Anatole France
The experience of life in the Far North—at the 68th parallel, roughly 300 kilometers above the Arctic Circle—can be a challenging one, especially for an Italian born and raised in the warm, sun-drenched heart of Tuscany. To live at these latitudes is to confront a reality so profoundly different that it reshapes your relationship with nature in ways you never imagined.
For centuries, the communities in Northern Norway have relied on the bounties of the sea to sustain themselves, forging industries that not only ensured their survival but also helped build a resilient economy.
Borgund Stavkirke
I was born and raised in a small village nestled among the gentle hills of the Crete Senesi, which were once the seabed of a primordial ocean. During the Pliocene epoch, around 4-5 million years ago, these lands were submerged under a warm and shallow sea. The traces of that ancient past are still visible: the badlands resemble underwater canyons, the biancane evoke fossilized sandbanks, and the marine clays preserve memories of creatures now extinct, such as whales and mollusks.
When I moved to Norway, I thought I knew what to expect: breathtaking fjords, towering mountains, and a culture deeply tied to nature. But nothing could have prepared me for Nordfjord. Nestled between the icy expanse of Europe’s largest mainland glacier, Jostedalsbreen, and the dramatic coastline of Norway’s westernmost Atlantic cliffs, Nordfjord is a place where history and nature collide in ways that feel almost mythical.
Lighthouses have always held a special place in my imagination, a fascination born in childhood and nurtured over the years. Whenever I thought of the mysterious northern lands, my mind inevitably conjured the image of a solitary tower standing guard on a jagged cliff or a rocky isle, its light cutting through the chaos of storm-tossed waves. There was something deeply poetic about it—the thought of a lone keeper braving the unrelenting wind, the salt-laden air, and the profound isolation, all to ensure that fragile, flickering light endured. It wasn’t just a beacon for ships; it was a symbol, a point of connection in an otherwise infinite void.
When we are in Southern Europe, Aurora Borealis seems to belong to a distant, almost mythical world, like a dream that only a journey can make real. Few of us truly imagine standing before such a marvel, and even fewer expect that a stay in Norway might bring about a kind of wonder that never ceases to unfold. Every time I witness the Northern Lights, it feels as if it were the first time as if its beauty were always new, different each time, and forever fresh. This is what I have learned in these places: beauty never becomes routine but is a continuous renewal of awe, an invitation to pause and observe the extraordinary mechanisms of nature.
My father was an aviator. He and I were always separated by vast differences—one in the sky, the other in the ground. Yet, we were bound by a shared passion for travel and discovery, for movement and dedication to an abstract goal: freedom. Our relationship had its own rhythm—like a sequence of aerial maneuvers, rising and falling in unpredictable turns, never linear. We were able to fill our rare and intense meetings with long conversations about distant lands and the development of an endeavor that, in his heart, saw me as an explorer. We shared an insatiable curiosity for geography and other cultures. In those moments, I glimpsed a perspective that seemed uniquely his—as if, from up there, he could see the earth with a distance that allowed him to grasp nuances invisible to others. Every word, though fragmented, carried something deeper, a different way of living, thinking, and feeling.
Italy, with its Mediterranean climate, is known worldwide for its sun, warmth, sea, and the light that envelops everything. It is a land of contrasts, where the sweetness of rolling hills coexists with the majesty of the mountains. On one hand, the sun-kissed beaches tell the tale of an eternal summer; on the other, the Alps and the Appennini rise like silent giants, reminding us that snow is part of our horizon, even if it rarely reaches the low altitudes of the lands of Siena, where I was born, just over 300 meters above sea level. In my childhood, the very idea of snow belonged to distant lands, a poetic fantasy painted by Christmas stories and fairy tales.
Photo: ToFoto / www.nordnorge.com
Photo: Studio Fotografico Gabriele Forti www.gabrieleforti.it
During my travels outside Norway, I often come across readings that bring my mind back to the natural magnificence of my refuge in Vesterålen for several years. Among these readings, sometimes erudite and historical, I was particularly fascinated by those of the renowned French philosopher Michel de Montaigne. In the distant 16th century, he visited Italy, and his reflections on the places he traversed—including my hometown, Siena—still resonate today as a hymn to discovering the world.
When Stefano and Leonardo, my Italian friends, announced their visit to Northern Norway, I knew I wanted to honor their journey with an unforgettable experience. Living here, in this remote and stunning corner of the world, I’ve learned part of its rhythms, secrets, and soul. For this occasion, I became not just a friend but their guide, a bridge between our Mediterranean roots and my Arctic rebirth. From the moment they arrived, every step of our itinerary was carefully crafted to reveal the magic of this land I now call home.