Chapter Eight
Eight
‘Hei, Tore!’
‘Hei, Ana!’ He wound the rope around a metal post and dragged the boat in slowly, looping the slack to pull us in. ‘You must be Sara Pearson. Welcome to Firefly!’
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking his warm, calloused hand and hopping onto the jetty. He was similar in age to my dad and his hair had the same steely tinge.
‘The snow is on the way,’ Ana shouted, as Lars grappled with my bags and threw them off the boat. ‘Do you have enough reserves?’
Tore nodded, with a furrowed brow. ‘Yes, we are ready for it,’ he said, scratching his beard. ‘We’ve plenty of supplies, and we’ve talked through the evacuation procedure with the guests.’
I half-listened with an eye on my luggage, which was now on the ground getting soggy.
The wind had been joined by some drizzle, and it was wet and miserable.
My bags were squidgy, Italian leather and weren’t designed for a difficult life.
Surely Tore would notice them soon. There didn’t seem to be a trolley or a bellboy to help.
‘Call me if you need anything. Filip will come in the speedboat if you get stuck.’
‘Takk, Ana. We are good. The boys have been preparing for it all week. Chopping logs and locking everything down.’ Tore untied the rope and threw it back to Lars, then picked up a suitcase in each of his shovel-sized hands.
‘Get stuck?’ I repeated, paying proper attention now my bags were safe.
‘Lykke til,’ Ana called. ‘Have a wonderful time, Sara.’
‘Farvel!’ Lars pulled his hat over his ears as the boat grunted into reverse, its engine grinding noisily under the water. Ana and Lars were in matching gold puffer jackets and red mittens, waving in time like a pair of Japanese lucky cats. Maneki-neko.
‘There is a weather warning in the area but it’s nothing to worry about,’ Tore said. ‘We are used to extreme weather here. The ice storm will come tonight and then the snow will fall.’
I shuddered. The cold was already seeping into my bones, so I sped up to get a move on. Tore was like a giraffe, his neck forward and long legs stalking along. It was hard to keep up.
‘I’m not worried – the hotel must have been built with snow in mind, right?’
Tore smiled. ‘The hotel?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I shook my head. ‘Do you call it something else out here?’ I couldn’t wait to get into the central heating and pop on a fluffy robe. Twenty minutes in the sauna would sort me right out.
‘There isn’t a hotel as such. All our guests have individual lodges.’
‘Oh yes, of course, and they look beautiful, but I assumed the main experiences would be in the hotel? The restaurants and the bar? The spa?’
Tore didn’t reply immediately, the crunch of his boots on the frosty leaves interspersed with my double-speed steps filling the silence. I looked over as I trotted along, my ankle boots working hard.
‘When you say spa, do you mean the sauna?’ he asked, his breath fogging in front of us.
‘Yes! Exactly! And the steam room, jacuzzi, swimming pool…’ I breathed a sigh of relief. It was obviously just a translation thing.
‘It is all in nature,’ he said. ‘Each sauna is individual, built in the forest, next to the water.’
‘Wow, that sounds amazing. And the restaurant?’
‘We deliver a frokost basket for breakfast every morning so you can enjoy your food in your own time and wake with the daylight, into your own rhythm.’
‘Oh! So, there isn’t a cooked breakfast?’
‘Absolutely. It can be cooked – in your kitchen.’
I hoped this was also a translation thing. He surely wasn’t suggesting I cook my own breakfast on holiday. There must be a private chef who goes from lodge to lodge in the mornings.
‘And lunch and dinner?’
‘Are in the Orangery.’
‘Ooo, that sounds lovely.’
‘Lunch is eaten in silence, to respect our guests and their healing process.’ Huh? This was getting very weird. ‘Dinner is shared tables: three courses, cooked to order, and alcohol-free.’
That got my attention. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘This is all on our website,’ Tore said, looking puzzled. ‘And in the welcome information I sent with your confirmation.’
I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered the words alcohol-free. What the hell kind of hotel was this? Oh well, I’d just have to buy it from the supermarket and drink behind closed doors.
‘Here we are. Hygge Three.’ We walked down a winding path and Tore held a branch back and waited, so I didn’t get slapped in the face. ‘This will be your home while you stay with us.’
We were stood in front of a cute wooden cabin, with smoke piping out of the chimney and a bright light shining above the door.
There was a pyramid of logs on either side of the entrance and a small metal table with two chairs out front.
I couldn’t see much else – the rain was now coming down in sheets – but I’d seen enough to know it wasn’t quite the five-star celeb haunt I’d imagined.
I’d have to double-check the details once I was in the bath.
It was freezing cold, and I was too knackered for any more back and forth.
Tore opened the door and ushered me in out of the rain.
It was the sort of place I imagined a sentient squirrel would live.
Everything seemed miniature. A tiny kitchen to the left, a tiny sofa in front of a wood burner straight ahead, and a tiny door that presumably led to the bedroom on the right.
The hearth was pale grey stone, decorated with a vase of pine-cone-laden branches next to a pair of old wine bottles wedged with yellow candle nubs.
‘Looks like someone forgot to replace the candles,’ I said, handing one of them to Tore.
He chuckled. ‘Not at all. These are beeswax and have plenty of life left in them. We don’t throw candles away until they are finished.’ he said, putting it back down. ‘This is your living space. Fully equipped kitchen, lounge, dining area, and your bedroom is through here.’
