Kevin Rushby stays on board a ship deliberately trapped in the ice in Norway's remote Svalbard archipelago

A trek to a ship-hotel frozen into the ice in the middle of the Arctic wastes makes for the trip of a lifetime – as long you can keep your feet warm

It's an idea so simple, so beautiful, that you can't believe it was not thought of before. Sail a ship into the Arctic as the winter freeze grips, let it get trapped in ice, then run visitors out there by dog sled or skidoo. And if that vessel is special – like a two-masted tall ship – all the better: the trip becomes something imbued with adventure, redolent with the traditions of Shackleton and Nansen, something to conjure up faded sepia images of the Fram and the Endurance, of explorers with icy beards, and heroism on the limits of human endurance. This is what Basecamp Explorer has done.

Flying in to the Arctic archipelago of Svalbard from Tromsø in northern Norway, I am gripped myself, with the sheer excitement of it all. Behind me a group of men with fur-lined hoods are trading extreme travel anecdotes. "So we built a barrier with skis to keep the bears out..." "There were narwhals all around the ice floe..." But for me there are no such stories. I'm a hot country person – always have been. This is a first taste of the Arctic and, before I even contemplate anything as extreme as narwhal-besieged ice floes, I want to know if I could handle the conditions. I have – I have to admit – two very large doubts, both of them size nine and already encased in three pairs of socks.

The first surprise is how light it is at midnight in late March. The Arctic changes from total darkness to total light within two months, a difference of about half an hour a day from mid-February. The second surprise, as I walk to the small modern airport terminal, is the cold. It settles around you like a super-cooled over-excited lover: nibbling your ears, licking your eyeballs. And it doesn't stop. Not for day, not for night, not for man, woman or beast. For the entire trip, it goes on trying to get inside your clothing.

Longyearbyen, the capital city, population about 2,000, stands on one of the fjords of Spitsbergen, the largest island in the archipelago. Around the few buildings, which are mostly grey, the ground is white. The surrounding mountains are white, too; the fjord is frozen white and nothing at all is green. I get out of the car and stand in the street, looking down towards the fjord and the mountains beyond. When the wind blows it smudges away the certainties of ridge and horizon, and replaces them with subtle suggestions of great and aching beauty. It also bites the end of your nose off.

"We'll get you equipped properly tomorrow," Solfrid Håkenstad, base manager, tells me. She looks around, as if searching for a few landmarks to interest me, but like everyone in Longyearbyen, she is drawn back to the only feature that counts: the huge dark satanic power plant. "It runs on coal," she says. "We have some mines."

Within the hour I am in love with that power station. I adore its 24-hour lights and plume of smoke. I love the steady grumble as it devours fossil fuels to keep me warm.

The Basecamp hotel is a charming pastiche of a pioneer's log cabin, with a good connection to the power plant. Inside no one wears boots and it is deliciously cosy. I could have stayed there for my entire trip, enjoying that warmth and reading Arctic exploration stories – like that of Umberto Cagni in 1900, amputating his fingers with scissors and walking 12 hours a day on drifting ice only to discover that in a week he had managed three feet in the right direction. I love that kind of story when I'm in a warm bed. However, in the morning they force me outside and down to the clothing depot.

Martin Machiedo is my guide, a huge man who looks like a Viking marauder, but is actually an affable Croatian. I am decked out in one-piece padded snowsuit, balaclava, crash helmet, fur-lined gauntlets and huge boots. I am already wearing every single sock I have brought with me – four on each foot – but my toes are cold. Martin hands me hot pads which I shove down my boots. It takes an hour to get dressed, then we head over to the skidoo park and have a 10-minute driving lesson. The skidoo is basically a customised ride-on lawn mower that will never see grass. We slide out of the parking area and hit the frozen surface of the fjord. The engine noise hides all other sounds. We speed north-east, stopping occasionally to view a lone reindeer. Spitsbergen has three species of resident land animal: a dwarf variety of reindeer, the Arctic fox and the polar bear. The first of these cling to life through the winter by digging for scraps of moss and lichen, then fatten up during the brief summer, to the delight of the other two.

After an hour we leave the valley and begin to climb towards a pass where we take advantage of a small hill to have a picnic. Outdoor lunches in minus 20C are different from your average picnic. They don't last as long.

Under way once more, I am wishing that the cumbersome helmet and clothing, necessary to travel at speeds of 80kph, did not interfere so much with viewing the stark beauty around us. But up at these latitudes, the cold is always the dominant factor. When Dutchman Willem Barents first stumbled on this archipelago in 1596, his expedition became trapped in the ice, enduring constant polar bear attacks in temperatures so cold that the men, huddled around a fire, found their socks were on fire but their feet still frozen. Englishman Hugh Willoughby, in the same waters a few years earlier, was found dead in his ship along with all his crew. According to one report some were frozen "in the act of writing, pen in hand ... others at table, spoon in mouth".

"This winter was quite mild," Martin muses. "It even rained once."

I nod understandingly, desperately inserting yet more hot pads into my gloves. We are at -40C and every photograph tempts frostbite. The cold has become my only thought, my obsession.

We come to a small group of huts by the frozen reaches of Templefjord. "This is where the hero of Svalbard, Hilmar Nois, lived," Martin tells us. "He spent a record 37 winter seasons here, hunting foxes and bears."

And all without a string vest, I mutter. At that moment, Hilmar seems to me like the most dangerous kind of lunatic – one people admire. He came here, with three uncles, in 1909 and lived in a tiny hut of wood and earth. The hut still stands, looking more like a relic of the municipal allotment society than a testament to polar heroics.

Far away across the fjord we can see our destination, the ship, but first we pass a glacier, getting off the skidoo to admire the blue ice and spot some large footprints. "Polar bear," confirms Martin. Sadly the animal does not reappear and we skidoo the last mile to the ship. The light has faded to a pearly blue and the huskies who sleep around the ship are being fed. Without losing a second, we park and clump up the gangplank to the antechamber for partial undressing. Then finally we're inside that boat.

Instantly we are transported to a world of warmth, steaming mugs, tots of brandy, mahogany and brass, the smells of cooking, books and charts, smiles. Ted van Broeckhuysen is the captain of our immovable ship, the Noorderlicht, and he tells me how it can take a month of delicate manoeuvres before they finally get properly stuck. The ship was built in 1910 and has been through numerous incarnations: a lightship, a hostel for construction workers, a clubhouse and an empty hulk until Ted and colleagues fully restored it.

We eat a hearty, and convivial, dinner. People settle down afterwards with a book or a map. I examine the charts, spotting remote trapper huts and an abandoned Russian fishing station, tiny human traces in a world of rock and ice. The cold, once fought off, becomes a distant memory and leaves only a seductive languor behind. I wonder if that's how it goes when you are dying out there on the ice: the pain melting into that deliciously irresistible sleepiness. Through the portholes the light has faded to a smooth pinkish glow and the huskies are sleeping. I sip a whisky. Maybe this Arctic explorer business isn't so bad. Maybe I could get to like it. Eventually I head to my cabin and sleep like a baby.

Next day Martin has us up early. We've a long way to go. Our mission is to see a colony of nesting northern fulmars. A little miracle of nature really – that birds could hatch eggs and rear chicks in these conditions. Nesting birds, I recall, were the reason behind the great classic book of polar exploration, Apsley Cherry-Garrard's The Worst Journey in the World – the author and his two companions having been sent by Captain Scott to collect emperor penguin eggs. The cold was so severe that when Cherry-Garrard's teeth chattered at -60C, they shattered.

After a long drive into the mountains we find the birds in a deep sheltered canyon, miraculously raising their young. The peculiar thing is that this is a very common creature and lives off Britain's coast, too. It's like spotting a London bus on Everest.

By evening we are back in Longyearbyen again – back to my favourite power plant. But next morning I'm out once more, ready to try the dog sled. In the Arctic, huskies are kept on the edges of human settlements in compounds of high wire fences. Marthe Sørli, the dog team leader, gives us our instructions. Six dogs in a team. Fetch one at a time. Keep the snow anchors embedded. Dog names are shouted out and I identify my first: a greyish mutt with one blue eye that burns with malice, and a green one that is pure venom. I try to estimate the length of chains on the dogs I have to get past. Would those teeth penetrate the snowsuit? One stands on his kennel and yowls like a mad thing. Others do wild dervish dances. Some, the most scary ones, lie still and watchful.

