It’s the light. It wakes me at strange hours, when my dream state is deep. I am totally disorientated, confused again and again, each morning. I jolt into consciousness with fright, as if I have a boat to catch or something important to do. I urgently look at my watch, trying to work out if it is six, four, five in the morning or in the afternoon. The sunshine pours in through the thin curtains. I roll over and try to bury my head away from
the light and the beauty outside, hoping to drift back to my disturbingly vivid dreams.
Broad daylight; night and day are all one.
When I was here in November, outdoor activities were strictly limited to daylight hours. The clock was always ticking towards darkness. Now, in Spring, I languidly cycle to Ytre Ålvik, then Fykse, fall asleep in my friend’s Teepee, and help in the garden. Then I swim in the fjord, swim again, visit more friends, and finally after ten pm, decide that it might be a good time to head back to Ålvik on the bike. It is exhilarating to be cycling up and down hills at this late hour when the air smells of the day’s heat, past the blossom-filled fruit trees; the mountain tops across the water pink in the last snippet of direct sunlight.
At eleven o’clock it is still not totally dark. I see the moon by chance through a window in the house before I go to bed. It is a low, yellow disc, floating in the soft-focus blueness of the dusky sky, out full before the night has even fallen, as though it cannot wait any longer. I watch as it rises, shrinks and sharpens, its lighthouse beam catching the shifting waves.