Northern Lights over Tromsø | Picture Bård Løken | Visitnorway.com
It was my brother’s “big birthday” and, at his request, the family gathered at his house in Puglia to celebrate. I was excited at the prospect of visiting the shapely heel of Italy and what was once the gateway to the Aegean. I was looking forward to great pasta, fine wine, and an abundance of local produce drizzled with fresh olive oil. It wasn’t to be. When those beautiful models of the moment whisper softly that “unspoilt Puglia” is their favourite retreat, I now think that they must mean from civilization.
I can live with the surprise that, here, al dente means uncooked; that, when it comes to driving, vite means so much more than quickly; and that all the hotels are closed for August. However, the midday monsoon, the near non-existent opening hours, and the fact that the only oil that isn’t served in a sachet is from a gas station all make me think that Puglia’s beauty is so well hidden as to be undetectable. This heel is more of a club foot. The food is dry, the shops – when open – are extortionately expensive, the villages are desolate and the beaches smell of sewage. My BF and I went to see if the nearby seaside town had beaches that didn’t smell of poo, but when we got there we found a bleak stretch of sand with a dog on it. A dead dog.
Fortunately the Italians did live up to my expectations when it came to the roads. “Oh, it’s Luciano and Giuseppe,” I think, just before my head hits the windscreen as our tiny Fiat is involved in a head-on collision with some locals. When I wake up in hospital with a broken sternum and three broken ribs, the relief is incredible. “Thank God. I can finally go home.”
When I wake up in hospital with a broken sternum and three broken ribs, the relief is incredible. “Thank God. I can finally go home.”
So, when my own birthday-ending-in-a-zero was looming, my BF suggested we go somewhere with guaranteed moisture, and a lot of it: Tromsø, in Norway, in January. At least if it was awful it’d be so dark we’d only see half of it. But Norway is wonderful, and where to see the Northern Lights. Everyone is nice and polite, with wonderful skin and names like Loki and Thor. No wonder they live in a world where their pavements are heated. Unfortunately their world also consists of persistent random falls on ice, and cars that slide right across the street toward you: at once both hilarious and calamitous.
What isn’t funny at all is the price of everything. We stopped for coffee and cake at Aunegarden: it cost more than I make in a month. My BF had to have a stiff drink before he can make it to the till without shaking.
Luckily, we’d booked the whole trip through Expedia, so bagged a bargain. We were staying at the modern Radisson Blu, in a room overlooking the harbour and – most pleasingly for me – the aforementioned heated pavements. A European breakfast was included, which also makes for an ideal English lunch. After the sting of Aunegarden the day before, we stowed food away in our rucksack and took it everywhere, feeling like characters from Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
Kautokeino, Finnmark | Picture Terje Rakke/Nordic Life | Visitnorway.com
We booked a Northern Lights-chasing bus tour, a dog sled ride and a trip down through the fjords on a Coastal Steamer run by Hurtigruten. It takes a five hour bus journey and two ferry crossings just to get to the departure point of Skjervøy. In January, it’s only light for a few hours a day, so I spent much of the time staring intently at my own reflection in the bus window. Ingmar Bergman, eat your heart out.
The Hurtigruten boat is a little more low-budget cross-Channel ferry in style than I’d expected, but since we were wearing every piece of thermal clothing we owned, we were happy to remain on deck, Canadian goose hats clamped down over our ears and mittens tight round our hands. Perseverance paid off: an hour into the journey the sky was illuminated by auras that could have been designed by Munch and choreographed by Pina Bausch. Luminescent greens, mauves and pinks flickered and danced overhead, swooped in as if to attack, then danced up and away into the night sky. It really was breathtaking, astounding and incredibly beautiful. It lasts for minutes on end, before dying away and then unexpectedly surging back, finally getting lost in the ambient lights of Tromsø. It was two in the morning when we docked, but the excitement had got to us. We headed to the balcony bar of the grand Rica Ishavshotel for a glass of champagne. To hell with the cost!
When we returned to base for reindeer stew in a yurt we sensed the pilot was feeling the anxiety of the Non-Seer. “When do we get to see the lights?” he asked our guide, as though they were available on speed dial
The following afternoon, we’d become aurora-hunters. We were in a minibus full of Japanese tourists carrying enough camera equipment to cover the Olympics, chasing clear skies with Kjetil Skogli, a professional Northern Lights stalker. In the far distance, the elusive phenomenon broke over the night sky, so we pulled over. The Japanese snapped hundreds of photographs in the shortest space of time before throwing themselves to the ground to make Snow Angels for an hour. Then they climbed back on the minibus and promptly fell asleep.
The next night was a very different experience. “You stand here, hold these and jump on this to stop. And whatever you, do don’t let go.” These were the only instructions for driving a pack of eight sled dogs across country (and the “this” in question a metal bar with a couple of spikes in it). I worried that I wouldn’t be capable, but I was too scared to say so. Scared my BF would lose his rag: the sled ride had cost us £300. It took some minutes to get the hang of it, holding on for dear life while jumping up and down on the brake, but it soon became blissful, magical and possibly the most romantic experience ever. It’s not just the expanse of blue mountain before you, but the sheer silence. The only noise was the polite crunch of dog paws on crisp snow, and the odd creak of the sled that, like a ship, moaned and groaned as wood and rope fought against each other.
We shared our sled ride with our German guide and the Odd Couple: an easyJet pilot from Essex, travelling with his uncle. As they drew near us they shouted, “Wow, they stink!” They meant the dogs, and they were right – boy, do they reek. That was something our Lyngsfjord guide might have warned us about. When we returned to base for reindeer stew in a yurt we sensed the pilot was feeling the anxiety of the Non-Seer. “When do we get to see the lights?” he asked our guide, as though they were available on speed dial. “I think this is it,” I offered. “Wow,” he said again. I guessed he’d have said the same if he had seen them.
The last night was my actual birthday, so we returned to Aunegarden to sample the savoury delights of the wonderful cake house. It’s an old, rickety property, spread across several levels, with lots of cozy nooks and crannies. We chose the most secluded table, up some stairs and across a little bridge, and ordered smoked reindeer with mountain cranberry. Tired of all the stairs, the waitress shouted up the dessert menu and my BF maxed out his credit card by ordering a liqueur.
On the final morning, we chose the brightest hour to take the cable car to Mount Storsteinen for the spectacular view of the landscape. It’s barren and beautiful. It looks like the edge of the world and gives you the fear that you might fall off. We had our photograph taken by a local, who was showing his American friends around. He pointed out the shadow of the earth in the onset of cloud. “Wow,” his friends gasped, and I had to agree. Norway really is a “wow!” – a priceless wow.