These are Alaskan huskies, smaller than their Greenlandish cousins, but a bit quicker and – Marthe tells us – less ferocious. As I grab my dog's chain, trying to communicate a confidence I don't feel, I realise he is only excited. They just want to come. They all want to come. He drags me to the sled. I clip him on and go back for another. Soon we are ready. The dogs are wild with excitement and making a noise greater than any skidoo engine. Then Marthe yanks up the anchors and instantly we are jerked forward into – silence. The dogs all stop barking and run. All we hear is the swish of the sled.

We race out of the compound, down the slope and on to the valley bottom. I'm sitting in the sled, but when Marthe finally manages to halt the enthusiastic hounds, we swap over. Once again the mad cacophony is instantly cut off as we spring forward. I've learned the two commands: Ji! means right and Ha! is left. The dogs do not require a go signal. Within minutes I am hooked. I love the peace and tranquility. I love the way you can leap off and run alongside to keep warm. Most of all, I love the dogs – mad snow rolls, fights, total and complete enthusiasm. The day passes far too quickly and I'm left with only one regret – that I didn't do the entire trip by sled.

Back in Longyearbyen, over a reindeer steak in the Huset restaurant, Martin tells me about a friend of his. "He's taken his dogs and gone off to the North Pole – again. He loves it. Weeks out there, camping and sledding."

The memory of the cold is already fading. That delicious sleepy languor is creeping over me, assisted by the Huset's astonishingly well-stocked wine cellar, and I find myself musing on future possibilities. Of course, that is when the Arctic is at its most dangerous – when you're warm.

A professional guide helps when photographing polar bears in the Arctic – especially if you mistake them for a lump of snow

How hard can it be to photograph polar bears? They are the world's biggest land carnivore and live in a treeless environment, so should be fairly easy to spot. And their average walking speed is 3.5mph, so it shouldn't be too hard to get close. How wrong could I be?

Before setting off to the Arctic archipelago of Svalbard, I asked for advice from photographer and wildlife film-maker Sue Flood. Now, on the very first morning, I realise that I have already broken the first three of her rules: get to know your equipment (I played with my borrowed camera for one day before leaving); bring the right kit (it is raining – why don't I have a cover for the camera?); and wear warm clothing (it's difficult to get good shots when you're shaking with cold).

I am finding it hard to adhere to the fourth rule, too: make eye contact with your subject. The other nine people on the rubber Zodiac boat have apparently spotted a polar bear and are saying, "There he is! Can you see him?" All I can see through rain-smeared glasses is a rocky grey beach with a dirty-looking, boulder-sized lump of snow on it. Have I given up two weeks in the sun to shiver in a lurching boat for this?

Then the lump shifts slightly, and a smaller, black-tipped boulder appears from its other side – a head. It is too far away and in a terrible position for photos, but it is still our first polar bear.

My daughter and I are sailing around Svalbard on the Sergei Vavilov, a former Russian spy ship. Whaling and walrus-hunting were big here in the 17th and 18th centuries, but now seven national parks protect 65% of the archipelago, and hunting bears and walruses is banned. That said, anyone venturing outside Longyearbyen is advised to take a rifle with them. While we are in Svalbard, a Norwegian canoeist camping on one of the islands is dragged from his tent by a bear.

Most of the 103 people on board have booked through Exodus, and although the age range is wide – from 13-year-old Imogen, my daughter, to people in their 70s – everyone is reasonably fit and willing to have a go. The team do try to make concessions for less agile travellers, but weather and sea don't.

In the afternoon we head to an inlet where the remains of a dead whale lie just under the water. All of a sudden there are more bears than you can shake a stick at. One is spotted resting high above us on a ledge, then a mother and cub are sighted towards the top of a mountain. Most exciting of all, a young, scrawny bear is heading straight for the carcass.

We float about 20ft from the bear as it repeatedly dives into the water, emerging with lumps of whale meat in its jaws. Cameras are clicking furiously. I forget about being cold and uncomfortable. All that matters is getting a picture of the animal as it heaves its body furiously from side to side to shake water from its fur.

In the evening we return in the company of professional photographer Paul Goldstein. He knows exactly where the Zodiac needs to be positioned to get the best shots. A large male bear has already dined on the whale carcass and is starting a long, slow climb up the mountain, fabulously backlit by the sun.

"Wait until his offside front leg is coming forward," says Paul. "It opens up the bear's body and makes a better picture." Then, as the bear gets higher, he says: "Drop down a couple of f stops if you really want something unusual."

Most people on the trip are using amateur SLRs or small automatics. Most, including me with my Canon EOS 7D, are taking what Paul describes as "postcard" pictures, the type that will make people go "ahh", rather than force them to linger in admiration. But two days into the trip Paul takes us in hand. Showing a selection of his own images, he illustrates how positioning, light, speed and movement can turn a "nice" photo into a spectacular one.

He also urges us to be more cavalier with our equipment. "Take the cover off your lens and slip it in your pocket so you can change [lenses] without wasting time," he says. "Which is worse? Eventually scratching the lens, or knowing you have missed a once-in-a-lifetime shot because you were fiddling with lens caps? Cameras are tougher than you think."

The next day, as we edge through slushy ice towards a vast glacier. Paul explains how the calving of the ice at the front oxygenates the water, encouraging lots of fish to the surface. The result? Thousand of kittiwakes in a feeding frenzy.

"Slow your camera right down," says Paul. "Try 1/30th [shutter speed]." I do, and instead of a boring shot of birds behaving badly, I get a photo that looks a bit like an Arctic Monet. Some of the birds are in focus because they are flying towards the camera; most are blurred into an essence of motion.

But it is only when we head out into the open sea littered with ice floes that I really feel we are in the Arctic. We see so many bears it is difficult to believe they are endangered. The crew are extremely good at spotting these small blobs of cream in a vast area of white.

The crew spy a mother and cub, and the captain nudges the ship towards them until the vessel is resting against their patch of ice. The bears are so intrigued by the smells emanating from the ship (excited photographers and beef bourguignon) that they come right up and touch the side of the Vavilov with their noses.

Paul is obsessed with achieving "air" in his images. By this he means space between the animal and the ground, to give a real wow factor. And polar bears, despite their bulk, are very obliging: reluctant to get wet, they take giant leaps from one ice floe to another. One hopscotches over several floes.

But the gold medal goes to our very last bear. At Hornsund we see her walking across the top of the glacier. Reaching the side where ice meets land, she lies down on her front with her head and paws pointing towards the water and starts sliding. No air, and too far away for most people to get decent shots, but we will never forget this Amy Williams of the bear world.

•Exodus's (0845 004 1382, exodus.co.uk) 11-day Spitzbergen Photographic Charter with Paul Goldstein tour costs from £4,139pp including SAS flights from London, accommodation in a twin cabin, meals and activities. Departures are on 16 June and 16 July

If you're spending it like Beckham, private islands, penthouses and outer space are within reach. Here's how to take the holidays of the rich and famous, on a budget

It could be you. Your numbers might just come up. And if it's a EuroMillions Rollover, you could be into the holiday territory of the super-rich.

The budgets are rarely bigger, the locations more pristine and itineraries more extraordinary than for the clients – mainly billionaires and royalty – of a company called Based on a True Story (020-7100 6991, basedonatruestory.co.uk)). Its trips start at around €200,000, rising to €2m if you include private jets and superyachts. Holidays have included nights in a cast-iron bed on a private precipice over Victoria Falls, and closing Burmese airspace so a private jet can fly to a superyacht in the untouched Mergui archipelago.

For more squillionaire holiday options, and their more affordable alternatives, try the following …

Ultimate skiing

$24,250 Forget the Alps – too many oligarchs, darling – and head south. Deep south. Antarctica's Ellsworth Mountains offer some of the planet's best ski touring. Adventure Network International (+1 801 266 4876, adventure-network.com) runs guided mini-expeditions into the exquisite landscapes of the Connell Canyon, Charles Peak and the west face of Mount Rossman. The 14-day trips (the next departure is not until December) include all meals and activities, equipment and transfers, but not international flights.

On a budget Swap Antarctic for Arctic and you pay a fraction of the price. Stay at Lyngen Lodge (+47 93 440010, lyngenlodge.com) in northern Norway for a week for about £2,458pp, including private transfers. Norwegian (norwegian.no) flies from Gatwick to Tromsø from £53 return.

Venezuela in style

€2m A tailormade trip could start with a few days on a yacht – super if necessary – in Venezuela's Los Roques islands. Then you take a chopper to the dramatic Gran Sabana plateau, where ancient massifs rise dramatically from forested plains, before lunch above Angel Falls. Final price depends on flights and choice of yacht.

