It's midsummer's eve in Stockholm and teen climate activist Greta Thunberg is nowhere to be seen. Petals and leaves blow about the footstalls at the city's parliament house, and stragglers from the day's festivities take selfies against its sun-struck facade.
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Every Friday for the past year, the 16-year-old has held vigil outside her country's parliament, demanding the government take action on climate change. She has spawned a global movement, mobilising tens of thousands of students to mount their own school strikes for climate. Just this morning she posted a picture of herself on Instagram; she was standing outside the parliament, a crown of midsummer flowers upon her head.
But I'm too late. It's the summer solstice, and I've spent too long celebrating this beloved Swedish tradition with locals on Djurgrden Island.
We've danced around the maypole and sung quirky folk songs in celebration of the sun and warmth - even as Thunberg protests against a relentlessly heating planet. By the time my ferry reaches the island of Gamla Stan, on which parliament house sits, she is gone.
Heroes need their rest too, even on the longest day of the year, when the streets are alive with song and the sky won't darken. But no matter; she's been guiding me on my way. Two weeks earlier, at the Nobel Peace Centre in Oslo, I stand amid a flurry of spirited posters donated by young people who gathered in Oslo in March 2019 to take part in the first global youth climate strike.
''I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues,'' says one.
''You'll die of old age, I'll die of climate change,'' says another.
''We stand with Greta,'' says a third.
This collection is part of KlimaLab, an interactive exhibition inspired by the movement Thunberg inadvertently spearheaded. It's a laboratory filled with interactive experiences inviting visitors to reflect on how climate change might threaten peace. There is a greenhouse made from mostly recycled objects where plants and knowledge are cultivated, a space where people can ponder messages left by others and add their own voices to the conversation, a wall filled with bright take-home cards which offer practical ways of reducing one's carbon footprint.
There's a poignant excerpt on display from the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech given by the first environmental activist to win the prize, the late Wangari Maathai. ''I would like to call on young people to commit themselves to activities that contribute toward achieving their long-term dreams,'' she says. ''They have the energy and creativity to shape a sustainable future.''
Fifteen years later, Thunberg, along with her countless followers, have heeded Maathai's call. And so, it seems, has Oslo: as I walk along the harbour promenade, I pass driverless electric buses, a new initiative aimed at further greening a city named the 2019 European Green Capital.
I stop for lunch at Vippa Oslo, a funky fjord-side centre filled with food trucks reflecting the country's multicultural population and espousing an ecological philosophy. The food served here is sustainably sourced, waste is composted and there's not a plastic straw in sight.
Share bikes are lined up at the nearby Oslo Central Station. Travellers mill about the platforms, oblivious, it seems, to the billboard advertisements for local carrier Scandinavian Airlines begging for their patronage.
''Your reason for travelling is our reason to work towards zero emission,'' says one.
''Your reason for travelling is our reason for making travelling more sustainable,'' says another.
But the late afternoon rail service to Stockholm is full - a response, perhaps, to the Swedish philosophies of flygskam (flight shame) and tagskryt (train bragging), which encourage people to eschew flights and embrace greener modes of travel such as public transport, carpooling and train travel.
Yet to journey by rail is surely one of the lesser sacrifices one can make in the quest to halt global warming. In fact, this is a deeply soothing mode of transport, a slowing down of the voyage so that one's progress might be measured in real time rather than sped up in a frenzy of flight.
Relaxing into my window seat, I watch an endless mosaic spooling by: sloping fields dotted with hay bales and gingerbread houses; a blue Cadillac surfing along a side-road; graffiti spattering corrugated sheds; wild lupins flashing by in a blur of purple.
There's a power outlet beside my seat so that I can plug in and work on the almost six-hour journey; but I'm distracted by the charming stations we stop at along the way, at these passengers disembarking and those taking their place.
I totter along to the dining carriage where an impressive assortment of food and beverages is on sale. Unlike air travel, there's no rigidity around dining or moving about. I can eat supper at one of the tables in the bistro or take it back to my seat. Either way, this is so much more civilised than juggling a food tray within the tight confines of an economy-class row.
It's close to midnight by the time we pull into Stockholm's Central Station, and the endless summer light has faded. In coming days, I'll discover a place whose mature approach to climate change was foretold in 1967, when it became the first country to establish an environmental protection agency. It will make perfect sense that this pioneering nation has produced an activist such as Thunberg.
