A lot has been said about Mrs T on the news. Pundits for one side or the other (and there were always 2 sides) praise or damn her. Here, in the Falklands, she is regarded with affection and admired for her resolute determination. Where lesser politicians would have sold them out, she would not yield. It is dispiriting to look back to the UK to see signs of glee at the news of her death and bitter hatred for her in Glasgow to mention one place. Few of those dancing around had been born when she was in office. Such naked hatred and bile will not bring others to your point of view. Few would wish to be associated with such behaviour. Disagree with her policies and actions if you must, but please have some common courtesy.
Thatcher memorialflags at half mastBook of condolensce
Not everything that rusts in the public gaze is detritus. Think of that icon of Gateshead (that has been often adopted or purloined by neighbours Newcastle) the Angel of the North. Here a model of the solar system sits at the edge of the harbour. Not only is Mars a rusty red colour, but so is the sun. Look closely at the model – one of the few places left, where Pluto is still a planet
Rusting and abandoned, the detritus of buildings, equipment and machinery litters Stanley. Cannibalised land rovers lie semi abandoned in gardens. Perhaps they lie there as a treasure trove for future generations – “that will come in useful one day”. But here and there, plots of land are being gentrified. Space is now becoming a premium in town and prices of houses are rising. More people live in Stanley than ever before; is this a flight from camp? Yet, many from camp also have a house in Stanley. Larger plots of land are being built on, vegetable patches are being lost to new kit houses. Soon, the rusting carcasses of rovers that have given up the ghost will quietly disappear and patios and conservatories will bloom in their place. Those few fallen and rusting hulks may yet hang around to achieve the status of historic ruins. The ESRO monitoring station from 1973 century stands isolated at Moody Brook. The top half has succumbed to the pull of Mother Earth, but the rest should rear from the landscape for many years to come
Just a thought for this morning. What are the chances of someone in the islands developing acute appendicitis? For a population of 500,000 in the UK, we might expect around 100 cases per year: now follow the sums
100 cases per year /500000 population line1 x5000 population of the Falklands
Total 1 patient
So, even with a fourfold epidemic that would only give one patient per three months – and we have had our patient for the first quarter …..… This maths can be extended to cover other conditions. BUT … remember, like buses, everything comes in threes.
Fresh bread
You can’t get fresher than picking up a loaf that you have just seen being removed from the oven. In fact, it is so hot and fresh and damp, that you can’t really eat it. You should let it rest for a while, and then reheat it in the toaster to make soldiers to go with your breakfast eggs.
FIODA
The performance was everything we were hoping for and more. The opening night is the best; the nervous enthusiasm, the forgiving nature of the audience and the shear relief that at last, the night has come. The hall was packed, FITV was there, so the DVD of the event will be available soon. To produce so much talent from such a small stock of around 2000 souls in Stanley is remarkable. I was beaten to press by Penguin News who had a page on the rehearsals, but I will be first to single out the star of the show. Cosette singing ‘Castle in a Cloud’ from Les Mis. A delight.
Stanley Note, not Port Stanley, as there is no such place. Apparently, the name Port Stanley was used by the telegraph station to prevent confusion with the other Stanleys around the world. The port here is Port William and that is just a mooring, outside the narrows. Stanley is the town. I was told that Mrs Thatcher used the name Port Stanley, and that a change of name was even considered to accommodate her. But no, there are really only two places in the Falklands, Stanley and Camp (which of course is a myriad of delightful places – Port Howard amongst them)
Much excitement here in the run up to tomorrow night's opening of “A Night at the Musicals 2 – This Time with Feeling”: a FIODA Production in the Town Hall, Stanley.
There are no reserved seats, so I suppose, it will be a lot like Ryan Air – albeit minus the Premium queue. Previous shows have never failed to impress so I am hope for a good night. A full report will follow, perhaps with the risk of stealing the Penguin News's thunder.
Iain M Banks
Sad news on Sky and now all the papers about Iain Banks.
I am a fan of his SF writing and “The Culture” novels and have been so for years. He writes those as Iain M Banks and his other novels (which in their way are often profoundly disturbing) as plain old Iain Banks. If you have not caught up on either styles, then I strongly recommend you lose no more time. I will keep Iain and his new wife in my thoughts.
“It’s going to be hot tomorrow” – well as it was April fool’s day, the next day, I was loathe to believe this promise. But the day started well, and just got warmer and warmer. The coat came off, then the jumper. I was still warm. 18 deg in April – nice and warm.
A good day to visit the Penguins. Gypsy Cove is clear of mines and you can clamber down onto the beach. Watch your step, for the bank is riddled with burrows from the Jackass penguins (their local name is from the braying noise they make). The beach is made of spun sugar and is dazzling in the hot sunshine – now a baking 20 deg C. No penguins. A pair of Upland Geese – they go around in pairs all the time and sometimes in pairs of couples (the male is the white one (he whistles and the female has a rattling call). They seem to just fly in to where you are, say hello and then start grazing on the grass. Sociable birds and they don’t seem to mind people – some say they enjoy our company. Then three penguins popped up from the waters edge and toddled up the beach. They checked me out and swiftly returned to their element. Disappointed, I struggled up the steep bank (how do these penguins manage this?) and then saw a pair of nestlings in their burrow. This is where a long lens rewards you for lugging it around. Too close to the birds in their protective burrow and you will disturb them, a little closer yet, and you will be covered by regurgitated foul smelling stomach contents. An effective deterrent. Did I mention that they (like many birds) have fleas! They will check you out with one eye and then look at you with the other in case things have changed. The Magellanic penguin never seems to tire of this scrutiny.