On a budget Explore (0845 013 1537, explore.co.uk) has a 15-day Venezuelan expedition with a visit to Angel Falls, a rainforest canoe journey and a day on a Caribbean beach, from £2,199pp including flights and camping/basic accommodation.

Your fairytale castle

£63,180 Want to make like Madonna in a grand Scottish pile? You could splurge £31,520 for a night's sole use of Skibo Castle, with its 20 massive rooms and lodges. But you'd also have to drop a £24,000 joining fee for the Carnegie Club (carnegieclubs.com) plus £7,660 annual membership.

On a budget In January, all rooms at the Tudor Thornbury Castle (01454 281182, thornburycastle.co.uk) in the Cotswolds are £260 a night, including three-course dinner and breakfast. You might even bag the four-poster where Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn once slept.

Swiss bliss

€42,000 A night in the Royal Penthouse Suite at the Hotel Président Wilson (+41 22 906 6112, hotelpwilson.com) on Lake Geneva costs the same as five years at a Travelodge. It is slightly more luxurious, with seven bathrooms, two hammams, two dining rooms, a gym and a huge party space. Artwork, flowers and furniture are tailored to guests' tastes, and there are antiques galore, bulletproof windows and helipad. Oh yes, breakfast is extra.

On a budget The Bel'Espérance (+41 22 818 37 37, hotel-bel-esperance.ch) close to Geneva's Old Town has a roof terrace with fantastic views. Doubles cost about £100, including breakfast and a public transport pass. Easyjet (easyjet.com) flies to Geneva from several UK airports from £56 return.

Ancient cultures

£9,950 It's one thing to tour a top historical site, quite another to do so with a renowned archaeologist who worked on the excavations. In Peru that means Guillermo Cock explaining the incredible Moche pyramids and burial sites on the Pacific coast, and, at Machu Picchu, Alfredo Mormontoy Atayupanqui who is revising some of the findings of Hiram Bingham, discoverer of the Inca citadel in 1911. You would travel by swanky trains and stay in luxurious style at Orient Express hotels on a 10-day trip with Abercrombie & Kent (0845 618 2200, abercrombiekent.co.uk).

On a budget Guides with Journey Latin America (020-8747 8315, journeylatinamerica.co.uk) are less well-known but still knowledgeable. Its new Machu Picchu and Easter Island trip, combining two historical treasures in one two-week holiday, costs from £1,897pp, excluding international flights, until 25 March.

A number one safari

£21,750 Fellow billionaires will approve of your choice of three extraordinary camps in the Botswana bush. Kings Pool has a unique underground hide with eye-level views of elephant herds; Vumbura Plains Camp in the Okavango Delta offers epic views from raised rooms open on three sides; and at Little Mombo Campan exclusive-use deal gives you three vast tents with high-level walkways, allowing animals to stroll through the camp. A nine-night trip with Ultimate Safaris & Islands (020-7589 8800, ultimatesafarisandislands.com) includes full-board, safaris and first-class flights.

On a budget Dragoman's (+44 01728 861133, dragoman.com) nine-day trip from Victoria Falls to Johannesburg, taking in Chobe national park, the Okavango Delta, and a rhino sanctuary, costs from £1,425pp including camping and basic transport, but not flights.

An island of one's own

£48,980 North Island, in the Seychelles, with its peaks, beaches and lush vegetation, is the ultimate Indian Ocean eco-retreat, with 11 vast villas. Keep it exclusive by taking all 11, complete with butlers, sunken sofas and mother-of-pearl chandeliers. The above price is per night, but that does include fishing, scuba-diving and acclaimed cuisine. Heli-transfers extra. Book through ITC Classics (01244 355 527, itcclassics.co.uk).

On a budget Stay in a Landmark Trust (01628 825925, landmarktrust.org.uk) cottage on Lundy, in the Bristol Channel, and you needn't see another soul. Tibbetts is a granite cottage nearly two miles from the village, with no electricity. Sleeping four it costs from £215 for four nights.

The final frontier

$200,000 Virgin Galactic's sub-orbital flights, starting in a few years' time, already have 330 takers. As well as five minutes looking down on earth, you get three days' training in New Mexico, followed by a "lift" to a mother ship before your spacecraft, the SS2, is launched. After floating around in zero gravity 68 miles above the Earth, you'll glide back to terra firma. Hopefully. Book through Elegant Resorts (01244 897003, elegantresorts.co.uk).

On a budget Board a full-scale mock- up of the US Space Shuttle at the Euro Space Centre (+32 6165 6465, eurospacecenter.be) in Transinne, Belgium. Entrance costs about £9. Eurostar (08432 186186, eurostar.com) returns to any Belgian station cost from £80pp.

The Human Planet series has reached the Arctic and there should have been a warning at the start: dozens of animals were killed during the making of this programme

Skins: your verdict on the new cast

Mmmm, kiviak for tea. The recipe? Take one rotten old seal skin, stuff with little auks – the whole thing, beaks, feet, feathers and all, about 500 of them should do it. Sew the seal skin up, add a dollop of grease, put a big rock on top and leave for several months, until the birds have fermented into a sticky, pungent, toxic, cheesy gloop. Then enjoy with friends for Christmas. Mmmm. Suddenly mum's overcooked turkey isn't looking so bad (I know Mum, it was Simon's fault).

Human Planet (BBC1) has reached the Arctic – northern Greenland. They must be getting used to British television crews up there; Bruce Parry was in town just the other day.

The catching of the auks is fun – fishing in the sky with nets on long springy poles. Not so fun for the auks, but there seem to be plenty of them up there.

A narwhal hunt is exciting, too. Three men in kayaks working in a pack, using stealth and cunning like corvettes hunting a U-boat. When the battle is over, and won, it's a sorrier sight; the extraordinary creature pulled out on to ice by its magnificent spike, half whale, half unicorn. But hey, that's what they do up there, you've got to respect that. And they need the narwhal skin for vitamin C. Personally, I'd get in my kayak and paddle south, until I reached somewhere I could grow vegetables, or keep a chicken, or at least where there was a Tesco Metro, with orange juice, and pizzas as an alternative to kiviak.

The catching of an arctic shark, a monster from the dark depths, is sadder still. There's no battle, no contest, no drama – he's simply dragged up slowly from half a mile down, pulled unceremoniously through a hole in the ice to die, gasping in a world he doesn't belong in, then hacked apart and fed to the dogs. It's not just wildlife porn, this show; it's wildlife snuff porn, a total slaughter fest. There should be a warning at the start; dozens of animals were killed during the making of this programme.

At least in the town of Churchill in northern Canada the tables are turned. Here, hungry polar bears roam the streets, looking for bite-sized children to snack on before they get to the seal colonies further north. Halloween is a specially fruitful hunting time. Mmmm . . . trick or child.

The start of series five of Skins (E4) means a whole new cast to get to know. Franky looks initially promising. She's freaky, androgynous ("is that a batty or a lezza?" in teenspeak) and has an interesting style. There's some bad stuff in her past: bullying, a Facebook – sorry "Friendlook" – fraping, her best mate Dean went to young offenders ("that's so fucking cool!").

But it very quickly all goes a bit pantomime, with her two gay dads with their overvests and their serrano and reblochon sandwiches, and a ridiculous mobility scooter joyride chase on the way to school. So by the time Franky gets there, instead of feeling her awkward terror and dying inside and all those other things I can just about remember from starting at a new school, I'm just feeling mildly unamused. Hello? Earth to ridiculous?

In the past Skins has been sad and difficult and occasionally beautiful, much like teenage. And if it hasn't perfectly reflected reality, it has certainly had some basis there – like one of those wonky distortive fairground mirrors that produces a scarier version of the real you.

So far, this lot just seem a bit sillier. And I'm not overimpressed with the acting: there's too much of that . . . hesitant . . . pausing . . . inexperienced . . . actors . . . do because they think it makes them sound real but actually it makes them sound as if they're in a school play. And then a gun, already, out of nowhere . . .

The first day back is always difficult, maybe it will settle down, bed in. I'll be interested to hear what people of a target audience age make of it. But for one fortysomething it could be time to let Skins go.

