The light is different here. It’s glassy and pale and smooth. That’s not to say on bright spring days it’s not golden and gleaming, it is. When I look out the lounge room window the street shines as though it’s been varnished. But that’s the difference. In Australia, in summer, the light hits objects and your eyes directly, it’s almost an assault. Here, light polishes things – the hills, the river, the pavement.
I noticed the difference of the light in England, too, when I first moved there. Especially in winter, the tedium of its greyness. But you can get used to it. Its gentleness. The way it caresses things, the softness of the clouds. And when spring came, I thought – ah, this is why poets write about spring.
When we first arrived in Norway in January it didn’t get light till nine and it was dark before four. Now the sun rises by six and doesn’t set till after eight. And the twilight lasts forever. Last time I was home in Australia evening always caught me by surprise, as though someone was drawing the curtains and switching off the lights.
I’m thinking about light and about twilight because I just got back from an evening walk along the river. And I thought – well, perhaps this isn’t a bad way to start. I thought this might be a good way to stay in touch with my friends, who are scattered all over the world, and also to keep myself in one piece as I dash back and forth between countries. So, let the story begin.
