By the time we finished, refreshed and damp, it was dark, and we wandered back through the fields, through clouds of midges buzzing lazily in the twilight, through the trees with sleeping birds and waking owls, through the dirt path beneath a darkening sky speckled with stars. On a clear night we could always see the stars here, piercingly bright against the darkness, constellations in every direction, telling the stories of gods and goddesses, warriors and beasts. These were the same stars that had been observed for thousands of years by human civilisations, stretching out over our heads in their glittering array, older than the earth itself.
CHAPTER NINE
Midnight Sun
There was a kestrel hovering on our runway, floating over the grass verge between the taxi point and the flight path, seemingly oblivious to the 300 tonnes of aluminium and carbon fibre hurtling past every few minutes. I was sitting on a Boeing 737 at Gatwick airport, and our plane was currently in a queue of several other aircraft waiting their turn to heave onto the runway and leap off into the sky. I’d already eaten all my Starburst and my phone was switched to aeroplane mode so, with nothing better to do, I waited and watched the kestrel floating like a drone over a bleak patch of grass in the middle of the concrete.
Kestrels are the only birds of prey in Britain to hover in mid-air, although buzzards sometimes manage to catch the wind current and float in one place, wings folded right back into an ‘M’ shape. For those who enjoy a little motorway birding (my most likely cause of death), it is the kestrel that is usually seen on the edge of the road, wings beating, unmoving while it lingers in one spot over a rodent on the ground, waiting for the perfect moment to dive down and snatch it. It’s yet another example of how nature has perfected the creation of birds, their aerodynamic body shapes inspiring many of the man-made flying machines we have attempted to build for ourselves over the last few centuries.
I watched the kestrel dangle over the grass, uninterested in the gigantic metal beasts rolling by that looked vaguely like other birds. It floated, impossibly still like a paused video screen, before suddenly tumbling from the sky to capture its prey. Before I could watch it emerge again, our plane started to move, and I settled into my seat to prepare for my next 1,600km journey across Denmark and Sweden, over to the vast forests and glistening lakes of southern Finland.
It had been six months since I travelled alone to Tromsø in Arctic Norway. Six months since I watched the aurora borealis dance across the sky, eider ducks huddled on the water beneath the golden glow of the Ishavskatedralen. Now I was flying to the Finnish capital of Helsinki, renewed and at peace with the world that was disappearing below me as we rose higher into the clouds. I suppose the best word to describe the last year of my life would be ‘intense’, but even now the cloud of doubt and misery that had swept over the previous autumn and winter was vanishing from memory. I felt like a moth emerged from its chrysalis; life as a caterpillar had been sweet enough, but now I could see everything with new eyes, a veil had been lifted.
I’ll be the first to admit I have a little obsession with Scandinavian culture. Geographically Finland is not actually part of Scandinavia, and culturally they haven’t made their mind up either. Half the population claim they are advocates of the Scandi lifestyle, but the other half say it is the Nordic culture they are most associated with. I’m not bothered about the label; it’s the ethos behind the societies of Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Iceland and Finland that I’m most drawn to, all of which rate consistently high in the UN’s annual World Happiness Report. In Britain, it’s fair to say we are in the midst of a Scandi cultural takeover, but there’s more to their happiness than beards, minimalism and lots of coffee. Our bookshops are filled with little hardback guides to Nordic living, from the cosy comfort of Danish hygge to the art of balanced living with Swedish lagom. They may just be stocking-filler books with beautiful illustrations, but they give us a glimpse into a more peaceful way of living that many of us might neglect.
In Finland it’s all about sisu – the ancient art of courage, resilience and grit in the face of adversity. According to sisu, the challenges of life should be faced thus: personal wellbeing should take priority; communication between friends and family should be clear and effective; a healthy mind and body should be maintained; children should be raised as kind and resilient little people; and (my favourite part of all) we should fight for what we believe in to make the world a better place. In 1940 Time magazine called it ‘the ability to keep fighting after most people would have quit’, and it was this that first drew me to perhaps the fiercest of the Nordic countries, and one that is seriously engaged with social and environmental issues.
