Greenland. Day 28: The Last.

It's only when the little plane on the map shows you leaving Greenland behind, heading out over the Atlantic towards Iceland, that you feel the first sense of loss. You think back - inevitably, predictably, wryly - over your time there, to slips on the ice, to unimaginable, ferocious grandeur, to sheer, sharp blues and whites, to mountain panic, to the red of the seal's organs, to the flowers left for the man who crashed a stolen car, to the lovers who married in 1408, to the musk ox burger, to the elusive Thai restaurant, to the awful music, to the kids waking their teachers at 5am. You think back and you realise you fell in love with it, just a little, just enough to feel protective towards it, warm towards it, kind towards it, just enough to want to spend time with it again. And you realise that's because it offers no escape. 

There's no escape from dark and light and day and night in Greenland. There's no escape from the earth and the sun and the sky, from the real and the unforgiving. 

There's no escape from our collective past. There's no escape from the recognition that we've all run a long, long way from what made us, from what gave us life and will take life away. There's no escape from beauty and mundanity and everything in between.

There's no escape from culture and belief and language, from our ancestors' ancestors, from spirit, from our need to create stories that can explain, charm, defend, lash out, foretell, embed. 

There's no escape. And you realise then there's no escape from the desire and the love and the choices you've left behind either: and you're glad. Because Greenland won't let you avoid. Reflection is everything, everywhere. The place shines a light on you, one that lets you see yourself - a little - without noise or shadow. And that's why you need to love it, just a little. 

Greenland. Day 27: Ice Ice Baby.

Small icebergs have started appearing. I'm not sure anyone else can see them. They wait there, smug, owning the water, gathering strength even as they fade. There's a sweet, turquoise light around their base, the reflection of their underside, of their hidden depths. My eyes keep jumping from one too-white shard to the other. There were only four a minute ago, surely?  Well there are five now...

One is curved, smooth, the shape of an old man's cap. A second swirls and twists like an angry serpent. A third is jagged, harsh, spiky, dental. Another - it reminds me of the Queen's profile on stamps - has (I'm sure) been edging its way towards me. And one - there's always one - just ignores me, stays indefinable, hiding behind the others, biding its time. 

The too-early air jabs my ears. I'm leaving tomorrow. A huge raven sits and screams from the top of a lamppost. A child laughs. I turn to go inside again and there's a crack, a split, a shuddering behind me. 

There are six now. 

Greenland. Day 26: More Hvalsø

“All things look good from far away and it is man's eternally persistent, childlike faith in the reality of that illusion that has made him the triumphant, restless being he is.” 

             Rockwell Kent

Greenland. Day 25: Hvalsø

Four of us are going to Sigrid Bjornsdottir and Thorstein Olafsson's wedding. The man who brought us here has gone. The island is grave-still. The church is small but the people here are happy, special. They're people forgotten, disappeared, lost. Today they don't care. The mountains were here before us. The mountains have witnessed a million weddings. Why now? Why do you want to come here now? We want, I think, to resurrect Sigrid and Thorstein.

The church was built on a graveyard: it's partially collapsed as a result. There's a barn over there, a byre, houses. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the boasts of the men, the keen whispers of the women. If you look closely enough, you can see the pride on Bjorn's and on Olaf's face. Pick up that cup: there's plenty of ale and mead. There are breads, a stew. Stick the plate on your lap. The meat is seal, beef, mutton. Dance if you want. Swim.

Huginn and Muminn are watching the ceremonies from up there. Thought and Memory. They'll let Odin know what we're up to. And they'll follow us back to the town.  

Greenland. Day 24: Why.

'I don't want petty self-expression. I want the elemental, infinite thing; I want to paint the rhythm of eternity.'

                      Rockwell Kent

Greenland. Day 23: Unnecessary Plastic Objects.

Nothing much to say today. Except I just discovered - and have quickly become obsessed with - Rockwell Kent, whose wild trips to Greenland produced something very rare and very rich. And I heard this beautifully nostalgic song...

                              Rockwell and Frances Kent. 

                   Rockwell Kent
              Greenland Courtship

Greenland. Day 22: Escape.

It's four a.m. and already bright outside. You went to sleep around midnight - it was only just dark then. You groggily drift into consciousness. You look at the Guardian app, at Facebook, wish you hadn't done either. You start to hear drumming. And shouting. And chanting. And the blowing of horns. You realise you've finally lost it: this is the quietest place in the world, it's half four, there's no way that noise is real. You have visions - shudders - of city madness, of Manchester sirens, Belfast marches, London demonstrations. You drag yourself up, look outside. The noise is coming from across the river: a cluster of white, ghostly shapes, clapping, laughing. You decide you have to find out what's happening, still doubting your reality.

