FA Cup, Third Qualifying Round: @needhammktfc 1 @DartfordFC 6

Or, as the title suggests, "The Day That The Wheels Fell Off". It was, I'm afraid, not one of the most glorious moments in the eight or so years that I've been intermittently following our local non-league football team. And yet, it had started so promisingly...

The sun was shining brightly on a somewhat busier than usual Bloomfields, as Conference South side Dartford were the visitors, with the promise of knockout drama and a possible giant killing. Alright, Dartford are only one division above Needham Market, but it's quite a big step up from the Bostik League to the Conference South, as a number of teams have found in recent years. And besides, they had been in reasonably good form coming into the match, whereas the Marketmen appeared to be saving their best performances for the road, with a rather poor home record thus far.

The theory is that the underdog has two options, either keep it tight and try to nick a goal from a set piece, or have a go, and Needham Market had clearly chosen the latter, putting the Darts under quite a lot of pressure early on. It all looked promising until, twenty minutes in, a Dartford free kick just outside the box was played along the ground, causing some chaos, and after a scramble, the Dartford number nine, Alfie Pavey, struck a fierce shot past the home keeper.

The sun promptly disappeared behind a cloud. It was an omen, wasn't it...

Whilst Needham weren't obviously downhearted - it was rather against the run of play - it was clear that the goal had settled the visitors and, from a tidy break, a nasty, teasing cross from the left was met by a bullet header from that man Pavey. Thirty-five minutes gone, 2-0 to Dartford.

Needham heads were visibly dropping at this point, and you just had to hope that they could make it to half-time just two down and regroup for the second half. It wasn't to be. In stoppage time, another ball into the box, good strength shown to hold off the defender before hooking a shot past the keeper. Yes, it was a hattrick for Pavey, who else?

The mood in Bloomfields was a resilient one though, and in truth, Dartford had made only four real chances, and a quality striker had taken three of them, none of them that easy. Dartford's more confident distribution, with an ability to move the ball at pace, was at the heart of the gap between the two sides.

The second half kicked off, with the hope that the score could be kept respectable. It didn't last long, as with Needham pushing forward, another lightning break, a well-chosen diagonal through ball and Tom Murphy took a gift-wrapped opportunity to make it 0-4.

It could have been even worse soon afterwards, with Dartford awarded a penalty for a senseless push on Pavey as he had a clear header on goal. The defender was lucky to get away with a yellow card, and had an even luckier escape when the keeper managed to push the penalty onto the bar, the rebound being blazed over it.

The Dartford manager had clearly seen enough to be relaxed about saving key players for the league campaign ahead, and Pavey and Murphy were both substituted on the hour mark. Whilst the substitutes were getting into the game, Needham stepped up a gear and, from a corner, central defender Sam Nunn got above his marker to nod in what was probably only going to be a consolation.

There followed a brighter spell from the hosts but, just as you began to wonder if they might spark an unlikely comeback, Dartford cut them to ribbons. Again, a break from the back, another long diagonal ball cut out the defence, and Andy Pugh had an age to beat the keeper and restore his team's four goal advantage.

With twenty minutes still to go, you feared for the Marketmen, but the game remained pretty open, with both sides looking to add to their tally, until, with seven minutes to go, Warren Mfula, on as a substitute, was on the verge of beating the last defender when he was brought down somewhat clumsily. A red card was the only likely outcome and the referee didn't shirk his responsibility, ending Billy Holland's afternoon with seven minutes to go.

The game rather petered out after that until, in stoppage time, Gareth Heath laid off a hideous back pass to an unsuspecting keeper who just about beat the onrushing striker. Unfortunately, he could only toepoke it to Ryan Hayes, whose precise pass into the net from thirty yards or more put the final gloss on what was an object lesson in how to avoid a Cup upset.

So, a 6-1 beating for the Marketmen, and an emphatic end to the dream of a game against the big boys in November. It would be fair to say that, whilst Dartford were clearly the better side, a five goal margin wasn't reflective of the gap in ability between the two sides. Needham were a bit naive and open at the back, and a bit underpowered up front, where Ryan Gibbs tried his hardest but doesn't yet have the nous or power to compete with more hardened and experienced central defenders.

Back to the league then, and perhaps an FA Trophy run?...

You can, apparently, never start too early...

I received a telephone call during Conference, whilst walking on the beach, from an unfamiliar telephone number. Admittedly, I don't tend to get an awful lot of telephone calls from people, so my contact list is a bit bereft. On this occasion, it was Paul Clark, my Region's Candidates Chair, with news of a mission. He needs a Returning Officer, and I'm apparently the person for the job.

As I suddenly have some time on my hands, at least, over the medium to long term, I said that I would do it. And so, it's time to reread the Selection Rules, saddle up my trusty ballot box, and set off on the long road towards selecting another PPC.

I've been doing this for some time now, indeed, I've been running candidate selections for the Party for more than two decades, and much has changed in that time. The approval process has become more sophisticated, the Selection Rules have become more, and then less, complicated, but the biggest change is the introduction of more wide-reaching guidance to ensure that our candidates are more diverse than was the case when I started.

Now in truth, that's a thoroughly good thing. It simply shouldn't be the case that the image of a Parliamentary candidate is a middle-aged man in a suit, although it is still an image which flashes a fin in the eyes of many when you discuss politicians. And it takes positive action to generate a spectrum of candidates more reflective of the wider community. Don't start me on what it needs to make Westminster more reflective of society.

You'll pardon me, however, if I'm not very forthcoming as to which constituency it is. It will be a matter for disclosure within the Party soon enough but there is much work to do before I get to that point.

It does allow me an opportunity to remind readers, especially those of a Liberal Democrat persuasion who are ambitious to run for Westminster, that if you think you're ready, it's never too soon to get that application form in...

I'm thinking of writing a motion for next year's Conference...

