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Matt phones a friendly GP to ask what the first signs of frostbite are, and we all listen intently to the answer, inspecting fingertips surreptitiously for the telltale white spots. Everyone makes semi-pointed calls to loved ones.

We may be some time. Confusingly, Trondheim doesn't look too far away on a large-scale map, and, as dawn breaks bright and clear, we step on up the E6 toward it with a hope in our hearts.

We've discovered shorter stints in the Atom, followed by periods with our feet stuffed into the Landie's rear heater vents might be a way of preventing ourselves being referred to as 'Stumpy' in the pub, post-trip.

And it helps that, as the roads slowly degrade into shiny pistes, the views pull their socks up, encouraging us around the next bend. They become proper showstoppers. Rough, aggressive pitbull geography.

Suddenly, the Atom feels small and fragile in a country that has no time for the comforts of summer. We stop in a garage at the side of the road, and fall into bed exhausted at 9pm, just past Trondheim.

It feels as if we've been going for three weeks. It's been three days. I wake up to find Matt phoning the ferry company and staring bleakly at fatly graceful snowflakes settling on every available surface outside our window.

We've already missed our boat home, and the next one isn't until Sunday, so we might as well keep going as far as we can. The next stop is, potentially, a place called Mo-I-Rana, some 20 miles short of the Circle.

We don't really expect to get there, but the roads seem good so we start early. Soon we're down to 25mph, the Ariel reduced to a crawl along a slick line of glass-ice between two walls of snow.

With 32-tonne spike-tyred lorries charging the other way, the horror of being forcibly introduced to their ice-encrusted bull bars should you spin is a Swarovski vision.