It takes a few minutes to get out and by that time there's no sight or sound of the white ghosts. You head down to the now-familiar harbour. When you get there, you can hear drums from up on the hill. It starts to rain. You spot a bunch of giggling, gobbing, joshing, pushing kids standing/sitting/running/playing ball/looking tough up by the Rockhouse, the red guitar on its roof and its dodgy Elvis mannequin looking knackered, wet, hungover. You ask the kids what's happening. 'High School finished.' You think back, you realise you have no memory at all of your own last day at school but you feel an abrupt shove of sadness. You wait with the kids. More people join you. All wait together, quiet in that Greenland way. They're all smoking and you really fancy one.

After about half an hour, by now soaked to the skin, you hear and then see the scattered, fragmented, joyous march approaching. The kids are wearing overalls to protect their clothes from the paint and other stuff they're throwing at each other. A couple of them are pushing oil drums along the road. A resigned middle-aged man is bringing up the rear. You say hello. He's a teacher. You walk with him up, up the hill. He says the tradition is that on this day the kids get up early and go to teachers' houses and wake them up. He doesn't seem completely happy about this, but he asks you about Brexit and smiles his disdain for the French and the Germans and seems to cheer up. You share a quick joke with one of the kids, who speaks perfect English. You wonder again why you have no memory of your own last day at school. You wish them luck and you wonder where they'll be, who they'll be, in thirty, forty years time. You envy them this morning, you envy them their years. You hope the ones who need to stay on this wild island stay here and those who need to leave are able to leave. You tread gingerly down the slippery wooden staircase then, down to the main road. You head home and go back to bed, just as the sun comes out.

Greenland. Day 21: Missing.

You read bits and pieces. You have blurry conversations about it on FaceTime. You want to watch video reports and you don't want to watch any. You see a mum pleading with the universe for the safe return of her daughter. You think back to taking your own kids to gigs, waiting around in the foyer for them, and picture their buzzing, bright-eyed emergence from the hall. 

Qaqortoq

Greenland. Day 20: Manchester.

Rasmussen: 'What do you think of the way men live?'
Shaman: 'They live brokenly, mingling all things together; weakly, because they cannot do one thing at a time.'

***

"He didn't know how he should feel about anything or anyone and wondered if there might be a remedy. To which I could only reply, 'More living.'"

(Gretel Ehrlich: This Cold Heaven)

Greenland. Day 19: Bagpipes On A Beach.

I watched the mist rolling in from the sea this morning. And now I can't get that bloody song out of my mind. 

Greenland. Day 18: Words.

A day in which I woke to silence, to weird, tense mists over the lake, realised yet again how lucky I am to be a father, enjoyed (brutally) killing off a character in one of my stories, and read about magical Inuit formulas to bring the ice back (no ice=no hunting=no food), formulas which involved words - some meaningless, some with meaning - words taken from people's dreams, words passed down from generation to generation. (These serratit must only be used in the early morning. The hood of the shaman's anorak has to be up. He has to put his fourth finger in his mouth until he gags, forcing the magic words to come out...)

I went for a walk. I thought about religion and my/our constant search for certainty, for control, for something to replace God (if I'm going to find whatever-it-is here, it'll be down by the sea). I listened to the Velvet Underground. And then I stumbled across this. The misty magic of words. 

Greenland. Day 17: Whether.

Put your coat on, that big, sensible, all-weather one you got in Sports Direct in Wood Green. Great value place. You just have to swallow your principles, be nice to the zero-hours people, buy your stuff and run. There's a metaphor there, somewhere. Anyway: put your coat on and walk with me down to the harbour. Feel the rain on your cheeks. Or sleet - it might be sleet? It's knife-sharp and grave-cold, whatever it is. Lets stand here for a bit. That dog wandering past seems a little scared, doesn't it? Let's look out for a while at the perfect blues of the fjord, the shining whites of the boats, the bustling browns of the trawler. Those men are always there, smoking, sitting, watching. Can you feel the gentle waves of loss and hope? Can you feel the chills of more-days-behind-than-ahead, the warmths of memory? Can you hear the bustling spirits of all the shamans, all the fishermen, all the crooks, all the fathers, all the girlfriends, all the dreamers, all the deals and seals and madnesses of the Norseman and the Dane and the Inuit? Can you taste the too-long nights and too-long days? It's not just me, is it?