So, having vented my spleen just a little, one does have to move on. And I have an idea, in that I have an interesting platform as a member of FIRC (which does, now I think of it, have the ring of a group of shadowy figures bent on world domination). After all, I have notional credibility as a commentator on international affairs in the Party.

Why not write a motion on something that interests me then?

That something is intervention abroad, what criteria should be applied, what changes to governance are necessary and how might they be resourced. More than a decade ago, I came up with a similar document for Americans for Democratic Action, albeit a much simpler one than I'd want now, which laid down the core criteria for intervention in the internal affairs of other sovereign states.

Now, before you reach for your smelling salts, dear reader, I'm not a natural interventionist. More harm has been done in recent years by botched interventions in the affairs of countries such as Iraq, Libya and Syria than could be stated in a simple blog entry, yet as a country which still has a reputation for decency and fair play, we could play a valuable role in world trouble spots.

So, I welcome any suggestions of people I should talk to, or ideas that might be added. Think of it as an informal policy working group with an unusually narrow focus.

And now, time to read the drafting guidance for policy motions as produced by Federal Conference Committee...

Federal International Relations Committee: the official unofficial report...

So, I've written a report for Liberal Democrat Voice on what happened at Sunday's meeting of the Federal International Relations Committee, as I promised I would do when I ran for election in the first place. Read it, why don't you. It is, as you might guess, a reasonably neutral version of events for, after all, Liberal Democrat Voice represents a kind of unofficial official record. 

Here, I don't have to be quite so restrained.

The input from our guests from the ALDE Party Bureau, Timmy Dooley TD, and Henrik Bach Mortensen, was genuinely interesting. To read the debate in the United Kingdom you could easily believe that there are only two parties to the Brexit negotiations, "Europe" and the United Kingdom. But, of course, that isn't entirely accurate, in that there are twenty-seven nation states on the other side of the table, and a whole slew of interested parties beyond the European Union who might be impacted by any deal.

We heard of the sadness at the breach in our relationships with neighbouring countries, of the impact on the economies of Denmark and Ireland. Our Brexiteer friends will rely on that to claim that they wouldn't put that at risk, but they're wrong. They will realign their trading towards Germany, in the case of Denmark, or look to other markets, in the case of Ireland, because the losses that would arise from a breakdown of the Single Market are far worse than any losses due to Brexit. The less barriers to free trade there are, the better, and the Single Market has achieved just that.

Our Belgian guest, Bart Somers, was pretty inspiring. His application of core liberal principles in addressing the causes of radicalisation in the community was something that should be brought to the attention of liberals in local government everywhere. In that sense, his time was better spent addressing the LGA and ALDC crowd than an international relations committee, but I learnt much from his approach.

The Committee itself continues to bumble along, without any sense of strategic vision. You could argue that, in the absence of a clear steer from the Federal Board (they're still working on developing one, in fairness), but too much of the Committee's efforts are last minute, ad hoc and ineffectual. I did my best to create some basic structure and process, but I do feel like a lone voice, a practical Roundhead in a world of Cavaliers. Funnily enough, the Roundheads won in the end. All I have to do is find the best strategy, I guess.

As an example, ALDE Party Congress takes place in early December, and the deadline for submitting motions is coming up fast. And yet, despite me including it in every agenda up to the point of my resignation as Secretary, nothing was done about starting the process of coming up with some resolutions. Now, something may be cobbled together at the last minute. Given that the Congress is an annual event, you wonder that nobody has given the problem much thought earlier than this. Bluntly, I don't anymore, my expectations are that low.

The Committee is in danger of becoming an ineffectual talking shop, making decisions either in haste or at the whim of key individuals, and it requires a greater sense of active engagement from its members. It is not enough to simply turn up at meetings, react to events and then leave things to slumber on, relying on our remarkably capable but hideously under-resourced International Officer to keep the show on the road.

I do not despair though, because I have my own thoughts as to how I can make a difference, and rather than rely on the formal structure, I'm minded to be more creative.

Watch this space...

Coming up with a blog title is harder than you might think...

I've been blogging for a long time now, nearly twelve years, in fact, and I still wouldn't claim to be very good at it. I write modestly well, but do so infrequently and slightly erratically. I'm also worryingly reasonable and tend to shy away from those extremes of opinion that draw readers like moths to a flame. But that's enough about me. Well, sort of.

Once upon a time, this blog was called "Liberal Bureaucracy". That made sense, as I was a liberal and a bureaucrat. However, eventually, life changed, and I switched to "The View from Creeting St Peter", in part to reflect my new life as a country dweller. It never entirely felt right though, so I reverted to "Liberal Bureaucracy". The catch is that it doesn't truly reflect who I am, and rather pigeonholes me as the house bureaucrat. I am, I am reliably informed, rather more than that.

So, I'm going to give some thought to a new title for the blog, as part of a gentle relaunch. Don't offer up suggestions, I'm going to have to do this in my own...

Some thoughts in advance of Federal International Relations Committee

So, word has got out that I resigned as Secretary of the Committee, and "Liberator" has reported the story in their usual style. If you're interested, and I'm not sure that the resignation of a minor figure on an obscure internal party committee is particularly newsworthy, you can read the story there. However, my first meeting since then takes place this morning, and I ought to let you know what I'll be focussing on there.

My aim since being elected to the Committee at the end of last year has been to try and enable it to fulfil its functions and comply with the Party's Constitution. It isn't glamorous, but it is important - drafting standing orders, creating process sufficient to deliver key goals, that sort of thing. And, naturally, that work is ongoing.

And now, my attention turns to policy. Federal International Relations Committee is expected to advise the Party, and the Parliamentary Parties, on international and European policy, and I'm keen to make us relevant to the debate. That means developing policy in conjunction with Federal Policy Committee, it means drafting and submitting motions to Party Conferences, it means looking at potential future issues and considering how a liberal response would look.

