Michael Jackson, sex poetry and cheesy porridge are not on my bingo card for a trip to Arctic Finland. On the occasion of Mr Smith’s big birthday, all I want is to show him the Northern Lights — and Rovaniemi in northern Finland seems as good a spot as any in which to go aurora hunting.
Arctic Treehouse Hotel is set in a snow-blanketed forest just outside Finland’s Arctic capital. It’s a magical location that’s poised to cast a seductive spell. In its arboreal embrace, stilted, timbered suites each centre around a windowed wall that gives from-bed views of snow-capped trees.
Our bed is millefeuille-d with soft linens in polar-bear hues, paired with whitewashed timbers, shearling and deerskin. Dressed in shades of pale I’d never entertain for my own home, it’s implicitly luxurious. It leaves me regretting that my winter gear is all black, but as soon as we make our way through the still-falling snow to reception, I’m relieved, colour aside, that my attire is suitably insulating.
We’ve been told to dress warmly for our Aurora-Hunting Tour. Under a sky blanketed in cloud, there’s a snowflake-in-hell’s chance we’re going to get a sighting of nature’s fireworks, but ask anyone from Arctic Treehouse Hotel if you’re likely to see the Northern Lights, and they’ll diplomatically reply: ‘You never know’.
The walk to the minibus is steps away from hotel reception. Imagine my surprise, then, when Mr Smith is nowhere to be seen once I’ve boarded the bus, full of awaiting aurora-hunters.
Awkward seconds of silence follow; our guide Pasi is quick to realise there are missing personnel. As an anonymous reviewer, my hopes of ‘blending in’ are instantly dashed. It turns out that Mr Smith has lost a glove — a glove he was definitely wearing when we arrived at reception. A flustered five minutes pass before we establish it is caught beneath one of the hotel’s automatic doors that now won’t open. A helpful porter manages to extract it — delayed and slightly flummoxed, we are back on our way.
Pasi drives 30 minutes north, away from the city lights, to a stretch of forest that borders a frozen river — its horizon-spanning icy expanse affords the best chances of glimpsing any solar activity painting the night sky. Armed with lanterns and vestiges of hope, we walk to a traditional timbered shelter, where Pasi builds a fire we hunker around as he warms spiced berry juice and cooks pancakes over the coals.
A painter, poet, aurora guide and keen fisherman: Pasi is many things but a pancake chef he is not. As he struggles to bake his batter, he regales us with stories of reindeer herding, kaleidoscopic night skies and the unseasonal ‘warmth’ of our -4°C surroundings.
Conversation dwindles in what turns out to be surprisingly shy company, and given that Pasi has explained the particle physics of the Northern Lights in note-perfect English, it feels safe to inquire about the nature of his poetry. ‘Well, it’s about death. And sometimes about something we must not speak of here. The intercourse. A man and a woman and the feeling…’ None of this explanation makes much sense but ‘the intercourse’ is a phrase now imbued with a Finnish accent that I’ve committed to memory. Everyone mutely stares at the fire.
Mr Smith bears the disappointment of cloudy skies well. Back at base, there are lingonberry-garnished G&Ts, a crackling fire and me — an off-duty parent enjoying the rare treat of 48 hours with the love of my life in a winter wonderland. Husky-sledding and fine dining are on the itinerary for tomorrow, and with Mr Smith there is always fun to be had; we have no need of particle physics for sparks to fly.
The huskies are a real highlight — friendly, excitable and as keen to pull us over the frozen lake and through narrow forest trails as we are to feel the icy air on our cheeks. Our fellow mushers are a sociable bunch and we all enjoy getting to grips with our canine cortège. Less enjoyable is the 10 minutes Mr Smith spends pacing between the changing area and minibus in search of (yep, you guessed it) his second glove-loss of the trip. This one turns out to be folded into his ski jacket with such camouflage that we only find it once back at the hotel. And this — justifiably, I think — is my cue to call him MJ for the rest of the trip.
The endorphin rush of our dog-powered sleigh ride carries us all the way to dinner at hotel restaurant Rakas. We’re whisked to the ‘most romantic table’ beside the floor-to-ceiling window, and plump for the five-course tasting menu — a move I would highly recommend.
Not in a million years would I have chosen buckwheat porridge from the selection of starters, but it turns out to be a nutty, cheesy risotto-style dish that’s a triumph of umami. It’s on the podium with a pink-in-the-middle reindeer fillet in cognac sauce, and a warm chocolate pudding that hits the light-but-pillowy sweet spot. The entire meal exceeds our expectations and is a memorable finale to our time here.
If you’re going to lose an expensive ski glove, if you’re going to not see the Northern Lights, if you’re going to risk your life with a pack of excitable pups, make sure you choose the polished digs that’ll mean nothing can spoil your adventure — that, and bringing along a well-aged partner in crime should do the trick, although this Mr Smith is one smooth criminal not for hire.
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Spells as a campsite rep, ski guide, and crew on a tall ship mean that Smith scribe Kate Pettifer knows the travel industry inside as well as out. These days she prefers to write about it, indulging a hankering for adventure (skiing, diving, bobsleighing), with recovery time in hip hotels. A travel writer for over 15 years, Kate now oversees the content for all the lovely launches that are new to Smith. Loves: freshly cooked breakfast. Hates: lifts with wall carpet. Always packs: a swimsuit, because you should never let a good pool pass you by.