We leave for the mile long walk to the station, complete with a trolley load of Coffers, Clysters, Comfrey and Coifs and our C17^th gear. This is not quite an old lady’s shopping trolley but pretty close. Chris is wearing his C17^th hat. I try to work out whether this is more or less conspicuous than full C17^th rig. Within ten seconds I decide he is not the most incongruous person on Crystal Palace High Street. We have our usual yokels in the big city moment when the aforementioned trolley gets stuck in the automated station entrance thingy – you know, the one where you shove your ticket in (if you are me usually upside down) and it gets swallowed and the spongy bits open – in this case not far enough. We are released by a long suffering staff member. Typically, platform 1 is up and down lots of steps. Chris copes manfully with the trolley. Then, as we get on the train, the wheel falls off said trolley. I attempt, unsuccessfully, not to dissolve in hysterical laughter and Chris gets stuck in the closing train door as he fails to retrieve the wheel’s retaining split pin. Once a girl guide however (that would be me not Chris – he was a lifebouy, or should that be life boy?). I have a handy nappy pin. No one in my household has worn a nappy for 25 years but I have a nappy pin – as one does. A temporary repair is effected. At the first stop, Chris risks life and finger to extract the wheel’s washer from the train’s door runner. We do miss the Olympic ‘transport for London’ spirit and the helpful types pointing the way with their sponge fingers but the rest of the journey is uneventful. The inability to move on the morning rush hour train is another reminder why we live where we do.

We are early for Who Do You Think You Are? Live but are soon busy greeting old friends. I have a ticket for the Gregg Wallace chat. Brilliant as anticipated. I brave it to re-introduce myself at the end. Shame they didn’t show a clip of ‘my’ bit. Staggered to see a huge Coffers, Clysters poster behind the Family History Bookshop stall. I sign a few copies and one purchaser thinks he can get it publicised with the Civil War Society – hurrah! More ‘networking’, gleaning information and trying not to spend money! A quick change and then the tedious journey home through freezing temperatures and flakes of snow.

No time for a lie in and I am greeted by an exciting email from friends in Canada with the news that they had found one of my missing emigrants. Interesting too that she married a fellow North Devon emigrant and that he was one of the Bible Christian Thornes.

Left home in good time, driving through freezing fog as we went through the Somerset Levels. Arrived at Crystal Palace and set up the van. Ventured out on a cold sunny day to relive my childhood. Within five miles of the site, we were able to visit the house where my mother was born and where my grandparents lived for almost all their married life. This was really special for me as I don’t believe I had been past the house since I was seven. Strangely, although I have vivid memories of the inside of the house, I had no recollection of the outside at all. One of the attractions of the garden for both me and my train buff grandfather, was the train line that ran along the bottom. Coincidentally, just as we drew up a train went past just for me!

The trouble with this ancestral house visiting is that it involves a certain amount of skulking about trying to take photographs without being either arrested for stalking or mugged by irate householders. We managed to avoid these eventualities and even the law that says it will be bin day when participating in this type of activity was not in force. All we had to encounter were inconveniently parked cars. We then travelled through my childhood to visit, in chronological order, my three former homes. It struck me that, whilst these are now considered to be in London, forty years ago there is no way I would have considered myself a Londoner. It is important to be aware that cities spread and while we might think of our ancestors being city dwellers, they probably thought they lived in a leafy suburb. The route invoked many memories, sadly now though there is no one who shares these. I really must put ‘write my autobiography’ higher up the to-do list. On the way back we searched for more homes that figure earlier in my ancestry. One road escaped the notice of the sat-nav but I spotted it, rather too late, as we drove past. Following a manoeuvre that showed Chris’ driving is not out of place in the metropolis, we were outside my great grandmother’s house.

The next day and another early start because I was convinced that The National Archives would be full within five minutes of opening time. First stop the book shop to try and persuade them to sell Coffers, Clysters, Comfrey and Coifs. They are ahead of me and I was pathetically excited to see it in a prominent position on the shelf, next to Debbie Kennett’s surnames book. Even managed to sneak a quick out of focus photo!

