This could be a question of territory. It could be a climate or a geographical issue. Or a story of women, and men. This could have been a conquest, or a reconquest. It could also have been a fight. It’s not only that. It’s all that, at once. It is a mixture, a warp that brews altogether Civilisation and Nature, making them live side by side, making them help each other, and making them face each other. Here in Northern Norway, every day is different. Each hour may be different. The light twirls and whirls, playing with the clouds, trying to break their cottony mysteries, casting a glance over their shoulders to know whether it will snow or not today. The wind, hesitates, seems to choose his direction, making shrubs and small trees lean in respect. Then he changes his mind and suddenly decides to calm down, just to surprise everyone by turning into a gale that shakes and rattles the moaning houses.

Of course there are the weather reports. But their effectiveness is often swept by the roar of a pure and cold air coming from the Northern mountains. In Nervei, nothing is immutable. Nothing can be set in advance. Time is a despote, reigning undisputedly. We must learn to wait, we must learn to watch the sea, the sky, the mountain. Here we must learn to listen to the elements tell us.

These chronicles are disparate fragments of every day life : visitor, take your time. Look. Listen. Imagine the wind on your face, the cold numbing your toes despite your three pairs of woollen socks. Imagine that the mountains bordering the fjord are watching you.

Imagine that you are out here, way North.