There's much more to Lapland and the Arctic Circle than Santa. Been there readers share their top tips, from sea skiing in Canada to watching the northern lights from your bed in Finland

• Add a tip for next week and you could win a digital camera

Winning tip: Senja Island, Norway

There can't be many places where the scenery is quite as dramatic as Senja, where jagged mountains plunge into fjords. Hire a car and drive round the island – with each tunnel you exit, and each new fjord view, you will think it can't get any more astounding, but it does. Even better, there are hardly any tourists – most go to the nearby Lofoten Islands. Get in touch with Bent at Senja Mountain Lodge (senjalodge.com): he'll take you off-piste skiing, climbing or snowshoeing.
Rebecca Day

Finland

Hotel Kakslauttanen, Lapland
At my favourite winter wonderland in the Arctic Circle you stay in traditional log cabins with open fires, private saunas and outside hot tubs. You can also spend a night in a heated glass igloo where you can see the northern lights from the bed. Or try husky sledding, a snowmobile excursion to the forests on the Russian border, ice fishing with the local Sami people, or a reindeer safari. This is a perfect location for Christmas, a romantic break or a family adventure.
kakslauttanen.fi/en
Elainefp

Karaoke, Arctic style, in Lapland
There is no experience more surreal than seeing local people in Lapland singing karaoke. It is more melancholy than the Portuguese fado, more entertaining than Las Vegas. The women arrive on skidoos, then peel off their helmets and overalls to reveal cocktail dresses and dancing shoes. The karaoke is a window into the minds of Arctic people. Where else will you hear 1980s big hair heavy metal followed by Lady Gaga, Frank Sinatra, and a Russian ballad? The Finns say that in Lapland no normal rules apply, and I have to agree.
wanhamestari.fi
bigsoulmama

Sweden

The Aurora Retreat, Junosuando
The bright blue skies and startling snowy landscape during the day and a night sky lit by the dancing northern lights take your breath away. Coming back here after a day's husky driving, snowmobiling, crosscountry skiing or sledging is perfect – cosy and intimate, lovely home-cooked food and roaring log fires. For those wanting something less adventurous there is yoga, massage, cooking and trips to visit Santa. With temperatures averaging -30C, it's a real bonus that all the necessary outerwear and boots are provided.
auroraretreat.se
Triciamaryb

Norway

Walking on Svartisen glacier
Visit Svartisen glacier from Holandsfjord to an arm called Engabreen, which appears to reach down and tickle the fjord with its icy fingers. The magical blue ice draws you nearer but the screeching and groaning remind you of the hidden dangers. Ice caves and deep fissures abound, so book a guide if you wish to explore. They'll equip you with rope, ice picks and crampons for your unforgettable hike. The walk lasts about five hours and should be booked in advance.
visitnorway.com
FarawayVisions

Greenland

Qeqertarsuaq, Disko Island
Qeqertarsuaq is the largest village on Disko Island, off the west coast of Greenland, with a population of about 1,000. After you've spent days trekking on glaciers in 24-hour daylight, climbing virgin peaks and wading through thigh-deep snow drifts while eating ration-packed foods, the village is exquisite. It offers stunning views of a bay filled with monstrous icebergs, and opportunities to scuba dive in the incomprehensible cold or catch and eat the freshest, purest cod you have ever had. This is where adventurers become enthralled for life.
qaasuitsup.gl/en
adavidson

Canada

Sea skiing, Baffin Island
Try a skiing experience with a difference in the Canadian Arctic. Wrap up warm and ski straight out of the door of your beachside cabin and out on to the sea ice. Ski past the fishing boats moored for winter on the frozen ocean waters and glide upriver through the mountains where, if you're lucky, you may come across one of the locals fishing at their ice-hole for a few Arctic char for dinner.
visitcanada.com
Beckslottie

Iceland

Blue Lagoon, Grindavík
A geothermal spa that helps to relax every muscle in your body, cleanse your skin and provide an incredible volcanic setting for all that. Spending a day here is rather too easy, with 37C to 39C waters, containing an array of minerals and algae for those aching limbs. Even visiting as a 17-year-old, I loved being pampered beyond belief. There is even a hotel on site so that the tranquillity can be extended for as long as you like.
bluelagoon.com
adavidson

Norway

Lofoten Islands
Endless days in summer, endless nights in winter. In summer, wild flowers compete to make the most of their short season, and sitting by the sea at midnight, watching white-tailed sea eagles and reading your book by the light of the sun, you may even experience an algal bloom turning the warm sea brilliant turquoise. In winter, a wonderful place to see the northern lights with (relatively) mild temperatures due to the Gulf Stream. From February to May, you may find the smell of drying cod somewhat overpowering. The only other downside is that you'll always suffer from the urge to go back there!
lofoten-info.no
Sladatlantic

Finland

Ylläs in Finnish Lapland
Dress for the weather and you will fall in love with this place. If it's fun you're after, you need a week to do it all: skiing, dog sledding, ice fishing, reindeer sleighs, snowmobiles, meeting the local Sami people. The pristine snow is another option, with miles of walking trails that cannot be beaten for peace and solitude. Or be a big kid and travel to Santa's official home, Rovaniemi. Add to this first-class hotels, romantic log cabins, blazing log fires and you have it all. I stayed at the Äkäs hotel, in unspoilt Äkäslompolo near Ylläs, where they gave me a wakeup call when the northern lights appeared.
yllas.fi/en
Pmartini

Sweden

Arvidsjaur
I first visited Arvidsjaur when I was a young teen. My auntie and I went just after Christmas for our annual holiday together. On our first night we witnessed the aurora borealis from just outside our spa hotel, Laponia. Over three days, we went husky sledging, travelled across frozen lakes on skidoos and ate fantastic local food. For a snowy holiday somewhere peaceful and beautiful, Arvidsjaur is perfect.
hotell-laponia.se
KaySmythe

The Inuit community in Ittoqqortoormiit comes together to prepare whale meat, but one of the party has seen it all before

The old man pauses while searching among the black beach stones for a point for his walking stick. It's slippery, fresh blood and freezing arctic waters washing over them. Amid the young men, cutting and heaving and slicing and pulling, it's the serenity of this nonagenarian that captures my attention. The face of tranquillity belying wrinkling years of wisdom. While one eye darts beneath thick glasses to check his balance, he surveys the community all around him. And nods approval; all is good and as it should be in Ittoqqortoormiit.

I'm standing on freezing Walrus Bay. A hunter's wife tells me these are the first whales the community has killed in six years. The community has walked out to the secluded bay to lend a hand and watch the age-old practices of flensing and carving. All that will remain of two minke whales, six and 10 metres, will be 10 equal piles of skin, blubber, ribs, fins and great, geometric blocks of deep-red meat. Ten piles represent 10 hunters and their extended families. Nothing will be wasted. Even the giant back bones will be dragged to where huskies, tied up for the short summer, will fight each other for their share.

As the butchering continues, with family members loading meat and blubber into giant plastic bags, the old man sits on one of the bigger rocks at the base of the steep scree slopes hemming the bay. He's the elder. He's seen the old ways erode, but some stay the same and he likes that.

Ittoqqortoormiit is one of the northernmost settlements on the largely depopulated east coast. Its 400 Inuit people, ancestors of the Thule migration from Arctic North America, are one of Greenland's last hunter societies.

As the chilling polar stream bears down, I join the throng by the whales. A boy offers a slice of thick skin, cut with his pocketknife. I taste its salty crunch. I revere the creature, and I know its life force is serving to these lovers of the Arctic. Later, I'll sample my own small whale fillets and discover, when seared on a hot skillet, there's first the oily sheen of lipids on the palate, then a lean, sharp flavour akin to kangaroo.

I see the old man in the back of a pickup truck. Surrounded by family and huge bags of whale meat, blubber and the odd rib bone, he's serene. The gods of east Greenland have been kind and all is as it should be in Ittoqqortoormiit.

Every week Guardian Weekly publishes a 'Letter from' one of its readers from around the world. We welcome submissions – they should focus on giving our readers a clear sense of a place and its people. Please send them to weekly.letter.from@guardian.co.uk

Could Greenland, with its old reliance on whale and seal, become a gourmet destination? Its inventive new chefs think so, but will a frozen Tim Moore agree?

Despite the best efforts of the Vikings, who chose its inviting name to hoodwink prospective settlers, no one expects Greenland to be lushly hospitable. Its bleak magnificence had been laid out beneath my plane window for half the morning: a frosted, monochrome enormity of granite and glaciers two-thirds the size of India, fringed with slightly more inhabitants than Hereford.

All the same, stepping out into the still, bright morning at Kangerlussuaq airport, the brutal reality of life at minus 40C came as a shock. My nostrils crinkled as everything up them instantly froze. Then I breathed in, and Dracula punched me in the throat.