Our visits to TNA are spaced to ensure that a) our reader’s tickets have just expired and b) everything has been moved and systems have changed since we were here last. We managed to pass the ‘are you fit for a reader’s ticket?’ online test. I don’t know what happens if you get a question wrong – does the computer explode? Having managed to order some documents, we decide that we need to ask questions and approach ‘triage’. Our query is obviously one for the ‘too hard’ basket and we are referred to the ‘red desk’. Is this akin to the naughty step? We are directed  to the microfiche drawers where our documents are stored. Bit of an initiative test to find drawer 2 but we manage it. Then to see if we can remember how to use this style of film reader and more complicated still, the reader copier.

Next a back breaking couple of hours photographing all the IR58s for Clovelly. I just love these under-used records. One entry created for each property with owner, occupier and description, as part of Lloyd George’s Valuation of 1910. Great excitement next with some Admiralty Records relating to applications for boys to attend Greenwich Naval School. The details of these have newly arrived in TNA catalogue. In the course of this, I find yet another one of my extended family who fell off something – in this case a fall from ‘aloft’ on HMS Trafalgar. I’ll add this to the fall from the scaffolding, the fall in the dry dock and the falling off the ship when forgetting to let go of the anchor – there are more!

Lunch time and an indifferent luke-warm ‘curry’ from what is described as a ‘Genuine menu’. Genuine what? – horse probably. I think ‘Genuine’ is the name of the franchise. We climb back to the second floor for a Chancery document, which document production in the map room, can’t quite seem to locate. Back and forth past the security scanners – the staff are starting to become our new best friends. We use the time before ‘coming back in 15 minutes whilst they search for it’ trying to locate our final document. The computer says they are unable to retrieve this document and to seek help. Seeking help seems to involve me telling the assistant how to use the document ordering system. We try elsewhere and a really helpful staff member says she thinks a member of staff has it can we ‘come back in fifteen minutes’ – you will have noticed a theme developing here.. Back past two sets of security staff AGAIN on the trail of missing document one. They have found this and it is a real gem. A Chancery petition from 1714 and it contains evidence that may bring some separate branches of the Braund family closer together. Something to work on when I get home. Finally, missing document number two. This has also been located and to view it we have to enter an inner sanctum; in order to escape we have to summon help. We also have to wear white gloves. Chris has no chance of finding any to fit his Braund hands so I have to do this alone. A great day and hopefully this will give me some material for a few more Braund journals. An hour to drive the 12 miles home and it isn’t even rush hour. Not that I need any reminding of reasons why I live in the middle of nowhere.

Mistress Agnes was very excited to be included on Gerald the Herald’s blog. In truth she was a little confused as to what a blog was and even more puzzled when she heard that Gerald featured on something called a Kindle. Fortunately Mistress A was prevented from setting fire to said Kindle (she mistakenly thought it was kindling) and was able to read the exciting adventures of Gerald and Roger Knight. Roger lives, as all good Medieval knights do, in suburban Croydon, where Mistress Agnes’ alter ego Janet grew up. A wonderful story for young and old, written by one of my school friends. Read it history friends, friends with children, friends who can read – and revel in the tale of the joust on the local rec, with the defeated knights travelling home on the 119 bus.

On the neolithic front, we have received our briefing and have had to return our ‘in case of death’ forms. Although the project is to be accomplished using period tools ‘elf and safety’ requires us to be equipped with not very authentic ‘safety wellingtons’. Usual shoe dilemma when asked to nominate the required size. Have gone with foot width (5) rather than foot length (3) this time and may live to regret it.

Last night Mistress Agnes marched and drummed not very efficiently, to commemorate the 367th anniversary of the Battle of Torrington and to pay tribute to those who fought for political freedom then and since. This is real hairs standing up on the back of the neck stuff, as we trace the route of the army in to town and lay a wreath on the mass grave of the Royalist prisoners. Lovely to meet with many old friends on a similar journey. ‘We are with you’. Have to say though that The English March gets a little tedious the nth time round. The following day one knows one’s been drumming continuously for an hour. During the course of this, yet another North Devon Journal photographer risked life and camera to capture Master Christopher’s image – so be warned NDJ readers.

