Dark Skies

by Tiffany Francis-Baker

  When I finally arrived back in Helsinki city centre it was nearing 2am, and the streets were filled with Saturday-nighters flitting between bars, dancing in the street with bottles in hand, the strange half-light illuminating their faces. The city was alive, as though every resident was trying to forget the long, dark winter by soaking up every drop of sunshine released into the sky, desperate not to miss one moment of it. It was a wonderful atmosphere, and if I hadn’t hiked 16km, been bitten to death and been wearing hiking boots, I would have been tempted to immerse myself in it. As it was, I was utterly exhausted and dreaming of a hot shower, but before nearing the bus station for the final leg of my journey home, there was still one thing I needed to do. A few months previously, I’d read about the new McVegan burger being trialled in Finland, and I couldn’t waste the opportunity to indulge the more depraved, heart-attack-inducing side of my taste buds. I found a 24-hour McDonalds, loaded up on chips and scoffed my burger on the bus back home. It was, unfortunately, thoroughly delicious, and as I forced chips and Coke into my mouth like a sleepy pig, my mind floated back to the woodpecker drumming away in Nuuksio, miles from the noise of the city, echoing through a silent forest where fieldfares danced in the sunlight and squirrels drifted through the air like ethereal feathers.

  I rolled out of the bus at around 3am, and started the slow walk back through the park, along the road and over to my apartment. The air was sweet, and I glanced around in confusion at where the aroma was coming from, before realising the roadsides were planted with swathes of wild rose bushes bursting with bright-pink flowers. The early-morning light had already encouraged their petals to spread, and from the centre oozed that delicate fragrance that makes the world smell like Turkish delight. I breathed in deeply as I walked, filling my lungs and brain with the scent, displacing the artificial horridness of my now-digesting McVegan burger and chips.

  The park was a circular, grassy space encircled by wildflowers, with an enormous mound in the centre that provided pleasant views of the fairly flat countryside on the outskirts of Helsinki. Somewhere in the distance I heard a horse neighing, and the birds continued to sing in the trees. Suddenly, I stopped. I had been gazing at a large rabbit on the other side of the park, sitting round and squat in the flowers, nibbling on a stem. I love rabbits, and remarked to myself how big this one was – and what long ears! And then I looked closer and realised it wasn’t a rabbit at all. I was so used to being in Britain, where a small mammal is likely to be a rabbit, that I didn’t even think it might be anything else – let alone a hare.

  A hare! My only real experience of a hare had been a fleeting glimpse down a green track one afternoon at home, and as soon as it had clocked me it was gone, vanishing into the hedgerow in a tangle of muscle. In Britain they are elusive creatures, not impossible to spot but certainly less observable than the rabbits lingering on motorway verges and flumping about allotments in search of greenery to loot. But to see a hare so openly here, in this suburban park on the outskirts of Helsinki, was so surreal that, combined with my aching legs and exhausted brain, I was overwhelmed with bewitchment.

  Just seconds after spotting the first one, I saw another come bounding over, a lolloping tangle of black-tipped ears, diamond eyes and velveteen feet. Soon they were joined by two more and, despite my tiredness, I couldn’t resist sinking into the grass to lie down on my front and watch them dance in the pale light of early morning. The first stayed in the wildflower verge, chomping on the long grass that concealed its body so that only the large eyes and ears stood out above the green. Two more spent their time racing around the park, leaping, play-fighting, squabbling over some conflict I would never understand. The fourth seemed more relaxed, languidly hopping across the grass with its long paws and hind legs almost dragging behind.

  Many of the folk tales in Britain about rabbits are in fact about the native hare, as rabbits were only introduced from Europe between the Roman and Norman periods. The Easter bunny itself is thought to be a hare – the consort to Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring – although there is very little historical evidence for this connection. The Iceni queen Boudicca famously kept a hare inside her tunic before a battle, and when she set it free the hare’s path was interpreted as an omen for their chances of victory. Due to their strong legs and sudden, powerful leaps, the hare has also been associated with dawn, new beginnings, rebirth, the lunar cycle, women and fertility. They were so closely associated with fertility, in fact, that it was Aristotle who first suggested they might be able to get pregnant while pregnant (something that has now been proven with modern science: a male can fertilise a female during the end of her pregnancy, but the embryos will only develop a few days before she is due to give birth, ready to move into the uterus after the first litter is born).