We aren't alone in that. Word reaches me that the "Your Liberal Britain" team are looking into the creation of a number of committees, focusing on particular policy areas. There are also specialist groups in the Party, such as the various "Friends of" groups and the Liberal Democrat European Group, which have an interest in elements of international policy.

And so, I'm proposing the formation of a Policy sub-committee, tasked with coming up with new policy ideas, studying current priorities and seeking a clearer picture of what we should be doing in terms of a response. It would also take a lead on drafting resolutions for debate at ALDE Party and Liberal International Congresses, using our time more effectively and in a more organised way.

At the moment, FIRC doesn't really consider policy in an organised way - there just isn't enough time and, in any event, good policy making is organic and evolutionary, rather than impulsive.

Apart from that, we've got a very busy agenda, with three ALDE guests participating in the meeting - Timmy Dooley and Henrik Bach Mortensen, two of Ros's fellow Vice-Presidents, and Bart Somers, a prominent liberal mayor from Mechelen, in Belgium. There'll be planning for the forthcoming ALDE Party Congress in Amsterdam in early December, and a delegation is being put together in anticipation.

We'll also be talking about the future of Brussels and Europe Liberal Democrats, who are undergoing something of a remodelling following a large increase in their membership. A lot of work has been going on behind the scenes to come up with a structure that allows them optimal autonomy whilst addressing key compliance issues, and I'm hoping that a way forward will emerge this week.

So, much to do, and much to be getting on with...

FA Cup, Second Qualifying Round: Needham Market 2 Chesham United 0

Unfortunately, being a Liberal Democrat kept me away from this afternoon's match at Bloomfields, but that didn't prevent me from vicariously following the game through the wonders of Twitter. And it was good news for the Marketmen in their rather harder follow-up to the game at Clapton.

Chesham United are at a similar level to Needham Market, and play in the Southern League, but given that the Conference South teams enter the competition at this stage, it would have considered a relatively benign draw. But games like that have to be won, and with £4,500 going to the winner, there was a lot riding on it.

The deadlock was broken by Callum Harrison, just before the half-hour mark, and a Dan Morphew goal early in the second half allowed Needham Market to go through in relatively unflustered fashion.

It begins to get serious now, with the chance of a First Round proper tie against a League One or League Two team on the not so distant horizon, only two wins away. The Conference National teams come in at the Fourth Qualifying Round stage, but before that, fingers will be crossed for a benevolent draw, avoiding some of the Conference South teams that remain in the draw. Oh, and yes, there's the small matter of £7,500 for the winner of a Third Qualifying Round match, a tidy sum for a team like Needham Market.

So, come on the Marketmen in two weeks time! And, if it's possible, I'll be there...

FA Cup, First Qualifying Round: Clapton 0 Needham Market 3

On the face of it, it looks like a fairly straightforward triumph for the Tier 3 team, away at the Tier 5 wannabe giant killers. In truth, for the first hour or so, it was rather more even, as a bobbly, hard pitch with some interesting features gave Needham Market a few puzzles to solve.

With seemingly very few home fans in the ground, the two teams kicked off in bright, even warm, sunshine with little active crowd support. It was quickly evident that Needham's preferred style of play, involving balls to feet, wasn't too clever, with erratic bounce and an apparent ridge running along the middle of the pitch from goal to goal. 

Clapton were enthusiastic, if a bit erratic, but when some suspect defending let one of their strikers in, it looked for all the world as though they would take the lead. He rounded the keeper, and had a clear sight on goal at close range, but managed to find the defender on the goal line. It should have been one-nil, but even such a scare didn't seem to provoke a meaningful response from the visitors.

Midway through the first half, it became apparent why the crowd was so thin. At the end of the ground, where an alleyway runs against the fencing, a group of maybe fifty or so suddenly bobbed into view, singing and chanting on their team. It was the legendary Clapton Ultras, who are boycotting home matches until the loathed Chairman and purported owner of Clapton FC, Vince McBean, goes away. They were in fine voice, and with much to sing about, as what chances there were tended to fall to the home side. Whilst Needham looked like the better team, had they been behind at half-time, it wouldn't have been unjust.

The second half began in fairly similar fashion, with Needham struggling to string passes together, but the tactics had clearly changed, with the ball spending more time in the air, rather than on the ground. It wasn't pretty, but it was effective, as the Marketmen began to dominate.

66 minutes in, and the breakthrough came, Gareth Heath scoring his first goal since joining the club from arch-rivals Leiston during the summer (they're arch-rivals due to the fact that they always seem to give us a bit of a hiding...). And, to be honest, that was about it as far as suspense goes, as it seemed to me that the Clapton players seemed to know that the game was up.

Needham tightened the screw without ever seeming to be played to their full potential, and goals from Luke Ingram, after some neat play, and Callum Harrison with a fiercely struck effort from twenty yards or so clinched a place in the next round.

I had a train to catch, so couldn't hang around, but I did talk to a few of the Ultras on my way past. They're mostly young, pretty radical, and very committed to their football and the community around them. They're also friendly, unless you're a fascist and/or racist. It's almost a pity that they didn't hang on for a replay, as they might well have proved welcome visitors to Bloomfields.

And so, we await Monday's draw. The Conference North and South teams enter at this stage, but a home draw against FC Romania might be interesting... Come on you Marketmen!

It's time once again for the romance of the FA Cup but first, a big shout to the @Real_ClaptonFC and the @ClaptonUltras...

One of the advantages of Needham Market FC's rise to Non-League's Tier 3, is that there's none of this messing around with preliminary rounds. Oh no, it's straight into the First Qualifying Round, with only four ties to be negotiated before the potential of a glamour tie against the likes of Blackburn Rovers or Charlton Athletic.

And so, I've come down to East London, to see if the Marketmen can safely negotiate the first hurdle, away to Clapton. It's only a game of football, right? But life is seldom that simple...

