The Ice Hotel, Sweden by Anthony Sattin

The agent in London expressed concern about taking my young son to the Ice Hotel, but he couldn't have been more wrong. If it hadn’t already existed, it is just the sort of place Johnny would dream up.

“Lapland?” He queried when I first mentioned the trip. “That's where Father Christmas lives.” But we were going after Christmas, 'when Santa's having a rest.' That strange alliance between fact and fantasy which is a child's sense of reality continued as we flew from Stockholm to Kiruna, as far north as you can fly in Sweden. When we had been in the air for an hour, Johnny pulled himself away from the window and asked why he couldn't see the line on the white earth below us.

“Which line?” I asked. “The one that marks the Arctic circle,” he said in a tone that made it clear I was being stupid. “I saw it on the map at home.”

Travel, as Johnny understood instinctively, allows us to put flesh on our fantasies and what could be more fantastic than the world's largest igloo? For the umpteenth time we went over what we were hoping to do in our two Arctic days, ride on a husky-sledge, go on a snow-mobile outing, sleep in the igloo, have a sauna in the morning. Johnny's eyes glazed over. How was he to know that those were real while the Arctic's circle and Santa's grotto were not?

We were travelling in April, late in the Arctic season, when temperatures were high enough to melt snow along the road, which meant that we covered the 17 kilometres to the village of Jukkasjarvi by car rather than sledge. The village's wood-cabin resort is open year-round. In summer visitors come to fish grayling, pike and trout in the river and nearby lakes, to hike, to hunt for grouse in the hills and to marvel at the fact that it never gets dark. In the deep mid-winter, when the sun fails to rise over the wooded horizon, they start building the Ice Hotel.

The first Ice Hotel was the result of a happy accident. In 1989, a Swedish artist built an igloo in Jukkasjarvi to house his exhibition. Later in the season, passing tourists finding the chalets fully-booked asked if they could sleep in the igloo. The following year a larger igloo was built with both exhibition and sleeping space and since then it has continued to grow so that it can now accommodate one hundred guests.

During the day, the igloo is a tourist attraction and non-residents pay to see its architecture, ice sculptures and photographic exhibition. We were staying in a chalet for the first night, but hurried down to have a look at the igloo, where Johnny took another reality-check.

“If it's really built of ice, what happens in the summer?” “It melts,” I replied, “and then they build it again.”

I don't always share my son's easy ways with fantasy and from the moment I had heard this place described as the world's most eco-friendly hotel, I had harboured a sneaking suspicion that it was a gimmick. The sight of a Best Western hotel logo carved from ice and a bar with an entrance shaped like a bottle of Sweden's most famous vodka did nothing to allay my fears. Nor did the fact that it was standing, thanks to some cooling system, while ice and snow had started to melt around it.

We were well-wrapped in sweaters and ski-suits, but it was significantly colder inside than out and the dull, ice-blue light made the hall seem drab and uninviting. The bar was closed, the rooms empty and the exhibition space - showing the work of a Japanese photographer killed by a grizzly in Russia - was beginning to drip water from the ceiling. I didn't complain when Johnny ran from room to room and then asked to go outside. We took a couple of kick-sleds - a long metal runner connected to a handle, powered by your feet - and scooted down the slope behind the igloo. As we crossed the frozen landscape I asked Johnny how it felt to be skating across a river.

“Which river?” he wanted to know. “The one we're standing on.” He looked uneasy as I sketched out how the place must look in the summer, the grassy banks, the broad stretch of the Torne River, huts and boat-houses at the water's edge, and he was quick to get back to the present. “Are there polar bears?” he wanted to know. “And penguins?” I explained the difference between the Arctic and the North Pole. “But reindeer live here, so we might see some of them.”

What I didn't know then was that reindeer move further north before the spring comes, so the only one we saw that day was on the dinner menu.

“Reindeer steak is considered something of a delicacy here,” I explained.

“No way,” Johnny protested, “you're not having it.” The option was several thick, creamy courses designed to provide calories against the cold, after which we hurried back to our over-heated chalet.

