This is the real version, a working Russian mining settlement with real working people, no ghosts here. But you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise; being on ships time we've arrived early, no one else is up yet and there's no sign of life. There's no sun either and the early dim light coupled with the overcast weather doesn't fill a heart with cheer. Barentsburg runs at a loss, but like other nations, it's here to maintain a presence in Svalbard. There's a drab heavy silence as we trudge up the steep icy steps from the harbour. I wonder what the residents will think of our presence, I'm not entirely comfortable with it myself.

Our group splits up and I find myself alone at the far end of town. I'm on a stationary conveyor belt that's used to transport coal; it's rickety and I'm cautiously clambering over it. The wind is whipping up a mixture of coal dust and snow and I'm trying to shelter my camera from the worst of it. I'm feeling self conscious of my camera. What I'm taking now is simply a snapshot and probably not be a true picture, certainly not the whole picture. I don't want to do the residents or the place a disservice. I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable clicking away; what I'm looking at may be visually compelling and inspiring, but recording it by camera doesn't feel like the right medium somehow.

Over my shoulder I see a solitary dark figure standing nearby, watching me. I tuck the camera into my bag and climb down to say hello. He throws me a toothless smile and shuffles his feet. Not speaking each other's language we both make clumsy attempts at conversation and laugh. Regardless of the lack of understanding, the spoken language is only one form of communication, real smiles can be stronger than digital images. He gives me a cheery wave as I go on my way.

Before I head back to the boat, I leave a gift. This time it's a piece of marble from the quarry on Iona, a pale cream and green pebble lighting up the dark shadows beneath the conveyor belt where I've tied it to. I hope my new friend finds and keeps it, as a thank you for his smile which I'll take home with me.

дома

How do you describe such a place? By how it looks? By how it feels? By its unnatural silence? To read its history in a book renders it soulless and academic; standing here it's neither of these things. Pyramiden is an abandoned Russian settlement and coal mining community. True, but... 

I want to say that it should be a busy working town as it once was, but the men who worked in this mine didn't live a life you would wish for. Every day whatever the weather, they trundled up the (very) long, steep hill to the mine for hard physical labour in an Arctic climate.  Whole families lived here with a school, arts centre, swimming pool, play-park, bars, sports centre, community centre, homes - just like in our own towns. Founded in 1927 it was once a mining town of 1,000 residents but abandoned in 1998 at a few days notice,  Russia no longer able to keep it functioning. Many of the young people probably knew nowhere but Pyramiden and suddenly they had to leave it. I don't remember any newspaper in the UK covering that story.

Growing up in a western country, the images we saw of life in the Soviet Union were of dark forbidding architecture, colourless lives, depressing scenes. That's not what I see here here. I see care in the architecture, considered spaces and attention to detail;  the school with decorative balustrades and generous windows, play areas for children with colourful swings and merry-go-rounds.  There had been heated and lit walkways and well built apartment blocks that wouldn't look out of place in the west today. Siberian grass was imported for the central square to make the residents feel at home. It's still growing. This isn't the classic image of a depressed Soviet town.

We enter the Cultur Huset, a big silent building at the far end of town. It has an expectant feel, like it's just about to open for a weekend of entertainment. Portraits of performers and glamourous celebrities smile down at us, children's drawings and ornate mirrors looking as fresh and shiny as the day they were hung. Notice boards announce who and what's on next. Then the grand staircase, looking for all the world like it was designed for the parading of swishy ball gowns and the clatter of heels,  its ceramic tiled stair treads slightly coggled by the many feet that regularly ascended them for evenings of song and dance. The house of dreams. Where are they now?

We creep quietly into the hush of the dark auditorium, feeling our way along the backs of the seats. There's a thick musty atmosphere in here. No one speaks. When our eyes adjust to the dimness, we spot the piano. There's a grand piano sitting in the middle of the stage. "Red October" with its delightfully out of tune keys just has to be played! I shuffle my way into the middle of the seating to imagine what it would've sounded and looked like when the theatre was alive and vibrant. My feet clank on something hard and I discover an old slide projector in a black metal box, clearly unopened for many a day. I surprise myself - I don't want to delve in. It feels like a grave or a shrine and I can't bring myself to take it out and examine it. I carefully slide it back under the seat, secretly hoping that any tourist who comes after us won't find it. 

On the way back to the ship in the twilight, I cast my eyes for the last time over the windows of this sad, forgotten town and wonder if it will always remain a ghost of itself. Then between white lace curtains and dead pot plants,  I catch a glimpse of a stuffed polar bear gazing back at me and I remember where we are.

                                                                          

ушел

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78°55′N 11°56′E

Co-ordinates like these usually exist only as imaginings or numbers on maps and charts; they're alien in their obscurity to those who live further south. As we head further North and closer to Dark Time, we're losing daylight at the astonishing rate of twenty minutes a day. The little light that remains becomes more and more elusive, less and less describable, and totally captivating. We're now in the realm of sci-fi. 

But this bold structure we've arrived at is not surprising and could be part of the coal mining relics if you didn't look twice. It's been standing here near the top of the world for almost a century and looks perfectly natural in the landscape. A fine black ink drawing of a mast 35 metres high, it was built to moor Amundsen's airship, and if the Norge flew alongside and tied up now it would seem completely normal. The voices and the cries of excitement are loud and clear in the icy silence as the pioneers prepare to push the limits to reach The North Pole. It's all so real. 

Home to the most northern Arctic Marine Laboratory and research station, this former mining community, Ny Ålesund  still has the spirit of Arctic exploration, but this time it's mostly carried out by scientists in warm laboratories, their exploring and findings recorded on computers and less of a spectator's sport. We were given a pleasant talk by a woman in the Norsk Polar Institute, a warm, light filled modern building  where we took off our shoes and coats and listened to how the the scientists work in the field of earth sciences, pushing boundaries, making new discoveries. 

When the talk ended I wandered along the corridors in hope of finding a working scientist to ask more about their planet-saving work. I didn't find one. Instead I found closed doors with plaques on, giving the names of the individuals who worked there and the global oil companies they worked for.