Out towards the airport, and turn right at the burned out hulk of a Panhard armoured car from 1982. The asphalt finishes and is replaced by setts covered by bitumen. This changes after a few hundred metres to gravel. And then to sand and peak tracks. The 4×4 copes well, even with moves onto a fainter track to avoid long stretches of submerged track. It might be ok to drive through the water, but I am not sure how watertight the doors are. Judging from how the wind howls through gaps in the door closure, I suspect not very.
The car is parked up and the bimble begins. The direction is easy. The lighthouse looms in the near distance and the tracks are a guide. The going is easy, with the wind from the west at my back. About 20 mins later, I arrive.
A windswept, lonely place. No living soul for miles. Travel N for 6661 miles and you will arrive in the UK. S for 706 miles is Antarctica. If you sail E, then there is nothing for 12745 miles until you hit Chile (the long way round).
The lighthouse is now a monument – it no longer works and though there is a small light at ground level, most sailors rely on GPS. We should be careful not to abandon all our old and trusted methods of navigation. We need a backup plan – after all, captains of ships in the North Sea are reporting wildly inaccurate GPS locations. It seems that the signal from GPS blockers (used by delivery drivers to fox their GPS tracking boxes in the lorry cabs, so that they can escape surveillance) leak out to sea and render vessels’ GPS receivers faulty. The ancillary buildings used by the keepers are long gone; the lighthouse really ceased working with the invasion in 1982. A lonely place. One old keeper was on FITV – they were not allowed radios (short wave) but they still smuggled them in, talked to friends from miles away, and hurried to hide the evidence when the supervisor came along.
Atlantic Conveyor
In the shadow of the lighthouse, lies the memorial for the Atlantic Conveyor. A bronze propellor sits in the tussock grass with the names of those fallen inscribed. Faded poppies and small wooden crosses nestle where one of the blades bites into the ground. The ship lies 90 miles off the cape. The loss was a profound blow to the Task Force. Much materiel (and men) were lost, but it was the loss of the Chinooks and hence the heavy lift capacity, which led to the transfer of the Welsh guards by ship and to the tragedy at Bluff Cove.
Retracing my steps is easy. I should have seen the car by now – this thought creeps into the back of my mind, but just as I wonder if I had followed the wrong set of tracks, there it is. The drive back seems shorter (as all return trips are) and I am soon out of the 4 wheel low drive setting and speeding along the Tarmac at the dizzy speed of 25 mph.
At home and a chance to use the superb Nik photo processing package (recently bought out by Google – and now wonderfully on offer. $149 inc VAT will get you the whole collection). The HDR suit brushes aside the problems a bright sky and a dark landscape can pose and gives great results.
If is difficult to convey the actual reality of Falklands weather. The sun is strong and shines with a fierce intensity and brightness. There is no pollution down here to block the UV light and faces are tanned, but not bodies. The wind is from the SW, not a good direction; that way, lies Cape Horn and the 40‘s. A world of towering waves and unceasing westerly gales. The trees here – a hardy evergreen cypress bend to the wind and are shaped by it. They are newcomers to the islands, stoical trees that can cope with the acid soil. One keen gardener told me that the pH in the peat was as low as 2 – that is the same pH of stomach acid. How do plants cope with that?
The weather down here is a fickle beast. Winter had arrived in time for the press attending for the referendum. Yet, as they left, the Indian summer came. It was superb when the visitors from the Polar Explorer came ashore. The locals do say that the wind picks up whenever a cruise ship moors up. It did so yesterday, the harbour was covered by white horses, and the roads by tourists sporting Saga holidays baseball caps. Not all left the ship; of the 600 souls on board, only 230 braved the storm tossed journey from the outer harbour by launch to the jetty and dry land.
Chocolate
If you do venture up the hill, past the Globe Tavern, do turn right along John Street and visit ‘Bitter Sweet’. Good coffee, more chocolate than is good for you (is there ever such a thing?) and a cinnamon swirl. Up the narrow stairs to a sun flooded lounge and comfy sofas. Local wildlife art on the walls completes the ambience – a good place to chill.
Stanley (and I do not know life in Camp) runs its weekend like the UK. Not too much sitting in the garden with the strong cool winds; mind you, not much sitting in the garden in the snow at the moment in the UK either. Painting windows and wriggly tin on the roofs has restarted with the return of more seasonal sunshine. When was summer in the Falklands – last Thursday is the answer.
Exhibitions to see – only open on Sat and Sun afternoons, including one in St Mary’s RC church hall on the 30th anniversary of the invasion of these islands. Each gift shop comes with its selection of books on the Falklands – and of course, the Falklands Conflict dominates. A few here, collect every book on the subject– most now accept the history and get on with their life. It has been 30 years since the battles though it continues to be a fascinating story of a conflict fought by the British forces on ‘home soil’. Where to start? Perhaps with The Battle for the Falklands by Max Hastings and Simon Jenkins. A good start.
