“The train continued on its way to Rīga. I could not peel my eyes from the window. On some hillock, an old friend from long-gone days rushed towards me: the grey rock. A sight for sore eyes after stone-less Siberia. Beside the large one, two smaller ones. One more. Another one. Now, this is the homeland! Homeland, in which my near and dear long-unseen rocks are greeting me. In Siberia, we felt the lack of rocks keenly, that is why they touched me so deeply now. The Latvian has grown up so symbiotically with the rock, just as he has with his land and his sky. I remembered a scene Pumpurs had described, about some refugee who had embraced the rock in the forest meadow of his home with both arms, pressed his forehead against its cold forehead, stopped suffering, and started being joyful. The land is the same. What had changed were the circumstances and people who also called it their own. A”