Clapton were, once upon a time, a power in amateur football in the days when that mattered. Three times winners of the FA Amateur Cup, capable of drawing huge crowds - 12,000 saw them play Tottenham Hotspur in 1898-99 - and three of their team played for England in 1922-23. They were also the first club side to play in Continental Europe, beating a Belgian XI in 1890.

Now, they play in the Essex Senior League, in a ground under serious threat, and with an owner whose motives are, if critics are to be believed, suspicious at best. The home fans are boycotting home games, under the slogan, "Support The Team, Not The Regime!", and as they are evidently the good guys, one feels vaguely guilty about putting money in the pocket of the owner.

So, take a look at the Real Clapton FC website, and if you back them, make a donation. I'm sure that they'll appreciate it...

Svalbard Diary, Day 12: Playing hookey in Honningsvåg...

I got a little distracted, and forgot to finish the saga of our trip to the Arctic. So, here's the beginning of the end...

Overnight, we had made haste to the Norwegian coast, for some more mainstream tourism, an outing to the North Cape, which involved a bus ride. Well, not all of the passengers, as Ros and I played hookey. We've been, two years ago, and we weren't that impressed the first time. It isn't as though it's actually the most northerly point - that's about a mile away to the north-west - and "Lonely Planet" not unreasonably describes it as "the most northerly rip-off in the world". So, we went for a walk in Honningsvåg instead.

Honningsvåg is a small town which is the jumping off point for the North Cape, with a population of just over 2,000. When the Germans evacuated at the end of World War 2, they burned the entire town to the ground, with the exception of the church. Afterwards, it was proposed to abandon the town, but the citizens decided otherwise, using the church as a shared home whilst they rebuilt their community. It was quite touching.

It made for a pleasant walk, and I found a bus route that, at some point, I ought to try, from Kirkenes to Hammerfest, a mere nine and a half hours long, not that I suspect anyone rides its entire length. There were two Somali women waiting at the stop, which was slightly unexpected, but they clearly knew what they were about, as a bus arrived almost immediately. I did wonder where they might be going - there isn't an awful lot nearby - but it seemed intrusive to ask.

The Hebridean Sky was bound for Skarsvøg, so we made sure that we were back as the dock in good time. We weren't likely to miss the boat though, as the captain had shaken the opportunity to buy some souvenirs...

Ironically, en route to Skarsvøg by sea, you get excellent views of the North Cape, which we enjoyed over coffee.

At Skarsvøg, you could apparently get up close and personal with king crabs. They're huge great things, and you're doing everyone a favour by eating as many of them as possible, as they've become an enormous problem. Released into the White Sea by the Soviets as part of an economic development project for the region, the absence of their natural predators meant that they multiplied hugely, scouring the sea bed until it became something of a desert. And then they spread, along the Norwegian coast...

In Kirkenes, two years ago, we were told that king crab was so common that even local cats were fed up with it. And yes, there is money to be made in dragging them out of the ocean and exporting them, but at the cost of the marine environment.

We were rejoined by our fellow passengers, and we made sail. For we had one last adventure...

If Brexit goes badly wrong, how can the Tories survive the experience?

Let's start with the obvious caveat here, i.e. that Project Fear turns out to be Project Fact, and that the British economy splutters to, at best, a halt or, at worst, begins to go into reverse gear. For, if Brexit creates the bold new future that we were promised, the Conservatives will be in power for a while yet.

But let's say that negotiations drag on, as the dawning realisation emerges amongst the Cabinet that there will need to be some compromises, and that the apparently simple turns out to be hideously complex - the Irish question, seamless access for U.K. Goods into the European Union and vice versa, all of the "human" elements, to name but the already obvious ones.

How do the Conservatives keep the show on the road? Compromise will anger the Brexit ultras, especially if the European Court of Justice continues to have a role, or payments to the European Union continue after we formally leave. And that's just the sovereignty campaigners. Will those who voted Leave to send the foreigners home, or at least stop more from coming, tolerate tens of thousands coming to nurse our sick, serve our coffee, drive our buses or any of the vast array of tasks that European Union nationals do now, just because farmers, or universities, or publicans need them? Unlikely, I'd have thought. And as for the free traders, hoping for a newly invigorated Britain, trading our goods across the globe, be content to effectively allow the Europeans to determine our trading standards?

It is difficult to envisage how all of them will be kept happy, although it always was if you gave it much thought. The Leave campaign was always pretty clear about what it was against, whilst at the same time, unable to espouse anything else that it agreed upon.

But, if the compromises are made, and it still goes wrong, who will stand by the people whose negotiation skills led us to such a pass? The Remainers don't have any grounds to do so, and the ultras will want someone to blame - "they were betrayed" will be the narrative.

There is a way out. It isn't a pleasant one, and the consequences could be bitter indeed, but it offers the ultimate opportunity to pass the buck, i.e. walk out of the negotiations without a deal and blame the evil Europeans. That would allow the Conservatives to fight a snap General Election with the Mail, the Sun and the Times waving the Union Jack and denouncing anyone who questions their actions as traitors to their country.

And yes, the impact on the economy would be awful - could the European Union sign a trade deal with the United Kingdom under such circumstances? - but it would buy the Conservatives more time in which things might turn around. Call it the Micawber strategy, if you like.

There are still those who believe that a deal can be cut, that with goodwill on both sides, rationality will produce something which both sides can present as a success. My fear is that the European Union's determination to ensure that leaving the Union is not seen as being attractive, and the seeming total incomprehension of leading Conservatives as to how Europe actually works, will lead to a point where a sensible compromise doesn't present itself.

And whilst the debate here appears solely predicated on what it good for Britain - and both Remainers and Brexiteers are guilty on that charge - the question of what is good for Estonia, or Greece, or Belgium, is completely ignored. And they've got votes... and a veto.