I'd come to try a bold twin experiment by Greenland's tourist authorities. First, a new season for holidaymakers: the flesh-shattering depths of winter. February and March are the cruellest months in the Arctic and almost all visitors to Greenland currently come in summer, when you only need one pair of gloves. Second, a new destination for the adventurous gourmet. Copenhagen's Noma has become one of the world's most-feted restaurant (and ranked the very best for the last three years) with its freestyle riffs on Nordic cuisine. Denmark's former colony now finds itself in the gastronomic halo, a challenge for native chefs even in the south of the country, where the Vikings' bucolic brand name seems least outrageous – they've got trees and everything. I'd come to the barren and permafrosted mid north-west, which must surely rank as the foodie's final frontier.

My base was Ilulissat, a town of 4,000 people and 2,500 sled dogs, situated, like every other settlement in Greenland, on the coast. It's a plucky, cheerful place with brightly coloured houses warming up the deep-frozen landscape, and a harbour becomingly strewn with little boats in ice-locked hibernation.

Both the hotels I stayed in were spanking new and devoid of traditional local character – wisely so, as a turf roof and fish-oil heating isn't likely to bag too many stars on TripAdvisor. What they did have were some tirelessly dumbfounding vistas. Ilulissat means "the icebergs" in Greenlandic, and what a sight they were through the treble-glazing: sometimes a fleet of Tolkienesque dreadnoughts, sometimes a Henry Moore retrospective on the run, lined up on a massive iced horizon thickly buttered with sunset, or picked out by a full moon and the free-form green swooshes of the northern lights. The Greenlandic winter landscape is under a fairytale curse: its serene, shimmering majesty tempts you outside, then snaps your flash-frozen soul in half.

Almost everyone in Ilulissat works in fishing, most of them at factories that process prawns and halibut for export to Denmark. Semi-independent Greenland is stumbling through a slow-motion divorce from its one-time overlord: Copenhagen still pays an annual subsidy and takes charge of foreign and financial policy but Inuit Greenlandic is now the sole official language, and the old Danish place names have been replaced. With its halting, sibilant clucks, Greenlandic is not an accessible tongue, though neither, as we've learnt from the strangled gurgles of many imported TV dramas, is Danish. The half-Greenlandic guide who showed me round what was once Jakubshavn said that her young son spoke better English than Danish. (She also told me that he once got frostbite on her 20-minute walk to school.)

Reclaiming Greenland's national identity, insists champion chef Inunnguaq Hegelund, also means reclaiming its national cuisine. No easy task in a land where what passes for fertile soil is 500 years old.

"Well, it's amazing what you can do with angelica," he told me in his aunt's kitchen, bigging up one of the few plants that prospers here. (In the days ahead I found that what you can mainly do is make everything taste faintly of fennel and rhubarb.)

Hegelund is an engagingly self-assured 24-year-old, who isn't entering the national catering finals this year "to give someone else a chance". His repertoire at Ilulissat's Hotel Arctic is inevitably fish-centric, but the splendid meal he created for us at his aunt's was a tribute to Greenland's unsung, land-based fauna. I didn't imagine that sheep could survive in Greenland. The one I ate bits of obviously hadn't, but it was beautifully succulent. I'd never even heard of muskox, which despite its name and the beefy rareness of its meat, is a massively furry goat. Hegelund set it off with a rich sauce made from crowberries, which ripen in tiny black hillside clusters during Greenland's nightless summers. I was told that Greenlandic culture remains rooted in the kill-everything-and-eat-it tradition of the macho outdoorsman but Hegelund – trained in Denmark, and attuned to European sensibilities – understands that the typical gourmet tourist is unlikely to appreciate the marine-mammal aspect of this tradition. If the search for offshore oil continues to disappoint, tourism revenue may prove crucial for Greenland's independence, and people who go there want to watch whales, not eat them. And it isn't just the ethics that might leave a bad taste for visitors: when I tried seal a few days later, it proved stubbornly unmoreish: dark, tough, fishy meat that tastes like the smell of 1970s cat food.

The morals of seal hunting may deter some tourists from visiting but the clothing it yields is about practicality. My two-day dog-sledding trip simply would not have happened without my thermal sealskin anorak and salopettes, outermost of five layers of clothing. Without the matching mittens, and two pairs of under-gloves, I'd be typing this with my nose.

I've been dog sledding before, in Lapland with two of my children a few years ago. Then I took charge of my own sled, or tried to, clinging on to the waist-high bar like a man being dragged down the Cresta Run on a Zimmer frame. This time, there were many more dogs: 16 huskies instead of four, a tangled dog's cradle of yapping jostles. Plus, I was a passenger, sitting with only the ropes that attached the luggage beneath me to hold on to. My driver, Hans, was invigoratingly old-school. Frost speckled his sparse beard, and his legs were sheathed in a voluminous pair of polar-bear-fur trousers.

The following three hours offered an immersive experience of Greenland's hardcore winter wilderness. We swished across frigid lakes at the rear of an eight-sled canine convoy, the whiff of musky poo forcing its way up my nostrils through a bandit-scarf and two balaclavas. My face-holes began to leak fluids that soon solidified in the fabric that sheathed them. This grim carapace froze to my nose; then, after some ill-advised poking, to my tongue. My eyelids periodically bonded.

When I got off to help push us up, everything instantly defrosted into steamy sweat. The process was promptly reversed when we barrelled down the snow-marbled granite on the other side. With the brilliant sun nosing into another golden goodbye our convoy reached a pair of cosy huts. Then sped right past them and out onto the frozen fjord behind.

Hans and his friends were out here, in the ultra-remote, super-hostile middle of frozen nowhere, to go fishing. Some of them were already at it, winching up a long, many-hooked line through a hole in the half-metre ice. Hans told me it had been minus 55C out on the ice the week before. If the conditions were inhuman, then so was the alien panorama: a yawning white flatness girdled by heavy, lifeless mountains. The men at work might more convincingly have been prospecting for rare elements near the pole of Mars.

As it was, the first of a succession of huge halibut emerged from the hole, each waist-high to the men who unhooked them. When the time came to cut them up into chunks they were frozen rigid, though the smell of solid blood was enough to set the dogs off into a wolverine chorus.

The huts, when we made it back to them, seemed as warm and welcoming as a village pub on Boxing Day, though by the time our fresh-off-the-sled halibut soup hit the boil, the water in my bottle still wasn't moving.

I was too tired to care. The simple act of generating body heat all day had exhausted me: sitting on your arse is hard work when that arse is frozen. I rolled out a billion-tog sleeping bag on the floor and slept right through an apparently epic twin display of northern lights and snoring. We sledded back to Ilulissat and spent the following days in ever-smaller and more-remote settlements.

I took a helicopter over the fractured ice sheet to Disko Island, a Danish name that probably hasn't survived just so that I could send funny text messages, but because the native variant is Qeqertarsuaq. Eight hundred people live in the only significant town, another kaleidoscopic huddle of warm houses and frozen boats. Backed by long, flat-topped mountains, it looked like rural Iceland with a broken boiler. Everyone kept telling me that Disko was a sea of green in the summer, "though we know it's hard to believe".

Greenland's cultural collisions smashed out everywhere. Skinned seals were strung up from porches topped with satellite dishes. A hunter dragged a big, white arctic hare past a new supermarket full of Pringles and tortellini. Children in Manchester United shirts played three-and-in at a football net half-buried in iced snow. I had the finest meal of my trip – plump, moist, reindeer steak with crowberries – prepared by a Greenlandic cook who boasted that the only time he ever went outdoors was to smoke. The menu at Arthur, Disko's solitary restaurant, is winningly dependent on what this man can get his hands on: a fisherman had just turned up at the kitchen door with wolf-fish and a salesman's smile. When my helicopter out of Disko was delayed by a blizzard, the chef put together an impromptu muskox chilli.

I was taken out to a headland on the edge of town by Outi and Mads Tervo, husband and wife researchers at Disko's venerable Arctic station. They're studying the song of the bowhead whale, a huge and mysterious animal that suffered more than most in the bad old days: during the 1850s, four bowheads were being slaughtered every day. Mads opened a hatch in a squat little lighthouse and handed me a headset connected to a distant array of submerged microphones. Whale song is a soaring, groaning electronic chorus. Its purpose is still hazy, but the Tervos have established that the anthem, mimicked identically by every bowhead, is different each year.

Not bad going when you learn how many tunes some of them have to remember: recent autopsies have found evidence – in the form of ancient ivory harpoon tips embedded deep in their blubber – which suggests that bowheads can live for more than 200 years, longer than any other mammal. One which died during US president Bill Clinton's term of office survived a harpoon attack when Thomas Jefferson was president. It felt portentous when Outi pointed to sea, and in a distant patch of open water between the toothpaste-blue bergs, I saw two great black crescents rise and fall.

