A long weekend in Svalbard, the world’s northernmost settlement

Don’t judge a blog by its cover photo - this place is unreal. I’m just a terrible photographer

The morning sun disappeared two hours into our flight to Svalbard, as the plane headed directly north from Oslo into the Arctic circle. We were on our way to Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost settlement, which is submerged in total darkness for over 100 days a year.

We landed at midday into Svalbard’s shocking polar night. In the thirty-second walk from the plane to Longyearbyen airport our faces were assaulted by sleet-sodden -20 degree air. “Welcome to Svalbard,” my boyfriend said, before we both did a double take at the taxidermied polar bear in the arrivals lounge.

We were here for a long weekend, part inspired by a trip to Iceland the year before where thick clouds stopped us seeing the northern lights, part inspired by Phillip Pullman’s kingdom of armoured bears. And it was cold. Very, very cold.

We took the shuttle bus to Funken Lodge, one of the main hotels in town, which we chose because of its recent refurb. The bus careered through empty, snow-laden streets. The only wisps of light amid the disorienting afternoon darkness came from streep lamps. We weren’t in London anymore.

Aurora in Adventdalen

We set off on our first trip, booked through Hurtigruten Svalbard, a few hours after we landed. A huge tanker slugged towards us in the Radisson Blu car park in the town centre. “Celia and Jack?” The driver shouted through howling Arctic wind, “You guys are the only ones here, come on up!” We hauled ourselves into the nub of the truck, rather than its illuminated trailer, and set off.

We managed to stay upright against ripping winds to pose by the infamous polar bear sign. No one is allowed to go past the designated perimeter without the means to defend themselves against Spitsbergen’s local bear population. My heart hammered through approximately ten thousand layers as the guide took what he called the obligatory photo.

Eyes closed against the ripping Arctic wind

On we drove, using the snowcat’s tracks to zoom across the frozen glacial lake of Adventdalen. Our guide Marcos did a 360 scour for bears, checked the northern lights on Svalbard’s real-time camera (top tip to anyone going to Svalbard: use this as your guide on whether or not to go outside), and out we hopped.

Amid the stars, I spotted two flickering fingers. “Is that…” I shouted. “Could that be…?” Marcos crouched, arranged our camera, and grinned. Click. An image swathed in luminous green. The northern lights were dancing above us. It was happening! The spectacle we had dreamed about for years.

A key learning from this experience: don’t try and work out how to use a DSLR while being lashed by a snowstorm in the arctic desert. Potentially do this in the comfort and warmth of home. Jack endured finger-stripping coldness trying to work out how to use the camera his sister kindly lent us, gloves off in -30 windchill. We would have been lost without Marcos’ expertise. And yes, even then our photos were still sub par.

The three of us stood behind the snowcat and watched bands of solar activity cascade in the sky.

And then, just as quickly as the aurora show started, it was overwhelmed by thick grey clouds. We sat in the van, warming ourselves with hot blackcurrant, “Human antifreeze,” and refreshed the live Sony camera. Our luck ran out, and we drove back to town, asking Marcos about the Arctic desert. Life there, he said, is like a kind of mindfulness. You must be present and acknowledge the awe-inspiring surroundings - or else you risk being in life-threatening situations.

I sat in the back of the bumpy van, thinking: we have seen one of the most incredible things we will ever see in our lifetime. How can it get better than this?

Electric sleds into the Arctic wilderness

The next day, we were picked up by Hurtigruten Svalbard for its first ever electric sled expedition. We were given balaclavas, full bodysuits, helmets and hefty boots - and then we silently glided onto the glacial bed beyond town. I was on the back of Jack’s sled and the wind chill made the tiny slither of my exposed face feel like it was being hacked by razor blades. But the pain could be just about forgotten by staring upwards at mid-morning starlight, or the imperious height of the mountains looming over the town. Everything was so vast, so quiet and so beautiful.