Aside from its Nordic charm, however, I soon realised that Finland has an identity entirely of its own. Every sign was written in both Finnish and Swedish, and I was amazed at how different they sound. Having listened to my sister and her friends speak Norwegian, I ignorantly assumed Finnish would sound similar, but in reality it seems to have more of a Russian twang, despite Finnish and Russian being from different language families. It still sounds beautiful (as most languages do to those who don’t speak them), but the bouncing softness of Norwegian and Swedish is replaced by a harder edge that seems to resonate with the complexities of Finland’s Soviet history.
I arrived in Helsinki and found my way to the apartment I had hired in the city suburbs, where I dropped my things, made a quick coffee and headed back out into the hot, bright weather of the Finnish midsummer. This was the reason I had travelled here for a long weekend in June. Every year across the Nordic countries, even as far south as Helsinki, the summer months are illuminated by the midnight sun, a natural phenomenon where the sun barely sets and the sky never goes fully dark. In Tromsø, where I had been immersed in the polar night just six months before, the sun would remain in the sky from May to July, and the sky would now be drenched in the blood-orange tint of eternal sunset. Knut Hamsun wrote in his novel Pan how it was like the sun had dropped into the sea for a drink, and returned again, refreshed. Here in Helsinki, the sun would at least disappear beneath the horizon, but by such a small amount that even at one o’clock in the morning the sky would be alight with the first greyness of dawn, the birds already awake.
The heat of the morning had quickly climbed to 23°C, so I decided to embrace the midsummer weather by exploring the shaded forests outside the city. Two bus journeys and one train ride later, I reached Nuuksio National Park, a 53km2 collection of lakes and woods spread out across the regions of Espoo, Kirkkonummi and Vihti. I had heard the forests here were bursting with wildlife and I was desperate to explore, inspired by the ancient Finnish hikers’ code of jokamiehenoikeus (literally ‘every man’s right’) that offers everyone the right to roam through public and private spaces as long as the land is respected. It took me a while to resist the idea that I might be trespassing on people’s land, but with the encouraging smiles of the one or two other hikers I encountered along the way, I soon relaxed into a state of exploration, liberated from the constraints of fences and signposts, free to discover new spaces and hidden slices of wilderness. At two different points I got lost; in a country covered by 75 per cent forest (in Britain it is currently 12 per cent), when you’re not following a path it is remarkably easy to become totally disorientated, lose phone signal, get eaten by giant ants and stumble knee-deep into what looks like a dried up riverbed, all before remembering that Finland is also home to wolves, bears, lynx, wild boar and racoon dogs.
I survived nonetheless, walking for 16km through coniferous groves, lakesides and well-worn dirt paths to find hazel grouse, wrynecks, three-toed woodpeckers and a pile of elk droppings (although sadly, no elk). I spent most of the day scouring the forest floor in search of yellow and orange rice-shaped droppings, hoping they would lead me to the nesting spots of Nuuksio’s mascot species, which was being successfully conserved here with help from the park team: the Siberian flying squirrel. Sadly I didn’t find one – they are famously elusive and primarily noctur
nal – but they are one of the cutest species I’m aware of. The park was full of illustrated signboards displaying their fuzzy grey faces, large black eyes and tiny paws, recognisable for the patagium membrane that stretches from wrist to ankle and allows them to glide silently through the trees.
By eight o’clock in the evening I was full of that glorious exhaustion that comes from a cocktail of fresh air, sunshine and sweat. I reached the visitor-centre shop just before it closed, and was now sipping a cold bilberry juice by the side of the lake, watching a pair of fieldfares rustle around in the shrubs at the water’s edge. Like redwings, fieldfares are also winter visitors to Britain, where they migrate over from colder regions to find food and shelter in the milder climate of the UK. By spring, most fly away and return to their home countries of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. I was now watching them in their summer habitat and it was wonderful, like interrupting them on their summer holiday. With mottled plumage of greys and browns, they are beautiful birds all year round, but there was something about watching them play in the sunshine that brought them to life. For a bird that is usually seen against the drab, frostbitten backdrop of the British winter, here the reflected light of sun on silver birch shone down on their feathers and seemed to revitalise them, and it was easy to imagine that they too were celebrating the height of midsummer, the warmth and magic of the endless midnight sun.
