Antarctica
Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria, my home town, is often described as being at the end of Britain’s longest cul-de-sac. Maybe growing up in such a remote town helps explain why it has always been a dream of mine to visit Antarctica, the wildest and most far-flung continent. So when I found myself in Ushuaia, a ramshackle town in Tierra del Fuego, right at the tip of Argentina and centre for last-minute voyages to the world’s most southern land mass, it was really no surprise that I’d soon booked myself on a once-in-a-lifetime trip taking in the Falklands, South Georgia and Antarctica.
It took us two days to reach the Falklands (or Las Malvinas, as the Argentinians call them) in the Orlova, an old Russian research ship converted into a basic but comfortable expedition ship. The Falklands are wild and windswept, and are often compared to Scotland; they also reminded me of Walney. There are two large islands plus 750 smaller ones, many of them uninhabited, except by wildlife – apparently there are 150 penguins per person!
The Falklands are like a piece of old-fashioned England, transplanted to the south Atlantic. Drinking tea from china cups and munching home made fruit cake with farm owners Jeanette and Michael on West Point Island, I half-expected to see a Charles and Di tea towel in their homely kitchen. The island was covered in bright yellow gorse smelling of freshly-done laundry and had commanding views of pristine white sand beaches. We saw our first penguins here: a mass of playful rockhoppers, who put on an amusing show, leaping clumsily from rock to rock and flinging their yellow-crested heads back, screeching like braying donkeys. The penguins hopped around amongst a colony of nesting albatrosses and the smell was awful: bitter, with undertones of ammonia. As my fellow-passenger and keen video maker Richard commented: ‘I’m glad my camera doesn’t pick up the smells.’
The next day we browsed round Port Stanley, admiring the very English-looking gardens on the salt-licked seafront and having a beer in the Globe pub, where the local radio station was playing Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine. It was hard to imagine such a sleepy place being the site of a war, but I was lucky enough to sit in on an interview with Gary and Curly, two former British Marines who had served in the Falklands War. This emotional conversation gave me an insight into the horrors that civilians and soldiers (from both sides) had lived through. These tough, yet articulate and sensitive, men were extremely generous in sharing their experiences and insights, even though some of their memories were clearly still very painful. The Falkland Islanders are eternally grateful for what soldiers like Gary and Curly did for them: Glenda, who runs the tiny but fascinating museum in Port Stanley summed it up when she described them as ‘the guys who liberated us’.
Three days and one huge, boat-rolling, cabin-shaking storm later we landed at South Georgia. Being on the small strip of beach at Gold Harbour on the island’s southeast corner was like being in a wildlife documentary. The soft grey sand was covered by an enormous rookery of 25,000 pairs of king penguins. Kings are the classic penguins, smartly dressed in their black and white smooth-feathered suits, their throats flushed with yellow to match the vivid flash on their beaks. Amongst the dignified adults were the youngsters: huge scruffy bundles of brown fluff waddling around on big splayed feet. Their down is gradually shed to reveal the slick adult plumage beneath. These ‘babies’ are immensely curious: as I sat observing them, one tugged at my jacket sleeve with its beak!
Gold Harbour is also home to a large group of elephant seals. The adults are big, ugly beasts, with rolls of scarred skin hanging around their thick necks and coarsely-whiskered snouts. The young are adorable, with huge liquid black eyes and velvet faces. Despite the fierce weather, with a biting wind lashing sloppy snow into our faces, this beach, with its seals, penguins and giant petrels patrolling the skies, was one of the most special landings of the trip.
We finally set foot on the Antarctic continent itself at Brown Bluff. We’d sailed through vast expanses of open ocean to get there, nosing our way carefully through endless sweeps of water and sky, with nothing in view but icebergs in mesmerising shades of white, blue and grey. Our landing was on a pebbly beach, with hordes of black-headed, white-chested Adelie penguins scurrying alongside a cold sea clinking with blue chunks of ice. The air was raw but softened by a blue-gold light from a pale evening sun, and banks of untouched snow crept onto the beach from the craggy brown rocks that gave this spot its name. We were on the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula, with the vast white continent lying to the south of us, and it felt amazing to be here. We were all overawed.
Next stop, volcanic Deception Island, the site of our much-heralded polar plunge. This was a chance for those of us brave and/or stupid enough to peel off our warm fleecy layers in the wind-churned blizzard to dash into the chilly waters of the Southern Ocean. The ship’s doctor stood by with a defibrillator, but luckily we were all sufficiently revived after our icy dip by a mug of hot chocolate, warmed by a hearty slug of rum, back on board the cosy Orlova.
Our return route took us through the Drake Passage, notorious for its rough seas, but after our turbulent outward journey, the rolling swells throwing swathes of water across the decks seemed un-challenging, almost disappointing. Disembarking in Ushuaia after 18 nights on board was strange. Back on dry land it was hard to walk in a straight line, and it felt odd when the close-knit group we’d forged at sea dispersed. But we’d shared a very special experience and collected a unique set of memories of a strange, beautiful place that I will always treasure.