Great bit of detective work by one of my fellow Buckland Brewer gravestone transcribers and we have identified a fragment that is now in a private garden and can add it to our Buried in Buckland records.

Just to report that Mistress Agnes and Master Christopher will be in attendance on Devon Family History Society stand at Who Do You Think You Are? Live over the weekend. Plenty of great Devon related goodies. Copies of Coffers, Clysters, Comfrey and Coifs will be available – stop me and buy one. Janet has managed to persuade Mistress A and Master C not to ‘appear’ until after the fair opens – Master Christopher was particularly keen to travel on the train from Crystal Palace but Mistress Agnes on a Friday commuter train is probably more than bears thinking about!

Exciting news today that I have been accepted as a volunteer on English Heritage’s Project to build some neolithic houses. Don’t you just love experimental archeology! Nearest I’ve come to this is building cob cottages with my former history students – have to confess though that these were only three inches high.

Train and entrance tickets for Who Do You Think You Are? Live have arrived. Still wondering why I had to give my debit card a nickname before thetrainline.com would process my order.

Another 20 years of Buckland Brewer burials indexed this morning, about 150 years to go. And finally, after nearly a year, our Heritage Lottery application for the Clovelly Community Archive is in. Now to busy ourselves indexing whilst we wait.

I really can’t sign off without commenting on the tragic news of the death of Fisherman’s Friend Trevor Grills and the band’s tour manager Paul McMullan. Truly awful what can I say? I do hope that the remaining Friends will find the strength to continue to entertain us in their unique style.

Getting back in the old routine post Finland now and realising just how busy the upcoming months are likely to be.

Most of my time has been spent putting the final touches to the Buried in Buckland project, so that the transcriptions of the stones in Buckland Brewer’s three graveyards can be made available online. No soon than I did what I understand is known as a ‘soft launch’, than my website went mad, creating my second busiest day ever, with 90 visitors looking at 324 pages. There are still quite a number of stones to double check and add for the main churchyard. The precipitation and temperatures (albeit warmer than Finland) are not conducive to running round churchyards in force quite a lot gales.

In the meantime, we have about half the burials left to index. These have already been transcribed but not in a way that is searchable and we are combining this information with that from the gravestones.

Last week saw the official opening of Buckland Brewer Community Shop; the sun shone, the crowds flocked in and I somehow ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time when the Spotlight TV cameras were panning round.

A day in the seventeenth century at a local High School this week, as enjoyable as ever. Good to get back in the school groove before March when we have school bookings almost every day.

At last the interminable ‘A’s are done for the Family Historian Enquire Within edit. Pages of the wretched things and many of them not near the top of my own knowledge bank – Army, Australia etc. etc.. It will be good to get to the comparative calm of the ‘W’s this week.

Not yet had time to get excited about the forthcoming Who Do You Think You Are? Live but looking forward to catching up with old friends. Last year I met the Janet Hovorka, another warrior in the campaign to encourage the next generation of family historians. She has just launched the website Zap the Grandma Gap and I hope to get a copy of her book of the same name at the show. I need to be circumspect with my purchases, unless that is someone can tell me how to install elastic sides in my cottage.

Luke warm berry juice to wake us up. Breakfast is at 9. 9!, that’s lunch time, I have issues with waiting for breakfast; usually I pass out. We have brought ginger nuts with us to sustain me while we are waiting. It seems keeping ginger nuts at minus 5 over night makes them more gingery. Fortunately breakfast is available early so I am fine. Then comes the task of persuading the minibus driver, with no English, to take an additional passenger home. First he denies that he IS the minibus driver then no, he had brought two ladies and he wants to take two ladies home. Surely I can’t be the first person to woose out? Even our guide of the previous evening is off sick because of the cold, though the assistant guide, who looks about 14, doesn’t even seem to be wearing a padded coat. The receptionist comes to my rescue and persuades the driver, if his existing passengers have no objection, to take me as well. Result! I collect our diplomas for having survived the night and hurry to the minibus before anyone can change their mind.

