The reception? It's a little frosty

Reindeer furs and thermals keep Ainslie MacGibbon warm in the sub-zero halls of Icehotel, in Swedish Lapland.

We arrive tired from driving pretty much the length of Sweden in landscapes that feature reindeer, ice highways and "column driving" (when conditions are so bad the roads become one-way and require a chaperone tow vehicle). There is little light left as we pull up at the Icehotel in Jukkasjarvi, Swedish Lapland.

I'm surprised by the hotel's squat exterior - though it makes perfect sense when one applies reason - as we make our way to the adjacent (bricks and mortar) reception area. It's much like any other swank hotel lobby except that here the staff are dressed in grey snowsuits, which gives the place more of a, say, cafeteria-at-NASA feel.

A staff member gives directions to our rooms and offers advice about breakfast hours and how to sleep in minus 8 degrees. She allocates a dressing room (it's in this part of the hotel, along with shared bathroom facilities), instructs us to collect the hotel's sleeping bags after dinner and says we can go to the ice rooms wearing only our thermals. Thermals only? Between my earmuffs and her accent I'm picking up every third word but I don't want "clothes" to be one I miss.

There is time to peek at the rooms before dinner. Having everything crafted from ice creates a surprisingly blue effect; entering the main hall is like opening your eyes underwater. The chandelier and columns are perfectly symmetrical and it feels as though all our senses - except touch - are subdued.

Our party of five has opted for two suites designed by artists from around the world. The eight-year-old twins and I take the Bubblesuite, a playful room filled with giant soap bubbles crafted from ice. It has a not-for-everyone "closing-in" effect. My husband and our eldest son take the Dream Catcher Suite, which contains a dreamcatcher said to "absorb and filter your dreams. The good dreams will be filling up the space with the vapour of good vibes and the bad ones will be collected in the waste bin".

There are no doors, just curtains across narrow doorways. Half curtains, really.

The hotel restaurant is across the road. The menu and service are good and the tables are occupied by guests from everywhere. After dinner, we separate by gender to use the shared facilities before reconvening in our dressing room to don our thermals. Admittedly, I'd started to dread this aspect of the stay for reasons of bad fashion. I'd shopped for thermals assuming these would be covered by outer garments. Mine are the colour of fresh blood, my gentle husband is in camouflage thermals and the children are wearing carnival-style stripes.

Trying to find the light in my room, I trip over one of the giant ice soap suds and it begins to roll, gathering momentum. Catching it near the doorway, it's hard to roll back into position. Lying down to sleep on reindeer furs atop an ice slab bed, I discover no unexpected cushiness. But the sleeping bags warm quickly and soon the giggles and awe give way to sleep. Mine is punctuated by fishing the children off the floor, as they have a tendency to slip off ice slabs; I doze between rounds of adjusting beanies and zips.