On Sigulda

Sigulda is a medieval town in Latvia that has been named the “Switzerland of Vidzeme”. It boasts a rich historical tapestry, blending medieval history, romantic legends, and natural beauty. Sigulda features a triangle of three castles, all strategically positioned to face each other. We tell the tragic medieval romance story of the Rose of Turaida. We also tell the tale of the Sphinx ghost who looks over the bobsleigh track.

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Transcript

On Sigulda

Sigulda is a medieval town in Latvia that has been named the “Switzerland of Vidzeme”. It boasts a rich historical tapestry, blending medieval history, romantic legends, and natural beauty. Sigulda features a triangle of three castles, all strategically positioned to face each other. Each one has tales, often sad stories - the Rose of Turaida being the most famous. Sigulda is an easy-to-make day trip from Rīga at any time of the year. 

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Sigulda is a beautiful, peaceful place, situated atop hills overlooking the Gauja River. A dramatic landscape of reddish Devonian sandstone formations and the Gauja River valley, which creates a natural amphitheatre for the town. Looking across the valley are three castles that define its skyline. Sigulda is a place where history, legend, and natural beauty converge in a truly extraordinary way.

This seemingly peaceful town sits at the crossroads of ancient powers. In 1207, the land was divided between the Bishopric of Rīga and the Livonian Order, with the Gauja River serving as the boundary between competing German factions. This division created a unique situation in which rival powers built fortifications within sight of each other, resulting in the remarkable concentration of castles that visitors see today. First was the Sigulda Medieval Castle, built in 1207 by the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, making it the oldest fortress in the region. Then look across the valley to Turaida Castle, the red-brick fortress built in 1214 for Bishop Albert of Rīga. This castle represents the ecclesiastical power that competed with the military orders for control of the region. And last but not least is the Sigulda New Castle, built in 1878 by the Kropotkin family in neo-Gothic style.

Sigulda today is a picturesque town of 14,589 people that serves as a year-round tourism and sports centre. Cherry trees in spring, hiking and historical tourism in summer, changing tree colours in autumn and winter sports in winter. The Sigulda town festival is held every May when the cherry trees are in full blossom. In autumn, Latvian social media is alive with the best time to see the changing colours of the deciduous trees in the Gauja valley. And thousands of people go there. One autumn, we were travelling by train further than Sigulda. From Riga, the train was jam-packed. Most people got off at Sigulda for their day of hiking among the autumnal colours. It took five minutes just for everyone to disembark the train! The town has evolved into Latvia’s adventure capital. The bobsleigh and luge track, one of only 18 such facilities worldwide, allows visitors to experience the thrill of Olympic-level speeds. My brother and I went down this in a long bobsleigh in the 1990s. Probably the most frightening experience I have endured, as my head in a crash helmet was rubbing against the walls on the turns. I am pretty tall and not ambidextrous.

The nickname “Switzerland of Vidzeme” originated from Sigulda’s dramatic Gauja River valley scenery, particularly its steep, pine-clad slopes and striking reddish sandstone cliffs and caves, which evoke a miniature Alpine feel within northern Latvia. Tourism and official descriptions have reinforced the name over time, highlighting Sigulda’s hilly terrain and even its cable car crossing the Gauja as traits that distinguish it from Latvia’s generally flatter landscapes, making the Switzerland comparison an easy shorthand for visitors.

Contemporary Sigulda complements rather than competes with the historical sites. The annual Opera Festival in the castle ruins demonstrates how living culture continues to animate these ancient stones. The festival transforms the medieval fortress into a performance space, creating a dialogue between past and present. 

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The Sigulda legend of the Rose of Turaida is a tragic romance story set during the Polish-Swedish wars, which combines historical fact with romantic tragedy.

On a spring night in 1601, after the roar of battle had drained from the Gauja Valley, the old scribe of Turaida Castle walked alone through the fallen. Moonlight picked out armour and torn banners. The air still smelled of smoke and wet earth. Then he heard a thin cry amid the silence. Beneath a slain mother’s arm, he found a baby girl, still warm, alive, and stubbornly clinging to the world the war had just tried to take away. He lifted her gently, carried her to the safety of the castle, and named her Maija, May in English, because the night of her rescue had bloomed in that month of green beginnings.

