The village is called Island. Together with two neighboring villages, Riverside and St Peter’s, it occupies a narrow isthmus between two peat lakes. To the east there is a larger lake, which is a source of the river that is the only link between the villages and outside world in the summer. For 10 miles around there are swamps; rusty water, anorexic pines, moss and cranberry. An uneven line of rotten telegraph poles marches to the north. There are no wires; further in the swamps the poles have fallen down and sunk in the bogholes.

Who and when settled St Peter’s Lake and what brought them here is not clear. There is no arable land in these parts. In winter when lakes and swamps froze villagers traded fish that is abundant in the lakes for wheat and other necessities. Under Soviets St Peter’s Lake was a collective farm of several hundred people with school, post office and a club located in the former church. Now it is deserted. Some locals come back to spend summer in their old houses; year round there are usually some fishermen on the lakes. But there is only one permanent resident, in the Island village.

So, Russia, beginning of the 21 century. This is not Siberia or Far North. 150 miles out of Moscow, 40 from regional center. In a room in the old decaying log house, where most of the glass in the window panes is missing and replaced by two layers of cellophane, together with a furry cat and a small dog lives Yurik. The room has a table, a folding bed, couple of chairs. On the window panes and around a floor some sooty utensils and empty tins used both as plates and ashtrays. There are two kerosene lamps; only electric device is 1960s battery-fed radio. On one wall hangs something that’s so sooty it could be either icon or a portrait of Lenin. From the corner an old brick stove fills room with acrid smoke, which gathers in layers under the ceiling. However, Yurik does not care too much for the smoke – his back hurts badly and he spends most of his time crouching in front of the stove. From time to time he throws in another piece of wood – in better days, this piece used to be part of the wall of his neighbor’s house. He smokes a lot and drinks – fishermen from the mainland bring him some store of vodka.

According to him the worst day in the history of St Peter’s lake was when Soviet’s gave villagers internal ID cards and they were free to go wherever they cared. Before that villagers could not leave St Peter’s – there was life and there was light in the villages. Now everybody left. Yurik sighs. He tried to leave as well but came back to take care of parents. Now his brother died and he’s stuck. His pension comes to the village 10 miles to the north. In summer when its dry he goes to get it sometimes. In winter he relies on his former neighbors to bring him supplies they buy on his pension. Does he drink too much? Perhaps. A man has either to work or to drink.

Outside it’s getting dark fast. Shadows from the fire in the stove fill the room. Yurik boils some tea. A cat sniffs some food we brought with us. Yurik apologizes for having spoiled her. He strikes a match and lits a cigarette. I ask him when was the last time there was electricity in St Peter’s. Yurik struggles…10 years ago? No perhaps 15. For some while we are silent.

Its time to leave to ski back over the lakes. We leave some food and batteries for Yurik. Outside the temperature’s dropping fast. Full moon lits the lake and the ice is cracking with loud booming noises. To the west there’s still red embers of sunset over the swamps. Above them, like a small island of light hangs a lone star.