  For a while longer I watched the four hares tumbling around the park until at last, overwhelmed by sleep, I wandered back to the apartment for a hot shower and bed. The next day I woke late and lounged about until noon, recovering from the previous day’s expedition, before heading out to explore the vibrant city-centre streets of Helsinki. I found a flea market near the water’s edge selling all kinds of beautiful homeware, Finnish ceramics, Moomin paraphernalia and clothing. Fortunately for my bank balance, I had only brought an already bulging hand-luggage case, so I would be unable to buy everything my heart desired. In the end I settled for a sage-green enamel kettle, a retro ski jacket and a striped rug, all of which I somehow managed to cram into my suitcase later.

  The people here were in full summer swing, and a sense of joy radiated from everybody I spoke to. They seemed to nurture a stronger connection with nature than most other countries I had visited, combined with a proud environmentalism that meant the streets were clean and the public transport was excellent. Aside from the glitz of the central shopping centre, the minimalist essence of Nordic culture had resulted in a clutter-free existence away from consumerism that seemed to celebrate the bare essentials of happy living: good food, friendly conversation and lots of time spent outdoors, especially in summer when the nights were so short and the landscape was bursting with life and beauty. In Nuuksio the information boards warned against the usual things – don’t start fires, don’t get lost, don’t drown – but there were also large colourful panels dedicated to the things you could do. Foraging for wild food was encouraged, which I knew was a common part of Finnish culture, and the board pointed out a few plants and mushrooms that were good to eat in the depths of the forest. Dogs were welcome but required to be on leads to protect wildlife, particularly birds who build fragile nests on the ground that can so easily be trampled by dogs. Our wild spaces are for everyone to enjoy, but there was a sense of respect here, of living in harmony with the outdoors rather than treating it like an asset to serve our needs alone.

  By evening I had wandered back to the apartment to spend an hour or two relaxing indoors, catching up on emails and listening to the swifts pouring through the air outside. I swore they were even louder here than at home, but perhaps this was because I was on the fourth floor and more in line with their acrobatic displays. I opened the windows wide and watched as the birds cascaded through the sky, spinning and looping like trapeze artists, all the while sending out those fierce screams that had come to symbolise the long, hot days of summer at home, lolling about in the garden with an iced gin and cucumber. I felt sleepy, but the weather was still so beautiful outside that it felt wrong to be in the apartment, even though the idea of walking another kilometre might finish me off. So instead of exploring any more of the land, I decided to take the bus down to the shore and spend time with the water.

  It was only a half-hour journey to the coast, and ever since reading The Summer Book by the Finnish writer Tove Jansson, my mind had been swimming with archipelago landscapes, windswept islands in cerulean waters, driftwood washing up against dirt and sand. Jansson – one of my favourite women of all time – is perhaps better known for her children’s books than her adult fiction. Most of all
, she is known for her creation of the Moomins, a family of white, rotund creatures with large snouts who look like hippopotamuses and live a life of carefree adventure in their house in Moominvalley. I am unashamedly obsessed with them, not just for the beauty and sweet simplicity of their stories and illustrations, but for everything they represent: a life of love, joy and adventure lived outdoors in nature, epitomising all that is good and important in the world. As an author and painter, Jansson has long been a growing source of inspiration to me, and part of my excitement in visiting Finland was to experience for myself the landscapes that fuelled so much of her work. In her novel The Summer Book (or Sommarboken), she writes about an elderly woman and her granddaughter who spend one summer together on a small island in the Gulf of Finland, near to where Jansson herself grew up.

