Reading True North, an account by Gavin Francis of his travels in Arctic Europe. He starts in Shetland, at Unst, the end of Britain, and takes in the Faroes, Iceland and Greenland (all wholly or partially sub-arctic akshully) before arriving in Svalbard. It has been called Svalbard (cold coast) only since the 1920s when Norway gained control of the Spitsbergen (pointy mountains) archipelago, Spitsbergen now merely the name of the largest island. To spend a winter there, in darkness for four months, would be quite something, but better to sail up in the summer, past 71 degrees of latitude where there is no night and where frost crystals high in the atmosphere refract sunlight to create four paler sun-dogs at the main points of the compass. Can there be anywhere else on earth where a person might see such things and feel so much at liberty? Francis is very good on polar bears, the greatest hazard on the islands. The done thing to is carry a hunting rifle with a few armour-piercing rounds, even in the town, Longyearbyen, where no door is locked, just in case a bear is in pursuit. Sarah Palin would love it. The other done thing is to leave your boots on racks outside every shop or bar, since no one likes mud or coal dust being trodden in.===
Lunch. Mushroom and spinach lasagne with, instead of bechamel, goat cheese and creme fraiche, the latter curdling slightly during cooking. Still very nice, espesh with grated nutmeg on top just before going into the oven and a drizzle of olive oil over the crust the moment it comes out. May use double cream next time.
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Hooking up with Mr Beastly in a couple of hours for drinks and The Ethics of Progress, a one-hour monologue at Southwark Playhouse on sub-atomic physics. It is supposed to be very good, though I suspect My Love and Mr B are indulging me by agreeing to go. The thing is, I'm wondering if it will be possible, given the subject matter and all the talk of superpositioning, to be in the theatre and the pub at the same time. Will report back tomorrow.
