At the end of the gravel road, the road simply stops. In front of you is a farmhouse surrounded by open fields. This is where you’ll spend the night.

You pull into the yard. Beside the farmhouse stands a large wooden enclosure. Before you even open the door, something moves behind the wire mesh. An enormous Flemish Giant rabbit rises up and places his front paws against the fence.

You walk over and carefully hold out your hand. He stays where he is. Gently, you stroke the top of his head.

The goat in the pasture wanders curiously toward the fence.

“Baaah,” he bleats.

“Baaaaah,” you call back, just a little louder.

Chewing on a mouthful of grass, he studies you as if he knows perfectly well that you’re not one of his kind. His long white beard sways gently in the breeze.

You chuckle. The longer you look at him, the funnier he gets.

Then a voice calls out in the distance.

“Hello!”

A man walks toward you from the farmhouse.

“Hi, guys! My name is Kayto. I see you’ve already settled in. Perfect. I hope my daughter explained everything. The compost toilet is just behind that tree.”

He points toward a large tree at the back of the property.

“Oh, before I forget. Tonight we’re celebrating Jaanipäev, our Midsummer festival, here in town. You’re more than welcome to join.”

You look up.

“Tonight?”

“Yes!” He smiles. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

He raises his hand in a quick wave and walks back toward the farmhouse.

A festival tonight. That sounds like music to your ears.

A cool summer breeze drifts across the yard, but there is little sign that night is approaching. The sun still hangs above the fields, casting a warm glow over the tall grass.

You pull out your phone and open Google Maps.

A fifty-minute walk.

That should be doable.

You quickly change your clothes and head out. The gravel road leads between vast fields. Here and there, an old farmhouse stands beside the road, its wooden walls weathered and its roof slightly crooked from years of exposure to the elements. Round hay bales lie across the fields in neat rows.

The closer you get to the village, the busier it becomes. Cars pass you, all heading in the same direction. A little farther on, families with children get out at a large parking lot and continue on foot in small groups.

You pull out your phone again. The blue dot on the map is almost on top of your destination.

This must be it.

A long line has formed at the entrance. Estonian is being spoken all around you. Families, groups of friends, young and old.

Beside the entrance, two young women sit behind a small table. In front of them is a container for money and a stack of green paper wristbands.

When it’s your turn, you step forward.

“Hello, I heard there’s a Midsummer festival here tonight. Is that right?”

“Yes, it is. Welcome! It’s five euros.”

You take a five-euro bill from your wallet and place it on the table. One of the women picks up a green wristband and carefully fastens it around your wrist.

“Enjoy Jaanipäev,” she says with a wink.

You walk past the table and onto the festival grounds.

On the left is a small food truck. Through the open window, you spot a refrigerator filled with cold cans. A Coke. Exactly what you need.

The first sip cools you down instantly. You wipe the sweat from your forehead with your hand and look around.

In front of you stands a wooden barn that serves as a stage. Local residents sit at long picnic tables facing it.

A short man wearing a cap and sunglasses walks forward and picks up the microphone. He says a few words, his voice echoing across the grounds.

A moment later, he starts speaking enthusiastically in Estonian.

You don’t understand a word.

When he finishes, applause rises from the picnic tables. People turn toward the stage as the first musicians pick up their instruments.

Then the band starts to play.

A cheerful folk melody fills the grounds. Couples step forward and begin to dance. A little later, the Midsummer bonfire is lit.

People in the crowd clap along to the rhythm of the music. Children swing on the playground beside the village hall, while a little farther away, two teams pull against each other on a thick rope. People standing around them laugh and cheer them on.

You hardly notice that you’re an outsider here.

Everything feels so easygoing.

The music stops, and the man in the cap begins speaking again.

One by one, people in traditional clothing step forward from the crowd. The women wear white linen blouses with colorful embroidery and long striped skirts that sway gently with every step. Their hair is pinned up beneath caps decorated with long ribbons. The men wear knee-length trousers, woolen knee socks, and felt hats.

It feels as though the festival has suddenly stepped back in time.

The music starts again, and they begin to dance, moving rhythmically and perfectly in sync. Their colorful clothing swirls with every step.

Then the final note sounds. The dancers come to a stop together and bow deeply to the crowd.

Applause erupts all around you. You clap along, then glance at your watch.

Time to walk back.

At the food truck, you order some fries for the walk. With the warm paper cone in your hand, you leave the festival grounds. You give one last wave to the two young women, who are now completely caught up in the festivities.

Above the fields, the sky turns deep red. You follow the sandy path alongside the farmland as crickets call from the tall grass. Not a single car passes you. Behind you, the music grows softer and softer until only a distant melody drifts across the fields.

You fish the last fry from the paper cone, dip it in mayonnaise, and stop for a moment.

Ahead of you, the fields lie in the last warm light of the day. The sun almost touches the horizon, but seems to linger there.

As if the day isn’t ready to say goodbye just yet.