I have a bad feeling about this...

Svalbard Diary, Day 11: The cruel sea...

Bjornøya, or Bear Island, is the only (small) piece of land between Norway proper and Svalbard, and it's not a hospitable place, home to a small group of researchers and nobody else. There is no harbour, no easy landing point. However, in fair weather, you can moor in a cove on the southern tip, and that what we were aiming for.

The sea was choppier than we had become used to, and Ros opted for a morning on the ship. I decided that it was time to find out just how successful my adjustment to life afloat had been.

It should be borne in mind that until this point, I had made a deal. If the sharks stayed in the water, I would stay on land, and it was an arrangement which, up until now, seemed to be mutually agreeable. Indeed, I've never seen a shark on land, unless of course you include Sid the Shark, the Sussex County Cricket mascot. And he's made of foam rubber, so he doesn't actually count.

The sea was a deep green colour as we made our way along the shore to study the admittedly impressive bird cliffs. It was cold, and the sky was a sullen grey. The swell was disconcerting, which had lead to a rather lower than usual turnout for breakfast. Frankly, I should have known better...

As we made our way past the assorted kittiwakes and guillemots, I was developing a rather uncomfortable awareness of my digestive system. It wasn't happy. Nor was I.

We continued our wobbly way along the cliff face, as feathered creatures zipped across the water and through the sky around us, and I was rather uncharitably beginning to conclude that, once you've seen ten thousand guillemots, you've seen them all. I wanted to be back on something more solid than a vulcanised rubber boat.

There was time for some quality zodiac driving though, as erosion has created a tunnel through the cliff face wide enough for a confident zodiac wrangler. Ours were all that good, and we emerged past some slightly nervous kittiwakes (and believe me, you don't want to be under nervous kittiwakes) into a small inlet.

We sped back to the Hebridean Sky, and I stepped aboard with alacrity. It was time for medication and a nap, as we waved Svalbard goodbye...

Svalbard Diary, Day 10 (still): "Did anyone order whale soup?"

We had set sail for Bjornøya, or Bear Island, an isolated piece of rock halfway between the southern tip of Spitsbergen and the North Cape of Norway, and the crew were putting on a show for the passengers. Ros and I had slipped away, but just as I was leaving, Colin, the Canadian cetacean expert, suggested that I might like to go to the viewing area on one of the upper decks.

Stopping only to pick up Ros, we made our way, binoculars in hand, and it wasn't long before we saw a telltale 'blow' in the distance. Whales! We watched alone, assuming that there would be an announcement at any moment, and we would be inundated with fellow passengers. But there was no announcement. Instead, there were more whales, everywhere we looked. Fin whales, humpback whales, plus bonus dolphins.

For fifteen minutes, we stared in wonderment, as fins cut the surface, tails cut the air. It was utterly stunning. Eventually, an announcement was made, and the laconic tones of Pam, the expedition leader, said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have whale soup out there.".

The fin whales seemed particularly relaxed, and allowed us to get so close that you could get good pictures with just an iPhone. They were everywhere.

To be honest, you could probably spend a lifetime looking for whales and seldom see so many at one time. And with the perfect viewing conditions, a calm sea, good light and a grey horizon which made spotting the whales even easier, it was bonanza time for us all. And we'd got the full set of arctic mammals...

Svalbard Diary, Day 10: A good glacier is like a cathedral...

Heading south now, we'd left the bright lights of Longyearbyen behind us, and were heading back to Hornsund for a scheduled glacier cruise in our trusty zodiacs. Our driver for the morning was Pierre, a South African marine oceanographer, and a really fascinating character.

A glacier in Hornsund. It's a lot bigger
than it looks...

We set off in glorious sunshine and made our way through the brash ice - that's the small bits of ice - to near the foot of the glacier. The safety rule is that you keep at least three times the height of the glacier away from its base, and Pierre wasn't going to break that rule. It was simply stunning, as the light sparkled on the surface of the water, but it wasn't quiet.

You see, if you have ice floating in water, it does what your ice cubes do when you pour gin on them, it makes cracking noises. This is, we were told, caused by the air in the ice expanding, if my understanding of the explanation was correct. And, even more amazingly, that air is the air trapped in the ice when it became formed in the glacier. It could be hundreds, perhaps thousands of years old. Cool, eh?

Pierre suggested that we take a moment of private silence, almost immediately broken by one of our fellow passengers who clearly wasn't paying attention. There's always one, isn't there... But it was truly magical, and even amongst all of the amazing things we'd seen, and were yet to see, it will be something that stays with me forever.

The afternoon was taken up with a cruise around Brepollen, a fairly recently formed body of water formed after the retreat of a number of glaciers. It was pretty, and for geologists, an interesting landscape, but our reverie was disturbed by an announcement. There were beluga whales off of the starboard bow.

Beluga whales are pretty skittish, apparently, but in a fantastic piece of sailing, our Finnish captain managed to bring us parallel to the pod as it made its way along the shore in fairly shallow water, without disturbing them. There were even calves, which you could make out by their greyish colouring. We were so close that you didn't need binoculars, and the nature photographers amongst us, and there were many, got some fantastic shots.

The show went on and on, and our captain was able to keep us abreast of them for some time until, eventually, we had to take our leave, for we had many miles to travel before our next scheduled stop...

Svalbard Diary, Day 9: "Longyearbyen, Longyearbyen, that toddlin' town..."

Tuesday dawned, grey and chilly, and it was with some trepidation that we prepared for the day's first activity, a perimeter walk. Hitherto, our walks had all been guided. A perimeter walk is as it sounds - an area of ground is marked out with little orange flags, the expedition team (all armed) patrol the boundary. We were like guillemot chicks, expelled from the nest and left to fend for ourselves.

And so we rambled around Alkhornet, studying the reindeer, avoiding the skua nest - they nest on the ground in the absence of predators, and are quite happy to attack anything that comes near. And then we saw a pair of Arctic fox, somewhat hidden amongst the rocks.

