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But this strange little territory consists of around habitable islands, and some 6, rocks and skerries. The sun barely sets in summer this far north. And it only bows its head for a moment before setting the sky alight again at around 3am. Tomoko and I arrived by overnight boat from Helsinki at am. No one else got off, and the big Viking Line ferry turned around and immediately sailed away. Everything was locked up for the night, but I had arranged for a rental car to be left at the harbour.
I found them in an envelope, with a cheerful handwritten welcome on post-it notes. We spent the long day wandering around by car on the main island, and on all the others we could reach by bridge. And then we climbed the hill to the highest point above the crumbling walls. Tomoko wandered around taking photos, while I found a quiet rock to sit and look out over a vast stretch of this forgotten island chain, and so much calm open water.
I wondered what it would be like to spend a winter here, in snow and icebound isolation. Or to spend a summer in a cottage or on a boat, just exploring different islands, wandering at will, maybe writing a book.
The small granite islands with their trees and summer homes reminded me of the St. Lawrence River, and the Thousand Islands where I grew up. The sound of water slapping the side of a boat. And the gentle breeze in the trees: first distant, then here, then past. I sipped a craft beer made from roasted pumpkin, while Tomoko drank a honey ale, and we chatted with the girl behind the bar.
