In Finland, fantasy can be more reliable than reality. That’s why, despite the fact that 160,000 tourists travel to Lapland every year hoping to see the elusive northern lights, the Finns have installed a dead cert: Father Christmas. Come cloud or snow, solar wind or solar silence, he’ll be on duty in Santa’s Village with a warm smile and a beard fluffier than a reindeer’s tail.
For me, Santa can wait. I touch down in Rovaniemi, 520 miles north of Helsinki, on a clear night, so there’s every chance of seeing the fabled aurora. The locals seem as used to overexcited adults as they are to children. In the Arctic Circle Wilderness Lodge at Vaattunki, my host, Marko Mustonen, levels with me in deadpan Finnish fashion: “Maybe you’ll see them. Maybe you won’t.”
It hardly seems to matter, though, as we tie on our snowshoes for a hike in the forest before dinner. The moon is bright, and recent snowfall means the trees are heavily laden, looming over us like Tove Jansson’s wobbly Hattifatteners. Snow crystals sparkle underfoot and above us the stars are pinpoint sharp.
We emerge on to an expanse of white that I assume is a clearing. Marko tells me it’s part of a river. “We should go back now,” he says. “I’m not so sure how thick the ice is.”
I don’t see anything apart from a clear sky that night, but I still have three more nights here and, in any case, the northern light I have already seen is exquisite: a hundred shades of blue under the moon and, in the morning, a slow dawn that scatters pink light over every snow-covered surface. My next chance will come 20 miles to the east, at the Arctic Snow Hotel in Lehtojärvi, also well out of the way of light pollution – a key demand among the steadily increasing numbers of aurora tourists. If you’re not keen on the prospect of a frozen bed in the snow hotel itself (rebuilt every year with ice from the nearby lake), there are 15 brand-new, glass-domed “igloo” rooms. These are small, but toasty, borrowing the concept of 360-degree comfort-viewing of the night sky from luxurious resorts such as Kakslauttanen, 140 miles to the north.
In Lehtojärvi, there’s a definite no-frills feel – a basic bathroom and enough room to swing an arctic fox – but the focus is on looking out, not in. Dark furnishings are designed not to cast reflections on the heated-glass panels overhead and the adjustable bed allows you to prop yourself up, facing north, for the best possible view.
It’s still dark as I prepare for a morning audience with Father Christmas, which inspires less mirth around here than might be expected. Marko, who is 43, has already confided that he believes in him “in my heart”. Jaana, who accompanies me to Santa’s Village, tells me she was once a wedding elf, then a tour-bus elf, and that most of the locals have done their share of elfing: “They take it seriously, especially Father Christmas.”
And when I meet him, he stays resolutely in character. “No, I’m not an actor,” he tells me firmly. I feel like I’ve breached an unspoken rule: you just don’t talk about the fact that Santa might not be the real thing.
Though there is daylight at this time of year, darkness creeps in from about 1.30pm. By that time I’m zipping across frozen marshland on a snowmobile, a piece of kit that Laplanders love to use for business – they’re handy for the annual reindeer roundup – and pleasure. There’s even a snowmobile-mounted branch of the police who, we’re warned, may stop and breathalyse us. But it’s only hot berry juice we drink as we pause a mile or so out of town to watch the sun go down. It’s an extraordinary moment – the light, a special kind of violet, blankets the west while, behind us, a huge moon rises from among the trees where wild reindeer observe us warily. A husband and wife from Hong Kong tell me they’ve been here for a week and still haven’t seen the northern lights. “We’re very disappointed,” they say. Surely all this makes up for it?
After a couple of nights in the glass igloo, peering out from my bed into the sky at regular intervals and seeing nothing but clouds, I begin to understand their frustration. Being fatalistic is all very well, but it’s hard to shake a sense of how absurd it would be to miss out on the whole reason for travelling here in the first place.
So I’ve signed up for aurora text alerts, a service run by entrepreneur Reijo Kortesalmi. His network of sensors tell you when the lights are visible. I clutch my phone hopefully as I make my way to the kota, a traditional Sámi hut, for a final meal of salmon roasted on an open fire. As we’re tucking in, the door swings open. It’s Ville, the hotel’s owner. “I think you should come and see this,” he says.
We scramble out excitedly. To the north-east, a faint vertical line appears, joined by another in the north. Soon, the whole sky is lit by dancing curtains of colour, mainly green, some yellow and purple-tinged. Thick waves gather on the horizon, but we are lucky to be almost directly underneath a display, so streams of light appear to be bearing down on us, radiating in every direction. I realise that the pictures we’re all familiar with aren’t exaggerations, souped up with long exposures and Photoshop. This is every bit as stunning as any image.
After about 20 minutes, they fade. There are a couple of repeat performances during the night – I get a text alert at 1am and watch from the warmth of my bed – but nothing like that first show.
I try to keep hold of the aurora in my mind’s eye, but it all begins to seem like a dream – did it really happen like that, on my last night, on Finnish independence day? It seems too perfect. Perhaps I shouldn’t have doubted Santa’s powers to grant even grown-up wishes.
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