Our writer journeyed on a low-emission ship to the northernmost point of Europe in winter, experiencing the northern lights, cross-country skiing, and a chilling dip in the sea
The view from the ship’s bridge meets my expectations: a strip of dark Arctic water weaving through a maze of snowy mountain islands. However, the bridge itself is surprising. Where is the wheel, the navigational chart, and that large metal device that goes “ting”? You know, the one marked “Dead Slow” and “Full Steam,” like the Titanic had when they spotted the iceberg? In its public areas, the Havila Capella resembles any modern cruise ship or upscale ferry, with lounges, a panoramic bar, a couple of gyms, and a stroll-worthy deck. It’s what lies beyond the bulkheads that sets it apart.
On a bridge that resembles more the USS Enterprise than the Titanic, Captain Brynjard Ulvøy checks the flat-screen displays. “You see, if we increase speed…” He nods at the first officer in the comfortable chair, who taps another screen. “We drain the batteries and use more liquid natural gas.” Another nod, and the ship eases back a little. “At this speed, we are at our most economical.”
Chief engineer Bjørn Jones puts it simply: “Remember the first hybrid cars? We are at that stage with ships.”
While liquefied natural gas has faced criticism for its methane emissions, this ship has made strides in reducing other pollutants. Additionally, its batteries enable four hours of low-emission sailing in environmentally sensitive areas. When Havila Capella was constructed, its twin 43-ton batteries, each housed in a compartment the size of a tennis court, were the largest globally.
I quickly return to the passenger world. We are on a cruise from the Norwegian port of Bergen to the world’s most northerly fishing village, a place well beyond the typical human settlements inside the Arctic Circle. Onboard, an astronomer is ready to answer questions about the stars and the aurora, should they appear. Given that this is a winter cruise, weather can play a significant role: storms have already disrupted our departure from Bergen, leading us to meet the ship in Trondheim, then quickly set sail as another squall approached up the fjord. Plans are subject to change, and I’m embracing the unexpected: instead of hiking a mountain near Ålesund, I find myself exploring the aviation museum in Bodø.
The museum isn’t something I’d typically choose, but I soon become engrossed in the Norwegian Cold War experience. I also manage to squeeze in a coastal walk, where I spot three sea eagles before rushing back to the departing ship. At dinner, our astronomer, Ian Ridpath, shares his optimism about seeing the northern lights. “The forecast indicates some clear skies, and we’re heading right under the aurora band. The Kp index isn’t high, but there’s a coronal hole.”
Having attended his lecture in the conference room, I already grasp his explanations. The aurora band is a broad ring of aurora activity encircling the pole. “You can go too far north and miss the aurora,” Ian explains. Tonight and for the next few days, we’ll be directly beneath that prime aurora-activity sky. The Kp index, where K stands for Kennziffer or code, and p for planet, measures solar activity from zero to nine, with nine indicating maximum activity. Even a low index of two can mean a decent sighting when you’re under the band. A coronal hole is a cool region on the sun’s surface that allows more solar wind to escape, bombarding our atmosphere with the particles that create those magical displays.
A plume leisurely coils and unfurls across the sky, taking on a greenish hue with a delicate pink edge and a reddish border
Dinner isn’t the typical lavish buffet often found on cruises; this ship prioritizes environmental concerns, and table service significantly reduces food waste. However, the cuisine is delicious, and the crew is the friendliest I’ve ever encountered.
That evening, the ship is scheduled to navigate through the narrowest channel of our voyage, the Raftsundet, a 16-mile channel between two of the Lofoten islands that narrows to barely 200 meters wide at its narrowest point. Captain Ulvøy is familiar with this area, having grown up on an island farm near its entrance. As we sail past, he illuminates his childhood home with a spotlight.
As we navigate through the Lofoten archipelago, the on-deck temperatures drop and the sky clears. The ship’s lights are dimmed. A plume of grey mist appears to rise in the darkness from one of the many snow-clad peaks ahead. This plume slowly coils itself, then unfurls across the sky, gaining a greenish tint with a delicate pink fringe and a reddish hem. For the next few hours, the aurora display swells, fades, then reappears. The deck lights are turned back on as we approach another port. Although this is primarily a tourist trip, the ship still carries cargo to dozens of tiny ports up the Norwegian coast, delivering mail and essential supplies.
At our next major stop, Tromsø, most passengers disembark for a few hours. I go cross-country skiing around the hilly outskirts of the city, dodging people on skis or fat bikes, many of whom are pulled by their dogs.
Despite its wintry appearance and high latitude, Tromsø benefits from the warming effects of the Gulf Stream. However, as we move around the top Arctic edge of Europe, heading east into colder air, the landscape changes. One morning at dawn, I can barely last a minute outside while holding a metal camera with bare hands. The settlements take on a tougher look, and there are no snow-laden trees. Frozen vapors drift across a hard, dark sea streaked with white, and the island bays are silent with ice. We are now close to the Russian border, and in some small ports, the road signs are in Norwegian and Russian, a testament to the close ties that once existed between the two countries: Russians crossing over for luxury shopping and Norwegians heading east for cheap petrol.
In Honningsvåg on the island of Magerøya, we docked, and everyone got off the ship. Most passengers boarded coaches for a tour to North Cape, the northernmost point in Europe. Some others opted for a snowshoe walk. This left a small, somewhat nervous-looking group, all of whom happened to be British. We had decided to swim in the Barents Sea.
I surprise myself by managing to swim a few meters in the Barents Sea, but soon my toes and fingers start pleading for mercy
A brief bus ride takes us to Skarsvåg, the world’s most northerly fishing village, where our adventurous plan unfolds. Gøran and Sunniva manage a small shop and a sauna, which they have prepared for us. There’s a fire burning on the jetty, though it doesn’t seem to radiate much heat.
The couple, among the youngest residents in a dwindling population of about 40, explain that “the old ladies come and sit in the shop and knit socks.” Gøran adds, “Without them, I couldn’t go ice fishing.” While I assume he’s referring to the socks, perhaps these resilient nonagenarians also partake in fishing. In the summer, this area is popular for sport fishing, with visitors catching giant halibut weighing up to 400kg. However, in the winter, homes are buried under heavy snow, and the landscape is blanketed in snow and ice, creating a magical scene, especially when viewed from the sauna after a brisk dip.
After spending a few minutes in the 80°C sauna, I muster the courage to step onto the jetty and descend the stairs into the sea, where the air temperature is -15°C. “Not too cold in the water today,” Gøran shouts. “Maybe three or four degrees.” Surprisingly, I manage to swim a few meters before my toes and fingers plead for warmth. Once I’ve heated up, however, an inexplicable urge to repeat the experience overtakes me. There’s something truly magical about swimming surrounded by the Arctic winter in all its harsh beauty.
Later, in the cafe, I enjoy waffles with cloudberry jam and hot coffee. I purchase some locally knitted socks and discover that Gøran was correct. Finally, my feet warm up.
