Almost everything in the islands was exotic to us. The village was named Å: a capital A with a little circle over it, pronounced “O.” The Lofoten Islands themselves, well off the coast, were spectacular spires of rock sharpened to sharks’ teeth by glaciers. Cod-fishing was the main source of income, and had been since at least medieval times, when a shipwrecked Venetian explorer washed ashore on one of the islands and was rescued by the locals. Less romantic than I, he saw in the countless fish-drying racks of “stockfish” a golden business opportunity. He took a few samples to the Pope, pointing out the obvious advantages, in those days before refrigeration, of fish that kept indefinitely until needed for Friday and Lenten fasts. The highest-quality dried cod are still shipped to Italy today.

Also, until about 100 years ago, the Lofotens were the scene of an annual winter congregation of “the last of the Vikings,” described in a 1923 novel of the same name. Sailing or rowing from farther south on the coast, these hardy characters spent the dark months fishing. Because of the effect of the Gulf Stream, the air temperature over the water rarely drops below freezing, and the sea stays open. But the darkness and winter storms in those days took an occasional toll of fishing boats. The cabins we were staying in had been the men’s havens when they came ashore to clean and sell their fish to the factory ships, and get what rest they could.

These days it’s difficult, if not impossible, for us to appreciate what the perceived movement of the sun meant to our distant ancestors. For many, it was a god who mysteriously, but regularly, appeared and disappeared and clearly had a lot to do with starvation or plenty. In the days before oil lamps, and before that, candles, its absence dictated near-hibernation. Ironically, the Inuit, who lived in far deeper and longer-lasting darkness than did northern Europeans, may have been the first to find an ingenious solution, the soapstone seal-oil lamp that brightened and warmed their igloos. In any event, it’s no wonder that early cultures had rituals celebrating the sun’s extreme positions and its return in the springtime. We’ve all seen photos and diagrams of their ponderous stone observatories that told them exactly (if the sun was visible) when the solstices were occurring. Even the Romans, who were fairly modern compared to the Neolithic astronomers before them, celebrated the winter solstice with a week-long feast dedicated to Saturn, an orgy of wine and feasting, and a mock reversal of social roles. Various emperors (to whom orgies were no big deal) tried to shorten Saturnalia. The resulting civil uproar and unrest caused them to back down.

Today, with central heating and possibly air-conditioning, ceiling fans, electric lights everywhere, the Weather Channel to give us the exact moments of cyclical phenomena, and insulated to a possibly dangerous extent from appreciation of our dependence upon them, we know that the sun doesn’t really stand still, as the word, “solstice,” implies. So we indulge ourselves in quaint folksy celebrations and reenactments of traditional rituals, and gaze benevolently upon the various wiccan and pagan groups that still appear to take them seriously.

But to northern New Englanders the dates still have significance. The summer solstice, which we’re experiencing as I write, is for me the beginning of the hottest and least bearable time of year. My outside carpentry is best accomplished before midmorning, when the heat radiating from my face fogs my glasses and the bright sun casts hard shadows upon my pencil marks. I retreat into the relatively cool shop, where I’ve saved something to be done. I can’t imagine how MIssissippians or Louisianans can stand the moist furnace of a Southern summer. In midwinter, the cold holds no terrors or discomfort for me. I love it; and often cry, “Bring it on!” But I must admit to a thrill when I realize that the day after the winter solstice will be a few seconds longer and the soft, lingering late-evening twilight of high summer one day closer.

There were 32 of us New Englanders in our group that evening of the summer solstice in the village of Å. The man whom I can describe only as the Bürgermeister of the village had us over to his house by the post office for a drink. Then it was back to his restaurant on the waterfront for supper, where I ate what I thought was a remarkably crunchy seedless avocado appetizer, only to discover when Mother pushed hers aside that it was a boiled green seagull egg. The old man regaled us with stories of the long history of Lofoten cod fishing.

Finally we left the restaurant and walked out into the late evening twilight. Though the sun never goes down in Å in June, you can’t see it during the evening because of the “Lofoten Wall” rising just west of the village. We strolled toward the rocky point at the southern tip of the island, which looked like the natural place for a wild midsummer bonfire. We could see people sitting on the rocks in family groups, chatting quietly, with smoke rising beyond them. The village had turned out with picnic baskets and bottles of wine; but instead of driftwood, were burning trash, old furniture, coil springs, and styrofoam pads. Nuts! Not a single solstice valkyrie or berserk in sight.