Do you know that song, Our Town? Beautiful. The older you get, I think, the more you search for home. And the further away you are, the more you recognise and start to love the good town that isn't your town. 

Let's go back? The rain/sleet's stopped now. The sun's prodding the clouds. We can go back and just watch it for a while.

Greenland. Day 16: Lake Tasersuaq

Lake Tasersuaq

Greenland. Day 15: The Quarry, The Lake And The River.

The Quarry.

Greenland. Day 14: The Seal.

Early morning. You wander down to the harbour. The sun's shining. The water's a million times more than blue. For a few moments, there's absolute, pin-drop, quiet. A sound grows towards you: a murmur, a moan, a groan, a rhythm, a wave, repeating, plaintive, metallic, lost. You wonder if it's the creak of masts and rope and wood and hooks or the crying of children, an ancient hymn, some melancholic assembly. You shiver.

You watch a JCB heading away from you, a police car heading towards you. There's only room on the bridge for one of them. The police car wins. You turn to the man with the knife. He's standing over a mass of moist, red-black flesh, cutting into it carefully, easily, with all the nonchalance of someone who's done this all our lives. Intestines. Organs. Blood. The whiskers are still there. You watch, fascinated, dispassionate. A woman comes up, begins haggling over part of the once-alive thing. You wonder what part it used to be. You think there should be a smell, but there isn't. You ask the man if you can take photos. He smiles, yes. 

You watch, for an age. Finished, finally, with the show, you wander off, find your eye caught by something down by the water. And there's the skin: perfect, laid out, waiting. A seal. A seal, obviously a seal, smooth and grey and beautiful. And there's its fat layer: white and sickly and dead. 

They say the Greenlanders hunt with respect, the Canadians hunt to exterminate. I don't know. I don't know what I think. But when I get back here, I wonder whether to show anyone the pictures, decide not to, and wonder why. 

Greenland. Day 13: In Which I Get Slightly Lost.

So I took notice of my own advice and remembered to make sure there was a battery in the camera and that I had gloves. I also had extra layers of clothing, food, drink and the absolute confidence I could manage a stroll round a lake for a few hours and come back tired and self-satisfied. Why would it be any different to Virginia Water? Or the Serpentine? 

What I didn't bank on was that the map shown here isn't quite detailed enough. Or that I might end up climbing up and down rocks, through soaking-wet, mossy, heathery stuff and across deep (up to my knees) snow for a couple of hours, in an increasingly haphazard way, trying to follow the instructions of the local woman who'd told me to 'keep left and look out for paths'... It's incredible really, having grown up in a mountainous region of North London and with my history of Fiennes-like adventuring, but it turns out I'm not exactly a Sherpa. It also turns out I was wrong to think you automatically get a compass on an iPhone. And that having Springsteen's The River (no idea) going through your mind constantly can get really, really annoying. And that, after a while lost in Greenland, you do start wondering how far south polar bears wander. Oh, and that I actually swear out loud, even when there isn't another human being for miles. (Apparently, Greenlandic has no swearwords).

So. I do feel a bit smug. Making it back here as sane as I was when I left was quite an achievement. And I've discovered I know every bloody word of The River. 

Qaqortoq, Tasersuaq.

Greenland. Day 12: Top Tips

If you're in Greenland, please remember the following:

1) If it's been snowing for hours, it's -327 degrees and you go out, wear gloves.
2) If you want to take photos when you go out without your gloves, remember to make sure the battery's in the camera. 

Thank you.

Qaqortoq

Greenland. Day 11: True Love Ways

Nothing to do with Greenland but this came on the radio this morning and reached out to me through the railings of the autotuned playground of dodgy, poppy hip hop and Greenlandic cover versions of Queen songs. I was pulled back to being eleven, to starting secondary school and buying my first-ever LPs for 50p from Pete Morley (who I'm pretty sure ripped me off): Buddy Holly's Greatest Hits and... um... another one...

I'd never really liked this song but the sweet strings and the gorgeous sax and the careworn poignancy of Buddy's voice transported me back to grey old Enfiewd in 1973, to my mum, to Paul, to all we've learned and lost and loved. It's actually rather beautiful. 

Greenland. Day 10: Disappearance.

