transmitters, the Austin engine, and thebicycle generator, which faces the west window, so that I can see my wireless masts. My work bench is at the front, under the north window, overlooking the bear post. As the wireless area is farthest from the stove, it’s noticeably colder than the rest of the cabin. But that can’t be helped.
After hours of unpacking, we were too exhausted to cook a proper meal, so I made a big pot of scrambled eider-duck eggs. (We bought a barrel from the crew, who gather them in their thousands and ship them back to Norway.) They’re twice the size of hens’ eggs, with shells of a beautiful speckled green. Delicious, although with a lingering fishy tang. I can still smell it.
I’m writing this at the main table, by the glow of a Tilley lamp. Outside it’s light enough to read, but in here we need lamps, as much of the room is blind: there’s only the small west window at the end, and the north one to the front.
Before we lit the stove, we could see our breath in here, but it’s warmed up now. We’ve left the stove door open, and the red glow is cheering. I can hear rain hammering on the roof and the wind moaning in the stovepipe. Yesterday the weather turned squally. In the morning, the dogs’ water pails were coated with ice. When I remarked to Eriksson that it’s turning wintry, he laughed. He says that in Spitsbergen, winter doesn’t begin until after Christmas.
It’s eight o’clock, and we’re safely inside for the night. I say ‘night’ because although it’s still light outside, it does feel like that. This evening, we saw the first faint stars.
Gus and I are at one end of the table: I’m writing this journal, and Gus is smoking and doing his notes for the expedition report. At the other end of the table, Algie has set up the Singer treadle, and is making dog harnesses. He’s whistling some inane tune, and when he’s not whistling, he’s breathing noisily through his mouth.
So what with Algie and the treadle, it isn’t exactly quiet. Added to which, there’s the noise from the dogs. They’re all related to each other, which is supposed to minimise fights, but you wouldn’t think so to judge by what’s coming from the doghouse. Growls, snarls, yelps. Scrabblings and gnawings. Bouts of oo-oo-woos. When it gets too loud, we shout and bang on the wall, and they subside into hard-done-by whines.
As usual, Mr Eriksson and the crew have gone back to the ship to sleep. It’s their last night at Gruhuken, and I get the impression that they’re relieved. Tomorrow we’ve giving a lunch in Mr Eriksson’s honour. Then we’ll say a fond farewell to the
Isbjørn
, and be on our own.
Later
I’ve moved to my bunk, because Algie is using his collapsible safari bath, and I’d rather not watch. All that wobbly, freckled flesh. His feet are the worst. They’re flat pink slabs, and the second and third toes protrude way beyond the big toe, which I find repulsive. Gus saw me staring at them, and flushed. No doubt he’s embarrassed for his ‘best pal’.
Sometimes, though, I wonder why I’m finding it quite so hard to tolerate Algie. Maybe it’s because we’re so cramped in here. We’re all getting hairier and dirtier, and the cabin smells of woodsmoke and unwashed clothes. You’ve got to duck under lines of drying socks, and pick your way between the gear. Algie’s simply making it worse. He never puts anything away. And every morning he shakes out his sleeping bag and leaves it draped over the bunk ‘to air’.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m quite glad that we didn’t get rid of the dogs. Of course I still don’t
like
them, and that’s not going to change, despite Gus’ best efforts. Yesterday he tried to introduce me to his favourite, a scrawny russet bitch named Upik. She fawns on him, but when I approached, she growled.
I shrugged it off, but he was disappointed: withUpik, and maybe also with me. ‘I don’t know why she did that,’ he
After hours of unpacking, we were too exhausted to cook a proper meal, so I made a big pot of scrambled eider-duck eggs. (We bought a barrel from the crew, who gather them in their thousands and ship them back to Norway.) They’re twice the size of hens’ eggs, with shells of a beautiful speckled green. Delicious, although with a lingering fishy tang. I can still smell it.
I’m writing this at the main table, by the glow of a Tilley lamp. Outside it’s light enough to read, but in here we need lamps, as much of the room is blind: there’s only the small west window at the end, and the north one to the front.
Before we lit the stove, we could see our breath in here, but it’s warmed up now. We’ve left the stove door open, and the red glow is cheering. I can hear rain hammering on the roof and the wind moaning in the stovepipe. Yesterday the weather turned squally. In the morning, the dogs’ water pails were coated with ice. When I remarked to Eriksson that it’s turning wintry, he laughed. He says that in Spitsbergen, winter doesn’t begin until after Christmas.
It’s eight o’clock, and we’re safely inside for the night. I say ‘night’ because although it’s still light outside, it does feel like that. This evening, we saw the first faint stars.
Gus and I are at one end of the table: I’m writing this journal, and Gus is smoking and doing his notes for the expedition report. At the other end of the table, Algie has set up the Singer treadle, and is making dog harnesses. He’s whistling some inane tune, and when he’s not whistling, he’s breathing noisily through his mouth.
So what with Algie and the treadle, it isn’t exactly quiet. Added to which, there’s the noise from the dogs. They’re all related to each other, which is supposed to minimise fights, but you wouldn’t think so to judge by what’s coming from the doghouse. Growls, snarls, yelps. Scrabblings and gnawings. Bouts of oo-oo-woos. When it gets too loud, we shout and bang on the wall, and they subside into hard-done-by whines.
As usual, Mr Eriksson and the crew have gone back to the ship to sleep. It’s their last night at Gruhuken, and I get the impression that they’re relieved. Tomorrow we’ve giving a lunch in Mr Eriksson’s honour. Then we’ll say a fond farewell to the
Isbjørn
, and be on our own.
Later
I’ve moved to my bunk, because Algie is using his collapsible safari bath, and I’d rather not watch. All that wobbly, freckled flesh. His feet are the worst. They’re flat pink slabs, and the second and third toes protrude way beyond the big toe, which I find repulsive. Gus saw me staring at them, and flushed. No doubt he’s embarrassed for his ‘best pal’.
Sometimes, though, I wonder why I’m finding it quite so hard to tolerate Algie. Maybe it’s because we’re so cramped in here. We’re all getting hairier and dirtier, and the cabin smells of woodsmoke and unwashed clothes. You’ve got to duck under lines of drying socks, and pick your way between the gear. Algie’s simply making it worse. He never puts anything away. And every morning he shakes out his sleeping bag and leaves it draped over the bunk ‘to air’.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m quite glad that we didn’t get rid of the dogs. Of course I still don’t
like
them, and that’s not going to change, despite Gus’ best efforts. Yesterday he tried to introduce me to his favourite, a scrawny russet bitch named Upik. She fawns on him, but when I approached, she growled.
I shrugged it off, but he was disappointed: withUpik, and maybe also with me. ‘I don’t know why she did that,’ he
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