The final trip out of Ilulissat was an hour-long jaunt for my snowmobile driver, and an ordeal of Scott-grade folly for me. Snowmobiles go much faster than dogs, so passengers get much colder. My goggles were impenetrably ice-rimed before we'd even left town. When I sensed the terrain begin to undulate I curled both arms round my driver's tangibly reluctant torso, but numbness soon slackened my grip.

Blind, spent and mired in frozen mucus, by the time we arrived in Oqaatsut (formerly known as Rodebay) I didn't feel my life was worth saving. When I fumbled off my goggles my driver squinted at my central brow with some concern, then prodded it with an appraising thumb. "Souvenir of Greenland," he grunted: a crusty red bindi of first-degree frostbite.

I thawed out over a lavish marine buffet in a guesthouse run by a German couple. Wind-dried halibut, breaded capelin, deep-fried cod roe – as long as you forgot to eat the latter, everything was rewardingly weird and wonderful. I'd learned that even in Greenland's most unpromisingly desolate extremities – running water in Oqaatsut means a lump of melting iceberg in a tank – you will eat well. Perhaps especially well, with the nearest breakfast pop tart on the other side of two mountains and a frozen fjord.

Afterwards, I went out to explore with Ole Dorph, town elder and de-facto mayor. Home to 46 people, Oqaatsut in deepest winter had the thrilling air of mankind's last stand. Big icebergs came right up to the door. Sled dogs howled beneath racks of wizened fish left out to dry. A fair few of the far-flung scatter of houses were abandoned, their frost-bleached furnishings picked out by the late sun coming in through cracked windows.

Dorph told me that his town had been dying since its fish-processing plant closed in 2000. Oqaatsut, or more properly Oqaatsut, had begun life in the 18th century as a Dutch whaling station. He pointed out the original barrel-making cooperage, still apparently in use. "We have a little tourism," he said, "but most of us must take our living from the sea."

And with that he led me into a warehouse by the frigid shoreline. At the back stood a large, cold store, which exhaled a pungent fog when Dorph opened its heavy door. Inside, his deep-frozen dream for Oqaatsut's future lay piled up around us in thousands of vacuum-sealed sachets.

When the fish plant closed, Dorph set up a local co-operative and after many years of lobbying was awarded the right, under an "aboriginal subsistence" exemption, to kill and process a bowhead whale. The necessary investment almost crippled the tiny town, and things got worse when the grim work was done. In the 40 years since Greenland landed its last bowhead, people had lost their taste for its very blubbery meat. The supermarkets wouldn't take it. Nor would local fishmarkets. As Dorph discovered, even the people of Oqaatsut didn't want to eat the stuff, and two years on are now feeding it to their dogs.

I didn't know what to say, or what to think. This big fridge full of plastic bags was the final resting place of a mighty, majestic creature, the end of a life that might, just, have begun before Queen Victoria's. The people who lived here had, in the final analysis, slaughtered it for no reason, but I still felt for them. And with their nation's independence in some curious way beholden to ethically minded, foodie-centric extreme tourism, you have to believe that Oqaatsut's short-term loss is this truly astonishing country's long-term gain.

Chasing Ice, a documentary by the producers of Academy award-winning The Cove, tells the story of James Balog's mission to capture visual evidence of the effect of climate change on our planet

Chasing Ice, the award winning film of one man's mission to provide undeniable evidence of climate change in the Arctic, premieres in the UK on 3 December

Finding a 'Northwest Passage' through Canada's icy seas was once the ultimate challenge for explorers. Kari Herbert sails the thrilling route on a new 11-day 'cruise'

"Remember, this is an expedition, not a cruise," declares our leader Boris Wise.

Projected on the wall behind him are a series of maps of the maze of islands of the Canadian Far North. These aren't just any maps though; these are real-time satellite charts, specifically detailing the extent and density of sea ice in the area. For the past five days they have been the focus of intense scrutiny.

We are hoping to navigate, from east to west, the Northwest Passage – the sea route between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans along the north coast of North America explored from the 15th century as a trading route with Asia. Once attempted only by experienced polar explorers, the journey is now being offered by small, select expedition cruise ships and a few modern mariners. This is a very special trip. Although I have been to the Arctic several times, I will be visiting areas I have never been to before.

As we soon discover, there is no guarantee of success on this traverse. The ice-choked waters of this part of the Arctic change constantly with the currents, winds and ice melt. Some years the Northwest Passage can be virtually ice-free; at other times even icebreakers can't get through. In March this year, spring temperatures plummeted to -40ºC, creating new large pans of thick sea ice, and these are now blocking our path.

Our home for this 12-day trip with One Ocean Expeditions is the Russian research vessel Akademik Ioffe. A veteran of polar conditions, the Ioffe takes adventurous passengers on specialist cruises to the Arctic and Antarctic as well as operating as a floating scientific base. It is an ice-strengthened ship, not an icebreaker, and we soon discover that we cannot achieve our goal without assistance.

As Boris cycles through the charts, swirls of bright colour expand and contract, each colour on the screen representing the ever-changing coverage and density of ice. Green denotes stretches that could be navigable by a small boat, those in yellow and orange could be crossed with an ice-strengthened vessel, and red indicates areas of thick ice that can be penetrated only by an icebreaker. It's like watching clouds form and disperse.

Our first choice of route, Peel Sound, between Prince of Wales and Somerset Island, is blocked by a swath of red. The narrow "key" to the Northwest Passage, the Bellot Strait, between Somerset and the Boothia peninsula, the northernmost point of mainland Canada, also looks impassable, with its western exit plugged by ice. Fast tidal currents run through the strait, carrying large icebergs. If we don't pick the right moment, it will be like driving down a narrow one-way street, crashing headlong into juggernauts rushing in the other direction.

Our voyage began in Kangerlussuaq, western Greenland. From there we headed north to the modern town of Sisimiut and then on to Ilulissat, home to the largest and fastest-calving glacier in the northern hemisphere. The 40km-long Icefjord sends an astonishing 20m tonnes of ice a day into the frigid waters of Disko Bay.

A wooden walkway snakes up from the town towards the fjord, raised up over boggy tundra. "Extreme Danger!" a sign along the path announces: "Risk of sudden tsunami waves, caused by calving icebergs. Death or serious injury might occur."

The spectacular fjord is worth the risk. An icescape extends as far as the eye can see. Today a gargantuan berg, tens of stories high, is lodged in the fjord, blocking the channel. On my other visits here, icebergs the size of St Paul's cathedral have drifted past, doing slow pirouettes.

Later, with Canadian and Nunavut (the newly named territory of northern Canada) flags flying, we head west across the Davis Strait, then north towards Pond Inlet, at the top of Baffin Island, where we're surrounded by humpbacks and pilot whales as a storm builds. Then we meet the ice, and the bears. In total we encounter around 25 bears on the voyage: some turn tail, but others are more curious, including a mother and two cubs who stroll towards us over floating pans of ice to within a few metres of the ship.

We cruise in zodiac inflatables to remote bird colonies, and yet more bears appear. We skirt the southern edge of Bylot Island then head north towards Devon Island. A Royal Canadian Mounted Police outpost was established in 1924 here at Dundas Harbour, marking Canada's early efforts to wrestle with sovereignty in this part of the far north. The men chose a stunning spot overlooking the entrance to Lancaster Sound. In Inuktitut this place is called Talluruti, which means 'a woman's chin with tattoos on it' – referring to the crevasses that cover Devon Island's shoreline in dark streaks.

The outpost has been abandoned: it's too difficult to sustain human life here. The wind and weather have beaten down the doors and windows of the small huts, but mementoes of the men's time here survive – a chest of drawers with its paint peeling, a sewing machine on a window sill, empty bottles of Hudson's Bay Scotch Whisky, a copy of a Jeeves and Wooster novel on a folding chair. Two years of this solitude was too much for one of the men: he committed suicide shortly before he was due to be picked up.

Although there are no humans here there is plenty of wildlife – as we land a polar bear disappears over the hills behind us. We see a peregrine falcon and an enormous, brilliant white arctic hare. Nearby are the remains of other dwellings: those of the earliest Thule Inuit, who reached this area 1,000 years ago, before they continued their great migration toward northern Greenland. Built from rocks and turf, the homes would have looked like permanent igloos, with roofs created from whale jawbones, covered with skins and turf. Our Inuit guide, Atuat, toes some scat and tells us a large herd of muskoxen were here just last week.

The highlight of the voyage is Beechey Island, off the south-west of Devon Island. I was last here some 20 years ago, and remember finding it a desolate, eerie place. Today couldn't be more different, with a fresh covering of snow, and sunlight piercing bruised clouds. On this tiny islet the first signs of an ill-fated Victorian search for the Northwest Passage were discovered.