They're rather attractive creatures, with longish brown and white coats, and we were close enough to see them clearly, yet not so close as to disturb them. They were entrancing.

We were heading back towards the landing point when something landed on the ground in front of me - hard. It was a Brünnich's guillemot chick, whose first flight hadn't quite got it to the water. I shooed it off of the cliff before any harm could befall it, whilst its parents sqwalked in the sea below.

It was time to go. Civilisation beckoned...

Longyearbyen is not a one horse town, with its population of more than 1,250. Actually, there don't appear to be any horses, but there are plenty of snowmobiles. We arrived at the harbour, enthralled by the possibility of retail opportunities, having not seen a shop of any kind for a week, and even more importantly, phone reception. Trust me, if you want a digital detox, there is little to beat bobbing around in a small cruise ship  around the waters of Svalbard.

However, we had been told that the Svalbard Museum was worth a look, with some interesting exhibits, and so, restraining the urge to give the debit card an airing, Ros and I paid it a visit. It is, almost certainly, the second most northerly museum in the world, with an excellent collection of stuffed animals (if you like that sort of thing) and some interesting historical information. If you're ever in the area, I'd drop by if I were you.

A short walk takes you to the Radisson Blu hotel, the world's most northerly four star hotel, before you reach the main 'street' with its coffee shops and bars, a supermarket and wi-fi! Yes, it was time to upload the 350 pieces of mostly useless e-mail that had come in over the previous eight days...

We walked around a bit, bought crisps at the supermarket - sea salt and black pepper flavour - and wandered about a bit more. We found the most northerly ATM, the most northerly Thai restaurant, the most northerly nursery school, and weren't eaten by a polar bear, which was a good thing. I do not mock though, polar bears are known to stray into town during the winter, and guns are mandatory beyond the town limits all year round.

We could have stayed for dinner, but the free wine and the massive discrepancy between bar prices in Longyearbyen and those on the ship drove us back to the Hebridean Sky. It was an excellent choice....

Svalbard Diary, Day 8: in which your gallant correspondent develops an unexpected yearning...

It was surprisingly warm, which for anyone who had packed as if auditioning for a remake of "Scott of the Antarctic" was likely to be problematic. Me, I was dressed as if for a gentle stroll across the fields to Tesco at Stowmarket. And, of course, apart from the absence of polar bears, the conditions are pretty similar.

Our morning excursion was at Hornsund, at the south-western tip of Spitsbergen proper, in search of the auk colony. This meant hopping into the zodiacs again. I've made this sound pretty uneventful, but perhaps I ought to explain how it works.

A zodiac is a smallish inflatable vessel, which holds up to fifteen passengers and is powered by a 50 hp motor (in our case). Here, they are boarded from a platform at the rear of the vessel. We, the passengers, are required to wear waterproof jackets and trousers, plus a life jacket which should, apparently, automatically inflate if we fall into the water. You don't want to fall into the water - life expectancy is measured in minutes given the temperature of the sea. We also have waterproof boots, which are totally unstylish.

The zodiac is lashed to the marina deck by the Filipino crew, whilst we transfer one by one, holding the zodiac driver using the 'sailor's grasp', where you hold each other by the forearm - this reduces the risk of slipping, they tell me.

And then off we go, re-enacting the Normandy landings (albeit without hostile Germans, mines and underwater obstructions), as the zodiac glides onto the beach. Mostly, we make wet landings, where you exit the vessel into about six to eight inches of water - thus the need for waterproof boots. We then splash ashore for our educational stroll/hike.

As already mentioned, we were in search of auks today, and these nest in the crevices formed by jumbled rock at the bottom of cliffs. They weren't very co-operative, it must be said, but it was a pleasant enough walk nonetheless.

Whilst we were at lunch, the Hebridean Sky repositioned itself to Recherchefjord, where we were off for another stroll. Our prey, the Svalbard reindeer.

The landing point, or as I'd termed it by now, the human haulout, was by an abandoned hut, propped up with bits of wood. Because of the permafrost, you can't easily dig foundations for buildings, and the effect of constant freezing and thawing plays havoc with the integrity of walls.

We walked. The reindeer chewed in a thoughtful way, as if mentally doing sudoku puzzles in their heads. The sun shone. It was all curiously tranquil. And suddenly, I had a yearning for a bag of crisps. I hadn't seen any on the ship, and asked my fellow zodiac passengers, who confirmed the absence of potato-based snacks.

We mused over the possibility of reindeer and lichen, or kittiwake and seaweed flavours, before concluding that, like hedgehog crisps, they'd probably be a bit of a disappointment. I only had to resist the cravings for a day though. We were headed for the big city...

Svalbard Diary: This one's for you, Sabine...

In my capacity as a member of the Financial Advisory Committee of the ALDE Party, I have the great pleasure of working closely with Sabine Dechamps, Head of the Administration Unit.

And so I was intrigued to discover from our map of Svalbard that there is an area on the eastern side of Spitsbergen called Sabine Land. It is utterly unlike Sabine though, in that it is bleak and austere, covered in rather a lot of ice and totally unpopulated.

It must be nice to have somewhere named after you, even so...

Svalbard Diary, Day 7: I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a walrus...

I may have mentioned my enthusiasm for walrus(es) already. Indeed, when I grow up, I want to be a walrus. There were more walrus in our future, as we headed for Cape Lee and the known walrus haulout there.

Into the zodiac again, and off we went. "Walrus off of our bow!", someone shouted. The walrus bobbed below the surface... We scanned the water. And then, it reappeared... eight feet away, so close you could count its whiskers. I was enthralled. Our guide wasn't so keen. Apparently, walrus are known, in their enthusiasm, to puncture zodiacs with their tusks, and Colin wasn't taking any chances. We sped away...

