Inside the small town in Finland where daylight lasts four hours:
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It’ll be like this for another four hours. For the 1,900 or so residents of Enontekio, in northern Finland, it’s going to be a long day. It’s the middle of winter, a time when the sunshine’s extended cameo usually lasts about half that time. Not that the sun itself actually makes an appearance; it won’t rise above the horizon again until late January. All we’re getting is a reminder. Out on the main road of Hetta, Enontekio’s biggest village, people are putting the extra time to good use: visiting the supermarket, sullenly avoiding the influx of British tourists pouring from the Hotel Majatalo, or just taking a bit of extra time to trudge through the blanket of snow that covers the place for seven months each year. Winter hits Lapland in October, and freezes everything until May. In the summer this place will be a rich, rugged forest town, good for hikes, camping, and boat rides across Lake Ounasjärvi. Today, however, it’s minus 20 degrees; I can just walk across. Frigid boats sit unloved on what was once the shore of the lake as tourist families hurtle down the hills on toboggans. I stand on the jetty, filled with no small amount of trepidation as I prepare to step out onto an enormous ice block. Further out, a snowmobile is doing doughnuts. I guess it’s safe. Although the locals may disagree, Lapland is in its element in winter. If you’ve ventured 250 kilometres inside the Arctic Circle, you’re not here to boat across a lake. You’re sledding down hills of snow, ice fishing (or doing burnouts) on the frozen lake, or trying to spot wild reindeer which, I’m told, outnumber humans five to one. You’re also furiously rubbing your face and pumping your arms to keep warm, in utter shock that people could live in these extreme conditions every day. But live they do: streets are peppered with snow-covered houses and cabins decorated for Christmas. Big British tour companies use Enontekio as a gateway to Santa’s workshop. Every December, a flood of tourists from Albion are bussed in with expectations of a perfect winter wonderland. This year, I’m one of them. From a distance, the illusion doesn’t disappoint: the snow looks perfect, the decorations aren’t over the top, and broadcasts of ‘Santa Shark’ are kept to a minimum. It’s almost easy to forget people live here. The first night is a novelty. It’s been pitch black for eight hours when we go to bed, and it’s just as dark when we wake up eight hours later. It’s a struggle to get up, and even harder to leave the warmth of the hotel. The receptionist tells us sunrise isn’t for another four hours. She looks grey and tired. When it does happen, it’s clear it was a struggle for the sun to get up too. It’s overcast; a lighter shade of grey passes for midday. Out in town, the weather is reflected on the faces of the locals. Smiles have no place in the supermarket, not even fake ones. In the hardware shop next door, an eyebrow is raised to greet my entrance, and … I think that might have been a smirk. Or a winc
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