Turning 30, Leaving England

On Halloween this year I turned thirty years old. I held a ceremony in Jon Trayner's back garden, where I burnt the notebooks I'd been keeping for the past fifteen years. It marked half a lifetime of learning to be a writer. Before burning each one I spoke a little about the period in which it was written and I read an extract from all but one of them.  

Two days later I left England for Norway, to spend at least a year living in Nord Troms in the arctic circle. A place I have never been before and have difficulty even imagining. Latitude 69.23.

In the weeks before my birthday I had quit my job, sold most of my CDs for around a penny each, and watched two men carry my books, vinyl and furniture out of my South London flat. It all felt uncannily normal. It wasn't until I was on the plane yesterday that any unfamiliar feelings crept in. I looked down at my open hand luggage, half-stuffed beneath the chair in front, and I saw the purple spine of my only remaining notebook. And then for some reason it occurred to me that I didn't have any keys in my pocket, because I had yet to see my house.

Marthe and I spent last night staying with my in-laws in Trondheim. I couldn't sleep, and some time after midnight I was looking out of the window at the pitch darkness, trying to figure out what it will be like to know the sun isn't going to rise in the morning. Tomorrow at midday we'll take the boat from Trondheim, and around three days later we'll arrive in Nordreisa. Then we'll begin to learn about life in the far north. That's what this blog is going to be about.