October 8th 2007

TELEGRAPH BLOG DAY 13

Greenland has been excellent, what an extraordinary place. We are leaving today for Iceland, which is about 230 miles to the southeast. I'd be sad to leave if it didn't mean that at the end of the final leg of this epic journey I will be reunited with Sophie and the kids. It seems very odd while I sit here on the Noorderlicht, that next week I'll be back at the BBC getting the Late Edition ready for Thursday night's show. The simplicity of the daily routine in the arctic has started to appeal to me in a way I never thought it would. There are few demands made on us here and the benefits or importance of those that there are, are clear. So the concept of a live TV show and going to an office every day seems very alien.

I went ashore yesterday with Ko, our armed and possibly humourless guide, Emily, the fun loving oceanographer and Kathy who runs the Cape Farewell website and beams our messages through the sky with the precision of a Jedi. We climbed the foothill of one the steep mountains, which surrounds the fjord. The snow was a foot or two deep so, after a snowball fight of the best kind - i.e. in teams whose members are happy to turn on each other if the enemy are out of range - we built a snow hole in a drifted bank. I say we built, in reality Emily built a snow hole, the entrance to which had to be widened to accommodate my rather broad backside. I was given permission to smash the shelter from within by poking my head out through the roof. If anyone else, like I had, has imagined that in an avalanche they would just wiggle their way up to the surface you are quite wrong. Snow is heavy, really heavy and the more you push it the more it sets. I broke through in the end but only after a superhuman effort and was then so exhausted that I fell down the snow bank laughing like a child at a dirty joke.

As we walked down the slope towards the black sand of the beach, the sun ushered what clouds there were to the sides of the sky and bathed the fjord in warm afternoon light. So there I sat in an armchair made of snow, with the sun scrolling through every shade of yellow and orange that ever was, rippling a perfect line of light towards me in my frozen lazee-boy, a council of mountains framing the scene on all sides and the mosque like domes of blue icebergs drifting across the horizon. Then the rigid inflatable cut its way across the sea and carried us smiling, back to the Noorderlicht in time to see Vikram Seth swimming by the boat. Brave? Stupid? Brilliant.

As if the afternoon had not been magic enough, once filled and warmed up on Shepard's pie and salad and were then treated not only to the northern lights but also to bioluminescent plankton. Their efforts to mirror the number of stars in the clearest sky we've seen were valiant. When disturbed they glow and shiver in darting diagonal spurts of bluey green. The northern lights meanwhile were sending sheets and ribbons of mysterious colour across the stars as solar charged particles reach in towards the magnetism of the North Pole. It was all too extraordinary and I went to bed smiling from ear to ear.

As the rest of the crew and passengers prepared the boat for our departure, David Buckland, who's baby Cape Farewell is, and myself were squeezing my thermal layered frame into a bright orange survival suit. The plan being that I float amongst the bergs and broken sea ice while being filmed. David has projected a walking, naked, pregnant woman and then a crawling baby onto icebergs on hi-def film, so this floating man drifting aimlessly to an uncertain end is supposed to complete his story of man and the ice. So as I waddled out on to the deck and the cry went up that there were seals in the water I felt pretty apprehensive. They have big teeth and may be curious as to what this four limbed plump carrot coloured thing in their fjord actually is, I thought. My fear was misplaced and soon developed into something altogether different when it turned out to be not a seal but a mother polar bear carrying two cubs on her back across the mouth of the fjord where I was about to go swimming. She was magnificent and we watched her guide her children all the way to the shore, climb out, shake and then set off mountaineering up the side of the valley. Had my entire body not been under so much pressure from the rubber suit I feel sure that a tear of emotion would have squeezed its way out, but as it was, there was no room.

I floated, bobbed and thrashed in the icy arctic water for about thirty-five minutes in all. My hands and feet felt the cold badly so coming on board for a cup of tea at half time helped a lot. The feeling in the sea was one of almost complete relaxation tinged with a little fear and the sharp tingling of cold on my limbs. When I finally climbed back on to the deck I felt like a hero. The reality is I was well looked after and whatever genius made the special suit has ensured survival for whatever unfortunate soul might find themself stuck out here in an emergency.

As I type, we are heading down the fjord towards the open sea again. We will cross the infamous Denmark straight and have been warned that there is a storm waiting for us out there. I have to say that to face another three days of constant movement, the boat listing in the wind, the passengers back on twice daily watches and the prospect of storm tossed ocean fills me with dread. Roll on Tuesday and with any luck a dip in the hot springs near Reykjavik. There are a few things I feel in need of, a hug from my wife, the smile of my children's faces and a bath. The idea of slipping into a hot foamy tub is too delicious for words. Here goes.