It has been some hours since sunset on the island of Sandhornøya, just inside the Arctic Circle, and I’m standing on the beach with a near-naked Norwegian, debating the temperature of the water I’ve just jumped into. “I was told it was 14C,” I say. “Well, a friend told me it was just nine,” he replies, adjusting his underwear. Shivering, we settle for 11 – about average for an icy plunge pool – before sprinting back to the sauna as my feet go numb in the sand.
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