A view of a fishing town in Hammerfest, Norway. Photograph © Wolfgang Kaehler/CORBIS

Coastal Norway
By Eric Andersen

Like many families in Norway, ours has a second home—a summer place close to nature that has been passed down through generations. Our little cottage, or hytte, is on the southwest coast, in a hamlet called Sira, a place that means beautiful colors to my wife, Unni, who is a painter; for our four kids, Sira stands for sun and water and space and freedom. Whenever we arrive here, what impresses us first is the fresh smell of the fields. In summer they are full of strawberries, and along the roads are wild raspberries waiting to be picked and turned into jam. Summer in Norway is a season of enchantment, a time to move through hours of almost endless light, to sit in a garden or on a sea rock, reading or watching a lone fisherman calmly cast his line into the still waters of a fjord. The deepest part of evening is more twilight than night, with ghostly wisps of clouds suspended between the mountains and meadows.

The midsummer night equinox, the longest day, is celebrated on June 23, after much anticipation. All year long, boaters can be seen tossing pieces of driftwood onto the rocky shores. These collections become mountains of wood, the makings for huge bonfires to be lit on the midsummer night. The original purpose of this ceremony is rooted in the superstition that a large fire could boost the sun on its long journey through the months of winter darkness. In another midsummer rite, boaters lash birch boughs to the masts of their vessels. As the boats drift in the twilight waters, the fjord comes alive with moving trees, a floating spectral woodland. And on remote farms, large birch branches can be seen leaning in the frames of doorways, talismans meant to ward off meddlesome trolls and protect against witchcraft. The birch is the symbol of life.

On the night of the longest day, before midnight, families in our village walk to the beach at Lundevannet, a four-mile-wide lake. We spread blankets and build a fire. The bravest go skinny-dipping if the water's not too cold. Huddled up around the campfire, we cook hot dogs, peel shrimp, drink beer, and maybe even sip a little rhubarb wine made by our relative and neighbor Jan Erik. We watch the drama of the immense fires flaring up and illuminating the faintly visible shoreline across the water. And feel for a long moment the peace and contentment that comes from being together on another midsummer night.

The information in this story was accurate at the time it was published, but we suggest you confirm all details before making travel plans.