unable

Looking over the edge of the snow-smoothed canyon down to dark rushing water, we thought we saw a moose or a reindeer, but it could have been a rock. The light was fading fast so it was hard to tell. It was time to turn back; we didn’t want to get lost in the wood, or fall into the river. By the time we’d retraced our steps to Abisko, the blue world had turned to black and dust-like snowflakes whirled around the little village. Back in our hotel room after our expedition, I looked at my phone – it was only 2pm!

Travelling to the Arctic Circle in winter had always been a dream, but when I realised the sun wouldn’t get above the horizon on my holiday, it made me twitchy. I usually pack my limited annual leave as tightly as I pack my working life. I was already using up three days’ holiday travelling by train from London to Abisko. How would I make the most of my time there with barely any daylight?

My partner and I chose to stop in this small village in Swedish Lapland almost by chance, when we researched the most northerly stops on the train line between Stockholm and Narvik. Abisko looked on the map like a tiny enclave surrounded by lakes and mountains. Reading more about it, we found that it was home to the Abisko blue hole – a unique microclimate where the geography creates frequent clear skies, making it one of the most reliable places on Earth to see the aurora borealis.

After a blur of cities and sleeper trains, we arrived at Abisko Ostra, a tiny station comprising just one low platform and a glass shelter over the exit door, at 11am. We jumped down from the high step of the carriage into soft, deep snow, our feet creating the only imprints on the length of the walkway. White mist hung all around us, and the couple of buildings we could see were fading into the sky. Apart from the icy train tracks cutting a sharp black detail, everything in the landscape appeared icing soft.

We walked along an empty road that curved up to the Abisko Mountain Lodge, one of a handful of accommodation options we had found online. Our room wasn’t quite ready, so we spent a while in the hotel’s warm, firelit bar watching people change into their outdoor gear then disappear into the cold. Knowing that darkness would soon set in, I was itching to get outside as well – while we could still see our surroundings.

By the time we were salopetted up, thick clouds had made the white world grey, but it was still everything my Christmas-film-loving inner child had imagined. The path we followed was lined with low lights glowing yellow against the white landscape, guiding us among houses with bright windows illuminating the dusk. We followed our phone map towards a viewpoint by a river. It was only half an hour’s walk, but in the deep snow it seemed much longer, and felt like walking through a thick white cloud.

We had expected to spend the day exploring. Instead, we’d somehow finished our outing before the afternoon had properly begun. Feeling the luxury of time stretching out, we made tea in our room and read for a while, but we still had plenty of time before dinner, so we went for a few rounds in the sauna.

In the restaurant later, we heard an excited murmur among the diners. The aurora! We rushed out, wearing the clothes we’d been eating dinner in, and watched the green glow, our feet growing more and more numb. But the night was still young, so we got back into our cold-weather gear and walked up a path to higher ground where a family were making snow angels while watching nature’s light show. Their enthusiasm added to our excitement, and we found ourselves not wanting to look away from the dancing sky in case it got better or brighter. Our initial walk to the canyon felt like days ago but we’d only arrived 12 hours earlier.

The next day, after a long and leisurely breakfast of pickled herring, gherkins and lots of delicious rye bread, we hiked a few hours along the bank of Lake Torneträsk. The snow on the path was compact enough for us to explore in our hiking boots, but we saw a few adventurous groups snowshoeing through the wilderness. We followed a narrow path through bare silver birches weighed down with bulbous drifts, until we found a picnic spot near a frozen waterfall, where we enjoyed some provisions we’d squirreled away from the generous breakfast.

I did a double-take as I looked back at the way we had come. The sunrise-like colour seemed to be glowing in exactly the same way as when we’d set off, hours before. Unable to tell if it was morning or afternoon, I felt my sense of time opening up. The sun remained below the horizon, but its colourful glow hung in the sky for hours. The pinks and oranges slowly brightened, lingered, then imperceptibly began to fade. The ideas of dawn, midday and evening began to fade, too.

From the waterfall, we walked up to a high viewpoint and ate flapjacks as we watched the hidden sun cast a last ray of deep orange towards the horizon. We warmed up with hot chocolate in the Abisko Turiststation hotel, drying snow-damp clothes on a radiator before heading back into the cold. The stars were out by then – in the mid-afternoon. We took the long path back to the village and headed through the misty gloom towards the red neon sign and strip-light interior of the supermarket to stock up on snacks for the next day’s train journey.

The supermarket was designed for people likely to get snowed in, with lots of produce for sale in bulk, but we found delicious jars of pickled herring, cloudberry jam and more of the region’s dense rye bread to tide us over, along with a squeezy tube of cheese spread from the surprisingly varied range that covered almost a whole aisle. Back at our hotel, we had another sauna, then dinner, before a beer in the cosy hotel bar. Then we headed outside again. It had been dark for hours, but it was still only early evening.

We were due to take a cable car up to Abisko Sky Station, a mountain viewpoint 900 metres (nearly 3,000ft) above sea level, but high winds meant the 20-minute cable car journey was too dangerous, so our evening’s plans changed shape. Our guide took us to an outcrop above Lake Torneträsk, where we got another spectacular show of the aurora, complete with shooting stars, courtesy of the Geminids. I have no idea how long we stood there, admiring the sky. I’d stopped trying to fit the holiday into my idea of what should be done when.

Later, we warmed up with reindeer soup in a building shaped like a traditional Sámi lávvu, a conical structure with a central fire for warmth and light. Our guide told us some of the myths and legends surrounding the aurora: that the lights were ancestors dancing, or a fox spirit running through the sky with snow attached to its tail. He also showed us the best forecasting apps to use, like the Aurora Buddy and My Aurora, and what all the bars on the various graphs meant. The northern lights lit the darkest part of our walk home.

I came to Abisko worrying that darkness would take something away from my trip, but instead it removed the boundaries that normally suggest what I should be doing when. When the distinction between night and day dissolved, there unexpectedly seemed to be more holiday in front of me. It felt like a surprisingly liberating way to travel.