Maija grew beautiful. Not the brittle, distant beauty of portraits, but the kind that made people soften when she passed, the type that earned her a name whispered with pride and affection: the Rose of Turaida. Across the river, in the Sigulda Castle gardens, a young gardener named Viktor Heil worked, quiet and capable, with earth in his hands and patience in his eyes. The two would meet in the hush of evening at their halfway place: Gūtmanis Cave, the sandstone chamber carved by water and time, where their voices learned each other’s shapes in the gentle echo. There, between the castles and beneath the drip and hush of the cave spring, they promised themselves a future.

By the autumn of 1620, a wedding was near. But stories of love, like rivers, attract eddies and undertow. In those restless years, two Polish deserters drifted into the region, Jakubovskis and Skudrītis, and one of them, Adam Jakubovskis, set his eyes on Maija with a hard, covetous flame. She refused him - firm, clear, unafraid - and he let his pride curdle into anger.

One evening, a message arrived for Maija, written in Viktor’s hand, or so it seemed, asking her to come earlier than usual to Gūtmanis Cave. She took with her Lenta, her foster sister, and stepped into the cool red light of the cave’s walls, already laced with old names cut by old hands. But Viktor wasn’t there. Instead, Adam Jakubovskis stepped from the shadows, and the echo changed its tone.

He told her he would have her, by promise or by force. She stood very still, a single figure in that expansive, ancient room of stone, and weighed what it would take to remain herself. Around her neck lay a red silk scarf, a gift of love, and in those days, people still made room in their minds for magic, for the idea that silk could stop a sword, that faith could turn iron to air. She looked at the man who would break her will and offered a bargain: “This scarf is enchanted”, she said. “It cannot be cut. Strike it, and you’ll see, and then let me go”.

He hesitated. She did not. She stepped forward, held the scarf taut, and asked him to test what she claimed to believe. The blade rose, the cave breathed, and with a single blow, the legend broke into the hard truth of blood and stone.

Jakubovskis fled into the forest. Before the night ended, he would be dead by his own hand. And later, when Viktor came to the cave at their hour, he found the silence heavier than it had ever been. He ran for help, but in his rush, he left behind his axe, enough for suspicion to bloom. Grief is terrible, but accusation is colder. For a moment, it seemed that the story would fold cruelty upon cruelty: a lover transformed into a murderer by rumour and haste.

But then the current shifted. Skudrītis, the messenger conscripted to deliver the false letter, stepped forward and told what he had seen, and Lenta confirmed it: the trick, the trap, the blow. Viktor was released, but release cannot reverse a river. He buried Maija at Turaida Church Hill, beneath a linden that would grow to hold the wind like a harp, and he left the valley that had given him everything and taken it back.

People say that for a long time, this was only a legend, carried in whispers and wedding bouquets laid on Maija’s grave, a hope that love could outlast violence and that honour could be stronger than fear. Then, in the 19th century, archives yielded a record of a murder case from August 1620. A dry text that, like a flint, sparked the old story back to flame: names, dates, a cave, a scarf, a blade. The legend had roots; the roots had water; the tree stood.

Today, couples still climb the hill to leave flowers by the linden tree, and walk to Gūtmanis Cave to listen to the steady drip that has counted centuries, to touch the inscriptions and think of a young woman who chose the shape of her ending.

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Let’s delve into medieval power politics and examine the history of the castle triangle. 

The Livonian Brothers of the Sword, a German military order, built Sigulda Medieval Castle in 1207 on the edge of the Gauja Valley specifically to control the vital waterway of the Gauja River and to fend off invasions from the nearby bishop’s castle in Turaida, just across the river. The castle’s placement was a direct result of the fierce competition for dominance between the Livonian Order and the Bishopric of Rīga. 

Between 1207 and 1209, a commander named Master Venno directed the building of the Brothers of the Sword’s Castle - Segewold - on a headland of dolomite within sight of their rivals across the river at Turaida. The Order’s mission was to conquer and control roads and rivers, and Venno’s task was to anchor it in stone before the bishop’s men could tighten their grip from the west bank. So they began with a castellum: a compact, rectangular core, walls 3m thick in places, raised of local stone and dolomite.

