Ragnar Jónasson

Now that May was here, you really began to notice how late it got dark, the light evenings holding out a promise of the midnight sun It was a wonderful, life-affirming time of year, the darkness of the northern winter gradually receding, the evenings growing almost imperceptibly brighter every day until the middle of June, when the night was banished altogether. A vivid memory came back to her of those spectacular summer nights at their old place on Alftanes. Out in their back garden, where there was room to really breathe, you could watch the sun dipping below the sea while the sky flamed orange and red and the shore birds piped all night in the soft afterglow. In a cramped flat in a city apartment block, all the seasons seemed the same, the days merging in a monotonous blur and time slipping away with bewildering speed.
As if summer wasn’t brief enough anyway. As its very height, in July, the darkness would begin its insidious return, creeping back into the lives of the islanders, first as no more than a hint of dusk, then by August, one of Hulda’s least favourite months, the nights would have closed in again, a reminder that winter was at hand.