Wild

WELCOME TO LOFOTEN

2:46am, Saturday morning. Junior shakes again in the violent wind waking me out of a light sleep. The rain doesn’t have that soft relaxing sound as it connects with the body of our van. It feels more like rapid applause from an excited crowd. Lying here, in the safety of our 17-year-old VW camper named Junior that we have rented for the week, I think of the 20-odd Russians outside, last seen making dinner in the only shelter available – the toilet block. Their tents didn’t look too strong. Let alone inviting.

We have been here for five nights; this is our final. Gale

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