Do you reach for your phone first thing in the morning as soon as you wake up? Me too. Only, for the past week, it’s not my WhatsApp, email or social media I’ve been desperate to check, but how many moose have managed to swim across the Ångerman river overnight.
I know. I need more going on in my life, right? How else to explain my fascination with watching dozens of Swedish moose (yes, moose is the plural of moose, sadly not “meese”) undertake their annual spring migration to summer pastures?
Except, it’s not just me. Last year, the 24-hour online live stream – which sees Sweden’s national broadcaster SVT deploy 12 miles of cable and 34 cameras along the route these animals have taken since the ice age – was viewed by 9 million people, compared with under a million when it first aired in 2019.
Watching television was always supposed to be relaxing but rarely is these days. I doubt anyone was blissed out in front of Adolescence, and even reality shows such as my beloved Married at First Sight Australia are made for shouting at the screen (“Am I the only one who can see that he’s gaslighting her? HELLO?”).
Slow TV – a marathon event, shown in real time, in its entirety – is filling that gap and helping us unwind. There is no music, no script, no narration, no editing. The moose don’t know they are being watched (or, indeed, written about in the Guardian).
The genre began in Norway in 2009, with a seven-hour broadcast of a train journey between Bergen and Oslo, which was viewed by 1 million people. Other slow TV successes have included 12 hours of knitting and a five-day boat journey that was watched by half the population. In 2015, BBC Four broadcast a two-hour barge trip down the Kennet and Avon canal, doubling the channel’s usual viewing figures. For those of us craving a gentler pace of life, slow TV is a balm.
It is why the BBC’s Mortimer and Whitehouse: Gone Fishing attracts an average 1.3 million viewers and has been nominated for several Baftas, despite being little more than two ageing men sitting on the riverbank. And why Springwatch occupies a primetime slot on BBC Two for several nights a week from May onwards, when millions of us tune in to watch nesting birds and badgers in their setts. Wookey Hole Caves in Somerset has a “cheese cam” for watching its wheels of cheese age in real time (ie at a speed when changes are not visible to the naked eye).
As well as the moose migration, currently open on my laptop tabs is the Somerset Wildlife Trust’s barn owl cam, which livestreams the arrival of owlets. And a “fish doorbell” in the Dutch city of Utrecht where, should a fish appear in the murky green water, you press a button to allow them through a river lock (after more time than I care to admit, I’m yet to see a single perch). A camera beside a watering hole in the Namib desert attracts the odd visiting crow and was being watched live by 600 people when I randomly tuned in.
Even in the moments when you’re not watching, keeping these live streams running in the background means your work, or life admin, is accompanied by nature’s relaxing soundtrack. The moose migration is mostly birds tweeting, waterfowl honking and water flowing. And the scenery! Snowy riverbanks, pale sunlight pouring through spruce and pine forests, wild geese and swans gliding across fjords. It’s magical – and good job, because there are fewer sightings of actual moose than you might imagine from a moose live stream. Hours can pass without a glimpse, but it’s worth it when you spot a furry creature meandering peacefully through the trees or soundlessly swimming. However bad your own day, it’s soothing to know that, somewhere in Sweden, a moose is living its best life.
That’s not to say there aren’t heart-stopping moments: when the river current was particularly strong, I momentarily thought the sound of whooshing water was coming from my own kitchen. Not to mention the discovery that the on-screen counter, tracking how many animals have crossed the river, had jumped from 46 to 54 while I wasn’t paying attention. Blink and you’ll moose it.
Yet it’s weirdly gripping, waiting for something to happen. A total contrast to opening a social-media app on your phone, where you know something will be happening and will probably make you feel inadequate by comparison. Slow TV is the antidote to doomscrolling for the social-media generation. But, worry not, there are opportunities for connection, too. The moose migration live stream also has a chat function where excited followers debate how many will make the river crossing and (if my translation skills are up to scratch) chat about knitting, while waiting for something to occur. Moosescrolling – it’s the future.
Claire Cohen is a journalist and the author of BFF? The Truth About Female Friendship