Imagine the site as Venno would have seen it: three steep slopes dropping away like defences from nature, a human-dug ditch closing the southern approach, ponds stitched into the southeast for extra security, a wicket gate facing the river to watch the waterway below. The Brothers laid their chapel on the second floor, cut Gothic windows to sift the northern light, and stacked their armoury above.

As decades turned, Sigulda Medieval Castle’s compact core unfurled into a convent-type castle around an inner courtyard, acquiring the quiet efficiencies of a commandry and the responsibilities of supply and stables. Later still, as firearms matured, towers were established to watch both the gate and the northeast corner; the central gate tower rose four stories, and a drawbridge was added.

Sigulda Castle was damaged during the Livonian War in the 16th century and again in later conflicts between Poland and Sweden, further illustrating its role as a contested strategic site during periods of regional upheaval. After the fall of the Livonian Order, Sigulda and its castle changed hands multiple times. It came under Swedish control in the 17th century, then Russian rule in the 18th century, and finally became part of independent Latvia in the 20th century.

The grey stone castle ruins were reopened to visitors in 2012, and offer the opportunity to climb the north tower and the central gate tower. The site features an open-air stage where the annual Opera Festival is held.

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Our second castle is Turaida Castle, situated on the other side of the Gauja River. This red brick fortress represents the ecclesiastical power that competed with the military orders for control of the region. Construction began in 1214 under Archbishop Albert of Rīga, on the site of an earlier Livonian wooden fort, as part of the Northern Crusades’ consolidation of church power in Livonia. Built initially as a compact castellum in brick and known in documents as Fredeland (“Land of Peace”), it soon became better known by its Livonian name, Turaida, and served as a residence and stronghold for the Archbishops of Rīga throughout the late medieval period.

The castle’s defences were strengthened repeatedly: a tower-shaped southern section was added in the 14th century, and with the advent of firearms in the early 15th century, a semi-rounded western tower appeared, adaptations that reflect the shifting art of war in the Baltic region. Domestic and service buildings filled the inner yard as Turaida developed into both a residence and an administrative centre for the surrounding estates.

A major fire in 1776 rendered the complex uninhabitable. Therafter, parts of the walls were dismantled for building material, and a wooden manor house stood amid the ruins, a common fate for many former fortresses. By the 19th century, the castle had become a romantic ruin.

From 1976, systematic archaeological work led to restoration and conservation, revealing the castle’s earlier phases and enabling exhibitions on the brick castle and the Gauja Livonians. In 1988, the Turaida Museum Reserve was established across 43 hectares to protect the medieval stone castle, church, and cemetery, as well as the manor landscape and associated cultural heritage. It was strange to see a wooden slate with lots of brand new red bricks lying within the courtyard. Further reconstruction work, I guess.

It also has a lovely collection of granite sculptures in the Folk Song Park, dedicated to the Latvian dainas (folk songs). The core of the park features granite works by sculptor Indulis Ranka, with the ensemble growing from an initial 15 pieces to a permanent display of 26 granite sculptures that symbolise folk-song wisdom, characters, and virtues.

Also within the estate is the grave of the Rose of Turaida, marked by a linden tree planted by her grieving lover. It remains a pilgrimage site for couples seeking eternal love. The tree is now but a stump. The legend, however, lives on.

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The Sigulda New Castle was the last of the triangle to be built, in 1878, by the Kropotkin family. The story starts with a marriage. In 1867, Olga von der Borch, heiress to the Sigulda manor, married Dmitri Kropotkin, a Russian prince. Together, they chose to build not a fortress, but a statement - a home that looked back with romance. Local craftsmen and local stone were used under the master builder Jānis Meņģelis of Cēsis. The style is neo‑Gothic, but practical; a manor rather than a castle. Through every window, the view is magnificent: the medieval ruins of Sigulda Castle in the near distance, and further away, the watchtowers of Krimulda and Turaida, as if the centuries were arranged for contemplation from this single vantage point. Prince Dimitri Kropotkin never lived to see its completion due to his assassination by revolutionaries, unfortunately.

