I pick up the fifth - or is it the sixth? - whiskey, upend the glass and let the last of it drop onto my tongue. It was a long, difficult, but beautiful drive over the Westfjords from the ferry to the 100-year-old house we’re staying at. And I’m elated and exhausted, mentally as much as physically. Hence the whiskey. It helps. We made it through a hairy mountain road in a tiny car in one piece. Cause for celebration.

My companion has fallen asleep, head on my shoulder, a half-full glass of whiskey cradled in her hand. I glance at the clock and stop, staring at it. It’s midnight. And it’s still light outside. No darker than a late spring afternoon in London. I shake the sleepy person awake and we slip off the low sofa and stand side by side looking out of the window.

Neither of us says anything. There aren’t adequate words to describe the sight of the warm rays of midnight sun reflecting from the snow bound peninsulas stretching out over the fjord. There is a strange energy thrumming in the crisp air. This is as dark as it gets this far north, a degree or so south of the arctic circle. It is breath-takingly beautiful.