North to the edge

Because it was Norway’s national holiday, I’d braced myself for chaos and arrived absurdly early at Oslo airport. There was absolutely no need. It was calm, quiet, almost eerily so. I found a tucked-away corner and settled in for a long wait that never really needed to happen.

Check-in was entirely automated and strangely painless. Norwegian airport security, however, remains firmly committed to liquid restrictions.

Despite all the warnings about holiday travel, the flight was half empty. Just over an hour north, above thick cloud that clung to the landscape, occasionally parting to reveal fleeting glimpses of snow-capped mountains below. Coming into Bodø, the view suddenly opened up, islands scattered across dark water, the whole archipelago appearing through the mist.

Because I had packed as though relocating permanently, I took a taxi to the hotel. The fare was eye-watering, but I could not face dragging two rebellious wheelie cases over uneven, steep pavements.

I wasted no time heading back out. The town still carried the atmosphere of the national celebrations, groups gathered along the harbour in traditional dress, singing drifting through the air, people lingering outside cafés and bars. I think the main parade had already happened.

I also discovered that Norwegians appear to share the British belief that the correct temperature for eating ice cream outdoors is “technically too cold”.

I wandered along the harbour spit and completely fell for the view. Dark, glassy water. Low islands dissolving into the distance. Behind them, mountains rise. It took almost no effort to leave the noise behind, and suddenly I had stretches of boardwalk entirely to myself.

I walked for miles. Checked out the ferry terminal. Found the only supermarket that seemed to be open. Then attempted to eat an enormous pizza alone in a crowded bar. It’s always interesting how many stares it still seems to attract, even in 2026.

Sleep that night came in fragments. Every time I woke, I was convinced it was already morning. The pale half-light peeked around the curtains. This far north, darkness doesn’t fall so much as fade into a permanent dusk.

The next morning, I arrived ridiculously early at the ferry terminal, convinced there would be crowds travelling after the holiday.

Again: empty.

I checked the ferry times roughly 20 times. If you miss a boat there, you may be waiting a very long time for the next one. On Mondays, there was only one.

Boarding with my giant suitcases lacked much elegance, but I managed it. The ferry didn’t seem to have a route number visible anywhere, which did little for my nerves.

I attempted to ask the captain whether this was the boat for Sørvær, but my pronunciation caused a minor incident. He thought I’d said Svalbard and promptly informed me that I needed to get off because that was an entirely different boat.

At exactly the right moment, a young English couple announced they were also heading to the hideaway.

A brief period of confusion followed before a younger crew member confirmed that, yes, this was, in fact, the correct ferry.

Phew.

As we pulled away, the skies were grey and the sea almost black. Huge monolithic mountains stood behind lower scattered islands as we threaded our way through the archipelago. With every turn, the anticipation built.

Then, finally, the island came into view.

I recognised it instantly from months of obsessively stalking it on Instagram.

Somehow, it looked even better in real life.

The caretakers were waiting for us on the quay, ready to help with cases and welcome us in from the cold.

After months of anticipation, I had finally arrived, the Arctic Hideaway.