Since
Pytheas, the sailor from ancient Greece, travelled by sea and land from Marseille to the North of the British Isles, the myth of finding the
Thule he described, a northern land with sunny nights surrounded by solid iced sea where people lived in peace and happiness, has remained through centuries one of a kind, like the
Graal or
Atlantis.
Candidates for
Thule surged and were discarded by some one after the other:
The
Hebrides
The
Shetland Islands
The
Faröe Islands
The
coast of Norway, from Trondheim up to the Lofoten isles
The
Svalbard Islands
The Island of
Saaremaa, Estonia
Iceland
Greenland
These are my lands of dream. These are my destinations. I hear their call.
Thule means nothing nowadays. An US air base in Greenland, the name of pre-inuit artic people, some poetic quotations. For me, it names all the territories I feel I belong to, where I wish I could live, all the legends and mythologies I love, all the towns and villages I long to visit, all the landscape of ice caps, glaciers, mountains, fishing harbours, dog sledges, white rabbits and deep blessed loneliness I want around me.