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Like Christmas trees on stilts, pencil-thin pines fringe its banks and a sandy islet rises up like a backbone between the flow. Whispering alongside, the train leans into a turn before we swing wide and I edge towards the window, spotting a handful of people fly-fishing for trout, pike and perch, waders up to their thighs. Hikers appear on a pathway and a group of cyclists glance sideways as we pass.
North of the Arctic Circle, from mid-May to mid-July, the sun stays above the horizon, with no distinction between night and day. The previous day, I arrived in Oslo expecting to find the city alive with noisy beer gardens and gourmet food trucks, and cyclists weaving between them in floaty dresses — but a ghost town awaited.
Fortunately, the station had a number of restaurants where I could linger until it was time to board the train.
By midnight, the clouds had darkened and stretched into indigo ripples, but on the horizon, a belt of orange refused to fade, eventually turning pink. Still as glass, it appeared silver in the twilight, the outline of fishing boats just visible on its surface.