Back to Levitunturi, where I promise not to complain about the excessive heat in the room again. I make use of our drying cupboard to wash out the clothes in which I have just spent the night. The drying cupboard is what it says on the tin and not really designed for a weekly wash, so I end up with large puddles on the floor. I am very relieved to see Chris arrive back from his return ski-doo trip. The rest of the day is spent in hot showering, warm drinks and catching up on sleep.

We make the most of our last evening meal in the hotel. Chris has a variety of fish and I have pasta. Then we try the beef in red wine and creamed potatoes. This is followed by quark and more chocolate and almond cake. The diet starts next week.

Sunday norning and there has been some real falling snow and for once we do not see a beautiful sunrise. We take a last walk round Levi. We spot a squirrel, a cross between our greys and reds.

We return to the hotel to wait for our transfer coach. I play cards and we chat. Some folk have recognised Chris from one of his television appearances. Being less memorable, I escape incognito.

Six of us debate whether we can have an evening meal. It is rather a grey area as we checked out at lunch time but we are entitled to seven evening meals and we have only had six, leaving a space on our ‘service card’. We decide to send Chris in as a test case. He doesn’t return so he is either eating or has been interned. Feeling a bit like we are about to nick sweets from Woolworths (not that I’ve ever done that) we advance. There appears to be no problem, although we do eat quickly before someone decides we shouldn’t be there. This does mean we can escape the very expensive airline food.

Kittila airport is not famed for its facilities but we take off slightly early. After an uneventful flight we arrive at Gatwick and are through customs before we realise it. One of the few advantages of inter EU travel. A taxi seems preferable to waiting 50 minutes for a shuttle bus, although it does seem extortionate. Finally, we arrive at Gatwick Manor at 11pm, or 1am Lapland time. The receptionist, remembers us from last week and greets us like long lost friends. This is what you get for having a ‘memorable’ travelling companion.

Monday dawns and after the ‘all you can eat’ (well it would be rude not to) breakfast the interminable coach journey starts. Shuttle bus first. This basically means we sit on a bus for 15 minutes and then are back where we started but eventually we arrive at the coach station. Another circuitous journey to Heathrow to transfer to the 502 for Bideford. The coach driver has obviously been to Finland as the coach is ridiculously hot. We sit, this isn’t as easy as it sounds as I still have post horse/ski-doo related injuries. We doze. We endure. It has all been worth it though. More adventures from my historically related home life when I have recovered.

Apprehensive, too right I should have been apprehensive. Minus 25 is pretty cold right. It is especially cold when one is spending two hours hurtling across frozen wastes on the back of a ski-doo, or snowmobile to you and me. All I can say is ski-don’t. Two hours, that is 120 minutes and I can tell you how many seconds that is as I counted almost every one of them. It started when I got on the ski-doo and realised that there are certain after effects of spending two hours on a horse when you aren’t used to it. I was soon reminded why I don’t do extreme sports, or indeed any sort of sport much. Oh and what are ironically called ‘amusement’ park rides, I don’t do those either. Even Chris can’t see where he is going and he is driving. He settles for attempting to follow the tail light of the vehicle in front. My frozen arms are locked straight and my hands in a grip shape. At least I think my hands are in a grip shape, I have no sensation in them at all. This is about five minutes in to the journey. I keep telling myself it is an experience, not one I’m planning on repeating but an experience nonetheless. I try shutting my eyes, like that’s going to help – all this means is my eyelashes freeze together. The couple in front are in their seventies and he has a heart condition, if they can cope surely I can. Has anyone ever died doing this? I am wondering how much a taxi back the 46km to the hotel will be. Actually for two hours I don’t care how much it will be, I would sell my nearest and dearest for the fare. Selling my body is not an option with it in its current state. I am being bounced up and down with rigor; rigor is actually a good description for parts of my anatomy. Finally, long after I have decided I can’t cope with any more of this, we arrive at the Snow Hotel at Yllas. When I dismount from the snowmobile my hips are still locked in a seated position. Even the young and fit admit they were hoping to see the hotel lights round every corner. And why have I endured all this? So I can spend the night in temperatures of minus 5; I am certifiable.

