An aurora-chaser walks into a Finnish bar and comes away with a bold ori‘gin’ story
The temperature outside the Arctic Light Hotel was hovering around minus 20 degrees Celsius, but inside the intimate lobby bar, the atmosphere was deliciously warm.
My second night in Rovaniemi, Lapland’s capital city, and still no northern lights. The cloud cover had been stubborn, much like my determination to see them before heading out.
“Another night of waiting,” I sighed to the bartender. “Any recommendations for something to warm the soul while the skies decide what to do?”
The bartender, Mikko, according to his name tag, smiled knowingly. He’d probably heard the same lament from countless aurora-chasers.
“How about something uniquely Finnish?” he suggested, reaching below the bar. “Something with a story as wild as the lights you’re chasing.”
He produced a distinctive bottle with a clean, minimalist design that screamed Nordic sensibility. “Kyrö Gin & Tonic — Napue to be exact. Not your everyday G&T. This one has a backbone.”
As he crafted my drink, adding a sprig of rosemary and good-looking cranberries, the drink looked fabulous. The darkness outside was complete at 4 pm. Winter in Lapland takes no prisoners.
“What makes it special?” I asked, accepting the glass gratefully. My fingers, still regaining feeling after my earlier northern lights hunt, wrapped around it appreciatively.
“Well,” Mikko chuckled, “for starters, it was conceived in a sauna. Where else?”
My first sip surprised me. Warm, complex, with an earthiness I’d never tasted in a gin before.
“You’ve seen that famous photo, right? Five naked guys running out of a sauna and through a meadow, holding a tiny Finnish flag to preserve their modesty?” Mikko grinned.
“That’s the Kyrö guys. They don’t just make spirits. They embody the crazy Finnish spirit.”
He pushed some black-and-white coasters my way to support his story.
I nearly choked on my drink. “That image is of them? The actual founders?”
“The very same! They figured if they were going to put everything into this business, they might as well put everything out there.” Mikko’s eyes crinkled with amusement.
“That photo is legendary now. Five friends with nothing but a flag and a dream of making the world’s best rye spirits in a country obsessed with rye bread.”
“It started in 2012, in a sauna. They were drinking American rye whiskey, and someone asked why Finland, the country that consumes more rye per capita than anywhere else, doesn’t make its own rye whiskey. By the time they cooled off in the snow afterward, they’d decided to create a distillery.”
I took another appreciative sip. Outside, the cold was getting crisper, usually a good sign to spot auroras.
“But this is gin,” I pointed out.
“Smart observation,” Mikko laughed. “While waiting for their whiskey to mature, which takes years, they created this gin to keep the lights on. But being stubborn Finns, they made it from rye instead of the usual grains. The botanicals are all foraged from Finnish forests. Like taking a walk through Lapland in summer, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t wrong. Each sip evoked memories of my silent hike through a Finnish forest when I was there the previous summer. The forest scents, the crisp air, the wild berries I’d been warned not to eat without a guide.
“They converted an old dairy in tiny Isokyrö into their distillery. The population may be 5,000 on a busy day. Now they’re winning international awards. ‘World’s Best Gin for Gin & Tonic’ at the IWSC competition.”
My phone buzzed with a northern-lights alert. Possible aurora activity in the next hour. My heart leapt, but the warmth of the bar and the story unfolding made me reluctant to dash out just yet.
“The naked sauna run wasn’t just a one-time marketing stunt,” Mikko continued, noticing my glance at my phone but kindly finishing his tale.
“Those guys still make their major business decisions in the sauna. Their company motto is ‘In rye we trust’, but it could just as easily be ‘In sauna we trust’.”
He refreshed my drink without my asking. “Their courage to bare it all, literally, for their passion… that’s the Finnish way. We endure these dark winters by creating our own light.”
“The lights! They’re starting, they say! There is a good chance tonight; let’s go!” said my friends from the local tourism board as they burst through the door with excitement.
The bar emptied in seconds, everyone grabbing jackets and accessories. I downed the last of my remarkable gin and joined the exodus.
That night, beneath dancing ribbons of green and purple light, with Kyrö’s warming complexity still lingering on my tongue, I understood something about Finland.
In this land of extremes, where summer brings midnight sun and winter brings midday darkness, people embrace audacity. Whether it’s naked men running out from saunas to start distilleries or travellers like me chasing coloured lights in the freezing cold, the Finnish spirit encourages you to pursue the seemingly impossible.
And sometimes, just sometimes, the skies part and reward your perseverance with magic.