When you go away from the people you love, they worry you may not come back - and you worry about them worrying. When you go away, you worry they might forget you, go off you, finally realise all your flaws and eccentricities and doubts are too much to take - and you worry your worries are worrying them. We sit forever on that wobbly, pointy fence that separates desire from denial, craving from avoidance, here from not-here, seeing from not seeing. Being on two different fences on different continents makes keeping our balance so much harder.

The Norsemen left Scandinavia, spent four hundred years in Greenland and then, towards the end of the 14th century, vanished. The general view, apparently, is this was the result of a combination of a sort of globalisation (the shift in trade to Africa deprived the Norse of a European market for walrus ivory) and of climate change (the eruption of a volcano in Indonesia increased sea ice and storms). One of those things would have been a huge challenge: both together were, ultimately, disastrous.

What human beings started, nature finished. The last known evidence of Norse people in Greenland is in the records of the wedding of Sigrid Bjornsdottir and Thorstein Olafsson in Hvalsey (just down the road from here) in September, 1408. After that, Europeans no longer saw the Norsemen of Greenland: they just disappeared. People at 'home' in Scandinavia essentially forgot about them and finally set out to convert them to Christianity a couple of hundred years later. When the missionaries got to Greenland, they had to make do with converting the Inuit instead.

This afternoon I went to Kalaallit Nunaanni Katersugaasiviit, the Qaqortoq museum. I found myself a bit disquieted by the beautiful carvings, the strange dolls, the sadness and pride of what remains of the Inuit community, the kindness and openness of the guide. From nowhere, the King Creosote song came to mind. I realised I'd never bothered looking at, hearing, tasting, feeling fully before this kind of place, these kinds of histories and cultures, this magic, these shamans, I'd never met the gaze of the hunters of seals or of the prices we all paid and continue to pay for survival.

And whenever I did look before, I'd quickly turn away from what it all said about our evanescence, our inevitable disappearance. I'll turn away again, of course - how else can any of us get through? - but in the meantime, it makes me happy to report that Sigrid and Thorstein made it to Iceland from Greenland and stayed together. And it makes me happy that, as I walked into the shop across the road from the museum, the old, weather-worn, shopkeeper looked up, smiled and offered me a silver ring 'for your woman'.

What human beings started, nature finished. The last known evidence of Norse people in Greenland is in the records of the wedding of Sigrid Bjornsdottir and Thorstein Olafsson in Hvalsey (just down the road from here) in September, 1408. After that, Europeans no longer saw the Norsemen of Greenland: they just disappeared. People at 'home' in Scandinavia essentially forgot about them and finally set out to convert them to Christianity a couple of hundred years later. When the missionaries got to Greenland, they had to make do with converting the Inuit instead. 

This afternoon I went to Kalaallit Nunaanni Katersugaasiviit, the Qaqortoq museum. I found myself a bit disquieted by the beautiful carvings, the strange dolls, the sadness and pride of what remains of the Inuit community, the kindness and openness of the guide. From nowhere, the King Creosote song came to mind. I realised I'd never bothered looking at, hearing, tasting, feeling fully before this kind of place, these kinds of histories and cultures, this magic, these shamans, I'd never met the gaze of the hunters of seals or of the prices we all paid and continue to pay for survival.

When I had looked, I'd quickly turned away, I realised, from what it all said about our evanescence, my inevitable disappearance. I'll turn away again, of course - how else do we get through? - but in the meantime, it makes me happy that Sigrid and Thorstein made it to Iceland from Greenland and stayed together. And it makes me happy that, as I walked into the shop across the road, the old, weather-worn, shopkeeper looked up, smiled and offered me a silver ring 'for your woman'.

Kalaallit Nunaanni Katersugaasiviit, Qaqortoq Museum.

Greenland. Day 9: Wrestling.

I stayed indoors and got some work done today, slowly plucking out a few hundred more words to put towards a couple of short stories and doing some tinkering with the next chapbook. I learned stuff about Delacroix, including how much he was influenced by English painters. I realised I can't tell parody from the real thing in The Spectator. I had some redfish. I managed to rescue clothes that had been imprisoned by the washing-machine for the last 24 hours. I watched the second half of the strange, unsettling Wedding Of Palo (and I now know how to skin and eviscerate a seal). I had a banana.  I thought, did and felt several things I'm not going to tell you about. And now I'm lying in bed with Evelyn Waugh.  

 

Qaqortoq, Greenland.