An Irishwoman's Diary

Hannun Ajokhart takes a large knife from his belt, and picks up a smooth piece of pinewood. As he talks, he peels segments of the wood as if paring the point of a pencil. First one curl, then two, then three - until the wood's topside bears a symmetrical series of waves.

Finished art or a work in progress - we're not sure as he talks with great deliberation in Lappish and his words are translated by Pekkar, our guide. The wood fire crackles before us, sparks flying up to the roof of his kota, or tepee. The warm, welcome flame - with outside temperatures around minus 20 C - casts shadows over the canvas. Once, this shelter would have been made of reindeer skin, draped tightly over the tall wooden poles, he explains. Once this kota would have been his permanent home.

The advent of the snowmobile, or skidoo, has had a dramatic impact on the lives of Hannun and his Finnish compatriots living north of the Arctic Circle. Now he and his wife, Sirpa, have a house and drive a car. They depend on, but have lives independent of, the reindeer. Unlike the Sami people, who still lead a semi-nomadic existence in pursuit of migrating herds across Siberia and northern Scandinavia, Hannun, a Lapp, has an open farm, to which visitors are welcome. His "business card" is inscribed on the back of these pieces of pine. "So you will never forget," he grins, as he hands out his wooden souvenirs, and we mumble our thanks through our balaclavas.

Sirpa jumps up, seizes a collection of wooden mugs, rubs the rims vigorously with a thick cloth, and shakes several blackened kettles lined around the fire. Tea? Coffee? Warm blackberry juice? We have a choice. I opt for some of the most delicious coffee I have ever tasted.

There is smoked reindeer, there are little iced cakes, and when the couple take us out to view the deer and their wooden sleighs, which are now "kept for the visitors", it is still almost dark, though the time is early afternoon. At this time of year the world never really wakes up in these northern latitudes, and one is fortunate to glimpse an actual beam of sun for more than 10 minutes.

That's why storytelling is also an integral part of the respective Lappish and Sami cultures, Hannun explains. It was the Sami who first told their children about the reindeer descending from the stars on the shortest day of the year, driven by an old man with a beard bearing gifts for snoozing bairns. However, we weren't there to see the legendary sleigh-driver, who should have been safely back home and tucked up in his bunk by the time we travelled. Our aim was to mark the opening of 2006 in deep snow above the Arctic Circle under the blue light for which the region is best known - and, if we were very lucky, to catch a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis.

The 718-metre mountain Ylläs (pronounced Oolas) gives its name to one of the highest areas in this part of Finland, embracing seven fells, two original Sami villages and the Palas-Yllastunturi national park. We wonder about the "original Sami" village bit.

A Crossing the Line documentary for TG4 several years ago on the Nenets in Siberia showed most graphically how Sami and settlement are not always synonymous. Sergei, leader of a Nenet "brigade", described how his migratory career was really "living". An urban existence would be like living behind a pane of glass, he explained.

Akaslompolo, our destination in Yllas, is a hamlet on the northern side of the fell which first began to attract skiing enthusiasts in the 1930s, when there wasn't even a road. Visitors from southern Finland would travel by horse, by reindeer, on snow shoes or on skis, and one enthusiast even arrived by light plane. As with Norwegians, whose Viking ancestors invented skis, Finns are keen on cross-country and make the most of the short winter days with illuminated trails.

"Forget the Goretex and man-made fibres - wear plenty of wool next to your skin, and take a headtorch," we were advised before setting off. In fact, the temperature gauge just outside our window never dropped below about minus 21⁰, we had brought far too many layers, and we adjusted quickly to skiing or even snow-shoeing in the dark.

What we hadn't anticipated was the wonderful silence, broken only by the rhythmical bite of ski sticks, and the occasional dull hum of a snowmobile. Snow grouse, which change their plumage during the winter, were confident enough to wander around foraging for moss and other grub just feet away from us. "Narnia", one travel-writer described the landscape, but that may be an understatement. Nothing can quite prepare one for the beauty.

During a sojourn around a frozen lake, our guide wondered why my young companion kept looking up at the tall pines reaching for the sky. Each tree takes on its own personality when completely covered with snow, frozen and almost taking animal form. Fallen trunks resemble bears. Saplings could be fauns or satyrs. Taller trees could be dinosaurs. "What are you looking at?" our guide eventually asked, bursting with curiosity. "Monsters, of course!" came the reply.

As for the elusive aurora borealis, we shared countless watches with British neighbours in our log cabin, who had travelled to the area for that purpose alone. The forces which cause atomic particles from the sun and earth's atmosphere to collide, emitting energy and light over the polar gap in the earth's magnetic field, would be at their optimum between 10pm and 2am, they told us.

We took them at their word, peeking out in pyjamas at times for a sign of the "ethereal curtains dropping in vast folds towards the earth" (to quote one guide-book). One dark evening on a return from a small ski expedition, we marvelled at the phosphorescence on the snow and the rose-pink sky, with a slight blue tinge, above us.

"But that was probably it," one of the Ylläs residents told us later. "A little bit like sex," he winked. "The lights are not always predictable, not always what you anticipate."