All is not as it seems here. This is a land of illusion; the light plays tricks on the eyes, and the air is alive with the absence of sound. I’m seeing Svalbard from different viewpoints as we sail back into the fjord and our home port of Longyearbyen. They're conflicting. No one comes from Svalbard.

There was no ancient civilisation here. There is no indigenous population either, even the Inuits and Vikings steered clear. Individuals in Svalbard were and are transitory. Pyramiden is a ghost town, trappers have gone, whalers and miners still come and go but to a lesser degree. Today's settlements exist mostly for geological exploration and research or to maintain a political presence. Tourists will come and go. No one is born on Svalbard, women travel to Tromsø on the Norwegian mainland to have their babies. No one will have Svalbard written on their birth certificate. No one comes from Svalbard.

But everyone relates to their environment in some shape or form and if a human landscape is a map latticed with habits and rituals created over time, how then is empty wilderness mapped out? Architecture and man-made structures can serve as time-lines we can relate to, but geology with its greater timescale and slower  evolution doesn’t give away too many secrets. Traces of past human settlements in Svalbard are time-locked; whalers and trappers huts preserved by the dry Arctic air look much the same now as when they were constructed long ago. In the absence of physical markers there is no time-line, and memories survive only as echoes and shadows. 

Longyearbyen, the largest settlement on Svalbard is now populated mostly by university workers, replacing the coal mining community of the past. It's a purposeful and functional town, physically it’s like an engineering project in progress.The permafrost dictates how buildings can be sited and constructed; pipes are lagged above ground creating a big linear network, the bare bones of a settlement exposed. The coal fired power station with its permanent smoking chimney is there for the town alone, the sole source of energy. Communication masts, weather stations and scientific instruments lie alongside the disused mining structures. Visually, none of this looks unusual in the landscape; they fit in with the stark, uncompromising nature of it all. But it was thought a good idea to introduce non-Arctic colour to the university housing, so a Norwegian artist was brought in to choose the warm ochres for the houses. A huddle of earth amidst the ice and snow. A time-line in progress?

Longyearbyen now is full of contradictions. For all the hype about protecting the environment and the polar bears, coal is burned for energy, and raw sewage is pumped straight through the middle of the town into the fjord. If you want to sail north from Europe and take some whales back with you, well that seems to be ok too. One law for the land, one for the sea, none for the atmosphere. Or might protection of the waters potentially inhibit exploration for oil, if and when the ice cap melts? Already oil companies are set up around the Arctic waiting for that time. It’s not unreasonable to suggest that politics is the driving force here. 

This is a fascinating and unique place in all respects. It's also incredibly beautiful in an extreme and barren sort of way. But there is a need for people to somehow connect with and value this unique environment for what it is and not to solely exploit it for what it's got. Although it's far away from most of us and difficult to relate to, ordinary people just like us live, love and work there - it's not so different in many respects. It's also very much part of us ecologically. What happens here environmentally will effect us all - we can't escape that. It's not only the polar bears who are at stake.

It's time to leave. I wish I could stay and experience the full cycle of Dark Time and the eventual return of the sun in the Spring. Feeling very privileged, I smile, take one last look at the magical lingering light then tuck it inside me to bring out and savour later.

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. 

He’s magnificent. We creep further inshore to get as close as we can while keeping a respectful distance. We can’t take our eyes off him. He also can’t take his eyes off us. For a full five minutes he doesn’t move a muscle but holds us in his magnetic stare - for what seems like hours. Clicking and whirring sounds stop and spellbound silence dominates.  He has his fresh kill and he’s not going to give it up lightly.

The wild animal I see before me now is not cute and lovable. It is an enormous, wild, rough at the edges male polar bear, dripping with blood from its dead seal, alert, poised and ready to pounce should someone or something get between it and it’s food. I do not feel like giving him a name and reducing him to cuddly toy status, that would be a grave insult. Huge respect and a dose of healthy fear seem the best responses. Easy done.

I think back to the polar bear I saw in a zoo many years ago.  A zoo is no substitute for what I’m looking at now. This is not the same animal, nothing like. I wonder what we think about when we present our children with a bear on a plate. (A bit like a pork chop wrapped in cellophane.) What exactly are we teaching them? That this is how a polar bear lives? Clearly not. That this is how they behave? Not even nearly. That this is what one looks like? Well, only just. It’s more like teaching them not to enquire or dream or imagine or, perish the thought, strive to see these animals in their natural habitat one day before the ice melts. Just have a quick look, eat your ice-cream and move on to the next one. Box ticked. 

As we go slowly astern and leave this animal to do what it does, I feel incredibly lucky and privileged to have witnessed such a sight - and a privilege it is, not an automatic right. There is no sense of entitlement here. Iconic and cliched polar bears may be, but these majestic animals are so for good reason. They’re worthy of our dreams and imaginings, as well as a bit of thought and care before we barge into the Arctic drilling for oil. It might be worth expanding the conversation a bit when we take our kids to the zoo.

Time has become an abstract concept. Not only is Svalbard time different from our homelands, but time aboard is different again to Svalbard time. We’re on ship’s time, the clock changed by two hours to make the most of the daylight. To take it even further, being on a boat in an alien environment thinking only of the here and now, means that the there and then grows more distant. The Clock, if it exists at all, is reduced to simply Day Time or Night Time, and with Dark Time fast approaching, the boundaries becomes increasingly blurred.

We clamber into our insulated gear and slide our way onto the Zodiac in the first light of a calm nearly-pink sunrise. The sun hasn’t hit our patch yet and we’re glad of the gear as we head for land.  There are huge lumps of waist-high ice littering the shore, mostly devoid of colour in the dawn shade. Cold icy ice, beautifully sculpted forms with serrated sea shaped surfaces. Walking among them in the shallow water, I can feel the cold of the sea through my boots, and I enjoy it as I would when listening to rain falling on a tent. Small friendly sounds of ticking and cracking rise up, the water that gently bobs through empty spaces quietly gurgling and popping, an obscure conversation in the stillness. Crouching down, human bodies passing by, bend the light, the ice diffusing and altering shapes into surreal and mysterious forms. So the world has changed once more, perception of the Arctic turned on it’s head when viewed at a different scale. 

Day Time for now consists of creeping around at ground level, observing and recording this strange icy world, connecting in small ways to these micro Arctic spaces, until the light fades and we swing back into Night Time and its now familiar habits.

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.