Somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle, where the sun refuses to set in summer and barely rises in winter, there lies a string of islands that feel more like a memory than a destination.
The Lofoten Islands—where the mountains drop straight into the sea, where red wooden cabins cling to rocky shores, and where time seems to slow, if not stop entirely.
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How I Landed in Lofoten Islands
I landed in Svolvær on a cloudy afternoon in late June. It was quiet—eerily so. No honking cars, no crowds, no rush. Just the salty air, the distant cry of seagulls, and the kind of silence you can hear.
I was chasing the midnight sun—not just to witness the celestial phenomenon, but to see what it felt like to exist in a place where darkness takes a break. I didn’t expect how strange it would be. My body, confused by the ever-present light, refused to sleep. But my soul… it started to awaken.
I rented a bicycle and pedalled my way through winding coastal roads. On one side: towering jagged mountains draped in fog. On the other hand, deep blue fjords so still they mirrored the sky. Every few kilometres, I’d stop just to breathe. It felt like every view was asking me to look longer. Not for the sake of a photo, but for the sake of remembering.
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In Reine, I stayed in a rorbu—a traditional fisherman’s cabin on stilts over the water. It creaked with age and smelled of salt and woodsmoke. At night, I’d sit by the window, wrapped in a blanket, watching the golden light skim the mountain peaks without ever fading into night. It felt like living inside a painting you weren’t sure was real.
I hiked to Ryten Peak the next morning, a moderately challenging trail that rewards you with one of the most surreal views of Kvalvika Beach—a white crescent hugged by cliffs and teal waters. The wind was sharp, the path muddy, and halfway up, I nearly turned back. But then, as I stood at the top, alone but not lonely, I realised something: sometimes you don’t need to conquer a place. Sometimes, you just need to let it meet you where you are.
And where I was, in that moment, was in between things—in between burnout and healing, in between ambition and acceptance, in between the life I was building and the life I had left behind. Lofoten didn’t fix anything. But it held space for me to sit with the questions.
Nusfjord in Lofoten Islands
In the fishing village of Nusfjord, I spoke with an old man who had lived there his entire life. He was repairing a net, his hands moving slowly but precisely. I asked him what it was like to live in a place with no real night for months.
He looked up and smiled, “It reminds you that not everything needs to sleep to rest.”
That stayed with me.
In our busy lives, we often equate rest with shutting down. Sleep. Breaks. Escapes. But here, in the Lofoten Islands, I learned that rest can also come from stillness, from being fully awake in a moment that asks nothing of you but your presence.
I spent my final day kayaking along the fjords. The water was cold and glassy, disturbed only by the paddle and the occasional fish leaping into sunlight. I drifted more than I paddled, letting the current take me. It felt like floating inside a breath.
I saw eagles circling above. I heard the whisper of the wind against pine. I felt something loosen in my chest.
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And for the first time in months, maybe years, I wasn’t thinking about what came next.
I was just… here.
How was my Experience in Lofoten Islands?
The Lofoten Islands aren’t loud. They don’t scream for attention. They whisper. And if you’re willing to slow down long enough, they’ll show you what it means to be quiet with yourself.
When I boarded the ferry to leave, I didn’t feel the usual pang of departure. I felt grateful. Grateful for a place that held me gently, that reminded me how to notice, how to feel, how to let light in.
Even the kind that never leaves.
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