Riding the Artic Highway Norway to Sweden

As we arrived in Sweden we could feel the aurora approaching – the light tipping from dusk to dark is a long, aching stretch of time this far north. When the time came and the night beckoned us, we drove into the darkness to follow the curve of the mountain.

Clustered in the car we watched the first strands of the aurora blaze, followed by wispy strokes of lucid green, dragged across rippling stars over a black blanket of sky. Smudges deepened, light crackled in a ziggy star dust dance, shattering shards of tangy greens as sharp as limes. Stars prickled in that black sea of green curling serpents. The north gods flashing fire crackers from ancient fists. White frost biting. The taste of cold hollow in the mouth. A huge artic hare stared into the headlights with eyes as wide as Alice’s, the curtains of the day drawing to a theatrical close.

A land where earth turns to lake, liminal to the eye with the illusions of white solidity, perceivable only in its flat polished lines. The liminality of land and waters evoke the Norfolk broad of my homeland – alien and foreign to this frozen, white and chiselled land.


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