A cup of coffee in a teepee in Lapland

'I like three things," announces Pietro, a bear of a man with two metal lower lip piercings framed by a lush black beard, "snow, dogs and building things."

We are at a husky camp 60 degrees latitude within the arctic circle, on a bitterly cold St. Valentines day. The camp is a cacophony of yelps, barks and howls,

"When you enter, don't run, just let them come up and introduce themselves," says Pietro.

He's hard to hear over the din.

He opens the fence and we enter, the dog, at the sight of us ratchet up the din, as Pietro and his helpers, a long, lanky man in a vest, heavy padded pants and a fur cap, and a smaller man in combats with a leather flyers jacket open the cages.

There are three sides of two-dog kennels and each kennel has a name - 'Einstein', 'Flash' and 'G-Spot' to name a few, with an over-excited hound bouncing and leaping as they see the sleds, There must be thirty or forty of them.

"Must be a dream job," I say to Pietro,

"Not shovelling shit at minus thirty eight celcius," he replies. It's currently minus 10c and after midday starting to dip lower,

Each dog rushes up, yapping, yelping and howling. The three men show us how to harness up the dogs and teams of six are harnessed up to the sled,

"This one's deaf," says the long lanky one, "he's my favourite, and we named him..."

The lanky one holds his hand up and tilts the wrist flat at a right angle, the fingers pointed. The dog makes a strange woofing sound and wags his tail gleefully. He's harnessed into the middle.

Then one by one, the group of visitors - six in all whoosh out in three sleds across the plain.

The sled is wooden, hand made and two runners stick out from which you shift your weight to turn. If you brake using the metal crampon, you get twelve sets of heterochromatic eyes going WTF?!

​The sleds glide around the track, its a real throwback in time - the slaloming, the barking, the vast silence of Lapland whoosh by for an hour. Before we know it, we hear the excited howls from the dogs in the camp long before we arrive. We dismount and the dogs are rewarded with hugs and Reindeer meat. The group of exhilarated passengers troupe towards a teepee standing amid prefabs and battered RV's.

Tea, coffee and locally sourced berry tea are served in pots suspended over an inverted truck wheel hub with a fire balzing merrily. Cinnamon bread is served and I stand outside the teepee with Pietro.

The burly Italian is broad and friendly,

"I love dogs, I sometimes like to dog-sit, especially troubled dogs. I did this in Italy for years," he tells me. The bread is lost in his fist,

"The hardest dogs I had to mind were Czech wolf hybrids," he continues, "Just weaned - strange animal."

"Strange, how?" I ask,

"A dog, even a police dog or guard dog will attack you straight on. These guys would circle you slowly without a sound and keep circling, looking for a weakness, silent, probing, weird."

"And the huskies here?"

"No, they are friendly. They work until they are 11 or 12 years old, never bitten a guest. When they are too old to work, they can run freely around the camp. Sometimes they might be pared with a frisky one on a sled pull."

I watch the occasional husky trot past, tail wagging.

"What happens when the winter season ends?"

"We close up the camp and let them run free, they have a holiday before they go to work again,"

He pauses, "Sorry."

"Sorry, why?"

"They were slow. Normally its minus twenty, but minus thirty eight is their best, The sleds move quickly and they love the pull. They work up a sweat and cool off in the snow,"

He shakes my hand warmly and ambles off toward the teepee. If ever a place is serene and full of good vibrations, this husky camp would be pretty close to heaven.

For both people and dogs