The building is only half of the story. The other half is Olga. As “patroness of Sigulda”, she worked like a civic engineer in silk, securing the Rīga–Pskov railway to run through the town, courting visitors, building up places to stay, turning a pretty village into a resort that people could reach. In a valley where stone once signalled power, she used timetables and timbers.

In 1893, her son, Prince Nikolai Kropotkin, took the reins and carried the momentum into modern sport and industry, introducing a bobsleigh and luge track that bent speed into local culture, a mineral water factory, and even promoting motor touring.

History turned its wheel, as it does. War came, and in 1917, New Castle was looted on the front line between German and Russian armies. In 1922, agrarian reform ended Kropotkin's ownership. Yet the house did not lose its voice. Given to the Latvian Association of Writers and Journalists, it was remade in 1937. Its tower was raised, its rooms transformed into a jewel of National Romanticism by architect Alfrēds Birkhāns. The Soviet years gave it a quieter duty as a cardiology sanatorium. Independence restored, it became the seat of local government with Sigulda’s council housed within the same walls that once held summer salons. Recently restored, the ensemble has been stitched back together: workshops are alive in the Castle Quarter, gardens replanted to their 19th-century rhythm, and the house is opening its rooms again to exhibitions, ceremonies, and the public imagination.

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The Sphinx of Sigulda.

They say every fast place collects a ghost, something left behind by speed itself, like a shadow that can’t keep up. In Sigulda, where the ice is blue as a blade and the turns are named like verbs - Rush, Grip, Hold - people whisper about a watcher on the hill above the bobsleigh track. They call it the Sphinx.

Bobsleigh team crews arrive early, before the public and the athletes, to listen to the ice. They say that the track speaks. It settles and sings faintly as cold runs deeper into its bones. And on those mornings, someone always glances up to the ridge by Turn Thirteen. The place with a little stand of pines. If the mist hangs just right, it seems there’s a figure there, cut out of the fog: a face that isn’t a face, a body you could draw with one unbroken line - elegant, waiting. The Sphinx.

No one agrees where it comes from. Some say it’s a legend older than the ice, older than the concrete beneath it, something that moved into the valley when people first slid for sport and refused to leave when the track took on electricity and rules. Others say it began in the winter when the times got too fast, when a bobsleigh bottoms out so hard you feel it a day later in your teeth. Speed, they say, can thin the veil.

But here’s how the story tends to be told by the ones who speak softly after the last run: once there was a pilot who knew the ice like handwriting. He was the kind of driver who could find speed where others saw fear, who carried the sledge like a secret. People say he had a habit of standing alone at the top—not to psych himself up, but to listen. He’d close his eyes and hear the track. One day, he went too hard into the big left, corrected too late, and the world went sideways. The sledge threw sparks like a comet as it kissed the wall, and then there was silence that lasted longer than it should. He recovered, more or less. But after that, he talked differently about the turns, as if he’d met someone in the curve. He said, and his brakeman swore to this, that there was a watcher by the ridge. Not a person, not a ghost with a name, but a question in the shape of a figure. It didn’t chase or warn, nor did it point or threaten. The pilot said the look wasn’t cruel. It was exact.

Then came the season’s end: roses on the ice for the last run, the big thaw coming. The pilot retired before summer. He left with his sledge number painted over, a superstition as old as sport. But the brakeman stayed, and every winter since, he claims - only on the coldest mornings, when breath holds its shape - the Sphinx waits on the ridge. If you look too long, it’s gone. If you’re not looking at all, you feel it: the hairs on the back of the neck lift, a question being asked without words.

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Let’s explore some of Sigulda’s natural wonders. There are many caves within the sandstone tall banks of the Gauja River. Gūtmanis Cave is considered the largest cave in the Baltic States, measuring 19 meters in depth, 12 meters in width, and 10 meters in height. Beyond its connection to the Rose of Turaida legend, the cave holds multiple layers of meaning. According to local folklore, the “Good Man” (Gutman) who lived in the cave was a healer who used the cave’s spring water to treat ailments. The tradition of drinking the cave’s water for health and longevity persists today, forging a connection between ancient beliefs and modern visitors. The cave has a cool, damp interior, which contrasts with the 25-degree warm summer air outside. The sound of water can be heard trickling through the sandstone. Ancient inscriptions dating back to the 17th century cover the walls. These inscriptions represent centuries of human interaction with this sacred space, from medieval pilgrims to modern tourists. Yes, graffiti through the centuries.

