We drop anchor in glassy water among some of the oldest rocks in the world.  We’re up in the north-west region of Svalbard and there’s magic in the air. If we headed north now we'd go over the top and  hit nothing but ice  until we eventually reached Alaska. The light is low and the peaks glow rust-red beneath a light dusting of snow. On nearby rocks crustose lichen glow radioactive orange. There’s not a ripple or a breath of wind, not the slightest movement. The silence feels paper thin as if a whisper would crack the stillness. 

Every place we've been to so far is special, every anchorage has its own unique qualities and atmosphere though it's sometimes difficult to explain why. Looking up, there’s something familiar about this one; the softer landforms and colours of this part of Svalbard are different to anywhere else we've been. A wee bit deja-vu creeps in.

I find out why. 410 million years ago these rocks were attached to our Scottish landmass and gave rise to the Caledonian mountain chain which reached from Svalbard through Scandinavia to Scotland and onwards to the Appalachians in North America. Our very own Glen Coe, 56.68N which I walked through just the week before, is made of the same stuff I'm about to walk over in Rinsdyrflyer, 79.8N. The same red Devonian sandstone. That makes me smile.