So, of course, the Communists built the village of Khuzhir right there ..."With our boxes of food and tins and bottles, we resembled hippies driving to an Arctic Glastonbury. In front sat Olga, a polar bear of a woman, who kept asking when I intended to pour my first vodka-libation to the gods of the lake, ie to have a drink. Beside me was Natasha who, along with her elf-like husband, Nikita, had taken on the responsibility (she laughed, sadly) of keeping Olkhon alive.Which was another reason for me to be here One of Natasha's big ideas was to bring in foreign tourists "They can enjoy Siberian nature at its most beautiful The island .. the lake ... the water ...""In this weather?""But the air on Olkhon is so pure. And when the temperature rises to minus 20, you know, it can feel like spring."At petrol-pumps in the lakeside village of Yelantsy, talk, again, was of thermometers. The attendant, ear-flaps down, griped that his had registered 50 below in the morning That sounded downright dangerous. In search of reassurance, before crossing the ice to the island, we dropped in at the home of the regional shaman: one Valentin Vladimirovich, locally celebrated for a birth-defect: an auspicious cleft thumb.

What could he advise us of Siberia's current woes?"Lots," Vladimir roared, stomping about his tiny home in giant boots. "See this thumb of mine? It means I am marked by the god! I can perform rituals! I help people who are in trouble with the spirits! If a family's sons have been drowned off Olkhon, it means they need to appease the spirits of the water! So I take them to Baikal, and offer milk and prayers ..."Olkhon, I could already see, was a place that needed delicate handling. Directly to the east of the island, where the lake plunges to appalling depths, the waters are lashed by winds of 100mph or more. Buryat legend spoke of hostile gods residing there, whose sport was to drown fishermen. Foremost of these was Burkhan; then came Doshkin-noyon, god of storms, specialising in stealing the bodies of the dead .. Old superstitious nonsense, of course. Who really believed in shamanism these days, I asked? "Everyone!" put in the shaman. "It is in our genes! We cannot imagine life without it! Hospitals need rituals, schools need rituals, families need rituals.

Otherwise we get trouble! And bad dreams!"What about bad weather, I wondered? But suddenly Natasha leapt up in alarm. It was almost dark! We needed to get going if we were to cross Baikal's ice in safety.It was by moonlight that our van finally creaked a slippery path across the frozen lake Faults and fissures loomed up in the headlights. Olga had insisted that we drink vodka before crossing, offering one glass to Baikal as we did so Natasha now admitted that she was afraid. "The god of the lake isn't always so friendly," she half-gasped. Burkhan sends two or three cars plunging through the ice each year.By the time we reached the island, the moon and the stars were setting the snow aglitter. An hour later ­ at the village of Khuzhir ­ I found myself in a jumble of wooden cottages, each with its chimney, each set in its silver cloud of smoke.