Peter’s Cave and Raven’s Ravine are accessible via forest trails, and each has its legends. Peter’s Cave is linked to a peasant hiding from conscription during Swedish rule, while Raven’s Ravine is named for a beloved mayor who was murdered and discovered by a flight of ravens. Velnala (Devil’s Cave) is another folklore-rich spot, less visited but steeped in mysterious tales and unique rock formations.

Sigulda is situated within the Gauja National Park, Latvia’s largest and oldest national park, which was established in 1973. The National Park offers extensive hiking and cycling opportunities, with trails that connect the various historical sites while showcasing the region’s natural beauty. The park’s diverse ecosystems support both common and rare species, making it valuable for nature enthusiasts and environmental education.

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Planning a trip to Sigulda.

Sigulda is 53 kilometres from Rīga and can be reached in under an hour by train or car. You will want to pack good walking shoes, as you will be doing a fair amount of walking, even if you opt to drive between the sights. Remember, it is hilly terrain.

Start in Sigulda at the train station. The tourist office is located opposite the station, where you can pick up a printed map instead of using your phone's map app. If you are hungry, it is best to eat in Sigulda before the hike across the Gauja, as there are very few places to eat on the Turaida side of town.

First stop is Sigulda New Castle, situated in a park, a 10-minute walk from the station. There is a museum inside this neo-Gothic castle. As it serves as the administrative offices for the area, parts of the building may be closed from time to time for events. It features a tower to climb, offering views over the Gauja and the other two castles.

Next door is the Medieval Castle. These ruins were opened to the public in 2012. You can walk the castle ramparts and get a feel for life in this fortified castle of the Livonian Brothers of the Sword. 

Then, walk to the cable car station, which is approximately a 15-minute walk away. The cable car departs about every 30 minutes. The journey across the Gauja valley from one bank to the other at 43 metres above the tree line takes about 15 minutes in the spacious and highly decorated 50-year-old car. It has an arrangement of dried flowers on the inside of the roof. You will enjoy amazing panoramic views from the cable car, making it well worth the crossing fee. However,  if you don’t like cable cars or heights, then you can walk the trail down to the bridge over the Gauja River.

From the cable car station on the other side of the Gauja, take the path through the forest to Gūtmanis cave. You will pass the little remaining ruins of Krimulda Castle. Enjoy the coolness in the cave if you are hot from the walk. You can make a detour from the cable car station to see Krimulda Manor House, Krimuldas Muiža, where Tsar Alexander stayed in 1862. The manor was built by wealthy Prince Johann Georg von Lieven in 1822. 

From Gūtmanis cave, head down to the road and continue along the pavement uphill to Turaida castle, the most visually striking of the three castles, with its red brick. This castle is situated at the end of an extensive park. Take time to look around the slightly rebuilt castle. One can go to the top of the tower, if you don't mind heights and stone staircases. Other buildings on the ramparts are not so high. The castle’s restoration allows visitors to experience medieval architecture while learning about the complex political dynamics that shaped the region. Find the Rose of Turaida’s grave, and pay your respects. It is also worth spending time walking around the sculpture park, where Latvian symbols are carved into stone blocks. There are a few walks and nature trails within the castle grounds, if you cheated and drove between the three castles and the cave.

Then catch the bus back from Turaida to Sigulda, unless you still want to take a further 5 km walk. 

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While many places offer either medieval history or natural beauty, Sigulda provides both in an intimate setting where visitors can walk between centuries. The combination of documented history, romantic legend, and a stunning natural environment creates a destination that appeals to a diverse range of interests and generations. The wealth of attractions - including three castles, caves, hiking trails, and adventure activities - are all conveniently located near Rīga. Just remember to pack those walking shoes!

[Image by An Englishman in Latvia. Medieval music by Paul Winter from Pixabay]