Tuesday 2 September 2025 – In his evening briefing yesterday, Kuba had told us about Bråsvellbreen, which, at 160km, is the longest glacier cliff edge in northern Europe.  We would cruise from Kvitøya along the length of this cliff edge.

(It shows as rocky in places in the image above, but it’s all glacier, actually.)  To whet our appetites, he pointed us at a photo on the wall of the bar.

As a devoted reader of this blog, you’ll of course remember that Jane and I had seen something similar before, in Antarctica – the enormous tabular glacier A23a. At the time*, at 3,800 sq km – twice the size of Greater London – it would have had edges approximately 200km in  length and up to 40m in height, so even longer than this glacier cliff. That was spectacular, and so we wondered how the two would compare.

At first, the prospects of even seeing it looked a bit on the scant side, as it was very foggy.

You can see the small icebergs that have calved off the cliff. So Jesper had to navigate with care once we got to the cliff.

When I took a brisk walk outside, you could see the huge wall of ice disappearing into the distant fog.

Like A23a, it had ice caves, as the sea melted it from beneath.

I took a hyperlapse of our progress alongside the glacier, which I hope gives some idea of the scene.

Kuba announced that those that wanted could go up the mast to get a look from a higher viewpoint.  To do this, one needed to get harnessed up

and good cold weather gear was recommended.  Initially, I declined the opportunity, but Jane didn’t.

Having made the decision not to go up, immediately after I took these photos of Jane, I looked to starboard and saw this,

at which point I changed my mind about climbing the mast, as it now seemed like a really good idea. To be honest, I was underdressed for the endeavour,

but it was worth the relative faff of getting the harness on and climbing up.  Between us, Jane and I got some great photos.

As we reached towards the end of the glacial cliff, Kuba announced that we all had an opportunity for an experience we would not forget.

A polar plunge.

Yes, an opportunity to leave a perfectly safe, warm boat and jump into water at a temperature that science describes as “fucking freezing”. Astonishingly, several of the guests were up for this. Less astonishingly, Jane and I were not among them. We watched as the preparations were made: some you would expect, like towels for afterwards

And drinks to warm the lunatics participants;

some less expected, but perfectly sensible given the environment – an armed guard keeping watch.

Lunatics Potential participants gathered to check out the possibilities

And, amazingly, still decided to jump in. One of them, Doina, even did it twice because Denis, her expert videographer boyfriend, didn’t get the footage he wanted first time around!

Magnificent idiocy, rewarded by a shot of Fernet Branca and a re-heat session in the ship’s new sauna. Jane and I (not the only non-participants, I hasten to add) went for a cup of tea to calm down.

There had been a plan for a landing a little further in to the archipelago, but the fog kyboshed that one; it’s not safe to go ashore if you can’t first establish that there are no dangerous creatures around. So we cruised on. Kuba arranged a viewing of a film called “Polar Bears on the Field of Bones”, an extraordinary documentary made single-handedly by Nikita Ovsyanikov, a lunatic researcher who spent several consecutive summers among polar bears on Wrangel Island with only a large stick as a defensive weapon.

Plan B was a Zodiac cruise in Alkefjellet, with the attraction of majestic scenery, some bird life and possibly even arctic foxes, and with dinner brought forward to 6pm so we could go out at 7.30pm into the light arctic evening for the cruise.

The cruise started in a very unusual manner – the skipper grounded the boat. Intentionally, I mean.  We’d been warned, and so thought it might be great to go on to the bow and join the throng who would doubtless be there to record this unusual event.

Actually, a couple of people did eventually join us as, out of the mist, the land loomed

and loomed a bit more.

In due course we grounded, very gently, into the sandy shallows, with quite a spectacular view over the cove – and the mist lifted obligingly.

We went out on the Zodiacs along the coast, past basalt cliffs which are the nesting site, in the right season, for tens of thousands of guillemots, both of the common and Brünnich’s persuasion. The cliffs are perfect in providing nesting sites for the birds.  By this time of year most have left, having hatched and fledged their young, leaving only a cliff face full of guillemot shit.

The red on the snow, by the way, is not what you might think – it’s actually algae which flourish here.

There were still some guillemots here, some solitary,

others in gangs,

and some still with chicks who haven’t yet left the safety of their perch.

Leaving the nesting site is perilous for the chicks, because of kittiwakes and glaucous gulls swarming in the cliffs above in great numbers,

making a great racket and waiting for the chance to pounce on a chick in the water if it appears to be in difficulties.  We actually witnessed one poor chick being taken by a gull, and saw another gull being chased away by an adult guillemot – a surprise to me, since the gulls are big bully bastards compared with the smaller birds.

As well as guillemots on the cliffs, there were several in the water

making a wonderful noise (sorry, not my classiest video, here).

I had a go at taking some shots of the birds in flight

and coming in to land on the water, something they don’t do very elegantly.

They also appear to be able to move across the surface quite rapidly in a manner similar to penguins porpoising.  I think that’s what’s happening here…

Either that, or it couldn’t quite get airborne – they’re not the world’s most natural fliers.

In places the lower reaches of the guillemot cliffs change from sheer rock to gentler grassy slopes,

inhabited by a different sort of wildlife.

There’s an arctic fox in the picture above.  Yes, there is. There, look.

We had been told that this area had good potential for sighting them, but I hadn’t held out much hope; I guess I was influenced by Jakob in Dovrefjell, who said that they were very rare and shy. Not in this area of Spitzbergen, they aren’t – we saw at least half a dozen of them over the next hour or so, and I was delighted; they’re such pretty creatures. They were in a variety of coats as they morphed from their summer grey into their winter white.

They’re elegant and catlike in their movement – lovely to watch.

They too are on the lookout for any scraps, which might include vulnerable chicks falling from the nesting ledges onto the slopes rather than directly into the sea; this one has made a catch.

The general scenery was pretty striking, too.

On top of one of the towers was a rock formation that looked like a polar bear, watching us.

Right at the end of the Zodiac cruise was a very dramatic glacier.

The scene reveals some interesting geology, too (for those that notice this stuff). On the right-hand side, there’s a very marked demarcation line between basalt (the upper layer) and marble (the lower layer). Basalt is an igneous rock, typically volcanic in origin; marble is sedimentary (my dear Watson). How the one came to lay on top of the other is a mystery to me.

So, this was a pretty varied day, and included some pretty creatures. I was really delighted to see the foxes – an unexpected pleasure. We were very lucky to see them in such numbers, apparently.

The morrow holds in store some opportunities to see some more great scenery, but who knows what the weather will bring? Stay tuned to find out.

 

 

* The BBC has a post describing A23a roughly as we saw it. It once weighed a trillion tons. But its situation is now very different. Because it is now free floating, it is breaking up, according to The News. It’s now half the size it was, at 1,770 sq. km.