, conservation work has aimed to raise the water level again and help the bog recover. So some of what you see is not only old nature. It is also nature that people are working to repair.

Before you leave, pause on the boardwalk for a moment. Stop walking and listen. You may hear wind in the small pines, a bird somewhere out of sight, or the faint creak of the planks settling. Look at the moss near your feet, red in one place, green in another, wet and alive. This ground grows slowly, over lifetimes. As you walk back towards the trees and the road to Jūrmala, notice how quickly the open sky closes behind you.