The good news was that there were six walrus asleep on the shore, next to some huts built by an ill-fated Dutch expedition. The scientists had concluded that being armed was unnecessary, which was fine until a polar bear turned up, caught one of the scientists in the open, and mauled him to death.

The walrus were still asleep when we got to them, and we were able to get very close, before setting off down the beach towards the carcass of a dead polar bear. It clearly hadn't been dead that long, although what had actually killed it wasn't obvious.

Next, we walked across a slope in search of reindeer, and found an excellent male example. Svalbard reindeer have relatively short legs by reindeer standards, but given the lack of predators, they don't need to be that quick. This one didn't seem to have a care in the world.

Onwards and upwards we went, until suddenly a wide valley opened up below us, with more reindeer. It was truly majestic. But we had to get back, as the ship was due to sail on, and we set off back to the landing place.

Everybody else was off looking at reindeer, but I only had eyes for the walrus, and so I persuaded one of the security team to accompany me back to them. You must have security on Svalbard, armed security, at all times. Polar bears can appear out of the water, or from behind rocks, when you least expect them, and so before the passengers are allowed ashore, the area is scanned and a perimeter established.

But Chris and I went back to the walrus and stood watching them in quiet admiration. Their life is a simple one - eat, sleep, eat some more. Their blubber is so thick that even if a polar bear catches one, it can just drag itself, and the bear, down the beach and into the sea and safety. Yes, the bear can swim, but it can't really dive. Me, a man with a rifle, and half a dozen enormous walrus. It brings a tear to the eye just thinking about it...

In the afternoon, we were out on a zodiac cruise when the word went round that a polar bear had been spotted on the sea ice in front of the glacier at X. Eight zodiacs edged cautiously through the brash ice - small lumps of floating ice no larger than a small car - bringing us closer and closer to the bear.

Eventually, it slipped off of the ice floe and swam a little way further back before hauling itself onto another floe which seemed to suit it better. We continued to edge forward so that everyone could get a really good look at a healthy polar bear in its natural environment of the sea ice. It was truly incredible.

You think of the Arctic as bleak, silent. And it is, sort of. But as you glide through the brash ice, you are accompanied by a persistent cracking sound as the ice breaks around you. And the ice itself comes in a range of types. I pulled an ice dagger out of the water, the ice absolutely clear and the perfect murder weapon, leaving no trace as it melted. Luckily, I was in a benevolent mood, merely holding it so that fellow passengers could photograph it...

Svalbard Diary, Day 6: The ice shelf and the kittiwake

We awoke to a rather gloomy picture, with temperatures below freezing and a stiff breeze from the north. However, we were passing the rarely seen ice shelf on the southern shore of Nordtauslandt, the second largest of Svalbard's islands. It's rarely seen because the pack ice seldom allows access, and even if you can get there, impenetrable fog often obscures the view.

Mile upon mile of ice cliffs, facing south, represents an impassable barrier. It was time to turn south.

We were heading for an area known as Kittiwake Canyon, where a crease in the hillside has created a perfect nesting sight for, yes, you guessed it, kittiwakes. Now I must admit that seabirds have not traditionally been a core fascination here at "Liberal Bureaucracy", but there is something curiously relaxing about a bunch of nesting birds, scattered across a cliff face. And the kittiwake seem pretty relaxed about us too, allowing us to get surprisingly close to them.

Apparently, kittiwake chicks have an innate sense of where the cliff ledge ends and the sheer drops starts, and early scientific researchers tested this in a way which seems astonishingly cruel nowadays. Different gull chicks were placed in kittiwake nests and inevitably fell to the deaths, demonstrating just how unique kittiwake are. Not a piece of knowledge with tremendous potential for application elsewhere, I'd have thought, but what do I know?...

Svalbard Diary, Day 5: Dances with walrus

The temperature had dropped to zero, albeit that zero is rather mild for that latitude, and we were heading for Nordauslandt (which, I'm told, is the size of Wales, as a surprisingly large number of places seem to be) in search of walrus, or walruses, or walri. Me, I was hoping for many walrus. Many, many walrus...

The morning activity was a walk, starting at a camp on the shore, before heading up the various levels of former beaches before at the crest of the slope, we encountered four Svalbard reindeer, two male, one female and a calf. They didn't seem terribly bothered about us, given that they have no natural predators - the biggest shore-based carnivores are arctic foxes. Indeed, the two males grazed towards us unconcerned.

It was a pleasant stroll, making up for the lack of exercise the day before. And that's important given the number of meals I'm eating each day...

But the day's highlight was to be the walrus. We boarded our zodiac and made our way to the designated landing spot before heading to the place where the walrus had been spotted. Stealthily, or as stealthily as a bunch of old people in wellington boots can be on a shingle beach, we crept up on the pile of walrus in single file, before stopping just fifty or so feet away. The walrus studiously ignored us, as we're no threat to them. Given that even polar bears offer little threat to an adult walrus, this shouldn't have come as much of a surprise.

The walrus didn't do much. That suited me just fine, as it made them easier to film. But sadly, we had to leave only too soon. After all, it would have been a pity to miss afternoon tea...

But the day wasn't over. One of the finest sea bird colonies to be found anywhere is Alkefjellet, home to 60,000 breeding pairs of Brunnich's guillemots and, higher up the cliff, a similar number of kittiwake. Interestingly, nobody seems to know who Brunnich was, which is a bit of a shame. Usually, they are seen from the zodiacs, but our captain took advantage of the remarkably calm sea conditions to cruise so close that we could study them from the club lounge on the ship.

It's tough work, studying the wildlife...

Svalbard Diary, Day 4: Adrift on the edge of the pack ice with only a light snack for sustenance

Above 80 degrees North, you begin to run out of geography. Or, more accurately, land. We're north of Spitsbergen, cruising slowly along the edge of the pack ice in the hope of spotting seals and polar bears. They're out there, somewhere...