I am given a mug of hot chocolate. My eyes tell me I am holding it but it is five minutes or more before I can feel it. We are currently thawing out in the ‘warm’ room of the snow hotel. Then, just as some sensation is returning, we are whisked off for a tour of the snow and ice sculptures that are built annually, along with the hotel ‘rooms’. These are created by using moulds in some way. It is quite impressive – it needed to be – but why did we not arrive on a nice heated minibus, look round and then leave again, back to the excessive warmth of Levitunturi Spa? There is an ice slide, ice chapel, where some fools get married and ice crazy golf.

We eat in the ice restaurant. Tables, chairs and glasses are all made of ice. We are given a hot blueberry vodka drink. It might as well have been Ribena. My leaf steak is very tasty. Yes, I had to ask what this was too. The steak is slit horizontally and stuffed with cheese and veg. It has to be eaten at record speed before it gets cold.

A quick trip round the hotel to take photographs then down to the warm basement to get our artic sleeping bags. I could so be tempted to stay here for the night, I have even picked myself out a nice bench. I have also found two ladies who came by minibus, a minibus that is returning tomorrow with spare seats in it. Chris persuades me to adjourn to the igloo like structure that is room 407. The conventional mattress is surrounded by a headboard, footboard and two sides of ice. Who ever built room 407 must have been on the blueberry vodka as the bed is on a distinct slope. This and the slippery sleeping bag means that I spend the whole night sliding down hill and pushing Chris in to the ice bed side. In fact, once I’d stopped trying to decide if I was a) about to have a heart attack or b) going to be sick, I did manage to sleep a bit. It turns out it was a good move foregoing the ice crazy golf tournament, fruitless wait for the Northern Lights and socialising as there were insufficient sleeping bag liners to go round and those who stayed up late missed out.

Today it is minus 25. This means that one’s nose hair freezes. I am sorry if this is too much information but it is the weirdest sensation. I am seriously apprehensive about today’s activities – will it all be a bridge too far, especially in these temperatures? I am pacing the floor and feeling sick. Horse riding this morning. My first concern (that every taxi in Levi will be unavailable) is unfounded and we set off for Hethen Ratsutalli. We are, inevitably, half an hour early and the place is deserted. Along comes our guide and we are taken to meet our horses. They are rather larger than I expected – about 15 hands and very sturdy. Can it really be 39 years since I last rode? Actually, my most recent horse riding experiences did not go well. Last time I got motion sickness and the time before the horse bolted and I fell off. Will it be like a bicycle and I’ll remember what to do?

We are the only two riding this morning. Does this mean everyone else has more sense? Chris’ horse is called Loiste – according to Google translate this means ‘brilliance‘. Mine is called Hiski – not sure what this means but appropriately, if you Google this you get the Genealogical Society of Finland. Apparently Hiski is a loner who really only likes Loiste – great, a horse who needs counselling. I am also a little put off by the poster illustrating how to administer CPR on the stable door. We are expected to groom our horses. Can I look as if I know how to do this? I have read everything ever written by Ruby Ferguson and the Pullen-Thompson sisters, I’ll be fine. We are given a chair to assist with mounting and are told how to say ‘good boy’ in Finnish (which I instantly forget). ‘Good boy‘? Just tell me how to say ‘stop’.

We set off through the forest, I am grinning like a Cheshire cat – this is brilliant, quiet, peaceful with that glorious turquoise and pinky-gold Finnish light. I had been meaning to see if I could go riding again at home for a couple of years but haven’t got round to it. I do seem to be able to remember how to steer but I am still a little apprehensive about the lack of brakes. I have a bit more trouble when my glasses freeze over but when given the opportunity to cut the trip short, we decline. The only dodgy part was when we get to a stretch where the horses usually canter. Clearly no one has warned Hiski that a mad English woman who hasn’t ridden for decades is in charge. He’d quite like to do trotting. I am sure that tightening reins is meant to slow horses down so I do this and mutter ‘Whoa’ a bit. Unfortunately a tight rein means ‘trot now’ to these horses – well they might have told me. I am comforted by the thought that snow would be quite soft to fall on but would rather not put this to the test. I arrive back without major incident. I do have a bit of trouble getting off as my leg has gone to sleep, so when I stand on the ground I fall over. Fortunately the thermal boiler suit means am like a roly poly man and I just bounce. Berry juice in the stables follows.