  The archipelago of Helsinki consists of around 330 islands, from sea fortresses and Viking defence points to foraging hotspots and nature reserves, while the city itself is known as the ‘Daughter of the Baltic Sea’. Many of the islands have become pleasant tourist destinations, particularly around midsummer when visitors can enjoy boat cruises, bonfires and endless parties under the glow of what they call the White Night. My bus took me down to Marjaniemi, just east of the city centre and close to the island of Iso Koivusaari. Unsurprisingly, there were a few other people here too, enjoying the evening weather and low sun streaming across the water. On a large rock jutting out to sea, a group of teenagers were drinking and laughing, and a few metres down a young couple were canoodling on a stone wall while the odd cyclist rolled past on a night-time ride in the twilight.

  I walked further down the beach, past a father and daughter playing in a rockpool beside a group of snoozing barnacle geese, until I came to a wooden platform sticking out into the sea and a flight of stairs descending straight into the water. Across the sea there was a tiny island, inhabited only by tall trees and one small wooden cabin painted crimson red with cream windows. I wondered who lived there, and whether it might feel isolated to be on an island all alone; then again, the boat trip would probably take just a few minutes – and what a peaceful place to retreat to, leaving behind the noise of the city with nothing but the wind in the trees and the sea foam lapping against the shore beneath an endless sky.

  The water was calm, its waves diffused by the islands so that the surface was a sheet of ripples moving with a slow tide. I noticed two swimmers floating along a line of red buoys, and speculated how cold the water might be. My only experience of Nordic temperatures had been the melted glacier water in the Norwegian fjords where we went white-water rafting, and in which we had to first complete a swimming test to prove we could cope if we fell out – which I did. Even in wetsuits the water in Norway had been bone-breakingly cold and, although the sun now shone encouragingly on my warm skin, I resisted taking the swimming costume out of my bag until one of the swimmers approached the shore and climbed up onto the stairs.

  ‘It’s very warm!’ he said with a friendly gesture, and I returned his smile with an unconvincing ‘Good!’ while guessing the Finnish idea of ‘warm’ might be slightly different to mine. But he did have kind eyes, and as he headed off home I decided to risk it. I love swimming outdoors, and although I am always afraid of the first hit of ice-cold water on my skin, I know how quickly the body numbs and adapts. Besides, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful spot to finish my weekend, to clean away the ant bites of Nuuksio, the heat of the city centre and the sunburn on my shoulders.

  I changed into my costume and left my bag on the side, not at all worried that someone might take it; Finland has one of the lowest crime rates in the world. As I approached the stairs I could see the other swimmer, a woman with short red hair, gliding away at the furthest point of the beach. I descended the first steps until I could feel water lapping at my toes, the soft squelch of algae slipping over the soles of my feet. One step, two step, and to my surprise the man had been right. Perhaps it was because the sunlight had been shining on the water for weeks or perhaps it was simply because the outside temperatures were so high, but it genuinely felt warm – far warmer than anywhere I’d been swimming in Britain that year. My usual cowardice at the slightest droplet of cold water melted away, and I wandered into the sea with a boldness quite unlike my usual self, until I was shoulder-deep in swirling blue waters under a majestic sky.

  It was a strange and beautiful experience; I was used to either swimming in rivers – fresh and wild but enclosed by the bank – or in the sea where the waves come at you like a slap in the face. In the archipelago it was different. I had expected salt water, but in truth it was neither fresh nor salty, instead an unfamiliar metallic flavour that was not unpleasant. And although there was a current moving through the water, revealed by tiny ripples like contour lines on a map, it was so gentle and slow that to swim against it was effortless. I allowed myself to bob up and down and watch how far the sea would take me. Perhaps the most joyful part of swimming here was the boundary – or lack of it. I was literally at sea, protected from the tempestuous Baltic only by a cluster of islands, but their strength meant that I could swim about in freedom, limited only by the horizon into which the sun was now sinking. There were no riverbanks, no flags warning of strong currents; just me and the water, floating around in the ocean with nothing but blue as far as I could see and oystercatchers crying out over my head.

