The Night That Never Gets Dark

The Quiet Thread
Issue No.12 – The Night That Never Gets Dark
Stories from our home at 682.5 metres above sea level

June has arrived. The light is long and extraordinary, and we are in what Scandinavians call pre-summer — those luminous weeks between spring and the solstice when everything is fresh and nothing has peaked yet. The strawberries are here. And midsommar is approaching.

Midsommar celebrates the summer solstice — the longest day of the year, when the sun reaches its highest point and the night barely comes at all. It falls on a different date each year, somewhere between the 20th and the 24th of June. In Norway and Denmark, it is celebrated on whichever day the solstice actually falls. A bonfire is lit. Good company is gathered. The long light is enjoyed. Norwegians do not require ancient mythology to justify sitting outside around a fire. They simply find it koselig — you may know the word hygge, that Norwegian and Danish word for warmth, togetherness, and the particular pleasure of being exactly where you are. The Norwegians, apparently, felt hygge was not quite enough. So they created koselig. Same idea, a hundred thousand times deeper. Any occasion will do. But if there is a fire to sit in front of — a fireplace, a bonfire, a flame of any kind — that is koselig in its truest form.

When it comes to midsommar, however, Sweden took it up a few notches.

In Sweden, midsommar is the celebration of the year. Bigger than Christmas. More theatrical than anything else on the calendar. And Sweden, being practical, moved it to the nearest Friday so that people could have the weekend off. Nobody questioned this. The solstice is an ancient astronomical event that has been marked by human beings for thousands of years. Sweden looked at it and said: actually, Friday works better for us.

To understand quite how seriously Sweden takes midsommar: last Saturday, the king and queen of Sweden celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. They were married on the 19th of June 1976. They could not celebrate it on that date — midsommar weekend was in the way. The anniversary was marked a full week early instead — privately, but celebrated nonetheless. Even the Swedish monarchy works around midsommar.

There is a maypole, decorated with flowers and greenery. There are flower wreaths worn in the hair. There are schnapps songs, sung before each glass with complete sincerity. You are expected to know the words. And then, at a certain point in the evening, there is a song. About frogs. But we will come to that.

There is also an old Swedish tradition for midsommar night: a young woman should pick seven different wildflowers and place them under her pillow. She will then dream of the man she is to marry. What happens if you are already married is not entirely clear. Presumably you dream of your husband, which is either very romantic or very predictable depending on the marriage. Which seven flowers, precisely, is a matter of some debate. Nobody agrees on the specific varieties. Nobody knows what happens if you pick the wrong ones. The tradition offers no guidance. It simply tells you to pick the flowers, go to sleep, and see what the night brings.

There are worse instructions for midsommar.

The First Midsommar at 682.5 Metres

I am half Swedish. My father is Swedish, and though my mother was Spanish by birth, she had — through years of marriage and considerable personal conviction — become thoroughly Swedish in her habits. When our family lived in Venezuela, my father was away working abroad, and my mother took it upon herself to organise midsommar for the Scandinavian community there. She put up a maypole, made the flower wreaths, prepared the food. The non-Scandinavian friends who were invited saw it as a curiosity and a reason to party — which is, when you think about it, the main purpose of midsommar in Sweden.

The neighbours who were not invited looked over the fence and reached the only logical conclusion available to them. My father was away. There was a decorated pole in the garden. Someone must have died. It took some explaining.

When Arne and I moved to our railway station in Valdres in the early 2000s, it seemed entirely natural to mark the solstice properly. That first summer we invited friends — a Swedish-Norwegian couple and a French friend who had no strong opinions about the solstice. The Swedish friend made flower wreaths. We put up a midsommarstång. We placed seven wildflowers under our pillows that night. We had already found the one we would marry, but tradition is tradition.

This was a hybrid midsommar — Swedish and Norwegian in equal measure. Certain Swedish elements were present. Certain others — the herring — were quietly left out. I knew my audience. And in the Norwegian tradition, there would be a bonfire. In Sweden, midsommar is celebrated without one. Here, the bonfire is the point.

Arne had spent weeks planning and building a raft, with the idea of floating the bonfire out onto the lake. We would sit on the shore in the long midsommar light and watch the flames reflected in the water. It would be dramatic. It would be beautiful. It was an excellent plan.