Every ten minutes we’d stop and look around for tiny chubby Svalbard reindeer or the island’s sinister predators. We lay down in the snow in our waterproof suits and traced constellations above. The Opera Mountain soared next to our resting spot, a crushed glacier with an amphitheatre-style hollow. I pictured polar bears charging down its sides towards us, imperceptible and camouflaged in the Arctic wilderness. I galumphed (it’s hard to be graceful in a snowsuit) through the snow to ask the guide about recent bear sightings. Before I had a chance to speak, he stopped me and smiled. “Do you hear that?” He asked, “It’s the sound of nothing.”

The return to Hurtigruten HQ was equally spectacular, the white snow gleaming extra-bright from the electric scooter’s lights. The raw face and frozen digits were completely worth it.

Fields, foxes and solar flares

Later that day, Jack and I decided to walk into town and make good use of our borrowed tripod. We turned the 15 minute path to the central “strip” into a two-hour amateur photography session. After a restorative and warming pizza and wine at Svalbar (more on where to eat later), we asked the waitress where we might have the best chance to see the ‘Nordlys’. She advised us that solar activity was quiet and the forecast wasn’t looking good, but the best place was the field in front of Svalbard Snoscooterie.

The signs weren’t good. Solar activity was quiet, the camera in the aurora station by the mine frosted over and the forecast showed the northern light doughnut closer to mainland Norway. But I pestered Jack to try. I had a feeling. And not just because I’d already spotted three arctic foxes and was feeling extra lucky (turns out they actually just flock into the town centre on Saturdays where there’s a potato kiosk for late night boozy snackers). ⠀

So we trudged down to the aforementioned field. And there it was. A spark behind the mountain. Something in our peripheral vision. A definite flickering between green and red. We set up the tripod and crouched on the thick snow taking pictures of the light until our eyelashes froze and we lost all feeling in our triple-socked toes. The hour passed too quickly, and the all-consuming chill zapped the camera and phone batteries in record time.

I’d definitely recommend heading to the same spot - and have someone on bear-scouring duty at all times.

Hurtling through glaciers with huskies

Jack secretly planned this trip so I had no input on our incredible itinerary. I can take no credit for the husky adventure we went on with a renowned trainer and North Pole explorer (Tommy, Husky Travellers). ⠀

The smell of dogs preceded our arrival to the yard. The air was metallic and intensely meaty, like offal. Jack said he liked it. That man has some questionable tastes. ⠀

We were given a short history of Svalbard huskies and told not to expect a pack of wolves. These huskies were small - ultra marathon runners not bodybuilders - and come in all colours, not just Arctic grey. ⠀

We were shown to our two-man sled - a rickety wooden thing that made me panic, not helped by the howls that were echoing across the mountain range. ⠀

“Whatever you do,” Tommy said, “Follow my instructions.” I immediately forgot all the advice he’d given us about breaking and turning and weight placement. But we were hurtling down a steep glacier and there was no going back. The rush was amazing - but terrifying. ⠀

“Jaack!” I cried, as we bumped so violently I lost my footing and fell into the snow. “Jaaaaaaaack!” I wailed again, when a reindeer tangled itself in the harnesses and the dogs unleashed a cacophony of barks.⠀

When I fell off for the second time and let off a scream that in hindsight, could have been an avalanche risk with its hideous pitch and strength, I was swapped away from the little sled and into the fur-lined basket of Tommy’s mentee, Stein. ⠀

Stein said it was best for me to be there. “For the experience, and also to keep the dogs calm.”⠀

It was so utterly silent as we cruised and crunched across rocky ice that the husky handlers only had to whisper instructions. The dogs were in training for the next polar expedition and on their best behaviour. ⠀

When we got back to Tommy’s house, we were able to tour the dog yard. During the snowstorm the week before we visited (in early December 2019), Tommy had to wake up every hour to move the individual husky houses above the snow - all 55 of them. ⠀

“You have to treat these animals with respect,” he said. “They are responsible for my life on an expedition, and I am responsible for theirs.”⠀

It was an unbelievable way to finish off our long weekend in Svalbard. But I had to take two showers to remove eau de husky.

