Shanetz sounds like a word for a small redoubt, and that is roughly what these coastal forts were: low, squat batteries put on islets and spits to cover the fairways into the Gulf of Finland. This one lies in the western approaches of Kotlin, on the shoals north of the island, and it belongs to the great ring of defences that earned Kronstadt its nickname as the key to Petersburg. The forts earned their keep during the Crimean War, when Allied ships came up the Baltic, took a look at the defences and decided not to risk an attack.
Today the site has the look of a place left behind. The brickwork stands in the water, covered in weed and algae, and the casemates are open to the wind. Gulls nest on the parapets. What you notice most, standing near the edge of the shore, is the silence: the sea slapping at stones, the creak of reeds, a faraway ship's engine. In misty light the forts hang in the haze like ships that have run aground.
Approach matters more than technique here. Roads to the coast are narrow and often broken at the edges, with sandy patches that appear without warning, so keep your speed down and watch for loose gravel. The land is flat as a table and the gulf wind reaches you fully. If you have the choice, come on a calm day or in the evening, when the light turns the water to copper.
Kronstadt, a little over six kilometres away, is where you fill the tank and eat. It has around forty-three thousand people, a handful of cafes, a famous dry dock and a sombre history of naval mutiny, most notably the uprising of 1921. Military zones here have opened and closed over the years, so check current information before riding out to a specific point. Take warm layers and a flask, because even a sunny day can turn raw once the wind comes in off the water.