Some people spend years chasing the Northern Lights. I seem to spend years almost seeing them.

My first attempt took me to Tromsø in northern Norway, widely regarded as one of the best places on Earth to witness the Aurora Borealis. It's where charged particles from the Sun collide with Earth's atmosphere, producing ribbons of green, purple and red light that dance across the night sky. It's one of nature's greatest spectacles. Or so I'm told.

I arrived in Tromsø at about 1:00pm and, as is traditional for my travels, I'd done absolutely no research whatsoever.

"It's dark," I said to the taxi driver.

"Yes," he replied.

"When does the sun come up?"

"We won't see the sun again until mid-January."

"Mid-January?" I replied. "That's a bit crap."

I'd unknowingly arrived during the Polar Night, when the sun simply doesn't rise above the horizon for months. It's perfectly normal in northern Norway. It wasn't perfectly normal to me.

After checking into my hotel, I did what any sensible traveller would do and found the nearest pub. I ordered a pint, nearly dropped it when the barman announced it was £14, then spent the next hour sipping it like it was a rare vintage Bordeaux. Every mouthful felt like I was making a small mortgage payment.

Eventually I booked onto a Northern Lights tour for that evening. While waiting, I squeezed in a couple more expensive beers before my phone rang.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the pub."

"We're waiting for you."

I'd forgotten to change my watch after landing, so I was still running an hour behind. Personally, I blame that extra whisky on the Norwegian Air flight.

I sprinted through Tromsø towards the meeting point. The last time I'd run that fast was in Prague when a rather unhappy taxi driver threatened to shoot me after I refused to pay his wildly inflated fare.

I arrived gasping for breath beside an ageing bus full of tourists from every corner of the world. They greeted me with synchronized tutting while the guide silently tapped his watch. What a lovely welcome.

Our first stop wasn't to see the Northern Lights at all. Instead, we visited what looked remarkably like an old Scout hut where everyone was issued enormous thermal suits and boots. Once I'd squeezed myself into the outfit, I resembled the Michelin Man preparing for an Arctic expedition.

Before setting off, the guide studied several weather and aurora forecasts on his phone.

"Tonight," he announced confidently, "there is a very good chance."

He explained we'd chase clear skies wherever necessary.

"We might drive into Sweden. We might even go into Finland. Nothing," he declared dramatically, "will stop us seeing the Northern Lights tonight."

I admired his confidence.

For the next two hours he repeatedly stopped the bus, climbed outside, stared hopefully at the sky for thirty seconds, sighed deeply and climbed back in. Eventually we stopped in complete darkness somewhere in the Norwegian wilderness. The guide pointed skywards.

"There they are."

Everyone looked up. Nobody said anything.

Finally, a lady from Wigan broke the silence.

"I can't see owt."

"Well..." said the guide carefully. "You can't really see these northern lights with the naked eye tonight. They show up much better on camera."

You could almost hear 30 disappointed tourists simultaneously calculating the refund policy.

Fortunately, the guide produced his camera, photographed the lady and her rather substantial husband and suddenly there they were. Bright green Northern Lights glowing magnificently behind them.

On the camera. Not in real life.

The couple seemed satisfied enough.

The guide kindly configured my camera with all the correct settings so I too could capture this incredible natural phenomenon. When I checked my photos later, I'd somehow managed to take more than fifty perfectly exposed photographs of absolute darkness. It's still one of my greatest photographic achievements.

Clouds soon rolled in but our fearless guide refused to surrender. He herded everyone back onto the bus and announced one final attempt. We sped through the Arctic night towards another viewing spot, only for the clouds to beat us there by a matter of minutes.

Game over.

Eight hours after we'd set off, we rolled back into Tromsø at about 3am. I'd successfully completed an eight-hour Northern Lights tour without actually seeing the Northern Lights. Most people would have accepted defeat. Not me. My second opportunity came in Iceland.

I was sitting in a cosy bar in Reykjavík enjoying a beer when everyone suddenly leapt from their seats and sprinted outside. Glasses were abandoned, conversations stopped and the entire bar emptied in seconds.

A few moments later one excited woman returned wearing the biggest smile I'd ever seen.

"The Northern Lights!" she said. "The brightest I've ever seen!"

I charged outside full of excitement but I'd missed them by about thirty seconds. Apparently they'd been absolutely spectacular.

My third chance came thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean. During the flight home the captain interrupted everyone's films.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you look out of the left-hand side of the aircraft you'll see a wonderful display of the Northern Lights."

Naturally...I was sitting on the right-hand side. I briefly considered asking everyone in my row if we could swap seats simultaneously but concluded it might be difficult to explain.

So that's currently three attempts. Three failures. Thousands of miles travelled. Countless expensive beers. One Michelin Man outfit. Fifty photographs of darkness and still no Northern Lights.

But one day I'll see them. Probably just as I'm looking the other way.