Where to eat

There’s a surprising amount of options for great food in Longyearbyen. Funken Lodge’s Funktionærmessen overlooks the Lars and Longyear glaciers and serves Arctic Pale Ale from Svalbard Bryggeri, the world’s northernmost craft brewery. I had a huge portion of tender lamb rack and Jack ate chicken roulade while we watched snow whip across the unspoilt wilderness outside.

We loved Svalbar in town for pizzas: blue cheese and pepperoni for Jack, Serrano ham for me, with Spitsbergen Pilsner on tap. The bar also serves loaded burgers, absinthe, wine - warming fare needed for a place that reaches an average of 6 degrees at the height of its summer season. We loved the countdown to the sun’s return and the live stream of aurora activity outside.

Rabalder bakery was essential for hot drinks whenever we walked to and from town - and had exceptionally delicious sandwiches.

The best food we had was at Gruvelageret, a restaurant in a former mining warehouse outside of town. The walk across empty, silent fields were terrifying and I arrived drenched in sweat - I was convinced an Arctic fox was a polar bear tracking us. Jack was utterly unfazed.

We had a six-course tasting menu served by a Bulgarian waitress who recently moved here with her Chilean partner thanks to Svalbard’s Visa-free policy. She explained, over Bulgarian bread with whipped feta butter (the head chef’s homage to her favourite dish from home) that she sees aurora more often than not in the polar night season. While we ate ravioli with truffle oil and Svalbard-ice-grown mushrooms, she told how safe it is here - how peaceful and community-minded. A far cry from her life in Oslo, where she felt constantly on edge and like she was scrabbling to stay on top of it all.

The tataki of beef with chilis and ponzu sauce was so perfectly rare and tart that I made Jack give me his portion in exchange for a later pudding swap. We managed to finish a vast rack of lamb with julienne potatoes, and Jack polished off one and a half Russian cheesecakes with dulche de leche, but we were defeated by a final chocolate mousse. The food was sensational. A must.

What to bring and wear

I’m a huge fan of hand luggage only travel - mainly because I’m neurotic and have a bizarre fear about airlines losing my stuff. My little suitcase was stuffed to its limit with crackling new thermals, socks and scarves, and Jack and I were so layered up we were plodding and wobbling around like Pingu on the icy streets.

I cannot overstate the importance of bringing the right clothes. We wouldn’t have been able to hunt aurora and stay outside for long without proper layering - tights, longjohns, fleece-lined trousers, heat-tech uniqlo shirts, woollen socks and snow-resistant boots, balaclavas and hats to insulate our faces against the lashing frost-laced wind and properly lined wind and rain-proof coats. Make sure you’re prepared for life on the cusp of what humans can physically endure. Those temperatures are testing.

When to go

We went during the polar night off season and had a once-in-a-lifetime holiday in an uncharacteristically empty Svalbard. I interviewed some locals for The Telegraph and everyone I spoke to said they adore the warmth and comfort of the cosy season but their all-time favourite month is February, when the first slithers of light illuminate the sky and the aurora continues to blaze throughout the evening. March and April see the most tourists and tours book up far in advance.

Certain activities were off-limits when we were there, like a trip to Russian-owned Barentsberg, or coastal tours where you can see puffins, seals and whales in the fjords. But there was nothing quite like seeing the midday sky glisten with stars and aurora.

Svalbard is unique: it is plunged into 100 days of total darkness every year, followed by another 100 days of permanent light. No one is allowed to be born or die on the island - the permafrost and harsh conditions mean it has limited medical facilities and bodies can’t be buried - but it is populated by resilient, incredible people who are there by choice. One person I spoke to said he moved here because he was fed up of being pushed around on public transport, another anonymous sad person wasting years of their life on a train to an office. Here, he said, he has a community, he has a purpose, he has to make life or death decisions when he ventures into the Arctic desert.

And so we flew back to Oslo, to our first light in four days, and on to London. Back to our anonymous lives without polar bears. My scarf still smells a little bit like huskies.