We arrive in the Lofoten Islands at night, after a flight to Oslo, another to Bodø, then a 25-minute hop in a small propeller plane to Leknes, one of Lofoten’s main towns. We fly over the dramatic Vestfjorden separating the islands from mainland Norway. During the hour-long drive to where we’re staying, I pick up on hints of the topography hidden in the darkness. There’s the briny smell of ocean. The feeling of a road narrowing to a curve around a cliff. Jagged peaks loom above us, as if etched in charcoal across the sky. Now and again we slow down for the narrow bridges that string together this remote archipelago.
It’s 9pm by the time my husband and I arrive at our lodgings — a hotel and restaurant called Holmen Lofoten, which is largely made up of old fishermen’s cabins in the village of Sørvågen. Its owner, Ingunn Rasmussen, is one of 13 siblings raised in this small community at 68 degrees, just north of the Arctic Circle.
Her father was a fisherman and carpenter. Her mother originally came here on holiday from the south of the country. “She wanted to sunbathe at midnight, under the Arctic sun,” says Ingunn. In the 1990s, Ingunn left the islands to work in the oil industry, in accounts, sales and management. When she made enough money, she decided to rescue the abandoned huts where her father used to prepare the fishing lines. Ingunn’s son, Håvar, now helps run Holmen Lofoten. Her brother, Audun, is the mountain guide.