Letters from 68 degrees, Kiruna

New year, new strategies. I’ve been thinking of changing some of the ways we respond to people enquiring about staying with us. Understandably people want to know what they’re getting when they come, not some wish-washy description which means they’re booking into something unknown, into something which frankly might not be worth the money.

This year’s conversations might go like this:

‘You want to know whether you’ll be able to see the northern lights when you come, between the 18th and 21st February? Let me see – I’ll look it up for you….

‘Ah. Here it is. 18th February, no northern lights at all, that’s a pity. Now let’s see – ah – but on the 19th and 20th February there will be northern lights! That’s lucky isn’t it? What time were you wanting to see them? Did you have a preference?

‘After 8pm? That might be possible on the 19th, but it looks like on the 20th they’ll only be appearing around 6pm, sorry about that. Could you possibly re-schedule your restaurant trip so you could go out to look for them a bit earlier?

‘No? Ok, it’ll have to be the 19th then. Now, what kind of northern lights did you want to see? Pink or green?

‘Pink, oh. Sorry, only greenish ones forecast. But a little bit of yellow on the 20th, how would that be?

‘Green and yellow it is then. And would that be curtains, you were wanting, or wavy lines?

‘Curtains, swishing sideways. Yes, I think we can do curtains on the 19th. No, hang on – damn – these are curtains with strong vertical movements, and you wanted sideways swishing, blast.

‘…..It’s quite nice, though, the vertical. Quite popular these days. I think you might like it. What do you think – would vertical curtains be ok for you?

‘You wanted them with the pink mixed in? I’d like to help you out but I really don’t think we can do that. I tell you what though – how about we throw in some shooting stars instead? I see there will be some around 8pm that night. Green curtains with a touch of yellow and strong vertical movement, and shooting stars – very tasteful.

‘Oh good, that’s fixed then. We look forward to seeing you on the 18th.’

I had the idea we might just go and sit in one of the ‘resting huts’ which provide shelter for walkers and passers-by in bad conditions. I was hoping no-one else would have the same idea, since the one I had in mind wasn’t far from town – but then who else would choose to go and sit in a hut with no electricity or water in the middle of nowhere on New Year’s Eve?

On the way there we spotted three moose by the roadside. The snow was deep and they waded through it towards us, their legs barely visible. They stopped and looked at us. We stopped and looked at them. Then we all moved on.

At the hut all was quiet – the moonlight led the way up the snow path to the dark little wooden building, and the door creaked as we pulled it open and peered around with a torch.

We were in the hut a couple of hours, watching the fire we’d made, eating crisps, drinking glögg, peering out of the chocolate box windows at the moonlit frozen river outside. Standing outside we could also hear the rushing water which refused to lie down and freeze.

We could have sat at home in the dark and been a lot warmer, but you can’t beat the feeling of bringing candlelight and fire into a cold, dark hut – it’s the contrast that brings the glow. The three bears could have had their breakfast porridge here, and think they’d sneaked into someone’s house. For us, too, being here is like playing house – it feels like it must belong to someone but we don’t know who. Any moment the bear that owns it could storm through it’s door waving its black paws and baring its teeth. All there is to do is look out the windows, or at the fire, and huddle together in the dark, waiting to see who comes. Fortunately, or unfortunately, no-one does.

It was hard to tear ourselves away from the hut’s mysterious quietness, but we had a plan to head out to the Ice Hotel for midnight. There we would find hammy dramatics, people clutching cell phones and bottles of bubby, fireworks, and a sense of being at a party. We were loathe to leave the hut, and this feeling of being at home in a strange place, for the mayhem of a New Year’s Eve celebration.

We packed up, blew out the candles and carried everything back out to the car.

Ten minutes up the road we saw the three moose we’d seen on the way out. Now they’d settled down for the night – spreading out in hollows in the snow, lying on their sides, their heads sunk deep into their necks, their bodies pressed against crusty white pillows. The moonlight was bright enough for them to read by. Clearly they were very much at home.