Cape Pembroke

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.

Falklands blog for Wednesday March 27 2013

Sunshine

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.

Le Weekend

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.

No blog for a few days. Nuff said

Now that they have gone and we are left with the Penguin News, will they be missed?

Certainly by the hotels and guest houses, which were fully booked over the referendum period. Perhaps by those who will miss their 15 minutes of fame (pace Andy Wharhol). Life has returned somewhat to normal. The flags have been taken down from lampposts, but still adorn vehicles all over town. The posters and stickers are beginning to look careworn and to peel at the edges. No doubt, in time, the strong UV light down here (the same latitude south as London is north – though without the Gulf Stream) will bleach the strong colours to a pale pink.
There will be a minor flurry of interest over the next few days with the publication of Mrs Thatcher’s papers from 1982. She does shine bright with moral courage and with firm conviction as to the right thing to do. Contrast this with weak people and ‘fellow travellers’ who just wanted to cave in and give up. A lot of ‘wringing of hands’ was evident and talk of buying off people and ‘the bottom line’ was rife.
The price of freedom is constant vigilance and the need from time to time to accept loss.

A previous ruler of Great Britain was well aware of this:

“I need not dwell upon the fatal effects of the success of such a plan. The object is too important, the spirit of the British nation too high, the resources with which God hath blessed her too numerous, to give up so many colonies which she has planted with great industry, nursed with great tenderness, encouraged with many commercial advantages, and protected and defended at much expense of blood and treasure.”
– George III October 26 1775 in Excerpt From: McCullough, David. “1776.” Simon & Schuster

These thoughts were shared also by the other side:

“I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.”
– John Adams in JOHN ADAMS, letter to Abigail Adams, July 3, 1776.Adams Family Correspondence, ed. L. H. Butterfield, vol. 2, p. 31

It is a continuing cause of disappointment that the present US administration will not support the clear will of the Falkland Islanders. Have they forgotten the absolute principles of the founding fathers?

Once the very staple of heat on the islands, in Stanley, there are now few open peat fires.
Peat is being dug up to the east but not for the garden centre or the hearth. Cutting out the peat and the underlying clay reveals a firm surface for buildings that will serve the new oil industry. This peat is destined for Cape Pembroke and landscaping. It is gardening on a massive scale, not the humble spade, but the bulldozer.
Green plastic oil tanks squat in the gardens and the gentle peat smoke drifting down the streets is a rare olfactory delight. The oil drums cooking the household rubbish in the street have gone here, but are still in use in Camp. The wheelie bin now reigns supreme and the rubbish dump grows.
I’ve added a picture taken in 1996 of an oil drum for nostalgia – mind you, the smell from these was quite vile.

Beautiful Day

Tossed about the Southern Ocean and now at last into the Falklands. The Polar Pioneer (St Petersburg) disgorged its passengers into Stanley this morning. Calm waters at last. Told of the horrors of Falklands weather, the passengers regaining their land legs swathed in puffa jackets, hats and storm gear, wandered up Ross Road. In the meantime, Summer arrived in Stanley. The sun certainly had his hat on, and sunscreen was more appropriate than Gortex. Jackets came off, beanies were exchanged for baseball caps and eyes disappeared behind sunglasses.
Picnic tables were now at a premium, and core temperatures were kept under control by internal application of cold Falklands beer. Fabulous.
And to crown the whole experience, severe weather warnings of snow and ice have been issued for the UK

Earwigs
The hot topics of conversation at Government House and indeed across all Stanley, and possibly extending into Camp are The Airbridge and Earwigs.

I won’t elaborate in the Airbridge just now, but perhaps later.

Why earwigs. There are lots of the little creatures. At home, they tumble out of the outdoor electric sockets when the covers are opened, but here, they peep out of nailbrushes and loofahs to mention just two personal bathroom items. How many earwigs make an infestation? I suppose that the absolute number varies by location. A round dozen would qualify in a food shop, but not under a stone in the garden. It has made me careful when taking a shower.

Then there is the urban myth of one of these aptly named Arthropods crawling into your ear whilst you sleep. Perhaps that is why they are called earwigs?
Mind you, in over 30 years, I have only removed one insect from an ear canal, and that was a moth. In the doctors’ huddle at the Government House the clinical experience was much the same; none were earwigs. Now, daddy– longlegs, that is an entirely different matter …..

Penguins
More penguin photos to follow, once I get closer to the little chaps. In the meantime, chocolate for Easter

Quiet

Peace and quiet isn’t offered here, it is just the way things are. The feeling is at being on the edge of the world. Not in a cliff rearing sense, but in the sense that things will continue without us having to look after them. At home, stop caring for the land, and it becomes less – perhaps more scruffy, certainly less tamed and productive.
Here, it just continues
There is a sign at Surf Bay to the East of Stanley that states that the land has been replanted and that care should be taken not to disturb the natural vegetation. The land was doing just fine for 28 years, though it did nurture a deadly sting.

Mines

Things made of plastic, a bit of metal spring and enough explosive to shred your leg or ‘mullah’ it as an orthopaedic colleague says. An area denial weapon, scattered here and there by the Argentinian invaders; bought from Italy and brought from Argentina to the Falklands. The Falklanders did not want to be invaded, and they certainly did not want the legacy of the mines. In truth, none of those countries around the world blighted by the scourge of mines and IED’s wanted them: think of Namibia, Afghanistan, Cambodia etc etc.
No one has been damaged recently by the mines and they are being sought out and removed. The problem is the peat.
Mines placed 1 foot beneath the surface are slowly but surely being sucked into Mother Earth. They may be 3 feet below the ground now and often are. Stepping over one may trigger it and it may not. Some are even designed not to blow up when a vehicle tyre passes overhead. They wait for the step of the frail human foot.

Well, won’t the explosive power just decay away? You may be aware that explosives used in the Great War aka WWI still have about a quarter of their original power. I don’t know about modern explosives, which of course have an improved power to weight ratio – that is, the speed of combustion is much faster – amongst other things.
Munitions left by the Russians still maim children in Afghanistan 30 years later. Remember, that is for munitions subject to the extremes of the Afghan climate – extremes of heat and cold.
Well here in the Falklands, we have peat. Remember what the stable anaerobic environment of peat does to dead animals and humans and to wood also. Think about Culloden bog oak – thousands of years old and still makes excellent handles for Skean Dubhs. It seems to do the same for those plastic mines. A bit of a wash and they look as new as the day they came off the shelves.

So the mine fences rust and decay, the triangular signs fade (though now augmented with pictographs clearly illustrating the consequences of meeting with one of these weapons), but the menace remains.