Occasionally, there is an announcement over the public address system, "there's a group of harp seals off the port side at 10.30", and people grab their binoculars to seek a better view. But most of the day is spent either preparing to eat, actually eating, or digesting what you just ate. I have a nasty feeling that I'm going to be the size of a house by the end of this trip.

The day starts with breakfast between 7.30 and 9, with lunch served between 12.30 and 2. Afternoon tea is served from 4, with pre-dinner canapés available before dinner at 7.30. Of course, you can grab a cookie or two between meals if you feel the need. My suspicion is that anti-social fellow passengers are fed to the polar bears, once suitably fattened up...

The food is pretty good, and well-presented if perhaps not quite "haute cuisine". Unlike a lot of cruises, there is nowhere to pick up supplies on this trip, so if it wasn't loaded at Tromsø or Longyearbyen, it isn't available. But the menus are varied, the wine free-flowing, and they do cater for dietary requirements to a surprising extent.

My sense is that it's a bit like being on the floating equivalent of a country house hotel, somewhere up in the Scottish Highlands, where the mist has descended and there's nowhere much to go. It's very congenial though...

Svalbard Diary, Day 3: Encountering the luckiest polar bear in the world...

It's an increasingly tough life as a polar bear. Climate change has caused a reduction in the amount of sea ice upon which they rely as a platform for catching seals, their staple diet. And sometimes, in high summer, they're forced to make a choice - rely on the sea ice as it retreats northwards, or stay on land and hope to be able to scavenge enough to keep body and soul together.

We were supposed to be heading out on the zodiacs to making a landing near a walrus haulout, but the tide had turned unexpectedly, and the last boat was diverted in the opposite direction, where a whale had recently washed ashore. Bad news for the whale, but the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket for a nearby polar bear, who we found on the scene. Off we went, and we were able to get incredibly close, close enough to watch it rip a huge chunk out of the carcass and get a good feed.

The bear, his appetite clearly sated, decided that a nap was called for, so we set off back to the walrus. My love of walrus knows no bounds, so I was perfectly happy. And we were in time to find a group of them in the shallows, wallowing around. Graceful is not a word often associated with walrus, even in the water, but they are attractive in a whiskery sort of way, and I got some good pictures before we had to return to the ship.

The afternoon was spent on a nature ramble at Rautfjord. The flora of Svalbard is not dramatic - the height of the trees can be measured in millimetres, and lichen are big here. Well, I say "big", but I suspect that you know what I mean. Clinging to every little opportunity, every slightly sheltered spot, life is somehow sustained.

The expedition team includes a range of expertise, birds, mammals, geology, and there is much useful information imparted. I now know about hairy lousewort, and purple saxifrage, and could, at a pinch, identify a Svalbard poppy. Delicate, yes, but surprisingly pretty. And the reindeer need to eat something, I suppose...

Svalbard Diary, Day 2: To be honest, I probably wouldn't start from here...

Ålesund is a charming town on the Norwegian coast, famous for its Jugendstil architecture. Ny-Ålesund is not going to win many architectural awards, and there's not much to do unless you're a research scientist, but it is the site of Svalbard's only railway and, more notably, the jumping off point for a number of insane acts of polar exploration.

It was thought that the easiest way to reach the North Pole was to fly, and the absence of aeroplanes didn't restrain the first attempts. In 1896, Auguste Andree and two companions inflated their hydrogen-filled balloon and set off, never to be seen again. At least, they weren't seen again until 1930, when the remains of a camp were found on the remote island of Kvitøya. Amongst the items found were their camera and some film, which was still able to be developed, and their diary, which told of an epic journey after the balloon crashed.

Americans, Norwegians and Italians came (and failed), but eventually success was achieved. Admittedly, there is still some argument about who was actually first, but now that people have driven there, it's probably not such an epic proposition.

Ny-Ålesund has the world's most northerly post office, and is possibly the world's most northerly permanently settled community. It also has a surprisingly good gift shop, and we bought the mandatory Christmas bauble, two mugs and a pair of fridge magnets.

Back aboard the Hebridean Sky, we were off to the Fourteenth of July Glacier, named by a Prince Albert of Monaco in honour of France. There is no shortage of glaciers here in Svalbard - Spitsbergen is 60% ice cap - but it was nice to get one in early.

The day ended at our anchorage for the night, Lilliehöökbreen. The next day, we were really heading north...

Svalbard Diary, Day 1: 'Twas on the Monday morning, just as the sun was rising...

Dawn broke, somewhere near Stansted Airport. It was fearfully early, not a time of day I am familiar with, but the flight was scheduled for a 7 a.m. departure, and there really wasn't an option of taking a later one and having a lie-in.

And so, I hauled myself somewhat unenthusiastically out of bed, into (and out of) the shower and into some clothes. Thanks to Ros's enthusiasm for being early, we took a gentle stroll around the hotel to ease my daily quest for my ten thousand steps, before boarding the coach to the Inflite Corporate Jet Terminal, tucked away on the far side of Stansted Airport.

On arrival, it was clear that there was a problem. The absence of an aircraft should have been a giveaway, really. Apparently, a part was needed, and we weren't going anywhere until it was found and fitted. What this meant was that our scheduled afternoon explore of Longyearbyen, Svalbard's capital, was likely to be lost, and with it the walking opportunity I had been counting on. There was no choice but to walk laps of the rather small lounge. Lots of laps...

But we did eventually set off on the four hour flight. It is slightly hard to credit that, in such a short time, you can be somewhere so remote, but that's the wonder of modern flight, I guess.

Longyearbyen Airport is not a thing of beauty. Interestingly though, there is no customs or immigration check - you collect your luggage from the carousel and go. We were bussed to the ship and welcomed aboard with a glass of something sparkling and vaguely grape flavoured. It was going to be alright...