  I spent the evening by the sea, water running between my fingers and toes, the pink light of the midnight sun glowing across the surface like silk. In the far distance I watched a swan gliding between two islands, and always in the sky I could hear the swifts screaming, seemingly oblivious to the time of night, confident only in the knowledge that sunlight meant summer and a time for being loud and alive. I spoke to my fellow swimmer and she was interested to hear about life in Britain. She told me she came here every evening to swim in the summer, to be outdoors and relieve the stresses of daily life. She joked that she couldn’t understand why people paid to go in swimming pools.

  I swam a few lengths along the line of bright buoys wobbling in the water, all the while watching the little islands, the vanishing sun, the black-headed gulls circling in the sky. It grew darker, and I felt a little sleepy. Leaving behind the sparkling sea of the archipelago, I gathered my things and wandered slowly back to the bus stop, pausing one last time to hear the swifts spiralling through the sky – the loud, glorious harbingers of summer, of growth, of new life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fern Owl

  I love cream teas. The crispy topping of a lemon-drizzle cake; thick blobs of fruity jam; a pot of bergamot tea. I’m not bothered about great English traditions like saluting the monarchy or flying flags, but I daren’t imagine a world where cream teas are no longer on offer. It’s a passion I share with my mum and eldest sister. Over the years we’ve floated through one tea parlour after another, savouring scones, admiring the decor (fresh flowers are always a hit), and handing over our entire life savings to National Trust properties along the way.

  It was a cream tea that first led me to Gilbert White’s House in Selborne, home of the English naturalist and reverend who became known for observing and recording the seasonal changes in nature, eventually writing The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, which has been in continuous print since its publication in 1789. I had a particularly lovely cloth-bound edition I found in a second-hand bookshop in Alton, where I went to college. White was a pioneer in his field, choosing to study living birds and animals in their natural habitat rather than the more common approach of most naturalists at the time, which was to observe dead specimens pinned to a table. Conse­quently, White was the first person to distinguish the chiffchaff, willow warbler and wood warbler as three separate species based on their different songs. His house in Selborne is now a museum, celebrating his work and the joy of observing nature. It also commemorates the lives of explorer and naturalist Frank Oates, and his nephew Captain Lawrence Oates, a member of Scott’s doomed journey to the South Pole
in 1911–12, and whose famous last words have echoed down the last century: ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ The expedition did not reach the South Pole before their Norwegian rivals, and most of the group died on the journey home. Oates’ body was never found.

  Although Selborne is only a few kilometres from my hometown, I don’t remember visiting the place until I was in my twenties, when my mum and I decided to explore the house and indulge in a cake-based afternoon. The kitchen garden was in flower and the grounds stretched out under a blue sky, so we expended our energy walking through the 12 hectares of ancient parkland, admiring the ha-ha and the wonderful 2D cut-out of Hercules, a cost-cutting decoration that, from a distance across the meadow, looks like a 3D sculpture. Afterwards we explored the house and were making our way greedily towards the tea room when I spotted something on the mantelpiece in the little parlour. Was it a cuckoo? No: too mottled, with plumage like rotting leaves in February. I looked closer and realised it could only be a nightjar.

  Stuffed and mounted, with faded feathers and a glazed expression, this squat taxidermy creature was barely recognisable as the bird that over hundreds of years had carved itself a place in folk history. The scientific name for nightjar is Caprimulgus europaeus, the first part translating roughly into ‘goat’ (Capri-) ‘sucker’ (-mulgus). Goatsucker! A vampirical name for a bird that only eats insects, although with their narrow eye slits and ink-black pupils, they can give off a murderous vibe. The name originates from an ancient European belief that nightjars stole the milk from goats’ udders, and they were even accused of pecking the hides of cattle and causing a disease called puckeridge, which is actually caused by warble flies laying their eggs under the surface of the cattle’s skin. These folk tales became so entrenched that for centuries people still disliked the nightjar, also known as the Flying Toad, Nighthawk, Moth Owl and Fern Owl – the latter frequently used by Gilbert White in his writing. He reflects ruefully on the power of prejudice and superstition: