Faced with the prospect of an Arctic blizzard, temperatures of -25C and the management of a team of deranged huskies, I had hoped for more of a hand-holding approach from my guide — a bit of gentle reassurance, some friendly encouragement. I felt a few strategic half-truths were in order.

“Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine,” is what I needed to hear.

Camping is what I didn’t need to hear.

Tough as steel, and armed with the social skills of a crash barrier, most Arctic guides don’t waste time pampering their guests. Their message is simple: “This is the Arctic. Up here, we don’t mince our words. If you

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needed jollying along, you should have gone to Butlins.”

It was midwinter in the Svalbard islands. The North Pole was barely 800 miles away. When I stepped outside, my nostrils closed as an involuntary protest, a reflex act of self-protection.

I was setting out on a three-day dogsledding expedition, and I confess to a few niggling anxieties.

Had I packed enough socks? How does one pee when encased in 27 layers of clothing? Was I going to freeze to death? In my state of mind, I needed any idea of camping to be introduced gently, almost imperceptibly.

Longyearbyen is a tenuous town on the edge of a frozen fjord, the last outpost of civilisation and central heating. I met the guide in the lobby, where a polar-bear skin was pinned to the wall. In the Arctic, polar bears

are not cuddly figures. Longyearbyen is littered with notices, like “wanted” posters, warning you about them.

The gist is that they are dangerous killers who will probably rip off your face should you be unlucky enough to meet one on your way home from the pub.

In a low monotone, over detailed maps of breathtaking emptiness, the guide was laying out the journey. Our destination was the Noorderlicht, a two-masted schooner frozen in the ice of Temple Fjord, almost 50 miles away. There seemed to be only two problems: the weather and me.

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