It was also, as it turned out, less dramatic than anticipated. There was a great deal of wind that evening. The bonfire did not light. We abandoned the raft and went inside. The following morning we went out to the lake and found the raft still floating, perfectly intact. Arne had to get into a canoe and bring it in. What happened to the raft after that, neither of us can quite remember.

We still lit a fire that evening — on the shore, as close to the water as possible and as far from the house as we could manage. Which is still how we do it now.

2006. Henrik’s Wedding. The Real Thing.

In 2006, our dear friend Henrik — a Swede, naturally — chose to get married on midsommar weekend. This is not unusual in Sweden. Midsommar is the biggest celebration of the year, and if there is going to be a party anyway, why not consolidate? People are practical about these things. And so Arne, who had until that point experienced only our gentle Valdres version — maypole, flower wreaths, one undrowned raft — found himself at a full Swedish midsommar for the first time. With a flower crown on his head.

I had prepared him as best I could. There would be a maypole, I said. Summer food. Schnapps songs. And a song — a very important one. Everyone sings it together and dances.

What kind of dance, he asked.

I told him it was best experienced in person.

The menu arrived first. Herring — several varieties of pickled herring, prepared in ways that Swedes consider festive and Arne considers a personal affront. New potatoes with sour cream and dill. Strawberries with cream. Arne understood the potatoes. He understood the strawberries immediately and completely — Scandinavian strawberries in June are among the finest things you can eat anywhere in the world. Sweet, juicy, sold at the roadside from early summer. They require no argument.

The herring was another matter. Arne ate a great deal of potatoes with sour cream. And then a great deal of strawberries.

Then the song began. It is a song about frogs. Small ones, who have no ears and no tail. And then they go quack quack quack. And everyone — adults, children, grandparents, wedding guests in their finest clothes — squats and hops around the maypole to demonstrate all of this. Arne stood for a moment and watched. A circle of Swedes, several schnapps in, doing the frog dance with complete sincerity. He looked at me. I nodded. He joined in.

He told me afterwards that it confirmed every opinion he had ever held about Swedes.

Present company excepted, obviously.

The schnapps songs came later. There are many of them, sung before each glass with complete sincerity by people who could not otherwise carry a tune. Arne did not know the words. By the third song he was doing his best.

On the drive home after the weekend, Arne was quiet for a while. He had had plenty of time to reflect on the food. Then he said: in Norway, on the 17th of May, they at least give you a hot dog. A hot dog is something everyone can eat. Those with celiac disease can have a gluten free bun. Those who don’t eat pork can have a turkey one. Those who don’t eat meat at all can have a vegan one. In Norway, he said, nobody goes hungry on a national day.

He was not wrong.

Midsommar at Home

Here at 682.5 metres, midsommar coincides with something rather special. Arne’s birthday falls on the 22nd of June — the solstice, or close enough. On his birthday, the menu is always the same: spaghetti with scampi, which he says I make very well. It is not my favourite dish. I make it anyway. This is what birthdays are for.

For dessert, a pavlova covered in June strawberries. The meringue has had varying degrees of success. I am a good cook — I want to be clear about this. I am simply not a natural baker. The first time, I spread the meringue flat on the oven tray, fully expecting it to rise into something magnificent. It came out exactly as flat as it went in. I still remember the look on Arne’s face. I have since learned to heap it in the middle. The results are more reliable now.

The evening ends outside by the lake, with a bålpanne — a contained fire bowl, because we live in a wooden house and have learned to be sensible. The light never quite becomes dark. It is koselig in the deepest possible sense.

In previous years, Arne’s favourite flower bloomed reliably for his birthday — the Himalayan blue poppy, that extraordinary and improbable blue, here for a week and then gone. With warmer seasons, we get fewer now. Last year we were in Iceland and never saw how many came. This year, we will be here. We are hoping for a good showing.

This Year

The solstice falls on Sunday the 21st of June. This year we will be celebrating quietly at home — with my father, who is visiting. He is 90 years old, and we have decided he is under no obligation to do the frog dance. He has earned that exemption.

The following day, the 22nd, is Arne’s birthday. There will be scampi. There will be a pavlova. There will be strawberries. And there will be, we hope, at least a few Himalayan blue poppies by the lake.

It is shaping up to be a very good weekend.

From our railway station in Valdres, we wish you a beautiful midsommar — wherever the solstice finds you this year.

Arne & Carlos