The Snail, Auguste and I are on a boat, heading for the North Pole. We will, of course, turn and miss by a few hundred miles but it still has that feeling of adventure, of entering into the unknown, the exact unknown we went to two and a half years ago (but not Auguste, his passport wasn’t ready for that trip). Then, it was polar night, the sun was shy to shine and it was the type of cold that makes your bones snuggle down under your skin, trying to remember the feel of warmer climes.
Now it is spring and the sun is like that guest at a party that, whilst great to have there, insists on staying until every other guest has left, drinks the last of the decent whisky and then demands breakfast, before deciding to move in for 6 months*.
Actually, we are going to Kirkenes, somewhere I hope we don’t miss by a hundred miles, or even one. We won’t, unlike the sun, stay there long but it gives me a chance to check out the feel of the place again as I try to finish Kirkenes Blue. The novel was supposed to be done and dusted by now; indeed Auguste was going to be leaving a copy of that in the library of the MS Trollfjord instead of BATDIG as he is going to do very soon – he just has to finish reading it first.
Although it is becoming colder as we head further North, the days are becoming longer which means that, by the time we reach Kirkenes, there will be about 22 hours of usable daylight every day. Already, the sun isn’t really setting as such, just going through the motions.
So, the three of us slowly head towards the point where we turn around and head south again, with the sun slowly realising there are no more twiglets to be had, no more rum to be punched.
Slow is good**. We like slow.
* It happens. I’ll say no more.
**Except possibly when you’re trying to upload a blog post from the middle of a fjord via a damp piece of string.