Through the small porthole I can see snapshots of the cliffs around us, passing by like contacts on an old viewmaster. My cabin is warm and dark, with the bunk raised up to allow for a view down to the water below. This far into the Norwegian fjords, you want your sleeping space dark, so as not to fall prey to a restless night due to the enduring sun, which only briefly dips below the horizon. Thankful for the comfortable cabin that has become home over the last three months, I roll over, indulging in laziness for a few winks more before the day begins. However, my plan to snooze a little is scuppered by Shackleton, who has heard my initial shifting and before I can drift off again, I hear the soft pad of paws on the floor of our living space. A light whine before a wet nose invades my bunk, yearning for attention. Invigorated by his excitement for the day ahead, I roll out of bed and step into our main living space. David, whose sleep has been untroubled by Shackleton, is in the adjacent cabin. From our dark cabins, the contrast with the overwhelming light of our main living area is stark. The curved windows that border our space offers no shadows, and no respite against the bright morning sunshine. Saying that, I cannot help but be thrilled by the steep cliffs of the beautiful cove that enclose our anchorage.

Before I can think too much about the cold, I step out of the stern doors through our wheelhouse, step up onto the gunwale and dive into the water – within a fraction of a second Shackleton is similarly airborne plunging into the frigid waters below. The waters of the Norwegian sea never fail to refresh, and with a quick lap around the boat, trailed by my furry crew mate, it feels like hours since I woke up, rather than minutes. Nevertheless, the exit from the water is as swift as the initial plunge, and I’m grateful for a hot shower in the cockpit, water heated by our engine from our cruising yesterday.

After breakfast, David, Shackleton and I row ashore to climb up to one of the surrounding cliff precipices. The small island we’ve sheltered alongside is uninhabited except for an area at its far northern tip, which is defined by craggy walls and dense vegetation. The dog finds a small trail off the beach, and we’re quickly climbing up a series of dramatic boulders, presumably the result of a large rock face collapse millennia ago. The landscape is, like so many in Norway, dramatic, beautiful and seemingly unique to this richly varied coastline. Clambering over and around two to three metre lumps of rock, led by the deft pup, we rise up to look out over the inlet below, enlivened to see the minuscule streak of yellow that is our floating home, dwarfed by the landscape of the Norwegian fjords that encase it. From our vantage point, we can scrutinise the archipelago before us, and begin to plan our journey for the day ahead. North across the ripples of sea and pockmarked with hundreds of tiny islands is our destination for the day, Rørvik, just another quiet fishing town on the exposed western coast of Norway. One more step on our slow adventure north, to Tromsø in the Norwegian Arctic. There are three months behind us, with only a month to go until we reach our destination.