The cabin was covered in pictures of the Northern Lights. Huge swathes of electric green on a canvas in the lounge, a Polaroid of swirly pinks pinned up in the kitchen, and a framed print of purples skies as I walked into the bedroom.
To the right was Mrs Tiggy-Winkle’s bed – advertising it as a double was a stretch – with a thick duvet, garish, multicoloured blankets and a pile of square pillows.
Bloody Scandinavians and their made-up sizes.
IKEA had a lot to answer for. Our student house had been full of odd-shaped mattresses and lamps that only worked with Swedish lightbulbs.
I’d have to sleep on my back, like a vampire, and stay still to avoid rolling onto the floor.
‘And the bathroom is in the corner,’ Tore said.
I walked past a wooden chest, lifting the lid to find more crocheted blankets and a hot water bottle wearing a knitted Christmas jumper.
The en suite was more of a wet room: a tiled box in shiny black, with a shower head in the centre and a toilet next to the sink.
‘Is the, er… bath in another room?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
‘We only have showers in the cabins, but there are plenty of lakes for you to bathe in.’
‘Are the other guests bathing in this?’ The rain was now torrential.
‘They can if they choose to. Otherwise, it’s the shower.’
Someone had obviously made a mistake somewhere, but there wasn’t much I could do about it tonight. It was nearly nine, so I’d nip out and get some wine and crisps and have an early night. There was no TV, but I could watch Netflix on my laptop.
‘Lovely. Well, this isn’t quite what I’d imagined, but I’ll see how I get on. Can I have the Wi-Fi code please? And how far is the shop? I’ll pop out and get some supplies.’
Tore was looking increasingly awkward. ‘Most of our guests want a tech-free environment for their wellness break, so we don’t have Wi-Fi in the cabins.
The signal isn’t good I’m afraid – by design.
’ I was starting to get palpitations. ‘But there is a small lounge with Wi-Fi next to the restaurant – for emergencies.’
‘And I can use my laptop in there?’
‘Yes.’ Tore was running his coat zip up and down, a worried look on his face.
‘If there is something urgent, of course.’ There were plenty of urgent things I needed to do.
Watch the final episode of Severance for a start.
‘And I’m sorry, but there is no shop on site,’ he said, bending to straighten the tiny cushions on the tiny sofa.
‘What?’ I was incensed. ‘How can it be self-catering, with no option to buy food? Or drinks?’ More importantly.
‘Well, as I said, the kitchen is for cooking breakfast if you want to, and we deliver the food to your door each morning. To drink, there is coffee, juice, hot chocolate…’ He opened the cupboards and fridge to show me.
‘And it’s no problem to request extras for your breakfast basket.
We can add anything you need to our shopping order from the mainland each week. ’
‘Then can I request some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and a box of wine?’
Tore nodded slowly. ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ he said, clearly not wanting to say no a third time before I’d even been here an hour.
‘In fact, I’ll put a shopping list together and give it to you tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘For tonight, there is vegetable stew in the fridge and homemade sourdough in the tin.’ I cheered up at that. ‘And brunost marshmallows by the fire for something sweet. Big and chunky, with caramel layers. They are very nice.’
Now we were talking.
‘Enjoy your hyttekos, Sara. Your “cabin cosiness” in Hygge Three. Goodnight.’
I doubted I’d be enjoying anything of the sort and didn’t want to get into a verbal contract.
‘Goodnight, Tore.’ I closed the door and breathed in the smoky air as the fire crackled in the silence.
The sound was kind of nice. I mean, it was cosy.
If cosy meant small. I closed the blinds in the lounge and stood as close to the fire as I could without setting myself alight, enjoying the burn on my thighs.
It was pitch-black outside and I couldn’t see anything through the darkness.
What if I was murdered in my crocheted bed?
Invaded by wild reindeer or a blubbery walrus somehow smothered me in my sleep.
I couldn’t even tell Mum and Dad I’d arrived safely.
Would they be worried? Should they be? I was thirty-two after all.
It wasn’t really their problem that I’d signed myself up to who knows what, who knows where.
I eyed the marshmallows suspiciously. Could I trust them?
They might be laced with a hallucinogenic or powdered with ayahuasca to alter my mind.
I could be knocked unconscious… and then smothered by a blubbery walrus.
I sniffed one and gave it a tentative lick. No effect, but it did taste sugary and marshmallow-y. I cautiously bit into it, and it was… bloody amazing. A tiny cloud of gooey deliciousness. I stuffed another two in and pushed them into my cheeks.
‘Chubby bunny,’ I said to myself in the mirror and half-smiled, my eyes still and sad.
Then I shoved in a third.
‘Chubby bunny,’ I said again. It was more of a struggle this time but still would have been clear enough to pass. Mark and I had always played it on bonfire night – he could put away six marshmallows in his chipmunk cheeks, but four was my limit.
I was ready for my small, definitely-not-a-double bed.
I jumped in the shower, which was surprisingly hot and powerful, and stayed under the jet far too long, feeling dizzy as I dried myself on the fluffy towels and put on my silk pyjamas, which were slightly impractical as I slithered under the blankets and turned off the lights.
It had been A DAY. I’d worry about the Wi-Fi and the food and drink situation, and the weather and the retreat not being fit for purpose, tomorrow.
For now, I was safe and warm, and in bed – at last.
A piggy in hygge (three).