Kronstadt is a naval town on an island, and nothing about it feels like anywhere else in Russia. Kotlin lies about thirty kilometres west of the centre of St Petersburg, a long thin island of some twelve kilometres, and when Peter's engineers decided to close the sea approaches in the early eighteenth century they did it with timber. The barrier of cribwork was a line of log cribs filled with stone, sunk across the shallow channels so that enemy ships could only pass under the guns, and this label points to that engineering memory rather than to anything you can ride up to and touch. The cribs rotted or were buried long ago, and the sea lanes are now marked by fort islands and the modern dam.
Today you reach Kronstadt by the ring road across the flood barrier, which has a tunnel-and-bridge section at the navigation gaps, and an entry checkpoint, so carry your passport and any registration papers, and check current rules before you plan the day. Kronstadt is a closed-style naval base with an open town, which is a strange mix. The streets are broad and straight, laid out on a Petrine grid, and the old port is quiet.
Look for the great naval cathedral, finished in 1913 with its pale dome that you can see from far out in the gulf, and for the Italian Palace, built for Prince Menshikov. The town was the base of the Baltic Fleet, the starting point of Russian polar and round-the-world expeditions, and in March 1921 it was the scene of a sailors' revolt against the Bolsheviks, crushed by troops who crossed the frozen gulf. Admiral Makarov, who pushed icebreaker design, is honoured by a monument.
Kronstadt has about forty-three thousand people, so fuel, cafes and shops are no trouble, and the town is flat and easy for a bike. The cobbles in the old quarter are rough, and wind off the water can be raw even in June. The best hour for a ride is the evening, when the low sun lights the fort silhouettes on the horizon and the fishermen on the quays are packing up their rods.