How to Explore Greenland by Luxury Expedition Ship

“If you fall in, you’ll be there for thousands of years,” says a watchful guide as I crawl to the edge and stare into oblivion. The hole, drilled through the glacier by its own meltwater, is hundreds of metres deep. It’s part of an ice sheet two miles thick that covers 700,000sq miles of Greenland. Few come to this wilderness of sudden storms and treacherous crevasses. It’s mainly tough-skinned adventurers, seasoned Inuit hunters — plus a handful of tourists like me.

Such an otherworldly spot is, for the first time, within reach of tough-skinned and soft-skinned alike. Our ship — the Ultramarine — has a pair of twin-engined helicopters that extend its reach far beyond the fjords of southern Greenland. “I like to pretend you’re holding gin and tonics,” says our smooth-talking helicopter pilot, after flying seven miles north from the ship and landing on the glacier with the gentlest of thuds. “There now. Not a drop spilled.”

The appeal of the new generation of polar expedition cruises is this move between cutting-edge comforts and the world at its most unforgiving. Three hours after standing on the Arctic ice sheet, thermal gear safely stowed away, I’m settled in the Panorama Lounge on the seventh floor. Outside, the sea is mirror-still, a canvas for towering icebergs that feed your imagination with the outlines of everything from sleek cruisers to the horned heads of dinosaurs. Inside, ice cubes clink in my cocktail glass.

My cabin has a balcony and a towel folded into a starfish on the bed. That evening, at the Balena Restaurant, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch porpoises feed and auks fly on stunted wings while I eat razor-thin beef carpaccio. During my pecan pie, a distant iceberg sheds a vast shelf of ice before tipping over and turning bottom up in a flurry of foam and fury.

But this is no window-gazer’s trip. For all the onboard trappings, the ship is full of people who want to feel the wind on their cheeks and Greenland beneath their feet. Nor is it a one-size-fits-all itinerary. As well as helicopters, the Ultramarine has 20 heavy-duty Zodiac boats and a fleet of sea kayaks, allowing access to the tightest nooks and crannies of the fjordlands. And because the ship carries just 199 passengers, activities can be tailored to all fitness levels, with hikes to suit both ‘contemplative’ walkers and ‘chargers’.

The mosquitoes, though, are non-negotiable once you’re on shore. The next day, they mass in whining clouds about the mosquito nets over our heads as we trek inland from Tasermiut Fjord like a posse of beekeepers. “Tests have shown they’re attracted to beer drinkers,” says our Icelandic guide, Dagný Ívarsdóttir. “Well, that explains a lot!” says Jo, a septuagenarian on her fifth polar expedition, looking pointedly at me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we bumped into Macbeth’s witches,” she continues, as we pick our way over spongy mosses and crowberry bushes, around boulders and through patches of fog that deaden the air. There’s far more here than snow and ice.

Greenlanders are thin on the ground: the planet’s largest island is home to just 56,000 people. On day four, we visit Aappilattoq, tucked behind a spit of land so that you’d never know it was there. A hundred villagers live in stilted houses painted red, green, blue or yellow. “I was told each colour denotes the owner’s profession,” says Dagny. Many are fishermen, but we also meet Themo Benjaminssen, the village hunter, whose table is draped with the skin of a polar bear. Go with an open heart and open mind, our expedition leader advised us, and — as Themo describes the life of a subsistence hunter — I’m reminded of travel’s capacity to challenge our perspectives.

But there’s no challenging my perspective on cold water. It’s horrible. And water filled with icebergs is as horrible as it gets, which is why second thoughts come thick and fast on the final evening as I stand in my swimming trunks at the stern of the ship, with a short queue of victims behind me. If I don’t go now, I never will, and so, with arms crossed and eyes shut, I tip myself into the sea. This is the Polar Plunge, a rite of passage on these trips, and the temperature sucks the air from my lungs. As I scrabble back onto the platform, gasping like a hooked fish, I hear a deadpan voice from the gaggle of onlookers. “Well, you wanted an immersive experience,” calls Jo. “Will that do for you?”