When the morning's icy calm was disturbed by savage howls, the receptionist stated the obvious by announcing that our sledge was ready. On the bank of the frozen river, ten dogs and their handler, Eingar, a lean, wild-looking man, were waiting for us with two women from Stockholm. I put Johnny at the front of the sledge, so I could hold onto him, and straddled the fur-lined seat. Eingar pulled up the ice anchor and the dogs leapt off the bank and onto the frozen river. The landscape was stark and beautiful as we passed Jukkasjärvi and headed upriver, white sky above, white earth below, black and white trees, black and white dogs. This monotone world was strangely silent too, no birds, no animal sounds beyond that of dog-paws on the snow, no human ones beside the sledge's runners cutting through ice. For an hour we followed the river, crossed a wood and ran out onto a broad lake. On what would be an island in summer, Eingar rested the dogs and made a fire. Around the fire we drank coffee, Eingar rolled cigarettes and Johnny settled down in the snow with the dogs. When the ladies from Stockholm started talking, I realised that Lapland was as remote to them as it was for Johnny and me.

“When we were young,” one of them explained, “Lappish culture was taboo. We weren't taught about it in school. But now we want to know more and many people come up here from the city.” I understood the attraction, but Eingar didn't.
“I don't see why you want to be here in the ice. For me, I have my bitches, my life... this is where I belong. I love the winter, but it is hard and you must be strong in mind as well as body to survive.” As if to contradict or to console him, the sun came out and scattered pure brilliance on the landscape.
“Oh look,” the Stockholm ladies said breathlessly, as though all that sparkled were diamonds. “Yes,” said Eingar, “so now the snow will melt and the sledge-season will be over. I can rest and my dogs can get fat.” At that the huskies stood up, ready to run us back to the hotel, and Johnny was granted the privilege of riding on the back rail with Eingar.

That evening, after another high-cal dinner, we collected our night-things from the cabin, took a double sleeping bag from the store, zipped up our ski suits and entered the ice zone. Light is everything to the Ice Hotel. In the afternoon it had been wrapped in a grey shroud, but a battery of electric lights and candles gave it the air of a Santa's Grotto. In the Ice Bar, Johnny settled back on an ice-bench to watch the video ice-screen while I sipped vodka from a hollowed block of ice and looked around the hall.

Two different types of ice are used to build the hotel. The main structures are made by spraying snow over huge metal arches. But the real wonder of the place is the ice cut from the nearby river, for this, formed above running water, is as clear as crystal. 2000 tons of it were hacked from the river this year to make windows, pillars and all the other transparent decorative details, from the ice reindeer head hanging above the fireplace to the dining table and chairs, to the reception desk, the ice sculptures, beds, bar and video screen, in front of which Johnny was beginning to tire. “Show me my block of ice,” he demanded dramatically.

Some rooms had elaborate ice sculptures, ice furniture or large ice windows. Ours was capped by a simple dome of ice, its narrow entrance closed by a sheet, the place lit by candles burning in niches around the walls. Any lingering cynicism I had about the place melted in the warmth of its flickering candles, but now Johnny was the one to have reservations. Pointing at the bed, a plinth of ice covered with a board, a mattress and reindeer skins, he said, “But I thought I was sleeping on ice.” To cool his objections I made him stand on the ice floor barefoot for a moment. He soon hopped up, buttoned his pyjamas and settled into our double sleeping bag to hear a story.

Some people, honeymooners amongst them, come to the Ice Hotel to burn the candle at both ends, but with a sauna and ski-mobile ride to look forward to in the morning, we were soon asleep. In the morning I was woken by a ski-suited waiter who brought glasses of hot berry juice and news of a brilliant day outside. Johnny was more difficult to stir. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at the white walls, at the vaulted roof glowing blue like the sky and blinked. “Where am I?” When I told him, he looked to see if I was joking. “Oh,” he said when he saw I wasn't, “and I thought that was just a dream.”