Back in the Taksi to Levitunturi and a hot shower – the dressing gowns that come with the room are unbelievably soft – I could be tempted to walk off with one. Now just trying to keep warm during the two hour night time snowmobile ride and a night in the ice hotel (at minus 5) to worry about.

We decide to see if we can line up some activities to fill the gaps in our timetable at the end of the week. We make our way to Tourist Information and book ourselves in for horse riding. Chris will either have to go on a diet or lie about his weight – actually he comes in just under the limit. I am already panicking about not being in the right place at the right time for this as we have to get ourselves to the venue. Home via the local supermarket to buy milk, which does not feature in the tea making provisions at Levitunturi.

We then investigate where a flight of steps in the forest leads. It leads a very long way and we eventually come out by the top of the gondola. I feel obliged to count the steps on the way down – just the 740.

Snowmobiling in the afternoon. We are kitted out in extra thick gear and given driving instructions. How have I got to the age of fifty something and never ridden anything resembling a motorbike? My youth was obviously misspent in other ways. The handlebars are heated, we are told there are three settings, off, hot and barbequed. In the interests of everyone’s safety and because I’ve read the small print (with difficulty as I am wearing contact lenses not vari-focals) about paying the 850 euro excess in case of an accident, I have decided not to drive. I can’t even drive an electric sewing machine. We therefore set off with Chris driving and me gripping tightly (that would be very tightly) to the hand holds. We have been instructed in various hand signals. If we are in difficulty we are to keep still and cross our arms. Apparently if we can’t cross our arms because we are trapped under the snowmobile, we cross our legs instead – most reassuring.

Chris is enjoying reliving his days as a mod on a Vespa, I am just letting my life flash before my eyes. Actually it is quite fun and we pass through some lovely scenery before stopping for the inevitable hot drink, accompanied by a dohnut this time There is an igloo at our stopping place. We send in the small children of our party to check this out. By the return journey we are getting used to this snowmobiling lark and we reach speeds of 60 kph. My visor has steamed up so I am effectively looking through greaseproof paper – makes predicting the bends a bit tricky. I am also supposed to be taking pictures. Had I been able to see where I was and what was coming up, I would not have elected to let go of the hand holds and take my gloves off, whilst fiddling In my pocket for the camera and juggling the camera case, just at the very fastest (and therefore the very coldest) point in the journey. By the end of the ride the far left hand portion of my visor has demisted so a serious eyes left means I can see where I am – this doesn’t bode well for the security of my contact lenses.

Once back at the hotel, I decide to get my money’s worth out of the spa facility and go for another swim. I am determined to try the outdoor pool, albeit briefly and Chris is charged with the job of being in the right place at the right time to get the photographic evidence of me swimming when it is minus 10. It starts off so well all this, although I do discover I have forgotten my towel. Not wanting to make another trip through the tunnel that connects the spa with Ounas block and then up the stairs to our room, I decide I will drip dry. I have my photograph taken outside then return to the other pools. Much more crowded today; mostly overweight men of senior years – this compulsory Speedos is so not a good idea. I spot an Aqua-jogging pool. The idea is that you get extra fit by swimming against the current. I leap in (well slide in gently – no jumping allowed). Hmm, a little deeper than I anticipated and I can only just touch the bottom. If I try really hard I can maintain a stationary position when swimming against the current. I decide, like most of my fellow aqua-joggers, to go with the flow. Time is up, where are the steps? I am whooshed round the circuit a few times by the current. There are no steps. I have to leaver myself out by my arms in water that is too deep to push off from the bottom, whilst being propelled along by the force of the water. I could be here some time. I wonder, idly, how long it will be before Chris wonders where I am. In the end I launch myself at a passing section of poolside and cling on whale like until I manage to wriggle ashore. Not having a towel will now pale into insignificance.

