It’s a smudge of dark among the whites (only just), easily missed in a quick scan of this vast landscape. In spite of or perhaps because of its diminutive size, it has a huge presence. In the whole scheme of things it’s incidental, almost not there - only something draws you to it. It’s impossible to ignore.
They called him Stockholm Sven. Disfigured in a mining accident in the 1920‘s he chose to live the life of a hermit here on the shore of this remote fjord in the north-west of Svalbard. Not strong enough to face living amongst people but strong enough to live a solitary life in a hostile environment. He turned to trapping out of necessity, trading his furs for fuel and food. So there was an element of human contact whether he liked it or not; traders coming and going; boats sailing in, sailing out, presumably all in the summer months. How did he keep himself going in the winter? Maybe simply surviving was enough to keep him occupied. There’s a strange part of me that finds this appealing.
To my eyes this hut is beautiful. The bleached blonde wood is still sound thanks to the dry Arctic air. (Nothing degrades here.) It feels and looks very much part of the landscape; a few stones to keep the roof on, a few logs to prop up the walls and a few drops of human essence emanating from it. A carefully carved name plate welcomes you inside where it’s as basic and spartan as you’d expect. Ah, but it feels homely and cosy though. Wooden benches for seat and beds, a makeshift stone fireplace in the centre, nothing lonely about it. I can just imagine sitting by a roaring fire peering out through the one remaining window at the Arctic landscape. I want to spend the night here!
Before I leave I give the hut a present, a wee bit of Scotland. It’s a pebble of granite from outside the Ryvoan bothy in the Cairngorms. From one refuge to another, just to say hi.
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