Anna Cullen writes about spending two weeks living under Norway's surreal 'midnight sun', and the effects constant daylight had on her body.
For two weeks in July, I replaced darkness with endless daylight. Travelling through northern Norway in the summer meant I had to surrender to the 'midnight sun', a phenomenon that is both magical and exhausting.
My journey took me from Tromsø, through the island of Senja, and down into the iconic Lofoten Islands. Along the way I hiked in silence above fjords, fished in waters that never slept, and camped under a sun that never set.
Tromsø: The gateway to the Arctic
Returning to Tromsø felt strangely like coming home. I had lived in the city for six months, two of them during the polar night, when the sun never rose and the city glowed with candles and the northern lights. Coming back in summer, I wanted to experience the opposite extreme, the midnight sun, before I returned to the city in autumn.
Tromsø in July is a completely different place. Within an hour of landing, I was hiking overlooking fjords and snow-dusted peaks. The same mountains that were dark and mysterious in winter were now standing proudly against a bright sky. My first night in the city was so strange. The clock on the wall told me it was midnight, but the sun shone through the curtains as if it were late afternoon. I lay awake, tossing and turning, my body confused by the absence of night.
Still, there was freedom in endless daylight: running or hiking at any hour, meeting friends for late-night barbecues, and taking road trips to the nearby island of Kvaløya. Tromsø in summer bursts with energy, with people kayaking, cycling, swimming and laughing late into the night. For me it was both a homecoming and a revelation.
Senja: Norway's wild island
Leaving Tromsø behind, I drove with friends south towards Senja, travelling through fjords and across bridges until the land suddenly felt wilder, less touched. By evening we reached the lake where we planned to camp. Setting up my tent felt like claiming a small piece of the wilderness for myself. Securing it into the soft earth, rolling out my sleeping bag, and stepping back to see my little home against the backdrop of water and trees. Wild camping is legal in Norway, if you leave no trace. This was all new to me.
Once settled, we fished. The lake was so calm and the silence was peaceful. Every splash of our casts echoed across the water. I was a beginner among my friends who knew what they were doing, but when my line tightened and I reeled in a trout, shining and wriggling, I couldn't stop grinning. My very first catch, and in such a place, it felt like a gift.
Sleeping in the tent that night was an experience in itself. I lay cocooned in my sleeping bag, the ground firm and uneven beneath me. Outside, the air filled with the persistent buzz of insects, sometimes hitting against the thin fabric walls.
There's something strange about trying to fall asleep when your surroundings refuse to switch off. With no darkness to pull me under, I found myself listening harder. The drone of mosquitoes, the ripple of water nearby, the quiet rush of my own thoughts. Alone with the brightness and the silence, I felt both deeply exposed and completely free. It was grounding, the kind of sleep where you drift in and out, half dreaming, half aware of the vast stillness outside.
The next day, we packed up our tents and headed back to our rented cabin, where we cooked dinner. We cleaned the trout and covered it with butter, lemon and salt. It was unlike any fish I had ever tasted; delicate and pure.
We ate slowly, with tired satisfaction, the windows open to the endless daylight. Afterwards, we sat into the warmth of a wood-fired sauna, the heat seeping deep into our muscles until all that was left was contentment.
That night I slept better than I had in months, the kind of sleep that only comes after time outdoors. Even so, I needed my eye mask, the sun still beaming through the window at three in the morning.
The Lofoten Islands: postcard perfect
After a weekend of camping and hiking in Senja, I travelled to the Lofoten Islands. Driving into Svolvær felt like entering a dream. The mountains rose like teeth straight out of the sea and the water shimmered in shades of turquoise and deep blue. What surprised me most, though, was the heat. For days the temperatures were in the mid-20s, and the islands felt almost Mediterranean.
The beauty of Lofoten is that time becomes irrelevant. I hiked at all hours, setting out late in the evening and reaching a summit at midnight. Looking down on fjords bathed in sunshine was surreal. My body wanted rest, but the landscape convinced me to keep going.
And when I wasn't hiking, I was swimming in crystal-clear turquoise seas. I could see crabs scuttling along the sand beneath me and schools of small fish swimming over my feet. The water was icy but exhilarating, the kind of cold that wakes every sense in your body.
One of the highlights was kayaking around Skrova, a small island well known for its white beaches and transparent waters. From the kayak, I could peer straight down to the seabed, as though I was gliding across glass. Another day I joined a boat tour into Trollfjord, surrounded by towering cliffs that seemed to close in around us.
If there was one challenge, it was sleep. Even after days of hiking, swimming and kayaking, I'd try to sleep but still find the sun blazing through the windows. The light was constant and even with an eye mask it took time to drift off.
Living with the Midnight Sun
Travelling under 24 hours of daylight definitely changes you. At first it feels like a gift; endless time to explore, hike, fish, and wander without the urgency of sunset. But then sleep deprivation creeps in and your sense of time warps. Meals happen whenever you remember them, not because of hunger.
The mental effect is harder to pin down. A constant day gives you freedom, but also restlessness. I found myself craving darkness, craving the reset of night.
When I finally flew south to Ireland and darkness returned, I felt both relief and loss. Relief at the return of rhythm and sleep, but loss for the strange, luminous world I had left behind. Travelling through Tromsø, Senja, and the Lofoten Islands under the midnight sun was not just a journey through landscapes, but a journey into a different way of being.
