Snow & Coffee

A warm, rustic interior scene inside Krokkus Kafé in Hommersåk, Norway. A wooden table holds a laptop and a cup of coffee, surrounded by natural textures, soft lighting, and a calm café atmosphere ideal for quiet winter writing.

Winter Settles In

Cold first. Warm later.

A wide winter view of Lutsi Lake, partially frozen and framed by snow-covered mountains. The still water and pale blue tones capture the quiet tension between ice and movement during early winter in Norway.

It’s early January, and the cold has finally decided to commit.
We didn’t get snow for Christmas, but better late than never — it’s piling up now, soft and unapologetic. Midday on a winter road is my favourite time to be out driving. The roads are quieter, the air sharp enough to wake you up, and the car heater is keeping my soul toasty.

On days like this, I don’t plan much. I follow a small set of rituals instead — a drive, a lake, and coffee somewhere local. A place where I can bring my work, sit with a different ambience than my writing table at home, and let my thoughts rearrange themselves a little.

A winter writing pause at Krokkus Kafé, where Snow & Coffee took shape.

Winter doesn’t slow things down for me. It sharpens the routine. It strips it down to what matters.

That’s usually how I end up drifting through quieter villages — not as destinations, but as part of a rhythm I keep returning to.

Come with me.

A Detour Through Alsvik

When winter settles in like this, I usually take a small detour through Alsvik — a quieter stretch that gently pulls you off the main road and into a different frame of mind. And yes, you guessed it: snow and dropping temperatures tend to awaken my winter-bathing instincts. Certain roads simply feel right when the cold arrives, and Alsvik is one of them. I find myself returning here as the seasons shift.

A modest cabin rests by the frozen surface of Lutsi Lake in Alsvik, Sandnes. Snow-dusted trees and still water frame a quiet winter scene that mirrors the slow, grounded rhythm of rural life in Norway.

Tucked inside the village is Lutsi Lake. I pass it all year round, yet it never looks the same twice. The same cabins. The same curves in the road. But the landscape keeps revealing different sides of itself, depending on the season.

Lutsi Lake in Early Winter

Right now, it’s early winter. The lake hasn’t fully committed yet. Patches of ice stretch across the surface, interrupted by dark, open water still moving underneath — half frozen, half awake.

I stop the car here often, sometimes just to take in the view. Today, though, it’s for something more physical — to feel the bite of the cold on my skin.

“Maybe a quick plunge before heading off to find coffee,” I tell myself.

Cold Water as Ritual

I stand beside an ice hole cut into the frozen surface of Lutsi Lake in Alsvik, Sandnes — boots planted, body braced, breath steady. Cold first. Warm later.

The scene is impossible to resist. The stillness of the winter air. The quiet tension between ice and water. It all feels like an invitation. And besides, carving out a bathing hole in my favourite lake is one of my most grounding winter rituals.

It’s a rhythm of respect. You have to respect the lake — it’s my winter bathtub, after all.

This is where I come when life gets noisy and confusing. I step into cold water on purpose, strip everything down to sensation, and let the lake do what it does best: quiet the static.

I go under tense.
I come out clearer.

Baptized, if you like — into peace, and into resilience. Ready for the next round of living.

Cold water has an impressive talent for cutting through nonsense. You arrive with a head full of thoughts and leave with a much simpler operating system.

That’s usually the whole point.

Krokkus Kafé: Warmth, Earned

The weathered green entrance of Krokkus Kafé, accented with a handmade winter wreath and surrounded by snow. The greenhouse-inspired doorway hints at growth, warmth, and seasonal continuity even in winter.

The first thing you notice is the green entrance. Not a loud green — the calm, weathered kind that belongs to greenhouses and garden sheds, places built for growth rather than display. Even in winter, it hints at summer.

Krokkus isn’t just a café. It’s a greenhouse that learned how to make coffee.

In warmer months, this place fills with plants, flowers, and gardening tools — soil-stained gloves, watering cans, things meant to be used rather than styled. In winter, the bones of that identity remain. Nothing has been stripped away. It’s simply resting.

Just outside, wreaths are still being sold — thick, green, insistently alive. Moss, pinecones, branches twisted by hand. Gardening tools hang nearby, waiting patiently for spring. I like that nothing here pretends to be seasonal in a trendy way. Winter doesn’t erase the place’s purpose. It only slows it down.

Fresh green wreaths, moss, pinecones, and practical gardening tools are displayed outside Krokkus Kafé. The scene reflects a space rooted in use, patience, and seasonal rhythm rather than trend.

Inside, the décor lands somewhere between rustic and quietly chic. Wood worn smooth by time. Shelves assembled out of necessity rather than intention to impress. Fresh flowers sit casually on tables — not as statements, but as companions. Nothing here is asking to be admired. Which is probably why everything feels so honest.

A quiet corner inside Krokkus Kafé in Hommersåk, where rustic wooden surfaces, fresh flowers, and natural materials create a calm, grounded atmosphere. The décor feels intentional without excess — warm, functional, and quietly inviting.

I settle in with my coffee, cup warm in my hands. Outside the window, winter keeps doing its thing. Inside, time loosens its grip. This is the kind of place where writing comes easily — not because it’s dramatic or inspiring in an obvious way, but because it doesn’t interrupt you. The ambience doesn’t compete with your thoughts. It makes room for them.

No pretence. No audience. Just warmth that feels earned.