With a purple tongue I finished my juice and checked the Helsinki transport app on my phone. By my calculations, I had two hours to reach the bus stop and jump on the last bus back to Espoo, where I could then take the all-night train back to Helsinki. Plenty of time to walk back through the forest and up to the main road. I hoisted my rucksack, double-checked the route and started walking, turning to the lake one last time before I disappeared into the trees. Eight o’clock was barely early evening in midsummer Finland, but something had changed in the air, and despite the usual brightness of the sun I could tell it had started its long, slow descent beyond the horizon. It would be several hours until the sky grew vaguely dark, but already it had shifted from white-blue to the palest lilac, marking the beginning of the short night.
I continued walking towards the flashing beacon on my phone, looking around every few seconds in the hope of finding the flying squirrels that I was certain would float down in front of my face like an autumn leaf. No squirrels, but after a few minutes of walking I heard something else instead, a sound that I half-hoped might belong to another species I had wanted to find on my journey into these woods. Earlier I had followed the unmistakable drumming of a woodpecker, leading me up a steep slope to a grove in which I found a three-toed woodpecker prancing about on a birch tree, hammering at the wood to announce its presence to the rest of the forest. It looked just like one of our spotted ones at first, but then I noticed a faded yellow smudge on the crown of its head, a darker wing and much denser spots along the back. I watched it linger on the trunk of the tree, hammering every few minutes but otherwise gazing around to see if its fellow woodland creatures were suitably intimidated, until I retreated carefully back down the slope to the path. I had learned my lesson, and did not want to get lost a third time or be eaten by a large, toothed mammal.
Now I could hear the same sound again – that incessant hammering reverberating through the trees – but this time it was different. The three-toed woodpecker was small, and consequently its drumming was higher pitched and tinny. This was another bird, and I was almost certain I knew which one. The drumming was deeper, heavier, echoing through the forest and into my heart muscle in two-second bursts, like when we used to flick a ruler on the edge of the desk at school and wait for it to stop vibrating. But trying to find a woodpecker is difficult for a number of reasons. For one, they only drum in short bursts so most of the time you are following silence; for another, they usually sit perfectly still, so you have to hope they have settled low down on the nearest side of the tree, or you’ll be trapped in a maddening vortex of drumming without ever finding the source.
I picked up my pace and started following the sound through the trees, trying to avoid the crunchiest mounds of leaves and dead moss so that my presence might go undetected. Through towering birch trunks and rotting stumps, past hidden lagoons and granite rocks I climbed further into the forest, following the woodpecker hammering on the wind, until at last, after a long hike away from the dirt path, I reached a valley of conifers and silver birch trees so tall that only the crown of the canopy could reach sunlight, bathed in the soft peach tones of the sinking sun. In the time I had been walking, the sun had continued to drop lower and lower in the sky, so in the gaps between the trees I could now see a pearlescent mauve fading into blush, spreading out across the heavens. Below this, the trees were already draped in shadow, and in a cluster of lower branches a gang of long-tailed tits dangled like toffee apples.
This was where the woodpecker had taken me, and in the dying light beneath the trees I could still hear, every now and then, the same deep drumming echoing through the valley. The forest acted like an amphitheatre, and it took a long time to gauge where the sound might be coming from, tilting my head back and forth like a barn owl. Eventually I followed it up one side of the valley, clambering over rocks and roots, not daring to stop for more than five seconds lest the bastard wood ants bit me again. Up and up the hill until finally I came to the summit, where a clearing had formed in the trees and the floor was layered with granite slabs and dead moss. Here the drumming was so close that I could feel it in my head, along my bones and echoing out through the pores of my skin. Where was it? I knew it was within reaching distance, but the trees were bare. I moved towards a large conifer and, in doing so, stepped on a thick swathe of dried moss, which crunched deliciously underfoot and broke the peace of the evening air – and there!
In my clumsiness I had finally spooked the woodpecker out of his hiding place, and in the clearing, just feet from where I stood, appeared a bird that was both so beautiful and so strikingly menacing that I could only utter ‘Oh’ and take a small step backwards.
