The light coming through the sleeper train window wakes me. It’s nearly time. Climbing down the ladder past the other snoozing occupants, I head into the corridor. A few hours ago there were only trees, an endless unfurling ribbon of spruce and birch. Now there is snow, vast banks of it. And sometimes, when the train roars through a big drift, great spumes of white blast out on either side, blocking any view.
In the restaurant car, I watch the map on my phone as a blue dot approaches a straight dashed line. A frozen lake and distant pale mountains appear. Then at 6.09am we cross the Arctic Circle. Forty-eight hours previously, I had been in London St Pancras station, queueing for the Eurostar. Now, five trains later, never having left terra firma, I am in the Arctic. Most of my fellow travellers are Swedes with hefty bags of skis and well-stocked sledges that look expedition-ready. With their weathered faces and lean muscle, they look intimidatingly capable.