In May 1845 two ships, the Erebus and the Terror, newly fitted with steam engines, set sail from London to cheers from a huge crowd. It was Britain's most significant Northwest Passage expedition to date, led by seasoned explorer Sir John Franklin. The ships were last seen by whalers as they headed north into Baffin's Bay. Franklin and his 128-strong crew were never seen again.

In 1850, the remains of one of Franklin's camps was discovered. Strewn over the desolate beach was an assortment of relics, and nearby three graves marked by simple headboards.

We gather at Beechey Island, as my polar historian husband Huw Lewis-Jones leads a service of reflection for Franklin and his men. As snow blows across the graves, we lift our cups of whisky and toast those that have gone before us, knowing that however much difficulty we get into on this voyage, we will surely return home.

We rendezvous with a Canadian Coastguard icebreaker the Henry Larsen and follow in her wake as she bites through the ice ahead of us. "Bear!" someone shouts, pointing to a lone bear standing on the ice. We can't stop: if we fall behind, the ice could close in around us.

We enter Bellot Strait with both engines running in case one fails in this notoriously difficult channel. Musk oxen watch us with steady eyes as we motor pass Zenith Point, the most northerly tip of the North American mainland. A white line appears on the horizon at the western end of the strait. Ice. The Larsen's helicopter is launched, scouting the conditions.

After we've trailed the icebreaker for some 20 hours, conditions improve and we squeeze into open water. With a blast from the foghorn the Henry Larsen heads north, back into the pack.

As we near King William Island the wind picks up. It is here that Franklin's Erebus and Terror were beset by ice for 19 months before being abandoned, and here that Sir John Franklin died, his body lowered beneath the ice.

Victory Point on its north-west coast, appears ahead of us illuminated in golden light. Franklin's men erected a cairn here and within it placed a record of their demise. It was the only written evidence discovered by later searches:"28 May 1847… All well". The following year the note was revised. A new message, scribbled in the margin reads: "Sir John Franklin died on 11 June 1847 and the total loss by deaths in the expedition has been to this date 9 officers and 15 men." In the years to follow, more gruesome discoveries were made, including items that suggested that some of the men had resorted to cannibalism.

King William Island is still a source of fascination for those interested in the Franklin mystery. This year another Canadian government expedition will try, using state-of-the-art sounding and imaging equipment, to discover the two lost ships.

With ice threatening to press in on us, strong currents, and winds reaching gale force, we stand on the tilting deck and look across to the low beach of this historic site. We are thankful that we are not marooned here.

It has been a spectacular journey. We have seen whales, bears, birdlife, natural phenomena, and more: we have lived through the history of human exploration here, in the most poignant way. Our trip proves to us that even with our excellent onboard staff, daily ice charts, satellite communications and icebreaker support, navigating the Northwest Passage is still an unforgettable challenge.

Arctic diver Roddie Sloan was about to abandon his beloved urchins to study engineering, but then he got a call that would change his life...

"Our urchin diver is a Scotsman who came to Norway for the love of a woman, and stayed for the cold, pristine waters of his new region of Steigen. If it lives in the north Atlantic and I want to cook it, Roddie will find it and it will arrive at Fäviken neatly arranged in a little box, whether it's edible or not."
Magnus Nilsson, chef, Fäviken, Sweden

A small icy open boat 300km inside the Arctic Circle: diver Pawel grins as he hands me a holy grail and for a second I forget the biting wind. The interior of the spiky sea urchin he is holding out is an astonishing tangerine like a Chinese lantern, bathed in low brilliant light. What I have in my hand is Stronglyocentrotus droebachiensis, the mythical Norwegian Green, talked about in hushed whispers by chefs. I lift out a delicate coral "tongue" – more accurately, its gonads – and let the umami flavours wash over me: the texture is of wobbly custard; the taste clean, like the smell of the Arctic sea, only sweeter. I close my eyes and quietly drift with the water. We have plenty of time and urchins while we wait for Roddie Sloan to reappear from the freezing sea.

Sloan had known this was a good day to fish, he says, because the sea eagle had told him. "Like most fishermen I have superstitions," he says. "If I don't see an eagle, I know it will be a bad day." And winter days here – if you can call barely four hours of dim light a day – can be very bad. He tells me of a five-hour battle through 4m waves to get his tiny boat the final kilometre home. Luckily, today the fjords are calm, the sun is shining and as we fill the boat with urchins and clams, Roddie Sloan and Pawel "The Fish" Laskowski are happy.

Just a few years ago, Sloan was ready to quit the sea. The millions he dreamed he'd make from diving had failed to materialise, unlike his second son (he now has three). Anxious about how to support his family, Sloan hung up his wetsuit to study engineering. But then came a phone call that would change his life. 

"I remember the day," he tells me later as I stoke the log fire in our borrowed white wooden house on a tiny island in the fjord. "It was a sunny Sunday, a beautiful autumn afternoon, Lindis [his wife] is making dinner while I am standing on the terrace. The phone rings. It's a chef wanting urchins but I tell him he is too late. It isn't fair to my wife any more, it is over.

"In my mind I already had autumn organised," he continues. "I was going to university. We spoke for about an hour, about sea urchins and other foods from the sea, but he was a two-star and I had been supplying Le Louis XV [Alain Ducasse's three-Michelin-star palace in Monaco]. I was polite but I wasn't interested.

"When we had finished, Lindis asked who it was," he says. "Some Danish chef, I told her, calling from Nimrod or Nana, I don't care. I am going back to school."

It was, of course, René Redzepi from Noma.

Under pressure from Lindis – a super-smart Norwegian gender specialist and government adviser – Sloan succumbed but tripled his price: "If you don't want to do something, you hike the cost," he says. "But I didn't want Lindis to be angry."

It was a fragile start to a life-changing friendship. "With René," he says, "the price doesn't much matter, it is about the product. This was an extremely new experience for me." But Sloan was intent on leaving the sea. "I still wanted to study, so he was my only client."

A few weeks later, Redzepi turned up. "He was wearing trainers to go to sea," Sloan laughs. "He had a new hat, he had duty-free, but was in all the wrong clothes. We kitted him and took him out for four hours. The season was finished, it was minus 22. We talked about changing nappies, about family, philosophy and sea urchins.

"I realised I really like this guy," he says. "I am a loyal dog – once I have made up my mind, it takes a lot to get rid of me. I tell him we will change the price, he tells me he wants 50kg a week."

Next, he ate his green urchins at Noma: "It was a dish of 'frozen pebbles and sea urchins' – an amazing taste sensation, suddenly I saw what he saw." Sloan, a Scottish economic exile from Dumfries, transplanted to Nordskot, an Arctic hamlet of 80 people, had found another new home. "Noma has become 'my kitchen' in a way," he says. "I can drop in for tea, coffee, maybe curl up under a table."

Through Redzepi and his MAD [food] symposium in Copenhagen (Sloan was a reluctant but compelling speaker at the second event in 2012), he has found validation and a viable market with many of Europe's top chefs now clamouring to buy from him.

Fäviken's Magnus Nilsson again: "We met the first time in Copenhagen … I looked into a pair of glistening blue eyes and heard the words, 'I am Roddie the urchin diver, you are my closest chef [they're more than 600km apart by road], we need to work together.' We soon found a logistical solution that was manageable for us both in terms of money and quality, which involves a couple of ferries, a firm of removal men and a monthly bribe of a box of beer. The produce arrives every Tuesday at Fäviken and it includes the best sea urchins I have ever seen anywhere."

This season – late September to January – Sloan will also be supplying UK restaurants including St John. For now at least, wild talk of further education is on hold.

Ask Roddie Sloan about his relationship with his adopted community, the Arctic sea, and its produce, and his voice becomes quieter. We make tea and talk about Nordskot's oldest inhabitant, 81-year-old Finn Ediassen, who started fishing aged eight and taught Sloan "all I know about ropes and knots". He tells me how this community nestled at the foot of an austere mountain range at the top of the world had carved a precarious living fishing and whaling but now there was no work; how they had indulged his obsession with the urchins and clams they still only think of as bait. 

The fire crackles. The Arctic light dips. Sloan's eyes shine as tells me of his pride in how they have taken him in, recognising a kindred wild spirit bewitched by the sea.

But it is when he talks about being a warden for his beloved urchins that Sloan comes alive. The green is one of 700 species, 500m years old, he says. "The quality starts in the sea – how you pick it up with your hand, how many you have in the net. How you handle it, how you fish it.