I sample a little of most of the main courses on offer for the evening meal, passing only on the pickled cucumber. There is chilli fish, veggi burger and a strange vegetable bake topped with Doritos. The million calorie a mouthful ice cream is gorgeous but I manage to pour it over the table when trying to serve it – they should provide larger bowls.

A strange sound of hair drying is coming from the bathroom. What IS Chris doing? It turns out that he is hair drying his beard to stop it freezing when we go to breakfast. Probably just as well as it is minus 11 today. Breakfast’s scrambled egg looks like a sponge but Chris says it is nice – he has passed on the meat balls though. I stick to berry compote, yoghurt and toast.

A slight problem getting in to my thermal boiler suit today. Chris ‘helps’ by pulling it up for me. This manoeuvre ends with him punching me in the ear. We wait for daylight, about 9.30am this week and walk to get the gondola to the top of Levi Fell. I have trouble coping with the automatic revolving door and am at risk of going round forever. At the top are panoramic early morning views and ‘Samiland’. The latter is part of an international eco-tourism scheme to promote ethnic heritage. The exhibition is both indoor and outdoor and also includes some impressive scenic photography. We learn of the vital importance of the reindeer, of which every part is used. There is even a process to turn the veins into thread. This reminds me of teaching of the value of the buffalo to the American Indians. Sami groups are inherently nomadic. The first written record of reindeer herding dates from 892 AD. There are now only 300 Inari Sami speakers left, although there are other groups. The traditional Sami ‘hat of four winds’ is actually Russian in origin. We see various Sami structures in the outdoor part of the museum. These include a hut on a pole for storing food and a cage like siltasuova, for penning reindeer and allowing space to store their fodder above them. Included in our modest Samiland entrance fee is a hot drink and we sip this slowly, whilst admiring the incredible views as the sun comes up. It is a continual problem adjusting one’s clothing to accommodate both the sub zero outdoor temperatures and the sauna like conditions indoors. We are continually ripping off hats, gloves and layers as we go inside, in order to avoid boiling to death. A bit of a nasty moment when Chris mislays his ticket for the return gondola journey in the many pockets of his thermal boiler suit. He solves this by barging ticketless through a no entry sign. A quick trip round the town on the way home, this time we find a shop assistant who is the antithesis of those already encountered. Very chatty and offering sweets to all on sundry, including the local dog.

Our afternoon activity is a reindeer safari. This takes place next to the husky farm. The sleighs are very low to the ground, similar to a wooden sledge and we wrap up in a blanket as a keen wind is blowing across the frozen lake. After a photo opportunity our reindeer is put in the shafts of our sledge. We have been allocated a reindeer based on the staff’s assessment of our combined weight. The various sledges set off and a game of reindeer dodgems ensues as the reindeer show their personalities and vie for position. The sledges don’t look too sturdy and there is a certain amount of hazard occasioned when being overtaken by heavily antlered reindeer. They normally lose their antlers in winter and ours has just the one but others still have two rather fearsome looking ones. Our reindeer reminds us of certain drivers, always hassling to overtake. In order to accomplish this he ploughs our sledge up the banks and mows down a few saplings in his wake. This is a longer and slower journey than yesterday’s husky safari but equally amazing. We cross the frozen lake and drive through the forest encountering a wonderful sunset again. For some reason, everyone else is sitting up but I have slid down in our sleigh so that I am almost horizontal. My fingers are cold but not as bad as yesterday and for the first time my feet feel less than warm but otherwise I am fine. The cold air eats camera batteries and I have consumed a whole set on this ride.

 After the ride, more hot berry juice and ginger biscuits. We chat to Tim the reindeer herder. He says reindeer are better than huskies as huskies are Siberian – enough said! The traditional, reindeer based, way of life was crushed by the introduction of the snow mobile in the 1970s. There are more reindeer than people in Finnish Lapland, which has a population of 200,000.

Back at Levitunturi, I try to sample local cuisine by having a vol au vent like salmon roll with my vegetable lasagne. Chris has pancakes that are more like our crumpets. As ever, we lack the stamina for evening activities. Chris is watching a two year old episode of Emmerdale with Finnish subtitles! I am realising how long it takes to write two blogs and download and edit photographs on a net book with serious memory issues.