On this sad occasion, 9th of August, we have again to light the midnight oil, or put it down “candle,” in my cabin—midnight sun versus candle, and the candle wins. There is absolute stillness, not a sound in the fiord but the gentle throb of our engine.
How sad it is to lose the light.
It is almost incredible, the tranquillity of the dead-still water as we lie at anchor fishing cod—breathless stillness, so quiet one does not know how to go to sleep, no more bracing of limbs now against the side of the bunk to steady one’s restless slumbers.
Our Engineer’s Daughter at Trömso
... Larsen has gone ashore for fresh milk and also fresh eggs, rowing across the reflections of hill and rocks.
The candle burns straight up without a flicker; last night we could not have lit a pipe had we felt so inclined—what are we to do about clothes? Suddenly we feel our double winter clothing is far too thick; can it be possible that to-morrow morning we will only need thin summer clothes?
As we fished we talked more intimately than before. I found my Spanish friends had been in our West Highlands; they compared this fiord with Loch Etive, and Ben Nevis to a snow-capped mountain we have reflected in the still mirror, and they say the hills remind them of their own—Spain, West Scotland, and West Norway do indeed have certain similarity.