"They have changed my life, these beautiful creatures," he says. "My mother doesn't understand it. For her, they are still something my Aunty Jean brought back from her holidays. But they have given me a community, friendships, food. They have given me a place, a proper life."

All the while, a few urchins shyly shift and move as we talk. As daylight finally fades, I watch entranced as they dance on spikes across the kitchen table. "They are very precious to me," Sloan says softly.

Later, I am sitting drinking smoky scotch when Roddie Sloan calls from his home in the village. "Look outside," he says, simply. "Northern lights." 

So I stand on the terrace of my Arctic explorer's island cottage and watch as the sea and sky come alive. I see electric greens shoot and pulse over the forbidding horizon as though orchestrated to an unheard symphony. I watch the sky and fjord turn the intense colour of limes and the stark icy mountains take on an unearthly mauve. And for the next three hours as I drink whisky and watch, I almost envy Roddie Sloan his hermit life, the few hours of daylight, the many hours spent diving in the icy water. But then I remember the forecast is for more storms, more snow and minus 15 and I shudder and return to the fire.

For more information, email arctic.caviar@gmail.com; Twitter: @Roddiesloan

Work with dogs and reindeer or on a farm in the snowy reaches of northern Europe or Canada for a real taste of a snowy winter wonderland

Spending your Christmas surrounded by snow, reindeer and huskies may seem like an unfulfillable festive fantasy for most of us, but with volunteer opportunities available on farms across the higher latitudes of the northern hemisphere, it could be possible to live out this winter dream for free. Organisations such as Workaway, Helpx and Wwoof list thousands of farms and projects around the world where volunteers can put in a few hours' hard graft each day in exchange for free food and accommodation. Since it's the season when we go mushy inside for all things festive, we've rounded up some real-life, pretty-as-a-Christmas-card opportunities to live for free in your very own winter wonderland.

Volunteer with a husky tour in Norway

You'll be in good hands helping out at Engholm Husky in northern Norway. Run by Sven Engholm, 11-time winner of Europe's longest sled dog race, the Finnmarksløpet, this husky tour company is always looking for people to help out. In the winter, this means preparing for sled tours, repairing equipment and working in the dog yard. Volunteers get free food and stay toasty at night in the comfort of a cosy log house.
• View the full post on Workaway.info

Help with reindeers in Finland

Wintertime means reindeer time at this small farm in Kaamasmukka, northern Lapland. The husband-and-wife hosts are looking for help with their animals, which also include horses, so there'll be the chance to go on rides across the snowy landscape (when you're not mucking out the stables).
• View the full post on Workaway.info

Make maple syrup in Canada

Fancy guzzling maple syrup in the company of reindeer? This farm about two hours from Toronto is looking for Wwoofers to help out with production. As well as making the sticky stuff, the farm cares for a wide range of animals, including Icelandic horses, reindeer and rare-breed chickens. In your time off you can ride the horses, ski, or simply sweat it out in a hot tub.
• View the full post on wwoof.ca

Help with huskies in Iceland

Located in the spectacular Icelandic countryside, these holiday apartments (walking distance from a fjord) need someone to help out from February. When you're not welcoming holiday guests and keeping things clean and tidy, you'll be caring for the huskies and watching the northern lights.
• View the full post on Helpx.net

Work on a husky farm in Finland

This farm in Finland is part of Lapland's Centre for Arctic and Polar Exploration and has more than 100 huskies (and a second farm nearby has a further 100), so you will literally be overrun with the world's most lovable canine breed. Volunteers will be expected to work long, physically demanding days, but you should be inspired by the farm's owners: they are former professional explorers, including the first Finn to complete an unsupported expedition to the South Pole.
• View the full post on Helpx.net

Grow organic Christmas trees in Denmark

Want a top quality tree this year? Go straight to the source. This farm on the Danish coast grows organic Christmas trees, as well as looking after goats, chickens and ducks. You won't be roasting any of the latter, however, as most of the cooking on the farm is vegetarian. And when you're not tending to the garden and campground you'll be able to enjoy yoga, swimming and kayaking.
• View the full post on wwoof.dk

For a split second we are airborne as the boat speeds over a 2m wave and comes thumping down the other side. 'Whoa!' shouts one of my fellow passengers as the bow returns to the water and we land back in our seats. Peter, the young Norwegian skipper, is totally unfazed as he continues to steer our vessel towards Tafeltinden, our mountain destination for the day - one of many impressive peaks thrusting straight out of the sea on the other side of the fjord. This is already squaring up to be unlike any other skiing trip I have been on and we haven't even reached the slopes.

It was the last week of December and the city was shrouded in a blanket of fresh snow. The clock claimed 10am and yet the sky was gunmetal grey and the skyline was beaded in a luminous necklace of electric lights. The sun should have risen and the sky ought to have been bright but this was the Norwegian city of Tromso, the land of the polar nights. For two months between November and January the sun remains below the horizon and daylight is as elusive as an Ibsen comedy.

The locals call it morketiden: the murky time. As someone who loves sunshine and hates darkness this was probably the most disagreeable place I could imagine; subzero temperatures and unremitting darkness not being my idea of fun. Yet there was also something compelling about a place where the sun never rises, something otherworldly - and that is why I came to Tromso: in search of the magic and madness of this murky time.

There have always been travellers: hunter-gatherers, nomads, merchants, migrants, explorers, crusaders, troubadours and pilgrims. There are still business travellers and immigrants, of course, but these days, whether it's a journey of a lifetime or an annual holiday, many of the people getting on planes, boats and trains are off to somewhere else in search of what they describe simply as an "experience", as though no further explanation were needed. The desire is for a special experience, for something particular that occurs usually far away and happens to or is witnessed by them in person, and many places in the world now have much of their economy based on fulfilling that desire.

What was I looking for, when I started out at St Pancras, heading for Tromsø in the north of Norway, 350km inside the Arctic Circle, in the dead of winter? I had a hankering to travel into the darkness and spend some time there, looking at the fading light. To go north and see what north really means as the light disappears, the temperature drops and the world freezes. But not as an explorer - not as Amundsen or Scott struggled with life and death towards the poles. Not being in the slightest degree rugged, I went as a modern tourist, one of the millions with the time and money to go in search of experience and convenience both, a leisurely traveller taking advantage of integrated timetables and modern transportation. Though not too modern. I kept my feet on the ground, wanting to get a sense of the distance I was going and the landscape I was travelling through. So I didn't fly to Tromsø, but took a route involving six trains and a ship that took me overland through Belgium, Germany, Denmark and Sweden, and farther north by sea, sailing in and out of the fjords that wrinkle the coast of Norway.

Discover the World (01737 218800) offers a seven-night Saab Lapland Explorer package from £1,640, based on two sharing, including return flights from London to Kiruna, two nights' accommodation at the Icehotel, two nights in Bjorkliden and three nights at Finnholmen Bryggehotel, all on a B&B basis. It also includes five-day rental of a four-wheel-drive Saab 9-3 Turbo.

If it wasn't for the fact that I've been wide awake for hours, I'd swear that I am dreaming. Here I am, lying in a room made of ice, when in walks a strange man with a backpack and a head torch. His spotlight arrives a few seconds before he does, puncturing the pitch black as he bursts through the curtain; I'm reminded of one of the bad guys in the scene from ET, where Elliott and his extra-terrestrial friend are being experimented on. Luckily, this chap is armed with nothing more sinister than a cup of hot lingonberry juice - just what I need after a night spent lying on a block of ice.

The world's largest sauna, a black-metal band playing rocks, deer-hide drums and a goat horn, and experimental films projected onto a giant rack for drying fish are just some of the attractions hoping to lure visitors to Salt, the world's first Arctic arts festival.

From Friday, the 400-strong population of Sandhornøya, a remote Norwegian island 90 minutes' drive from the nearest big town, promises to be swelled by festivalgoers ready to explore what organisers call "an Arctic state of mind" through art, music, architecture and food.

Chris Lowery, who won the wildlife category, is struck by the fragile beauty of Svalbard, in the Norwegian Arctic

Curtains! It has taken me a few minutes to realise there is something essential missing from the cabin room. A prerequisite in the land of the midnight sun, one would imagine. But apparently not in Svalbard, where the summer sun circles above the boreal archipelago in an endless loop 24 hours a day.

The curious sense of unbalanced time here in the Arctic Circle has left my body clock out of kilter, and a niggling impression of the surreal. The view from the curtain-less window in the middle of the night confirms this, an alien vista of rock and ice that sparkles in the raw northern sun.

The Arctic silence is loud, close to absolute silence, and it is an arresting and moving sound