It is 5 a.m. when we leave our campsite. Today, we will reach the North Cape in the mid-afternoon.
The wind is blowing hard, right in our faces. But we know it will push us along the way back. A kind of reward.
The fjords appear, colossal. The sky is pink, the palette pastel. Here, even the light seems to pass through a different prism. The sun never rises very high; it caresses the landscape without ever scorching it.
The last signs of civilization are fishermen's huts. Perhaps they are merely a pretext to justify the hermits' paradise.
Here, I don't think about my emails, my appointments, or even my diplomas. Not even about grocery shopping for the week.
It's a different reality. Something to dream about.