I knew that black woodpeckers were frequently cast as the villains of European folk tales, but until now I didn’t know why. In front of me was a space encircled by trees, and through that space now glided a spectre: a ghoulish, shining beast with a long, ivory bill and piercing yellow eyes like pools of liquid gold. The feathers were black, shimmering in the evening light, and on the crown of its head a crimson tuft shone bright against the shadows of the trees, a red flag of passion, of terror. But it wasn’t the feathers or the eyes that made me recoil, nor the tuft like a smear of blood. Unlike the wavering, bounding flight of the woodpeckers at home, laughing across the fields and farmlands like a hooligan, this giant bird was almost motionless in flight, gliding through the grove with wings outstretched, head raised, eyes focused. It was perhaps the head that caused me to feel so uncomfortable; most birds fly with their heads down, streamlined and smooth, but this creature looked twisted, contorted into a pose like a waxwork figure. I was reminded of a Nazgûl, those foul wraiths from The Lord of the Rings that, when unhorsed at the Ford of Bruinen, continue to haunt Frodo and Samwise on their winged, serpentine fellbeasts.
Perhaps if I’d had time to observe the woodpecker more closely, the horror would have faded and I would have memorised the beauty of its glossy feathers, the strength of its bill and the intelligence captured in the curve of its eye. But my time with the bird was momentary; within seconds it had swept across the forest in front of me, eyes fixed on the trees ahead, moving but motionless in flight. As fast as it arrived, the woodpecker disappeared into the darkness and, after a few seconds of silence, that bewitching drum started beating through the air once more, the voice of a haunted spirit fixed to its birch totem.
Stepping over a pile of elk droppings, I climbed back through the valley and down to the dirt path. The night had drawn in quickly, and through the trees I could now see the sun touching the horizon, a great golden light oozing through the forest, casting ev
erything into a bronze glow. The sunset was slow here, an everlasting haze of warm light dancing off the leaves, the earth, the rippling lakes. Back home, the sunset would signal the end of the day, a time for rest and peace, but here it felt different; the forest was drawing me back in, away from the busy beauty of the city and into the nocturnal world of a woodland lit up by the half-light of a sky that never truly darkens. Why go home when the forest never sleeps?
I had been chasing the woodpecker for longer than I thought, and it didn’t take much to realise that even if I reached the road in time, I had now missed the last bus back. Not the greatest feeling if I were in the woods back home, let alone a strange country with more trees than rollmops. I resisted panicking – such a waste of time – and instead accepted that I could do nothing but start to walk the three-and-a-half-hour journey back to the train station in Espoo, from where I could get an all-night train back to Helsinki and home. A ridiculous plan, but I refused to pay for an extortionate taxi and thought I might be able to get a lift on the way, so I started the long trek home with the most cheerful disposition I could manage and a slight hunger in my belly – a celebration of sisu if ever there was one. At least it wouldn’t be dark for my journey, and for 20 minutes I walked along the road under a lilac sky, listening out for owls or bats, swatting away the odd mosquito that dared to come close. And then, like a saviour in the night, along came the first car I’d encountered, and I did what they do in the cartoons and waved it down. The driver was a very Finnish-looking man called Colin, around my age and quite good-looking (although with a hint of Nazi Rolfe from The Sound of Music), and he offered to drive me all the way back to the train station.
He asked me about England and told me he had only been there once, to Birmingham for a team-building weekend with the construction company he worked for in the summer. In winter he ran a ski slope outside Helsinki; we had to drive there first to unload some equipment, and the place looked bleak without snow or skiers. I told him about my day in the forest and how I was disappointed not to find any flying squirrels, but he pointed out that he had lived here his whole life without seeing one, which was some consolation. We talked about the forest and how lovely Finland was, and he told me how everybody migrated to Helsinki from the north, which was a shame because the rest of the country was so beautiful but empty of people who could support the local communities there. I told him about my interest in the midnight sun and he indicated it was a season of joy and exuberance; he and his friends would be going fishing later that night long into the early hours of the next morning.
Dark Skies Page 16